Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55

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Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2001 © 2002 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

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Death in Byzantium GEORGE T. DENNIS

or the Byzantines, as for us, the sun rises each morning and sets each evening. But they also believed that there would come one day, for each individual as well as for the whole of creation, which would not have an evening—the day without an evening, hJ ajne´ spero" hJme´ ra.1 And this may help us understand how the Byzantine people looked upon what we call death. There is one way in which we enter this world, but many ways in which we leave it. In reflecting on the deaths of emperors, Niketas Choniates observed that God does not like to direct human affairs in the same manner all the time but prefers some variety.2 Thus one ruler is drowned, another decapitated, another killed by the enemy, still another gone mad and left to die in oblivion, while others “cross over to the other side as though they had simply closed their eyes in sleep.” Of the eighty-eight emperors who ruled, from the first Constantine to the twelfth of that name, thirty-seven died natural deaths, three died in accidents, five in battle, thirty by other forms of violence, and thirteen were forced to abdicate and enter a monastery, regarded as another kind of death. Clearly, though, our concern is not limited to emperors, for death came, suddenly or slowly, to men and women of all classes and of all ages in the Byzantine world. Death, the Byzantine people heard in church, was a consequence of sin, and, in addition to their daily experience of it, they were advised to reflect constantly on the transitory nature of this life.3 Monks and nuns, in particular, were called to meditate on death. Typical is the exhortation by Symeon the New Theologian to his monks, “On the Remembrance of Death.” 4 The sixth rung on the Ladder of Paradise of John Klimakos bears the same title: “On the Remembrance of Death.” 5 Several instances of death, as recorded in our sources, may teach us something about Byzantine attitudes regarding that eventuality. At the beginning, however, we should note that the Byzantines were certain that death was not the end; the sources give almost no indication of disbelief in an afterlife. We may also note that, except in very rare circum-

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See St. Basil, In Hexaem., 2, PG 29:52A; John of Damascus, Carmen in Pascha, PG 96:844B; The Letters of Manuel II Palaeologus, ed. G. Dennis, CFHB 8 (Washington, D.C., 1977), ep. 31.97, p. 85. Cf. St. Augustine, Confessions, 13, 35–36. 2 Nicetae Choniatae Historia, ed. J. L. van Dieten, CFHB 11 (Berlin, 1975), p. 424, 33–46. 3 See Genesis 3; Romans 5:12. 4 Cate´che`ses, ed. B. Krivocheine, 3 vols. (Paris, 1963–65); English trans. C. J. de Catanzaro, The Discourses (New York-Toronto, 1980), disc. 21. 5 Ioannis Climaci, Scala Paradisi, PG 88:793. 1

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stances, they did not practice embalming or cremation.6 Moreover, because of the imprecise nature of so many of our sources, what is presented here must be largely anecdotal. Like us, the Byzantines tended to avoid the words death and dying. They preferred various euphemisms. A person had simply “gone away,” had vanished or departed from the world of mortals or was no longer among them.7 Emperor Constantine VII “exchanged his life and was free to rest over there.” 8 A person fulfilled “our common debt”; he completed or, in one instance, emptied his quiver of his allotted portion of life.9 One freed oneself from the things here.10 Individuals were “cut down like a shoot by the sickle of death.” 11 In 1411 a Turkish prince “met an end quite worthy of his ways”; he was strangled by his brother.12 Some soldiers who fell in battle “embraced mother earth,” and others “added to the population of Hades.” 13 Soldiers falling from a battlement demolished by Byzantine artillery “were pitched headlong into the entranceway of Hades . . . and were soon woefully swimming across Acheron.” 14 In another siege, the wall collapsed and the men on it “failed to answer roll call.” 15 In a letter to Tsar Symeon of Bulgaria, Patriarch Nicholas I made this observation: “Human life is unstable. It is not only the old, such as myself, who are taken by death. Many who are in their prime fall to death’s sickle.” 16 Old for the Byzantines meant fifty to sixty years of age, with seventy and beyond being regarded as extreme old age, but, because of the high rate of infant mortality, it has been calculated that the average life expectancy in Byzantium was about thirty-five years.17 Of the major imperial families, the Macedonians averaged a life span of fifty-nine years, although Basil II lived to seventytwo, his brother Constantine VIII to seventy, and his niece Theodora to seventy-six; the Komnenoi averaged sixty-one years, and the Palaiologoi sixty.18 Andronikos II lived to the age of seventy-two and his great-grandson Manuel to seventy-five. Literary figures and scholars seem to have lived long lives, many attaining the biblical three score and ten (Psalm 90 [89]:10), and some, like Demetrios Kydones, hypochondriac though he was, living well beyond that. Monastic saints, who professed to despise this life, seem to have clung to it longer than others, many living into their eighties and nineties, and the hermits outlasted all of them, with St. Antony supposedly dying at 105 years of age and St. Paul, the first hermit, at 113. P. Koukoules, Byzantinon bios kai politismos, 6 vols. (Athens, 1948–57), 4:193–94. E.g., Leonis diaconi historiae libri X [Leo the Deacon], ed. C. B. Hase (Bonn, 1828), bk. 2, chap. 10, p. 31.7; Nicholas I Patriarch of Constantinople, Letters, ed. R. J. Jenkins and L. G. Westerink, CFHB 6 (Washington, D.C., 1973), ep. 1.161–62, p. 10; Choniates, Historia, 51, 79; Manuel, Letters, ep. 56.3, p. 159. 8 Leo the Deacon, bk. 1, chap. 2, p. 6.2. 9 Ioannis Skylitzae synopsis historiarum, ed. I. Thurn, CFHB 5 (Berlin-New York, 1973), 80.75; Choniates, Historia, 38. 10 Manuel, Letters, ep. 1.17, p. 3. 11 Nicholas, Letters, ep. 156.35, p. 476. 12 Manuel, Letters, ep. 57.9–10, p. 161. 13 Eustazio di Tessalonica, La espugnazione di Tessalonica, ed. S. Kyriakidis, trans. V. Rotolo (Palermo, 1961); Greek text reprinted with English trans. by J. Melville-Jones, Eustathios of Thessaloniki. The Capture of Thessaloniki (Canberra, 1988), p. 106, 1, p. 148. 14 Choniates, Historia, 134. 15 Leo the Deacon, bk. 3, chap. 11, p. 53.12. 16 Nicholas, Letters, ep. 24.31–35, p. 168. 17 See A.-M. Talbot, “Old Age in Byzantium,” BZ 77 (1984): 267–78, esp. 268. 18 Ibid., 269. 6 7

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In general, though, death came to the Byzantines early. Theodore of Stoudios, for example, wrote to console Leo the orphanotrophos, whose first two sons had died as babies, only to have another son die at three years of age.19 The mortality rate for the first five years seems to have been about fifty percent, although reliable statistics are unattainable. St. Mary the Younger had four sons, two of whom died before their fifth birthday.20 In a village in Macedonia, about the year 1300, thirty-two babies were born; eight died within a year and another eight within five years.21 In the collection of military treatises in the codex Mediceo-Laurentianus 55, 4, Demetrios Laskaris Leontares recorded births and deaths in his family. Between 1407 and 1434, twelve children were born to him (seven boys and five girls), and seven of these died in childhood (four boys and three girls).22 Chances of survival after one’s fifth birthday may have been better, but, even among the wealthier families who had access to better health care, death came at every age. The son of Emperor John VII Palaiologos, Andronikos, died at seven years of age and Michael Psellos’ daughter, Styliane, at nine.23 Anna Komnene bewailed the death of her brother who was so young and in the most charming time of life.24 In 1142, Alexios, the thirty-sixyear-old son of Emperor John Komnenos, died of a rushing fever in his head, and his second son, Andronikos, died suddenly while escorting his brother’s body to Constantinople.25 Consider the progeny of Basil I; he had at least five sons and four daughters, but only one surviving grandson, and three generations later his direct posterity died out. In the prime of life the invincible hero of the borderlands, Digenes Akritas, fell ill; he called in an army doctor who declared the illness fatal, and the next day, “folding his hands cross-wise, the noble youth surrendered his soul to the angels of the Lord.” 26 When the time came, one hoped to die surrounded by one’s family and strengthened by the sacraments of the church, perhaps with the eucharist on one’s tongue, and such tranquil deaths are recorded in our sources. Saints, of course, could predict the hour of their death, and pious Christians, whose reckoning was less exact, tried to plan ahead, sometimes by founding a monastery, in which prayers would be said for their souls, often by taking a monastic name and being clothed in the monastic habit before dying. St. Philaretos the Merciful made detailed preparations for his final hour; he paid for a tomb in the convent of Krisis, assembled his children and grandchildren and spoke with each of them.27 The blissful deaths of saintly monks and nuns, often surrounded by their disciples, conclude many a vita. But not all were so blessed. The violent and painful deaths of some, both saints and sinners, are reported either to edify the reader or to instill salutary fear, the horrendous martyrdom of St. Stephen the Younger and the ghastly Theodori Studitae Epistulae, ed. G. Fatouros, 2. vols. CFHB 31 (Berlin, 1992), ep. 29; see also ep. 18. AASS, Nov. 4 (Brussels, 1925), 692–705; English trans. by A Laiou in Holy Women of Byzantium, ed. A. M. Talbot (Washington, D.C., 1996), 239–83, esp. 258–61. 21 A. Laiou-Thomadakis, Peasant Society in the Late Byzantine Empire (Princeton, N.J., 1977), 294–96. 22 Fol. 253v; see A. M. Bandini, Catalogus codicum mss. Bibliothecae Mediceae Laurentianae, 3 vols. (Florence, 1764–70), 2:218–38. 23 ¨ BG 16 (1967): G. Dennis, “An Unknown Byzantine Emperor, Andronicus V Palaeologus (1400–1407),” JO 175–87; Michael Psellos, Funeral Oration on His Daughter, ed. K. Sathas, Mesaiwnikh´ Biblioqh´ kh, vol. 5 (Paris, 1876), 62–87. 24 Anne Comne`ne Alexiade, ed. and trans. B. Leib, 3 vols. (Paris, 1937–43), 15, 5, 4; vol. 3, p. 206, 3–10. 25 Choniates, Historia, 38; Kinnamos, Epitome, ed. A. Meineke (Bonn, 1836), p. 27. 26 Digenis Akritas, ed. and trans. E. Jeffreys (Cambridge, 1998), bk. 8, pp. 218–20, 226. 27 M. H. Fourmy and M. Leroy, “La vie de s. Philare`te,” Byzantion 9 (1934): 85–170, esp. 151–55. 19 20

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punishment of the woman who betrayed him being good examples.28 Stressful in its own way was the death of Alexios I in the Mangana monastery, where he had gone for medical care; while he “directed his gaze upon the angels who would lead his soul to the next world,” his wife and children fought bitterly about the succession.29 Diseases of all sorts were endemic in the Byzantine world and, despite relatively advanced medical care, more often than not proved fatal. Historians such as Anna Komnene and Michael Psellos delight in giving pathological observations in clinical detail. The lives of saints and miracle tales also furnish abundant medical information about diseases and afflictions which were ordinarily incurable. Even in the great cities, with their aqueducts and sewers, poor sanitation and, at times, scarcity of food contributed to the general mortality, not only of the poor but of wealthier citizens as well. And, of course, when the plague struck, death was ubiquitous and quotidian. Injuries, whether incurred in one’s house or outdoors, easily led to infection and death. One need only recall the terrible death of John Komnenos, who had accidentally cut his hand on a poisoned arrow, described in agonizing detail by Choniates.30 Then, as now, accidents were a major cause of death. Members of the upper classes might suffer fatal injuries while hunting or on a wild horseback ride, while other citizens might be run over and crushed by wagon wheels or fall off a ladder. Even a saint might meet with a fatal accident, as did Athanasios of Athos while supervising the reconstruction of a church.31 The workplace was full of hazards; again, saints’ lives and miracle tales are very informative. Indeed, one could probably rely on the vitae of the saints to compile an essay on industrial accidents in Byzantium.32 Violence, of course, begot death. We may note, however, that violence against oneself, suicide, is rarely attested in the sources.33 In the cities, especially in the capital, one might fall victim to the armed robbers and murderers who lurked in the alleys. And the countryside was swarming with cutthroats. “No matter where one goes,” Kydones complained, “mountains or plains, bandits are lying in wait.” 34 Domestic violence and child abuse, then as now, went largely unreported. But we read of St. Thomais of Lesbos who died after repeated beatings by her husband and of an earlier St. Thomais, of Alexandria, who was beaten to death by her father-in-law.35 Then, too, thousands of deaths might result from periodic outbreaks of urban violence, such as the Nika riots in Constantinople in 532 or the so-called Zealot uprising in Thessalonike in the 1340s. Violent death, as mentioned above, did not spare even the emperors. As he joined in singing the liturgical hymns on 28 La vie d’Etienne le Jeune par Etienne le diacre, ed. and trans. M. F. Auze´py (Aldershot, 1997), pp. 169–70, 174–75. 29 Choniates, Historia, 6–8; Anna Komnene offers a different version: Alexiade, 15, 11; vol. 3, pp. 229–41. 30 Choniates, Historia, 40–41. 31 Vitae duae antiquae sancti Athanasii Athonitae, ed. J. Noret (Turnhout, 1982), pp. 112–14. 32 On dangers faced by construction workers see R. Ousterhout, Master Builders of Byzantium (Princeton, N.J., 1999). 33 Theodore of Stoudios mentions suicides: epp. 449, 462. A defeated Turkish officer killed himself in 1085: Alexiade, 6, 9, 3; vol. 2, p. 65, 18–22. The debt-ridden scribe Melitas hanged himself in 1303: Georgii Pachymeris De Michaele et Andronico Palaeologis libri XIII, ed. I. Bekker (Bonn, 1835), 2:385–88. See ODB 3:1974–75. 34 De´me´trius Cydone`s Correspondance, ed. R. J. Loenertz, 2 vols., ST 186, 208 (Vatican City, 1956–60), ep. 264.55–64; vol. 2, p. 175. 35 See BHG 3, p. 77; also Talbot, Holy Women (as above, note 20), 291–95.

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Christmas morning in 820, Leo V was brutally stabbed by conspirators wearing clerical vestments.36 A drunken Michael III was murdered by his co-emperor Basil in September 867.37 Who can forget the cruel murder of Nikephoros Phokas as he lay asleep on a leopard skin on his bedroom floor?38 Recall too the horrible drawn-out murder of Andronikos I by a blood-crazed mob and that of Romanos III in his bath.39 While the Byzantines faced constant dangers on land, they were even more afraid of the sea.40 Tidal waves might inundate their coastal villages, and to board a ship was to risk certain death. Violent tempests might arise without warning and sink the stoutest ship with all hands. St. Gregory the Decapolite prayed that a monk whose small boat had capsized “would not become a victim of the sea and take up residence in the briny depths.” 41 In addition to shipwreck, moreover, passengers and crew might suffer a cruel death or be sold into slavery by the pirates who infested the sea-lanes.42 Finally, the Byzantines were terrified by the denizens of the deep, real and imaginary. A disobedient monk, for example, went fishing and was attacked by a huge shark, which would have quickly devoured him if St. Niphon had not been praying for him; this was not an ordinary shark but the devil in disguise.43 The Byzantines were reminded of all this by portrayals of the last judgment, such as the one in Torcello, which depict the sea monsters spitting out all those who had died at sea. Death, of course, always accompanied the Byzantine armies. As with all premodern armies, there were probably more deaths from disease than from combat. Army doctors were advised that they had to be able to deal with the consequences of soldiers’ eating unripe fruit as well as with their wounds.44 Casualties in pitched battles were always high, especially among troops pursued or surrounded by a victorious enemy. The slaughter in 811 of the Hikanatoi regiment, composed of sons of army officers, is particularly poignant: “handsome young soldiers in the bloom of manhood, some just recently married, all horribly killed.” 45 And the Byzantines never forgot the forty-two military officers and civilians taken prisoner at Amorion in 838, who were brutally tortured and killed in captivity.46 Wounds received in combat, especially in the head and torso, were almost invariably mortal. In the desperate battle against the Bulgarians in July 811, the emperor’s son Staurakios was severely wounded in the lower back; taken to the capital, he died in agony two months later.47 Death was caused by showers of arrows and by stones hurled by artilSkylitzes, 22.29–23.56. Skylitzes, 114.50. 38 Leo the Deacon, bk. 5, chap. 7; pp. 87–88. 39 Choniates, Historia, 349–51; Michael Psellos, Chronography, 3, 26: Michele Psello, Imperatori di Bisanzio, ed. S. Impellizzeri, 2 vols. (Milan, 1984), 1:110–12. 40 See G. Dennis, “Perils of the Deep,” in Novum Millennium. Studies in Byzantine History and Culture in Honor of Paul Speck, ed. C. Sode and S. Taka´cs (Aldershot, 2000), 65–74. 41 Ignatios Diakonos und die Vita des Hl. Gregorios Dekapolites, ed. G. Makris, ByzArch 17 (Stuttgart-Leipzig, 1997), chap. 12. 42 See Dennis, “Perils of the Deep,” 71–72. 43 F. Halkin, “La vie de s. Niphon, ermite au mont Athos (XIVe s.),” AB 58 (1940): 1–27, esp. 18. 44 Leonis imperatoris Tactica, ed. R. Va´ri, 2 vols. (Budapest, 1917–22), bks. 1–14, 38; complete in PG 107: 669–1120, Epil. 63: PG 107: 1089D. 45 I. Dujcˇev, “La chronique byzantine de l’an 811,” TM 1 (1965): 205–54, esp. 214.70–77. 46 Skazaniia o 42 amoriiskikh muchenikakh, ed. V. Vasil’evskii and P. Nikitin (St. Petersburg, 1905). 47 Theophanis Chronographia, ed. C. de Boor, vol. 1 (Leipzig, 1883), A.M. 6303, p. 492. 36 37

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lery. An analysis of Komnenian battles shows that lances accounted for about twenty percent of the soldiers killed or incapacitated; since these were used primarily in the initial charge, it meant that one-fifth of the casualties fell in the first two or three minutes of battle.48 And once battle had been joined, death spared nobody. Nikephoros Ouranos pictures the moment of impact: “the kataphraktoi will smash in the heads and bodies of the enemy with their iron maces and sabers . . . and so completely destroy them.” 49 The chronicles abound in descriptions of swords cleaving skulls and chests skewered by lances. Moreover, one did not have to be struck by a weapon to perish on the battlefield. In 989, Bardas Phokas tried to rally his troops, but seized by a stroke of some sort, he fell off his horse dead.50 In the spring of 1086, the Domestic Pakourianos led a fierce and desperate charge against the Pechenegs and “slammed into an oak tree and died on the spot.” 51 Medieval military commanders usually aimed at the complete destruction of the enemy, that is, capturing or killing every one of them. The Byzantines, although engaging in their share of slaughter, took a different view. War was “the worst of evils,” and they resorted to it only when all other means of obtaining their objectives had been exhausted, and even then they tried to avoid a frontal assault.52 For the killing it entailed, even in a “just war,” was still evil—one need only recall the canon of St. Basil which refused communion for three years to soldiers who killed in battle.53 Unless the cause was clearly just, Leo VI decreed, Byzantine commanders were not to take up arms against other peoples and were not “to stain the ground with the blood of your own people or of the barbarians.” 54 The victories of Nikephoros Ouranos that most impressed his contemporaries were those achieved without bloodshed.55 When an officer urged that the Scythian prisoners be put to death, Alexios Komnenos reprimanded him: “Even though they are Scythians, still they are human beings.” 56 As with other peoples, capital punishment had its place in Byzantine life and was mandated or permitted for certain crimes.57 The historical sources describe a good number of public executions, sometimes in gruesome detail. Criminals and rebels were dispatched with the sword, hung on a forked pole or, on occasion, impaled. In 823, the rebel Thomas was paraded on an ass through the army with his hands and feet cut off.58 Three centuries later, the Bogomil leader Boris was burned at the stake, much to the 48 J. Birkenmeier, “Military Medicine and Injury in Byzantium,” in Textbook of Military Medicine, vol. 2, Military Medicine before the Modern Era (Washington, D.C., 2000). 49 E. McGeer, Sowing the Dragon’s Teeth. Byzantine Warfare in the Tenth Century (Washington, D.C., 1995), p. 128, 210–14. 50 Skylitzes, 337.12–30. 51 Alexiade, 6, 14, 3; vol. 2, p. 83, 9–12. 52 G. Dennis, Three Byzantine Military Treatises (Washington, D.C., 1985), 20–21. 53 Sainte Basile, Lettres, ed. Y. Courtonne, vol. 2 (Paris, 1961), ep. 188.13, p. 130. 54 Leo VI, Tactika, 2, 44–46. 55 Epistoliers byzantines du Xe sie`cle, ed. J. Darrouze`s (Paris, 1960), 258–59. 56 Alexiade, 8, 6, 1; vol. 2, p. 144, 15–17. 57 Murder, rape, incest, pederasty, robbery, arson, mutiny, treason, espionage, apostasy, magic, sorcery, ¨tungsdelikte im Reich der Ekloge Leons III. des Isauriers,” ZSavRom 74 heresy. See B. Singowitz, “Die To (1957): 319–36. 58 Skylitzes, 40, 57.

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delight of Anna Komnene.59 It must be said, however, that the Byzantine attitude toward the death penalty differed from other societies of the time and may well be of some relevance today. The Byzantines, so it seems, preferred to sentence a guilty person to exile or to confinement in a monastery or else to subject him to mutilation or blinding rather than put that person to death. Sometimes, of course, such punishments did result in death, but, cruel though they may have been, they did allow the condemned person time to repent and to serve as a cautionary example to those who might be thinking of crime or rebellion. About 821, Patriarch Nikephoros I called upon Emperor Michael II to execute Paulician sectaries, and the emperor then proceeded to behead vast numbers of them until compelled to stop because of the vehement protests of Theodore of Stoudios who argued that, if given time, they might return to orthodoxy.60 Michael Psellos praised Constantine X because in his nearly eight years as emperor (1059–67) no one was ever put to death, even for the most heinous crimes.61 It is recorded that throughout his much longer reign (1118–43) John Komnenos “deprived no one of life or inflicted bodily injury of any kind.” 62 This reluctance to take a person’s life, even when legally and morally permissible, is exceptional in the history of mankind and surely merits further study. For it was not until well into the second half of the twentieth century that such sentiments were forcefully expressed and received broad support. Emphasis on the Byzantine respect for life is one unexpected result of this cursory research on death. What about death itself? First, and perhaps merely parenthetically, we may note that the Byzantines never developed a cult of the dead, as did other peoples. Although they venerated relics of the saints and observed anniversaries of the departed, there was not that obsessive fascination with the material reminders of death that came into prominence in the West in the late Middle Ages and which in various forms have lasted into modern times: the “dance of death,” the representation and display of skeletons, and the observance of “days of the dead” by the graveside. The Byzantines would not have understood the American Halloween. How, then, may one articulate, even in a very general way, the Byzantine attitude toward death? Demetrios Kydones, continuing a millennial Greek philosophical tradition, composed a treatise to demonstrate that fear of death was not rational.63 The ordinary Byzantine came to somewhat the same conclusion on less theoretical grounds. Everyone was certain to meet with death. “Indeed,” Theodore of Stoudios wrote, “we will proceed along the same road which our parents have traveled before us.” 64 The only reason for fear was if one was not prepared. Death was not the end of life but a change of life. As life itself was a journey, so death was a journey. If you had packed the necessary provisions and if your documents were in order, then you had nothing to fear and you would arrive safely at your new destination. Washington, D.C. Alexiade, 15, 10; vol. 3, pp. 226–29. Theodore of Stoudios, epp. 94, 445; cf. P. Alexander, The Patriarch Nicephorus of Constantinople (Oxford, 1958), 99. 61 Chronography, 7a, 4, ed. Impellizzeri, 2:296. 62 Choniates, Historia, 47. 63 Demetrii Cydonii De contemnenda morte oratio, ed. H. Deckelmann (Leipzig, 1901). 64 Theodore of Stoudios, ep. 509.22–24. 59 60

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2001 © 2002 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

The Predetermination of Death: The Contribution of Anastasios of Sinai and Nikephoros Blemmydes to a Perennial Byzantine Problem JOSEPH A. MUNITIZ

ike most of us, the Byzantines were primarily interested in the individuality, the particularity of death, rather than in general theories about its overall nature. So they tended to ask, “When am I due to die?” or “How long have I got to live?” Again, what struck them as strange and puzzling was that they saw certain individuals who lived long lives and others who were cut off in their prime without any apparent moral reason (any sort of “poetic justice”) that would explain this. Even more striking and scandalous for them were the violent deaths that struck down some people, often apparently by pure accident—a wreck at sea or an earthquake—irrespective of their being young or old. How could one explain, or at least accept, such happenings as compatible with the existence of an all-knowing and all-powerful God?1 We can be certain that people were asking questions of this sort from one very clear source: Anastasios of Sinai, who deals with precisely these problems in his Questions and Answers, or Erotapokriseis. My aim in this paper is to outline how he handles these questions and to show how his treatment fits into the pattern of Byzantine thinking on such topics. However, right from the start one can say that the various questions about different sorts of death were dominated by one general problem: has God fixed in advance the day, the hour, and the moment at which one is to die? One’s first reaction may be to think that the question is a strange, and even morbid, one. But if one considers a little further one sees, first, that it is linked to the problem of fate and destiny—are we fated and destined to die at such and such a moment? (as Homer says of Achilles, “thereafter shall he suffer whatever Fate spun for him with her thread at his birth” 2)—but also that it is linked to the problem of God’s involvement in our salvation: does God predetermine particular persons to die while they are committing sin and so predetermine them to

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1 For more recent reflections on this perennial problem, see M. McCord Adams and R. Merrihew Adams, eds., The Problem of Evil (Oxford, 1990). 2 . . . u”steron au«ta ta` pei´setai a”ssa oiJ Ai«ssa / gignome´ nv ejpe´ nhse li´nv, o”te min te´ ke mh´ thr. Iliad 20, 127–28, ed. A. T. Murray, Loeb (London-Cambridge, Mass., 1925), 380–81.

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hell, or vice versa, does he predetermine the hour of death in such a way that they will go to heaven whether they want to or not? I shall concentrate on Anastasios of Sinai, partly because I have some familiarity with his writings as for several years I have been preparing a critical edition of his Questions and Answers, and partly because he happens to be an author particularly associated with the topic under discussion. Although there has been some excellent work done recently on editing his works, there is a lack of secondary studies on him. For most people he is at most a shadowy figure lost in the background, if indeed they have heard of him at all.3 He is a seventh-century writer, presumably at some stage a monk on Mount Sinai, where he may have held the rank of higoumenos. There are indications that he traveled quite widely—to Cyprus, the Dead Sea, Palestine, Syria, and Egypt; he was active as an orthodox controversialist in Alexandria between 650 and 700. Above all, he is the author of several influential works, notably the Hodegos, or Guidebook, some sermons, some stories, and the Erotapokriseis;4 a number of these works are preserved in many manuscripts, indicating that he was well known in the medieval period. Without going into great detail about the manuscript tradition, it is clear that the present edition of his Questions and Answers in Migne gives a very inadequate idea of the original work. When the seventeenth-century German Jesuit Jacobus Gretser came to prepare the edition, he had to rely on manuscripts that gave one of several later reworkings. Unfortunately very few adequate manuscripts exist of the original collection (and hence the time it is taking me to complete this edition).5 However, we can be certain that Anastasios’ own collection had a different numbering for the questions, and quite often significant textual differences. Thus for the topic before us the first text, Qu. 16, is in Migne (vol. 89) and is substantially the same as the text in the Appendix to this paper, except that in Migne it is numbered 88; the second text, Qu. 17, appears in Migne as Qu. 21, and in that version both an extra paragraph has been added and also a collection of four patristic texts. These additions teach that at the moment of death it is not unusual to have a glimpse of the future life in store for one: heaven or hell; this is another topic, somewhat tangential to the main issue, but to which I shall return later. First, a few remarks to help focus the problem in its specifically Byzantine form. In the West the topic usually appears categorized as the problem of “predestination” and is often identified with the doctrine of John Calvin, to the point that it may come as something of a surprise to find that the problem had been intriguing writers for many centuries before, in particular those writing in Greek. But the difference of approach is marked already by the choice of the term predetermination rather than predestination. The However, he is a familiar name to those acquainted with medieval Slavonic literature; a 9th-century translation of one version of his Erotapokriseis gained great popularity. 4 For a recent survey of the relevant literature, see J. A. Munitiz, “Anastasios of Sinai: Speaking and Writing to the People of God”, in Preacher and Audience: Studies in Early Christian and Byzantine Homiletics, ed. M. B. Cunningham and P. Allen (Leiden, 1998), 243–45. 5 There are many manuscripts with different versions of the Erotapokriseis. A list of those known to me is due to be published in a forthcoming issue of Moscovia, but since drawing up that list further manuscripts have come to my attention among the newly discovered fragments at St. Catherine’s monastery, Mount Sinai: MG 6 (9th century), M 139 (10th–11th century), and C 144 (A.D. 1312). Cf. JIera` monh` kai` ajrciepiskoph` Sina', Ta` ne´ a euJrh´ mata tou' Sina' (Athens, 1998), 142, 179, 212. This inventory was drawn up by Professor P. G. Nicolopoulos; it is not clear yet which version of the Erotapokriseis is included in each manuscript. 3

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Greek term most used by our writers is proorismo´ ", and they steer clear of any terms that may suggest “destiny” or “fate” (e.g., eiJmarme´ nh and ajna´ gkh); the reason is obvious: the latter set of terms have too obvious links with the ”Ellhne", the non-Christian Greeks or pagans. Historically it is most instructive to see how the problem of predestination or predetermination reaches back into both Old Testament and Hellenistic reflection,6 was a dominant preoccupation for the founding genii of much of patristic thought, both Greek (with Origen) and Latin (Augustine is the most obvious name), and continued to intrigue writers in both Greek and Latin, but also in Arabic (e.g., the early Islamic writers). Naturally there were areas in Europe and the Middle East where the question was discussed more thoroughly, and in different ways, but wherever groups of teachers and academics gathered, the question refused to go away, and the fundamental elements of the problem remained the same. If we try to enumerate what these elements are, we find that they fall into two categories: on the one hand, there is the commonly accepted teaching that God as all-powerful, pantodu´ namo", omnipotens, must empower everything; and moreover that God desires the good of all and is not subject to whims and caprice, but is to be identified with what we recognize to be ideals of justice and goodness; on the other hand, human freedom of choice must be given a place if some sort of moral system is to be defended. If we are not free to choose good or evil, then we are not responsible. So these two poles—God and the free human creature brought into being by him—are the two elements in the problem that somehow have to be balanced if any sort of rational behavior and belief is to be acceptable. At this point, we can turn from general considerations to concentrate on some texts. A good starting point is the following.7 Question 16 QUESTION There is another question after that one, which is universal: whether the life of anyone has a determined limit or not. Some say it has, others affirm it has not. ANSWER [1] Our reply to this is that the limit that exists for the life of each person is not a foreordained number of years, but the wish and ordinance of God, who transfers someone out of life when and how he commands. [2] In reply to those who argue by all possible means that a predetermination of God exists for the years of each person, we shall say this: God would then be found to be himself the one who makes wars, something that is too absurd even to be thought of. Again, supposing that predetermination for the years of everybody existed, fixed and immutable, nobody who is sick would call on the saints for their patronage, and indeed nobody would apply to doctors. For anything that God has predetermined will certainly come about. [3] However, another evil and Manichaean dogma is brought to birth from that supposition. What is it? That as God has foresight and foresees “everything before it come to be” [Daniel, Suz. 35a (LXX)], if he really “wanted everybody to be saved” [1 Tim. 2:4] and nobody to be destroyed, why, if he foresaw the apostasy of Julian the Apostate and the denial of Judas Iscariot, did he not rather predetermine and preordain for them a 6 Several Old Testament texts will be mentioned below; within the Hellenistic tradition one obvious figure is Alexander of Aphrodisias, who developed an Aristotelian argument against the Stoic defense of determinism. Cf. R. W. Sharples, Alexander of Aphrodisias On Fate (London, 1983). 7 The Greek versions are given in the Appendix; they are based on the new critical edition now in preparation, even if to simplify matters I have drastically curtailed the critical apparatus.

12

THE PREDETERMINATION OF DEATH more truncated life, allowing them to die and be saved before their destruction? Similarly in the case of any monk or upright person, who later falls away and is destroyed, the responsibility falls on God. So then one is obliged to say one of two things: either that God did not foresee, or if he did foresee, clearly he did not wish to save them but to destroy them. For had he wanted to save them, it was necessary for him to have predetermined the limits of their lives prior to their falling away. [4] Therefore, as I said earlier, it is best to say that the limit for each person’s life is the incomprehensible command of God. For if an immutable predetermination and limit concerning a person’s years had been fixed and established, how does the Apostle say to the Corinthians [1 Cor. 11:30] that it is because of their unworthy reception of communion that they fall ill and die? If a limit to life exists, then someone will not die before that for any reason whatsoever. Again, how did God say to Israel: “Guard my commandments so that you may become long living on the earth” [Exod. 20:12; Deut. 4:40, 5:16]? And again, Solomon said, “Do not become hard, and do not practice impiety at length, lest you die in a time that is not yours” [Eccles. 7:17]. Similarly he says that the curses of parents bring death to the children [Sir. 3:9]. [5] However, if God so pleases, we shall expound these matters at greater length in a separate treatise, explaining the many causes on account of which good people live short lives, whereas the wicked have long ones, and in what ways children die, and what is death for natural reasons, and what is a death brought about by God, and indeed why some persons die suddenly at table, or traveling, or while they happen to be in the bath, without any last will and testament, while others again, who propose to build holy churches or perform other useful works, depart to the Lord before their completion. For the time being we have given a short answer. [6] In reply to those who quote the great Basil as speaking of a predetermination of life, we shall say this: the predetermination of which this father spoke was the divine saying, “You are earth and to the earth you will return” [Gen. 3:19].

Several aspects of this answer deserve comment. (1) Concerning Anastasios himself, the author. One sees the very personal approach: “Some say this . . . some say that. But we say. . . .” Also remarkable is the colloquial style; it is as if Anastasios were talking with his questioner, and there are frequent traces of later Greek usage which are probably to be attributed to Anastasios himself and not to his scribes.8 At the same time there is the very practical, pastoral slant: it is the moral life of ordinary people, not just monks, that Anastasios has in mind. Quite clearly he is not a speculative thinker, and he writes in a rhetorical vein, intent on persuading with whatever means he has available, such as rhetorical questions (e.g., in §4). (2) Concerning the types of argument. There are three, though they are mixed up in Anastasios’ presentation: one is that predetermination would involve the conclusion that God directly wills evil (cf. §2 but especially §3); another is that our moral system would break down, because we would all become fatalists (§2); finally, there is the argument that predetermination would be irreconcilable with certain passages in scripture, where it is said that God can alter the hour of death, but how could he alter what he has previously determined (§4)? As Wolfgang Lackner has pointed out,9 Examples of peculiar forms are to be seen in lines 4–5 and 28 (cf. app. crit.), also the use of the indicative in line 15. 9 Ed. W. Lackner, Nikephoros Blemmydes: Gegen die Vorherbestimmung der Todesstunde, Corpus Philosophorum Medii Aevi, Philosophi Byzantini 2 (Athens-Leiden, 1985), LXXIV–V. He gives an outstanding introductory survey of the whole discussion in Byzantium, though deliberately omitting many of the earlier fathers; for these, see H.-D. Simonin, “Pre´destination: II. La pre´destination d’apre`s les pe`res grecs,” DTC 13 (Paris, 1935), 2815–32. 8

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none of these arguments holds water because defenders of predetermination accept human free will and argue that God’s foreknowledge and predetermination take this into account; similarly the scripture texts can be reconciled with either system. Anastasios seems to realize that it is not so much the predetermination that matters as the prior knowledge by the person concerned of the exact date. This may have led him to pose Question 17. Question 17 QUESTION Some say that if everybody were to know beforehand the days of their deaths, then everybody would repent. ANSWER If they were to know this beforehand, many strange things would be done. For anyone who had an enemy, knowing that the day of death had approached, would go out and kill that personal enemy, thinking, “Whether from God or from men, my own death has already come.” Again, anyone who foresaw by divine intervention that life was going to last for a hundred years would no longer bother about virtue and justice; rather this person having lived a profligate life, wallowing in sin, would start to repent a few days before the time of death. And what reward would be due to someone who lived as a slave of Satan all through life, and served God for only a few days out of necessity?

Once again, the practical, homely, pastoral approach is very evident. But again, one feels a disinclination to grapple with the deeper, philosophical problems. Anastasios seems to suppose that a moral system can stand only if buttressed by threats; there is no hint that goodness may have its own justification. There are various other occasions when Anastasios returns to the question of the predetermination of death. For example, the reference he makes in Qu. 16, at the start of §5, to “a separate treatise” in which he hopes to expound on these matters at greater length: the exact work has not been identified, and it is not clear if the treatise mentioned ever existed. However, among the Erotapokriseis there is one exceptionally long question, preserved in the printed edition as Qu. 96 (though probably numbered 28 in the original collection). It deals with the problem of random death—why some people die young and others in unexpected circumstances (by accident and so on): a characteristic Anastasian feature of it is the introduction of the theory of the four elements, developed in considerable detail as the scientific explanation of secondary causality (obviously following the common knowledge of his day). But the problem that soon arises in dealing with Anastasios is the existence of so many reworkings and adaptations of his Questions and Answers. Marcel Richard, who is the real pioneer of modern Anastasian studies, was convinced that the Pseudo-Athanasian “Questions ad Antiochum” also derive from Anastasios, but even among the pseudoAnastasian works one finds a question like that published by Cardinal Angelo Mai with the title de vitae termino, or Peri` o”rou zwh'" kai` qana´ tou,10 which is put together with extracts from the genuine Questions and Answers. I hope to include in the edition of the Erotapokriseis another version found in an eleventh-century Athos manuscript, Philotheou 52 (fols. 46–54); this is more important as it has been added to a small collection of genuine Anastasian questions. The question begins: ⬍Here is⬎ a great ⬍question⬎, much discussed and raised by almost everyone: do we claim that each human life has a definite limit (o”ron) or not? If it has such a limit, why 10

Ed. A. Mai, Scriptorum ueterum noua collectio, 1.1 (Rome, 1825), 369–71.

14

THE PREDETERMINATION OF DEATH does David say to God, “Do not take me away in the middle of my days” [Ps. 101:25], and again, “Those who commit deeds of blood and treachery will not fill out half their days” [Ps. 54:24]? But if there is no such limit, why again does the same David say: “Behold, you appoint my days measured out” [Ps. 38:6]? And again if there is a limit, why did Solomon say, “Do not become hard and do not practice impiety at length, that you may not die in a time that is not yours” [Eccles. 7:17]. Therefore, if it is possible to die “in a time that is not yours,” why did some people think they could teach that “Deaths are brought on when the limits of life have been fulfilled”? And why, when Hezekiah [2 Kings 20:6] and the Ninevites [ Jonas 3:9] asked for more life, did God add it for them?

And then the answer begins with a discussion of a Pauline text, and continues mainly trying to smooth out apparent contradictions between scripture texts; there are many similarities with Qu. 16, and the whole text may well be from the pen of Anastasios. There is much more that could be said on the confused manuscript tradition of Anastasios;11 however, for the purpose of this study I would like to place these early discussions in the context of later discussions. In particular I would like to turn to the treatise (available in an excellent new edition by Lackner) dedicated to this problem by the thirteenth-century monk and educationalist Nikephoros Blemmydes,12 the author of a summary of Aristotle’s logic and known in his day as an outstanding filo´ sofo". Although he is separated from Anastasios by nearly six centuries, we find him quoting Anastasios, and the conclusions he reaches are the same as those of Anastasios: there is no predetermination by God of the hour of death. But paradoxically in the intervening six-hundred years very important philosophical developments had taken place: the Neo-Platonists had been rediscovered, and in particular Pseudo-Dionysios and Proclus had been studied in depth. Moreover, a number of major theological writers had written in defense of the theory of God’s predetermination of the hour of death: starting with Patriarch Germanos I, and including such figures as John of Damascus, Michael Psellos, and Bishop Nicholas of Methone. The sort of considerations that convinced them were, first, a realization that divine knowledge and human knowledge cannot be put in the same category, one is outside time and indeed “super”-natural, the other limited by temporal sequence and, unlike divine knowledge, has no creative function; second, much reflection had been given to the notion of “limit” (o”ro", oJrismo´ ") and “limitlessness” (ajoristi´a), and their relation to the divine; third, it was recognized more and more that the interpretation of sacred scripture cannot be governed simply by literal criteria: pedagogical and allegorical intentions have to be borne in mind. It would be very strange if a person of Blemmydes’ intellectual curiosity and passion for reading had been unfamiliar with these developments. Indeed among his works there is a poem, made up of fifteen twelve-syllable lines, addressed to a Nicholas of Methone. 11 For example, Joseph Paramelle kindly supplied me with a partial copy of his transcript of Ambrosianus H 257 inf., fols. 1–14, which contains a florilegium of texts dealing with the predetermination of death; included among them are two texts attributed to Anastasios; the first, fol. 10r–v is a combination of Qu. 88 and part of Qu. 96, but attributed to Anastasios “of Antioch” (Qeoupo´ lew") and in a different version from both that edited in Migne and that found as Qu. 28 among the genuine Erotapokriseis; the second text, fols. 12r–13v, is Qu. 18, as published in Migne (differing from the corresponding Qu. 29 in the genuine work). The florilegium is anonymous and does not seem to be among the works mentioned by Lackner. 12 Lackner, Vorherbestimmung; page references are to this edition.

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When August Heisenberg first published this13 he was not aware that the manuscripts that have preserved it are those containing the anti-Latin works of Nicholas of Methone.14 Following indications given by an earlier editor, Constantine Simonides, Heisenberg suggested that the Nicholas in question was a thirteenth-century bishop of Methone. It is not surprising that Lackner wanted to support this view,15 as otherwise Blemmydes would be praising and promoting someone who held views diametrically opposed to his own. Nicholas of Methone, in his elaborate three-part treatise To Someone Asking if There Is a Limit to Life and Death, had given the most elaborate and sophisticated defense of predetermination produced in Byzantium up to that date. But it has been shown that the Simonides who first edited Nicholas of Methone was an enterprising forger, and there can be no serious doubt that the works against the Latins date from the twelfth-century author, and that there was no other.16 Why then did Blemmydes adopt the opposite view and argue against predetermination? As he summarizes at the end of the first part of his treatise, “learn from all of these ⬍quotations from the fathers⬎ the one simple lesson that there is no limit set for each person’s life, nor has death been predetermined for each person by God” (17.4–6). At one point I did ask myself how seriously one should take this work of Blemmydes: there are several passages in it where his biting irony and sarcasm are put on display, as when he presents an imaginary opponent as a pretentious ignoramus.17 Again, at the end of the second part of his treatise, he puts great stress on a council ruling that permits a traveler to bring his horse into the church for the night. Was this intended as a joke? Another possible clue to his motive may be the title he gives to his readers at the start of his treatise: he addresses them as w« filolo´ goi, “you lovers of literature.” Was he indulging in a rhetorical exercise? But if so, the first part, with its careful study of biblical and patristic texts, seems out of place. Lackner’s explanation for the treatise, and this is a view that I defended when I first gave a version of this paper, is that his primary concern is the defense of personal freedom: Blemmydes was a great individualist, prepared to stand up to patriarchs and emperors. But he was also primarily an educationalist: he felt it his duty to convince people of the key role of free choice. It is no good blaming others or fate or destiny: we can choose to do bad or to do good, and we have to answer for our choices. In other words, the surface question about the predetermination of the hour of death is seen to conceal another question: is a person really free in his moral choices? As Lackner expresses it: “Grundmotiv seiner Ablehnung des o”ro" zwh'" ist also die Sorge um die Willensfreiheit des Menschen” (“The fundamental motivation for his rejection of the predetermined limit to life is therefore his concern for human free will”).18 13

Ed. A. Heisenberg, Nicephori Blemmydae Curriculum Vitae et Carmina (Leipzig, 1896), 133, with comments

CVII–CVIII. 14 Ed. A. Angelou, Nicholas of Methone: Refutation of Proclus’ Elements of Theology, Corpus Philosphorum Medii Aevi, Philosophi Byzantini 1 (Athens-Leiden, 1984), XLV. 15 Lackner, Vorherbestimmung, LX n. 32. 16 Angelou, Nicholas of Methone, IX n. 2. 17 This occurs in the opening passage of the second part, but even in the first part the vocative, qaumasiw´ tate (16:25) is suspicious given its use elsewhere in an ironical sense (18:27, 21:14). 18 Lackner, Vorherbestimmung, XCIV.

16

THE PREDETERMINATION OF DEATH

But there is an important new element that I now think provides a key to the interpretation of Blemmydes’ work: the arrival of the Dominican friars in Constantinople around the year 1228.19 We know that as early as 1234 Blemmydes came into contact with Latin theologians, among them two French Dominicans.20 We also know that an anonymous Dominican wrote a Tractatus adversus errores Graecorum in Constantinople in 1252 in time for Thomas Aquinas to use it for his own Contra errores Graecorum, composed around 1263.21 The exact date of Blemmydes’ work is very uncertain. Lackner has suggested the period 1242–49: that was when Blemmydes was looking after another monastery while his own new foundation was being constructed.22 However, there was a second series of discussions with the Latins in the winter of 1249–50, just after Blemmydes’ transfer to his new monastery, and my preference would be for the 1250s as the most likely time for the compilation of this work, when he tells us that he took up various writing projects.23 It is true that Aquinas had not yet penned his treatment of the question, but among earlier Latin theologians, under the influence of Augustine, there was no division of opinion. For example, Gregory the Great, who must have known Greek from his time spent in Constantinople, had accepted that God’s preknowledge involved predetermination, while respecting the freedom of choice of the individual: in his lapidary phrases, “omnipotens deus iuxta singulorum merita disponit et terminum.” 24 It is quite likely that with the arrival of the Dominicans certain Greek scholars had already become acquainted with this line of thought, which Blemmydes stigmatizes as a dangerous innovation, to` n kaino` n tou' o”rou dogmatismo´ n (1.19); he proposes to answer the threat not with the help of “rhetorical techniques or philosophical sophistry”—thus rejecting any “scholastic” approach—but basing his argument on texts from the scriptures and church fathers. If one accepts this understanding of the genesis of Blemmydes’ treatise, some of the apparent paradoxes or contradictions disappear: Blemmydes and Nicholas of Methone were at one in their rejection of the Latin position on many points of dogma and liturgy; so Blemmydes could praise Nicholas for his anti-Latin works while quietly differing from him on his teaching concerning predetermination. Blemmydes himself was not prepared to allow any speculative treatment here, which ran the risk of bringing him too close to a Latin position. 19 Cf. R.-J. Loenertz, “Les ´etablissements dominicains de Pe´ra-Constantinople,” EO 34 (1935): 332–49, repr. in his Byzantina et Franco-Graeca, ST 118 (Rome, 1970). This was the year in which the Dominican General Chapter established the “Province of Greece,” with various houses in the Aegean and in Constantinople; ibid., 333–34 (repr., 211). The later influence of the Dominicans, especially through the work of Demetrios Kydones, is well known. Perhaps less well known is the Greek translation of part of the Speculum ´n Doctrinale of Vincent of Beauvais, published recently: I. Pe´rez Martı´n, “El Libro de Actor. Una traduccio bizantina del speculum doctrinale de Beauvais (Vat. gr. 12 y 1144),” REB 55 (1997): 81–136. 20 Ed. J. A. Munitiz, Nikephoros Blemmydes: A Partial Account, Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense, Etudes et documents, fasc. 48 (Leuven, 1988), 106 n. 34. 21 This presentation of events (not accepted by all) was defended by A. Dondaine, “‘Contra Graecos’. Premiers ´ecrits pole´miques des Dominicains d’Orient,” AFP 21 (1951): 320–445, esp. 387–93. A certain Fre`re Barthe´lemy soon revised the original tractatus. 22 There may be a reference to the building process at the start of the treatise: Lackner, Vorherbestimmung, XXIX–XXX, but equally he may be saying that with the work behind him, he can turn to dealing with requests that he has had to put off. 23 Munitiz, Partial Account, 132–34. 24 Ed. M. Adriaen, Moralia in Iob, 16, 10, 7–10; CCSL 143A (Turnhout, 1979), 806. Lackner has collected this and other relevant texts in his introduction: Lackner, Vorherbestimmung, LI–LII.

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However, there was to be a further paradox in store in the final chapter of Byzantine reflection on this question. About two hundred years after Blemmydes, Patriarch Gennadios II, also known as George Scholarios, wrote five short treatises on the subject. In them he adopts a position clearly in favor of the predetermination theory. But the striking point, as Lackner has shown, is that Gennadios has taken over quite literally the teaching of Thomas Aquinas on predestination, so that one can trace the literal dependence,25 while still avoiding a term in Greek that might suggest “destiny” or “fate.” In conclusion, it is worth noting that in his fourth treatise on the question of the predetermination of death Gennadios strongly rejects the earlier treatment by Anastasios of Sinai, bluntly stating that Anastasios lacks the theological capacity required for discussing such a problem.26 This is clearly the reaction of a “professional” speculative theologian to one whose primary interest was pastoral, or even what we would call “spiritual,” in the sense of a spiritual director. I mentioned earlier the fascination that the Byzantines felt when they came across cases of holy men who were privileged to know beforehand when they or others were to die. There are of course a number of such cases in Byzantine hagiography, and, thanks to the Dumbarton Oaks hagiographic database project, it is fairly easy to track them down. Part of the fascination may be that in those cases the veil seemed to be lifted, and people were allowed glimpses into the working of the Divine Mind. Anastasios was not unaware of the phenomenon, and he has at least one story of a holy man predicting the death on campaign of a particularly obnoxious emperor, who had threatened to have him executed when he returned. However, he knew that these are, if anything, the exceptions that prove the rule: in general, it is better if we do not know; it is better if we believe that death hangs in the balance depending on how we live out our lives; it is better if we live as if everything depended on us, even though we may be certain that everything depends on God. Birmingham, U.K. Lackner, Vorherbestimmung, LXVII–LXXI. The theme had been studied in a wider context by G. Podskalsky, Theologie und Philosophie in Byzanz: Der Streit um die theologische Methodik in der spa¨tbyzantinischen Geistesgeschichte (14./15. Jh.), seine systematischen Grundlagen und seine historische Entwicklung (Munich, 1977), and in his earlier article, “Die Rezeption der thomistischen Theologie bei Gennadios II. Scholarios (ca. 1403–1472),” Theologie und Philosophie 49 (1974): 305–22. 26 It is clear that Gennadios is using a version of Anastasios equipped with florilegia, and therefore not the ´ sion de` to` n ajpo` original collection, but one of the more popular later versions; his exact words are: Anasta j Sina' a”gion me` n oujk a‘n ajrnhsai´meqa ei«nai . . . qeolo´ gon d∆ oujk a“n pote ojnoma´ saimen, oujde` toi'" qeolo´ goi" parako´v suna´ dei th'" oJmoi´a" e”xew" w“n. Gennade louqei'n gnhsi´w" duna´ menon, wJsau´ tw" de` kai` ei“ ti" tw'n uJste´ rwn Anastasi j `s, and M. Jugie (Paris, 1928), 440, 21–29; cf. Scholarius, Oeuvres comple`tes, vol. 1, ed. L. Petit, X. A. Sideride Lackner, Vorherbestimmung, LXXI. 25

Appendix

ANASTASIOS, QUESTION 16 (cf. QU. ED. 88, PG 89:713A11–716A15)

5

10

15

20

25

30

IS⬘ ERWTHSIS “Esti kai` e”teron meta` tou'to pagko´ smion zh´ thma, toute´ stin eij e“cei o”ron hJ zwh` tou' ajnqrw´ pou, h‘ ou“⭈ oiJ me` n ga´ r fasin e“cein, oiJ de` le´ gousin mh` e“cein. APOKRISIS (1) Pro` " tau'ta hJmei'" ejrou'men, o”ti o”ro" ejsti` panto` " ajnqrw´ pou ouj progegramme´ no" ti" ajriqmo` " ejtw'n, ajll∆ hJ boulh` kai` hJ pro´ staxi" tou' Qeou', o”te keleu´ ei kai` wJ" keleu´ ei metaste´ nonto" tou' bi´ou to` n a“nqrwpon. (2) Pro` " de` tou` " filoneikou'nta" ejk panto` " tro´ pou proorismo` n para` Qev' dei'xai ejtw'n panto` " ajnqrw´ pou, ejkei'no ejrou'men, o”ti euJreqh´ setai oJ Qeo` " kai` tou` " pole´ mou" aujto` " poiw'n, o”per a“topo´ n ejsti ka‘n ejnnoh'sai tou'to. Kai` pa´ lin, eij propephgme´ no" kai` ajmeta´ qeto" proorismo´ " ejsti tw'n eJka´ stou cro´ nwn, mhdei`" ajsqenw'n eij" ajnti´lhyin aJgi´ou" ejpikale´ shtai, mhdei`" loipo` n ijatrou` " proskale´ shtai⭈ wJ" ga` r prow´ risen oJ Qeo` " pa´ ntw" genh´ setai. (3) ”Omw" kai` e”teron do´ gma ponhro` n kai` Manicai¨ko` n ejnteu'qen hJmi'n ti´ktetai. Poi'on tou'to… ”Oti prognw´ sth" w‘n oJ Qeo´ ", proginw´ skwn ta` pa´ nta pri`n gene´ sew" aujtw'n, eij a“ra qe´ lei pa´ nta" ajnqrw´ pou" swqh'nai, kai` mhde´ na ajpole´ sqai, dia` ti´ proginw´ skwn th` n ajpostasi´an Ij oulianou' tou' paraba´ tou kai` th` n a“rnhsin Ij ou´ da tou' Ij skariw´ tou, mh` ma'llon kolobwte´ ran aujtoi'" prow´ rise kai` proe´ phxen zwh´ n, i”na pro` th'" eJautw'n ajpwlei´a" ajpoqano´ nte" ejsw´ qhsan… Kai` ejf∆ eJka´ stou de` monacou', h‘ kai` ajnqrw´ pou kalw'" e“conto", u”steron de` ejkpeso´ nto" kai` ajpolwlo´ to", pro` " Qeo` n hJ aijti´a ajnatre´ cei. Kai` ajna´ gkh loipo` n e’n ejk tw'n oJpote´ rwn eijpei'n, h‘ o”ti ouj proe´ gnw oJ Qeo´ ", h‘ eja` n proe´ gnw, eu“dhlon o”ti oujk hjboulh´ qh aujtou` " swqh'nai, ajlla` ajpole´ sqai. Eij ga` r swqh'nai hjbou´ leto, ejcrh'n aujto` n pro` tw'n ejkptw´ sewn tou` " o”rou" th'" zwh'" proori´sasqai. (4) Oujkou'n, wJ" proei'pon, kalw'" e“cei to` le´ gein o”ti o”ro" th'" eJka´ stou zwh'" ejstin hJ ajkata´ lhpto" ke´ leusi" tou' Qeou'. Eij de` proorismo´ " ti" kai` o”ro" th'" eJka´ stou zwh'" ajpara´ bato" tw'n ejtw'n tou' ajnqrw´ pou prope´ phktai kai` protetu´ pwtai, pw'" fhsin oJ jApo´ stolo" pro` " Korinqi´ou", o”ti dia` to` ajnaxi´w" aujtou` " koinwnei'n ajsqenou'si kai` teleutw'sin… Eij ga` r o”ro" zwh'" ejsti´n, oujk a‘n di∆ oiJandh´ pote aijti´an proteleuth´ sh a“nqrwpo". Pw'" de` pa´ lin fhsi`n oJ Qeo` " tv' Ij srah´ l⭈ Fu´ laxon ta` prosta´ gmata´ mou, i”na ge´ nh makrocro´ nio" ejpi` th'" gh'"… Kai` pa´ lin, oJ Solomw´ n fhsin⭈ Mh` gi´nou sklhro´ ", mhde` ajsebh` " ejpi` polu´ , i”na mh` ajpoqa´ nh" ejn ouj kairav' sou. W J sau´ tw" kai` ta` " kata´ ra" tw'n gone´ wn le´ gei ejpife´ resqai qa´ naton ejpi` te´ kna. (5) ”Omw" peri` tou´ twn platu´ teron, eij tv' Qev' fi´lon ejsti´n, ejn ijdi´a ejkqe´ meqa dhlou'nte" kai` plei´sta" aijti´a", di∆ a’" me` n di´kaioi ojligocronou'sin, aJmartwloi` de` polucro´ nioi gi´nontai, kai` ejk po´ swn tro´ pwn ta` nh´ pia teleutw'si, kai` poi'o´ " ejstin oJ ejk fu´ sew" qa´ nato", poi'o" de´ ejstin oJ ejk Qeou' ejpago´ meno", kai` ti´ dh´ pote oiJ me` n a“fnw ejn trape´ zh h‘ ejn oJdv' teleutw'sin, h‘ ejn balanei´v tugca´ nonte" a“fwnoi kai` ajdia´ qetoi teleutw'sin, kai` pa´ lin e”teroi naou` " eujsebei'" oijkodomei'n ejpiballo´ menoi, h‘ e”tera yucwfelh' e“rga, pro` th'" tou´ twn plhrw´ sew" pro` " Ku´ rion poreu´ ontai. Te´ w" de` peri` tou' zhtoume´ nou dia` brace´ wn eijrh´ kamen.

JOSEPH A. MUNITIZ 35

19

(6) Pro` " de` tou` " ajnqrw´ pou" tou` " le´ gonta" to` n me´ gan Basi´leion proorismo` n zwh'" le´ gonta, ejkei'no ejrou'men, o”ti proorismo` n oJ path` r ei«pe th` n qei´an ajpo´ fasin th` n le´ gousan, ”Oti gh' ei« kai` eij" gh'n ajpeleu´ sh.

QUESTION 16 Sources and Later References 3–10 source appears to be Leontios C’pl, Hom. 10, In Mesopentecosten, 343–70 [ed. Datema/ Allen, CCSG 17, 329–31, et cf. 306; ed. Combefis, PG 86.2:1988B–D] 6–10 used by Nikephoros Blemmydes, De vitae termino, ed. Lackner, Vorherbestimmung, 16 (19–24) 12 Dan. Suz. 35a (LXX), 42 (Theodotion) 12–13 1 Tim. 2:4; cf. 2 Peter 3:9 22–23 Cf. 1 Cor. 11:30 25 Exod. 20:12; Deut. 4:40, 5:16 25–26 Eccles. 7:17 26–27 Cf. Sir. 3:9 28–34 Cf. Qu. 28 (ed. Qu. 96); and the version in Philotheou, 52 35 Cf. Basil Caes., Quod Deus non est auctor malorum (CPG 2853), 3, PG 31:333B5–6 37 Gen. 3:19. Critical Apparatus (much abbreviated) P E / M a (a2 [Migne Qu. ed. 88 R] L) X G / P E (Escorial. 582, fols. 7–8v); G (Escorial. 582, fols. 69–70); L (Laurent. plut IV 16, fol. ⬍195v–196v⬎); M (Mosq., Bibl. Synod. 265, fols. 247–248); P (Paris. gr. 364, fols. 147v–149); P (Patmos 264, fols. 99–100v); R (Vat. Pii II gr. 11, fols. 185–186); X (Athen. 2492, fol. 3r–v). 4–5 metaste´ nonto"] accepi etsi tardivum cum PE, meta` se´ bonto" C, meta` semno´ thto" ML, meqistw'nto" P 7 metaste´ nonto" - a“nqrwpon] om. a2 7 kai` tou` " pole´ mou" aujto` " poiw'n] aujto` " loipo` n poiw'n (NOTA lege lei'pon, idem quod ejlleipe´ ", mancum, defectuosum) Migne. 9 ejpikale´ shtai] ejpikale´ setai Qu. ed. 88, ejpikalesa´ sqw Blemmydes | loipo` n] om. aX | ijhtrou` " C 9–10 mhdei`" - proskale´ shtai] om. (homoiotel. causa) PER (sed mhde` ijatrou` " proskale´ shtai add Pmg) 10 proskale´ shtai] metakalesa´ sqw Blemmydes 28 ejkqe´ meqa] PE, ejdida´ cqhmen M, didacqhso´ meqa Qu. ed. 88 R, ejpididacqhso´ meqa L, ejndidacqo´ meqa X, dialecqw'men G.

QUESTION 17

5

IZ⬘ ERWTHSIS Le´ gousi´ tine", o”ti eij proegi´nwskon oiJ a“nqrwpoi th` n hJme´ ran tou' qana´ tou aujtw'n, loipo` n h“mellon pa´ nte" metanoei'n. APOKRISIS Eij proegi´nwskon tou'to, polla` a“topa h“mellon diapra´ ttesqai. ”Ekasto" ga` r oJ e“cwn ejcqro´ n, ginw´ skwn o”ti h“dh h“ggiken hJ hJme´ ra tou' qana´ tou aujtou', ejporeu´ eto a‘n kai` ejqana´ tou to` n i“dion ejcqro´ n, logizo´ meno" o”ti ei“te uJpo` Qeou' ei“te uJpo` ajnqrw´ pwn h“dh h«lqe´ mou oJ qa´ nato". Pa´ lin de` oJ prognou` " uJpo` Qeou', o”ti eJkato` n e“th me´ llei zh'sai, oujke´ ti ajreth'" h‘ dikaiosu´ nh" ejfro´ ntizen, ajlla` pa'san aujtou' th` n zwh` n ejn ajswti´ai" w“n, kai` aJmarti´ai" kulio´ meno", pro` ojli´gwn hJmerw'n tou' qana´ tou metanoei'n h“rceto. Kai` poi´a loipo` n ca´ ri" tv' ajnqrw´ pv douleu'sai tv' Satana' o”lon to` n cro´ non th'" eJautou' zwh´ ", ojli´ga" de` hJme´ ra" ejx ajna´ gkh" douleu'sai tv' Qev'… Cf. Qu. ed. 21 (PG 89:532C3–D2); Ps.-Athanasios, QQ ad Antiochum 36 (PG 28:617C8–D6)

20

THE PREDETERMINATION OF DEATH QUESTION ADDED TO COLLECTIO B (PHILOTHEOU 52) Cf. Ps.-Athanasios, QQ ad Antiochum, Qu. 113 (PG 28:668A)

1

5

10

ERWTHSIS To` me´ ga kai` poluqru´ llhton kai` scedo` n para` pa´ ntwn zhtou´ menon⭈ o”ron qe´ lomen le´ gein e“cein th` n tou' ajnqrw´ pou zwh´ n, h‘ ou“… Eij me` n ga` r o”ro", pw'" fhsin oJ Daui÷d tv' Qev'⭈ Mh` ajnaga´ gh" me ejn hJmi´sei hJmerw'n mou, kai` pa´ lin, “Andre" aiJma´ twn kai` dolio´ thto", ouj mh` hJmiseu´ sousin ta` " hJme´ ra" aujtw'n… Eij de` oujk e“stin o”ro", pw'" pa´ lin oJ aujto` " le´ gei⭈ Ij dou` palaista` " e“qou ta` " hJme´ ra" mou… Eij de` pa´ lin o”ro" ejsti´, pw'" oJ Solomw` n ei«pen⭈ Mh` gi´nou sklhro` " mhde` ajsebh` " ejpipolu´ , i”na mh` ajpoqa´ nh" ejn ouj kairv' sou… Eij ou«n e“stin ejn ouj kairv' ajpoqanei'n, pw'" tisin e“doxe le´ gein, o”ti Qa´ natoi ejpa´ gontai tw'n o”rwn th'" zwh'" plhrwqe´ ntwn, Pw'" de` kai` tv' Ej zeki´a kai` toi'" Nineui?tai" zwh` n aijthsame´ noi", oJ Qeo` " ejprose´ qhken… APOKRISIS H J th'" sofi´a" mhgh` to` me´ ga docei'on th'" gnw´ sew", Pau'lo" oJ jApo´ stolo" pro` " Korinqi´ou" gra´ fwn le´ gei⭈ . . .

2–3 Ps. 101Ú25 3–4 Ps. 54Ú24 6 Ps. 38Ú6 5–6 Eyyles. 7Ú17 7 Yf. Basil. Yaes., Qqod Deqs non est aqytor malorqm (YPG 2853), 3, PG 31Ú333B5–9… yf. Qq. 16 ª48–50º 8 Yf. 4 Reg. (⫽ 2 Kings) 20Ú6, Ion. 3Ú9 9–10 2 Yor. 11Ú29–30… yf. Qq. 16 ª30–31º

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Funeral Rites according to the Byzantine Liturgical Sources ELENA VELKOVSKA

he end of life has always been frightening, in the past as well as today, but the attitude of modern society is to hide every sign of its presence or at least to make it less visible. There is no place for death in our culture, and we employ a careful process of linguistic cosmetics, filling our dictionaries with a plethora of euphemisms to avoid ever using the starkly unpleasant terms death and dying. This very societal discomfort may be responsible for the scant scholarly interest in the specific topic dealt with here and may be one of the reasons for the relatively small number of bibliographical references I am able to cite. How different from this modern aversion to death is the liturgy, where the themes of death and the hereafter are the subject of continuous, even everyday reflection. Probably because of its traditional and archaic nature, the liturgy preserves a surprising immediacy and clarity of language. This is equally true for both death and life, and some bold comparisons between the resurrection of Christ and the virility of the male sex could have been very embarrassing for a Victorian translator to render. Let us examine briefly how this liturgy of the dead evolved in Byzantium.

T

THE ANCIENT PERIOD (FOURTH–FIFTH CENTURIES) The original context of the official ecclesiastical prayers for the dead must be sought in the intercessions of the eucharistic anaphora, and this is true for the Byzantine church as well as for the Roman. Thus in the so-called Urtext of the Chrysostom anaphora, immediately after the epiklesis for the transformation of the gifts and the consequent eschatological transformation of the communicants, a commemoration of the dead is prescribed in these terms: “Moreover, we offer you this spiritual sacrifice for those who have gone to their rest in the faith: the fathers, patriarchs, prophets, apostles, preachers, evangelists, martyrs, confessors, ascetics, and for every just one rendered perfect in the faith.” 1 Note that this text does not envision any distinction between different categories of “saints,” that is, between what one might call saints officially “canonized” by the church and any 1 S. Parenti and E. Velkovska, eds., L’Eucologio Barberini gr. 336, BiblEphL, Subsidia 80 (Rome, 1995) (hereafter BAR), no. 36.1–3.

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other good and pious Orthodox Christian, the “every just” man of the Epistle to the Hebrews 12:3, which the anaphoral text cites.2 This eucharistic commemoration did not, however, by any means absolve the Christian community’s liturgical obligations with respect to the deceased. The Apostolic Constitutions (ca. 380), another source contemporary with the Chrysostom text and originating from the same region around Antioch, provides for the first time the wider liturgical context, including the chant of psalms and the celebration of the eucharist at the cemetery (VI, 30; VIII, 41);3 in addition, the same source has the departed commemorated on the third, ninth, and fortieth days after death (VIII, 42), in accordance with an ancient practice still observed in the Christian East.4 In the same fourth century, but in Egypt, the Euchology of Serapion of Thmuis has preserved the earliest extant Christian prayers for the dead in Greek, prayers containing the classical petition to give rest “in the bosom of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob.” 5 EUCHOLOGICAL REPERTORIES FROM THE BYZANTINE PERIPHERY The oldest Byzantine textual witness to funeral rites is the collection of prayers in the eighth-century Italo-Byzantine euchology Barberini gr. 336. As was usual in the redactional format of the ancient euchology, the prayers are simply listed one after another, numbered progressively, accompanied by a short lemma specifying their destination. The prayers of interest to us are numbered from 264 to 270 according to the modern numeration; in the original numbering they were 224 to 228, with an erroneous repetition of the last two numbers. Of the seven funerary prayers in this source, three are “for a dead person” in general (teleuth´ sa"), one is an “Inclination Prayer”—inclinatio capitis (kefaloklisi´a)—or concluding blessing over the bowed heads of the congregation, the sort of prayer commonly found at the end of a service or a section of a service; two are for the burial (ejpita´ fio") of a layman and a bishop, one is for a monk. At the end of the manuscript there is a diaconal litany for the dead (eij" koimhqe´ nta").6 Here are the incipits of these prayers: B1. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo"⭈ ÔO qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ saq" B2. Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" B3. Eujch` a“llh ejpi` teleuth´ santo"⭈ ÔO qeo` " hJmw'n, oJ qeo` " tou' sv´ zein, oJ dhmiourgo` " kai` swth` r kai` krith` " zw´ ntwn kai` nekrw'n R. F. Taft, “Praying to or for the Saints? A Note on the Sanctoral Intercessions/Commemorations in the ¨r Wilhelm Nyssen, ed. Anaphora,” in Ab Oriente et Occidente (Mt 8, 11). Kirche aus Ost und West. Gedenkschrift fu M. Schneider and W. Berschin (Erzabtei St. Ottilien, 1996), 439–55. 3 M. Metzger, ed., Les Constitutions Apostoliques, vol. 3, Books 7 and 8, SC 336 (Paris, 1987), 257–58, cf. also no. 278 of the introduction. 4 On the history of this practice, see G. Dagron, “Troisie`me, neuvie`me et quarantie`me jours dans la tradition byzantine. Temps chre´tien et anthropologie,” in Le temps chre´tien de la fin de l’antiquite´ au Moyen Age–IIIe– XIIIe s., Colloques internationaux du CNRS 604 (Paris, 1984), 419–30. 5 M. E. Johnson, ed., The Prayers of Sarapion of Thmuis. A Literary, Liturgical and Theological Analysis, OCA 249 (Rome, 1995), 68–69. 6 BAR, nos. 264–70, p. 287. 2

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B4. Eujch` a“llh ejpi` teleuth´ santo"⭈ ÔO ajgaqo` " kai` fila´ nqrwpo" qeo´ ", ajna´ pauson to` n dou'lon so´ n B5. Eujch` a“llh ejpita´ fio" kaqolikh´ ⭈ De´ spota oJ qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ didou` " katastolh` n do´ xh" ajnti` pneu´ mato" ajkhdi´a" B6. Eujch` ejpita´ fio" eij" ejpi´skopon⭈ Ku´ rie Ij hsou' Criste´ , oJ ajmno` " tou' qeou', oJ ai“rwn th` n aJmarti´an tou' ko´ smou B7. Eujch` eij" koimhqe´ nta monaco´ n⭈ De´ spota Ku´ rie oJ qeo´ ", oJ mo´ no" e“cwn ajqanasi´an, fw'" oijkw'n ajpro´ siton, oJ ajpoktei´nwn kai` zwopoiw'n The placement and order of the prayers in the manuscript provide no information about their distribution in an actual funeral rite. However, one can easily isolate an original group composed of the first and second prayers, the first an oration or “collect,” the second an “inclination prayer.” In the manuscript the fact that these two prayers come one after the other is not without reason, both logically and theologically. While the first prayer is destined for the dead, the second is an invocation for the mourners present, asking for relief of their pain at the loss of their loved one. From a structural point of view, the prayer of inclination (kefaloklisi´a) does not and cannot have an independent existence: being the concluding prayer of a celebration, it is always connected to some preceding prayer. This structure is very clear, for instance, in the Byzantine cathedral Liturgy of the Hours first witnessed to by the same euchology, Barberini gr. 336, which presents a complete series of prayers for the divine office. In this series the prayer of kefaloklisi´a is so closely connected to the previous prayer of ajpo´ lusi" or dismissal that it is grouped under the same number in the original numeration. The dismissal prayer asks help and divine mercy for each moment of the day, while the Prayer of Inclination (kefaloklisi´a) asks the divine blessing on those present. The parallel with the two prayers for the dead is then fully appropriate. Like the kefaloklisi´a prayer, the diaconal litany at the end of the codex cannot have an independent life but by its very nature must be connected functionally to a presidential prayer. So one could state that even without any direct information about the concrete course of the Byzantine funeral rite in the eighth century, it is possible to distinguish a complete liturgical structure comprising a litany followed by two prayers, the final one a prayer of inclination. This structure represents beyond doubt the original nucleus of the Byzantine funeral rite. But how old is it? Taken individually, some of these basic structural elements are clearly ancient. As has been demonstrated, the litany appears organized in a form very close to the postanaphoral litany of the eucharist described at the end of the fourth century by Theodore of Mopsuestia.7 The first oration of the series, “God of the spirits and of all flesh,” is also Cf. S. Parenti, “L’EKTENH della Liturgia di Crisostomo nell’eucologio St. Petersburg gr. 226 (X secolo),” in Euloghema. Studies in Honor of Robert Taft, Analecta Liturgica 17 ⫽ Studia Anselmiana 110 (Rome, 1993), 295–318, and R. F. Taft, A History of the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, vol. 5, The Precommunion Rites, OCA 261 (Rome, 2000), 59–66, 74ff, 155ff. 7

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found in the Armenian and Coptic traditions8 and seems to be very ancient, being attested as early as the famous papyrus of Nessana (ca. A.D. 600)9 and by a large number of epigrapha from the end of the seventh century on.10 A number of provincial Italo-Greek or Palestinian manuscripts datable between the tenth and the eleventh–twelfth centuries have euchological repertories similar to that of Barberini gr. 336, with prayers for other categories of dead. Among these one should cite at least the tenth-century euchology St. Petersburg gr. 226 (often called “of Porphyrius” because of its former owner, the Russian scholar Porphyrij Uspenskij). This manuscript gives these four prayers for the departed.11 P1. Eujch` eij" koimhqe´ nta" monacou` " kai` iJerei'"⭈ Eujcaristou'me´ n soi, Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, o”ti sou mo´ nou to` zh'n ajqa´ naton J qeo` " oJ dunato´ ", oJ th' sofi´a sou kataskeua´ sa" P2. Eujch` eJte´ ra ejpi` teleuthsa´ ntwn⭈ O to` n a“nqrwpon J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naP3. Eujch` eJte´ ra eij" koimhqe´ nta"⭈ O ton katargh´ sa" P4. Eujch` eJte´ ra eij" koimhqe´ nta"⭈ Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi"12 The difference in these two ancient manuscripts, this one and the earlier Barberini codex, should not surprise us. One must not forget that each euchology is a very individualistic collection of texts, and no single book is ever complete, containing every possible ritual and prayer. So it is not at all improbable that some of the prayers of the later St. Petersburg gr. 226 were already used in the eighth century even if the Barberini manuscript does not have them. Proof of this working hypothesis is found in the manuscript Grottaferrata G.b. IV, a euchology belonging to the so-called Nilian school of copyists, which means that it was copied in the vicinity of Monte Cassino in the last quarter of the tenth century.13 In this manuscript, the structure litany–presidential prayer or collect–Inclination Prayer is reported in its entirety:

Diakonika` eij" koimhqe´ nta" . . . E j n eijrh´ nh tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men . . . G1. O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" 8 V. Bruni, I funerali di un sacerdote nel rito bizantino secondo gli eucologi manoscritti di lingua greca, Studium Biblicum Franciscanum, Collectio Minor 14 (Jerusalem, 1972), 158. 9 J. C. J. Kraemer, Excavations at Nessana, vol. 3 (Princeton, N.J., 1958), 310. 10 Bruni, I funerali di un sacerdote, 146–51. 11 Cf. A. Jacob, “L’ euchologe de Porphyre Uspenski. Cod. Leningr. gr. 226 (Xe sie`cle),” Le Muse´on 78 (1965): 199, nos. 217–20. 12 Cf. ibid. 13 Cf. S. Parenti, L’eucologio manoscritto G.b. IV (X sec.) della Biblioteca di Grottaferrata. Edizione, Excerpta ex Dissertatione ad Doctoratum (Rome, 1994).

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jAntilabou', sw'son, ejle´ hson . . . G2. Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" jAntilabou', sw'son, ejle´ hson. G3. O J qeo´ ", oJ didou` " pnoh` n pa´ sh sarki` kai` pa´ lin ajnalamba´ nwn ajpo` ko´ smou ta` " yuca` " ta` " ejpistrefou´ sa" ejpi` se´ G4. O J qeo` " hJmw'n, oJ qeo` " tou' sv´ zein, oJ dhmiourgo` " kai` swth` r kai` krith` " zw´ ntwn kai` nekrw'n G5. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" nhpi´ou⭈ O J fula´ sswn ta` nh´ pia, Ku´ rie, ejn tv' paro´ nti bi´v14 The same phenomenon is found in the famous Slavonic Euchology of Sinai, Sinai glag. 37, the oldest Byzantine euchology in the Slavonic language, normally dated to the eleventh century. In the following list I give the incipits according to the corresponding Greek prayers. SL1. O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" SL2. Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ twn para´ klhsi" SL3. De´ spota Ku´ rie oJ qeo´ ", oJ mo´ no" e“cwn ajqanasi´an, fw'" oijkw'n ajpro´ siton, oJ ajpoktei´nwn kai` zwopoiw'n SL4. Eujcaristou'me´ n soi, Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, o”ti sou mo´ nou to` zh'n ajqa´ naton15 For the Middle East, one could mention the euchologies Sinai gr. 959 (11th century) (S1) and Sinai gr. 961 (11th–12th century) (S2), where the prayers appear as follows. Sinai gr. 959 (S1): J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton S11. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo"⭈ O ´ katarghsa" S12. Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" J me´ ga" ajrciereu` " oJ di´kaio", to` n meq∆ hJmw'n S13. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" presbute´ rou⭈ O 16 soi douleu´ santa Ibid., 53–54, nos. 232–37. Sin. glag. 37, fols. 57r–58v; R. Nahtigal, ed., Euchologium Sinaiticum. Starocerkvenoslovanski Glagolski Spomenik, vol. 2, Tekst s komentarjem (Ljubljana, 1941–42), 143–48. 16 Sinai gr. 959, fols. 101v–103r ⫽ A. Dmitrievskii, Opisanie liturgicheskikh rukopisei khraniashchikhsia v bibliotekakh pravoslavnogo Vostoka, vol. 2, Eujcolo´ gia (Kiev, 1901; repr. Hildesheim, 1965), 57. 14 15

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S21. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" iJere´ w" kai` monacou'⭈ Eujcaristou'me´ n soi, Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, o”ti sou mo´ nou to` zh'n ajqa´ naton S22. Eujch` a“llh ejpi` teleuth´ santo"⭈ O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" S23. Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" J didou` " pnoh` n pa´ sh sarki` kai` pa´ lin ajnalamba´ nwn S24. Eujch` a“llh ejpi` teleuth´ santo"⭈ O ajpo` ko´ smou ta` " yuca` " ejpistrefou´ sa" ejpi` se´ 17 These five collections, all younger than the Barberini, can be considered a faithful and representative reflection of the funeral euchology between the end of the tenth and the end of the eleventh century in southern Italy, the Middle East, and in Slavic Orthodoxy. Let us analyze the similarities and differences in these sources. 1. All of the manuscripts have in common two prayers: O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" (God of the spirits and of all flesh . . . ) and the prayer Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" (Lord O Lord, consolation of the suffering and comfort of the mournful) (P3–4, G1–2, SL1–2, S11–2, S22–3 ⫽ B1–2), while the other prayers are grouped by categories of the dead. 2. Two manuscripts have in common the prayer for monks and/or priests: Eujcaristou'me´ n soi, Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n (We thank you, Lord our God) (P1, SL4, S21), not known to Barberini. 3. The prayer G4 corresponds to B3, SL3 to B7, and G3 to S24. 4. Three prayers remain without parallels elsewhere: P2 O J qeo` " oJ dunato´ ", oJ th' sofi´a sou kataskeua´ sa" to` n a“nqrwpon (O God almighty, who created man by your wisdom); the oration for children: G5 O J fula´ sswn ta` nh´ pia, Ku´ rie, ejn tv' paro´ nti bi´v (You who protect the children, Lord, in this life); and the third prayer, S13 Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" presbute´ rou⭈ O J me´ ga" ajrciereu` " oJ di´kaio", to` n meq∆ hJmw'n soi douleu´ santa (Prayer for a deceased priest: You the just, great high priest, him who has served you with us). Since the first pair of prayers is common to all sources examined, it must represent a universal common tradition that had spread everywhere. Besides, it should be noted that some manuscripts share some of the prayers, while others have in common some groups of prayers. Sometimes a dependence on Barberini is observed, while at other times new and independent euchological branches are constituted. All this seems to demonstrate a great redactional freedom. These discordant facts demand an overall interpretation, which will be possible only after we consider the information coming from the euchological tradition of Constantinople. 17

Sin. gr. 961 (11th–12th century), fols. 83r–85v ⫽ Dmitrievskii, Opisanie, 2:81.

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EUCHOLOGY REPERTORIES IN CONSTANTINOPLE The proper Constantinopolitan euchology tradition is known only from 1027 on, the date of this tradition’s first direct witness, the manuscript euchology Paris Coislin 213 written for Strategios, chaplain of the patriarchal oratories (eujkth´ ria). This, then, is our oldest and, for this period, unique source from the capital, and hence of singular importance for the history of its liturgy. Structurally the collection of prayers of the Paris euchology is in no way different from the similar and older collections of the Italo-Greek and Middle Eastern periphery. Here as there we find a series of prayers for different categories; here also the first place is occupied by the oration “God of the spirits and of all flesh” followed by the usual kefaloklisi´a prayer. But in the Coislin 213 collection there appears for the first time a prayer for censing the dead, hitherto unknown in the Byzantine funeral context. But in fact the inclusion of the prayers for the dead could be seen as a consequence of the composition of a generic prayer of incense.18 From the patristic literature, mainly the eastern writings, we find evidence of a constant link between funerals and incense. One reason for this is of course obvious: it was necessary to perfume the atmosphere in the presence of a decomposing cadaver. But there was more to it than this obvious banal motive. For the burning of incense provides the dead with spiritual benefit of the same sort as that achieved by the prayers and works of charity offered in their memory. Still today in the eucharistic liturgy, when the diptychs of the dead (now reduced only to their incipit, the ekphonesis commemorating the Mother of God) are proclaimed in a loud voice, the celebrant takes in his hands the smoking thurible (qumiath´ rion), then gives it to the deacon, who incenses around the altar on all four sides while commemorating the names of the dead in a low voice.19 With the Paris euchology Coislin 213 of 1027, we are finally able to make a comparison between the funeral euchology of Constantinople and that of the Byzantine periphery. Here are the prayers of Coislin 213. C1. Eujch` qumia´ mato" ejpi` kekoimhme´ nou⭈ O J w‘n kai` prow` n kai` diame´ nwn eij" tou` " aijw'na", Ku´ rie . . . C2. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" kosmikou'⭈ O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" kai` to` n dia´ bolon katapath´ sa" . . . C3. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" eJte´ ra⭈ O J qeo` " oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, oJ dhmiourgo` " kai` swth` r tw'n aJpa´ ntwn kai` krith` " zw´ ntwn kai` nekrw'n . . . C4. Kai` tou' diako´ nou le´ gonto" “Ta` " kefala´ ",” ejpeu´ cetai oJ iJereu´ "⭈ Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" . . . J. Duncan, Coislin 213. Euchologe de la Grande Eglise. Dissertatio ad Lauream (Rome, 1983), 136. R. F. Taft, A History of the Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom, vol. 4: The Diptychs, OCA 238 (Rome, 1991), 10 and n. 40, 100–101. 18 19

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C5. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" iJere´ w"⭈ Eujcaristou'me´ n soi, Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, o”ti sou' mo´ nou ejsti to` zh'n ajqa´ naton . . . C6. Kai` tou' diako´ nou le´ gonto" “Ta` " kefala´ ",” ejpeu´ cetai oJ iJereu´ "⭈ Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" . . . J oi“khsin e“cwn to` n oujrano` n kai` pa´ nta ta` periC7. Eujch` eij" koimhqe´ nta dia´ konon⭈ O e´ pwn . . . C8. Eujch` a“llh ejpi` teleuth' kekoimhme´ nou⭈ Para` sou' kai` pro` " se` ta` pneu´ mata tw'n ejpegnwko´ twn se, de´ spota . . . J fula´ sswn ta` nh´ pia, Ku´ rie, ejn tv' paro´ nti bi´v . . . C9. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth' nhpi´ou⭈ O C10. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth' monacou'⭈ Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, oJ ejn th' sofi´a sou pla´ sa" ejk gh'" to` n a“nqrwpon kai` pa´ lin aujto` n eij" gh'n ajpostre´ fein nomoqeth´ sa" . . . First, we find five orations common to both traditions, and so we can identify the Constantinopolitan euchology for the dead anterior to 1027 as containing certainly these five prayers: C2. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" kosmikou'⭈ O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" kai` to` n dia´ bolon katapath´ sao" . . . (⫽ B1 P3 G1 SL1 S11 S22) J qeo` " oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, oJ dhmiourgo` " kai` swth` r tw'n C3. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" eJte´ ra⭈ O aJpa´ ntwn kai` krith` " zw´ ntwn kai` nekrw'n . . . (⫽ B3 G4) C4. Kai` tou' diako´ nou le´ gonto" “Ta` " kefala´ ",” ejpeu´ cetai oJ iJereu´ "⭈ Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" . . . (⫽ B2 P3 G2 SL2 S12 S23) C5. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth´ santo" iJere´ w"⭈ Eujcaristou'me´ n soi, Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, o”ti sou' mo´ nou ejsti to` zh'n ajqa´ naton . . . (⫽ P1 SL4 S21) C6. ⫽ C4. J fula´ sswn ta` nh´ pia, Ku´ rie, ejn tv' paro´ nti bi´v (⫽ G5) C9. Eujch` ejpi` teleuth' nhpi´ou⭈ O These five prayers constitute, then, the Constantinopolitan nucleus of those prayers identified in the euchologies of the periphery already examined. Consequently, the first three of them (C2–4) can be dated to the second half of the eighth century, and the other two at least to the last quarter of the tenth century. A further comparison of the Constantinopolitan euchology with those of the periphery proves that in those later sources as early as the eighth century there were prayers for categories of the dead different from the ones in Coislin 213 in 1027, as well as the

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“other prayers”(a“llh, eJte´ ra eujch´ ) found earlier in Barberini as alternate texts for the same purpose. This is a phenomenon common to the whole Byzantine tradition, in which the euchologies of the periphery have conserved in Greek the prayer of the oriental patriarchates of Alexandria, Antioch, and Jerusalem, beyond the confines of the Great Church. Their orations had come to southern Italy by about the end of the seventh century, imported by the Melkite intellectual e´lite that emigrated into Sicily and Calabria under the pressure of the Islamic incursions in their homeland. In the Byzantine euchologies of the Middle East, the same prayers remain fixed as an expression of reaction against the process of liturgical Byzantinization, begun already in the ninth century, but unable in the centuries since to obliterate entirely the strong local tradition. In any case, it is important not to pay too much attention to the lemmata accompanying each prayer: they are often interchangeable. For example, the prayer for a dead bishop can be easily adapted for a hegumen. The euchological motifs are extremely archaic: we see them mirrored also in the famous western Requiem aeternam. Consequently they are also more or less fixed and follow the traditional themes revolving around the concepts of light, peace, rest, refreshment, and particularly of repose in the “bosom of Abraham,” in accord with the New Testament vision proper to Luke 16:22–23 and the Epistle to the Hebrews 4:10–11.20 Besides, the aim of the prayers for the dead is not to provide an articulated doctrine of the hereafter. Even if the liturgy is a locus theologicus, it tends to express itself in the imaginative and biblical categories of the symbolical language proper to it. The Constantinopolitan euchological tradition as reflected in Paris Coislin 213 is resumed in two archaizing euchologies of the fourteenth century, Grottaferrata G.b. I, called also “the patriarchal euchology of Bessarion,” and Athens Ethnike Bibliotheke 662. FUNERAL RITES IN BYZANTIUM: FACTS AND HYPOTHESES Those few liturgical sources proper to the Byzantine capital, such as the so-called Typikon of the Great Church21 and the above-mentioned euchology of Strategios (Paris Coislin 213, A.D. 1027), do not furnish sufficient evidence to reconstruct safely the funeral rites for the laity in Constantinople, or for that matter any of the funeral rites apart from those for monastics. The tenth-century Typikon of the Great Church gives only the list of the scriptural lections for the respective eucharistic celebration,22 and the euchology Coislin 213, as we have seen, provides no more than a series of prayers more or less similar to those found in Barberini gr. 336 two centuries earlier.23 The list of the lessons for the eucharistic liturgy does not allow us to infer the existence of a proper funeral 20 `re pour les morts,” in La An excellent analysis is found in B. Botte, “Les plus anciennes formules de prie maladie et la mort du chre´tien dans la Liturgie, BiblEphL, Subsidia 1 (Rome, 1975), 83–99. 21 J. Mateos, Le Typicon de la Grande Eglise. Ms. Saint-Croix no 40, Xe sie`cle, vol. 1, Le cycle des douze mois, OCA 165 (Rome, 1962); vol. 2, Le cycle des feˆtes mobiles, OCA 166 (Rome, 1963). 22 Mateos, Typicon, 2:194–97. 23 Described by Dmitrievskii, Opisanie, 2:1012–13. Prayer for a layman (⫽ BAR, no. 264) with one alternate prayer (⫽ BAR, no. 266), with Inclination Prayer or kephaloklisia (⫽ BAR, no. 265); for a priest, also followed by a kephaloklisia, for a deacon, for a dead person without other specification, for a child, for a monk, and a formula of anointing.

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mass, however. In fact, the Byzantine liturgical mentality, which attributes markedly festal character to the divine liturgy or eucharist, would automatically exclude such a possibility. The system is the same as in the Lenten period when the eucharistic celebration is permitted only on Saturday and Sunday, days not devoted to fasting and penitence. In light of all this, one should ask how the Christians of New Rome, already possessing a proper repertory of funeral prayers, used to celebrate funerals in the period prior to the first extant funeral ritual known to us. In this regard Miguel Arranz has proposed hypothetically the existence of a vigil-type funeral and has suggested identifying it with the pannychis or post-vespertine semi-vigil of the ancient Constantinopolitan Liturgy of the Hours. Following his hypothesis, Arranz seeks to trace in different ways the constitutive elements in either the manuscript tradition or in the contemporary rites.24 From one point of view, this vigil hypothesis is attractive, finding as it does some support in the patristic literature—one thinks immediately, for example, of Gregory of Nyssa’s moving description of the funeral vigil held for his sister St. Macrina (d. 379).25 On the other hand, an identification tout-court with the pannychis does not take account of the fact that the oldest full description we have of such a vigil goes back only to the eleventh century and is already markedly influenced by elements proper to the Liturgy of the Hours in the monastic tradition. Hence, in the absence of reliable scholarly studies on the structure of the Byzantine hours, one must avoid being seduced by attractive but unverifiable theorizing. The only absolutely secure evidence shows that between the eighth and tenth centuries we have no extant funeral rites, only funeral prayers, exactly as in the case of the mysteries of the anointing of the sick and confession; and that the earliest funeral rite, when one does appear, bears the stamp of monastic orthros or matins.26 Permit me to verify these assertions. THE OLDEST RITUAL The Byzantine euchology written in southern Italy, Grottaferrata G.b. X in the library of the Badia Greca of Grottaferrata, nestled for a millennium in the Castelli Romani just south of Rome, a manuscript datable to the tenth–eleventh century,27 must be considered the most ancient ritual for funerals known in the Byzantine liturgical tradition. The manuscript can be related by its writing to a Lombard cultural milieu, where a fitting parallel is found in the contemporary Vaticanus gr. 866, a monumental and famous ItaloGreek homiliary originating in Campania, the unique witness to the Greek translation of some Latin lives of the saints.28 In some of the margins of our Grottaferrata G.b. X there M. Arranz, “Les prie`res presbyte´rales de la ‘Pannychis’ de l’ancien Euchologe byzantin et la ‘Panikhida’ des de´funts, II,” OCP 41 (1975): 314–43 (repr. under the same title in La maladie et la mort du chre´tien [as above, note 20], 31–82). 25 Gre´goire de Nysse, Vie de Sainte Macrine, Introduction, texte critique, traduction, notes et index par P. Maraval, SC 178 (Paris, 1971), chaps. 22–24 (cf. also pp. 77–89 of the introduction). 26 ´a tou' mnhmosu´ nou, Kei´mena Leitourgikh'" 20 Of the same opinion is also I. M. Phountoules, Akolouqi j (Thessalonike, 1979). 27 A. Rocchi, Codices Cryptenses seu Abbatiae Cryptae Ferratae . . . (Tusculani [⫽ Grottaferrata], 1883), 262–63, and also S. Parenti, “La celebrazione delle Ore del Venerdı` Santo nell’eucologio G.b. X di Grottaferrata (X–XI sec.),” BollGrott, n.s., 44 (1990): 81–125. 28 Cf. the recent description of the manuscript by M. D’Agostino in Oriente Cristiano e Santita`. Figure e storie di santi fra Bisanzio e l’Occidente, ed. S. Gentile (Venice, 1998), 210–12 (with bibliography). 24

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appear notes written in the vernacular but employing the Greek alphabet.29 In fact, the codex came to Grottaferrata from the monastery of Carbone in the province of Potenza,30 that is, from a bilingual and indeed biritual territory, where in many cases direct influences of the Roman rite on the Byzantine ritual can be observed, as shall be demonstrated also with regard to funeral rites. Preliminary Remarks and Structural Characteristics The section related to the funeral rites in Grottaferrata G.b. X, which remains unpublished until now, occupies folios 77r–85r and is divided into two parts. The first (fols. 77r–83r) contains the ritual proper, while the second (fols. 83r–85r) provides a series of six prayers for different categories of the dead. The position this funeral ritual and prayer occupies in the euchology, coming between the marriage and the processional euchology, is rather unusual. Normally the funeral prayers are situated at the very end of the euchologies, immediately after the prayers for the sick and the exorcisms. The title of our rite is very simple: ajkolouqi´a eij" koimhqe´ nta (Ritual for the Dead). The initial rubric is of great interest: crh` ginw´ skein o”ti protiqeme´ nou tou' leiya´ nou me´ son th'" ejkklhsi´a", eij me´ n ejstin kosmiko´ ", a“rc(etai) oJ iJereu´ "⭈ Eujloghme´ nh hJ basilei´a, kai` le´ gei ta` eJxa´ yalma⭈ eij de´ ejstin monaco´ ", ouj le´ gei ta` eJxa´ yalma, ajlla` to` n ⬘ yalmo´ n⭈ O J katoikw'n (fol. 77r) (“One must know that while the dead one is lying in the middle of the church, if he is a layman, the priest starts with “Blessed be the Kingdom” and says the Hexapsalmos; if he is a monk, the priest does not say the Hexapsalmos but Psalm 90”). This means that, unlike late and modern practice, the euchology knows only one funeral ritual, with small variants depending on whether the deceased is a lay person or a monk, and does not provide a special ordo for priests. In the funeral rite of Grottaferrata G.b. X one can distinguish three different liturgical structures: (a) monastic matins of the Stoudite type; (b) a cathedral stational celebration; and (c) the funeral rites proper, organized as follows. Monastic Matins, the most extensive part of the celebration, comprises the following elements: Hexapsalmos (or Psalm 90, if the deceased is a monk) Litany ⫹ prayer Alleluia with troparia Psalm 118 Hymnographical canon after the 3d, 6th, and 9th odes: Litany ⫹ 3 different prayers Troparion-Exaposteilarion Lauds (Pss. 148–150) with respective hymnography Note that the very presence of the lauds psalms excludes the possibility that this celebration is only a kind of imitation of matins, as is common in the later Byzantine E.g., pe bbenedi´tzere kre´ a ka´ rne (fol. 90r), bbeneditzio´ nh dei´ beneditzeri´ pa´ nh (fol. 91r), la ratzho“ni di beneditzhri ouJba (fol. 93v), petrou bahmonte malfhta´ nou stourionne (fol. 98v). 30 M. Petta, “Codici del Monastero di S. Elia di Carbone conservati nella biblioteca dell’Abbazia di Grottaferrata,” VetChr 9 (1972): 160, 168. 29

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tradition, which models its occasional services on the structure of matins. In fact, we have here a real o“rqro" (matins) service, identical to that prescribed by the monastic typika for the Saturdays of Lent and for all the Saturdays not superseded by a feast of the liturgical year. For Saturdays were in fact traditionally dedicated to the commemoration of the dead, as we shall see. The litany is proper to the funeral service and comprises eight intentions incorporated into the common framework of the Byzantine synapte (fol. 77rv). The same litany is repeated after the 3d, 6th, and 9th odes of the hymnographical canon, but abbreviated in each of these repetitions to only five of the eight petitions, which is why this shortened form of the litany is called pente´ sticon.31 Note that Psalm 118 is said without the interruptions or divisions otherwise customary in orthros. The manuscript indicates exactly the minor hymnographical pieces to be sung, but does not mention any hymnographical canon, which constitutes the core of Byzantine matins. The reason is to be sought in the fact that the canon changed according to the social and ecclesiastical rank of the dead person—layman, ordained minister, child—and its respective texts were found in other liturgical books, not in the euchology. We have already seen the presidential prayers of the service in the above-mentioned early liturgical euchology manuscripts, which simply list them one after another with no indication of where or how they were inserted into the structure of the actual celebration. According to what criteria were they included in the ritual, and where were they located? In this first morning section, four prayers are to be said; I list them one after another in the order in which they occur in the manuscript. 1. O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" kai` to` n dia´ bolon katapath´ sa" . . . (God of the spirits and of all flesh, who vanquished death and trampled the devil . . . ) 2. Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" . . . (O Lord, O Lord, consolation of the suffering and comfort of those who mourn . . . ) 3. Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, oJ pla´ sa" to` n a“nqrwpon kat∆ eijko´ na sh´ n . . . (O Lord our God, who created humankind according to your image . . . ) 4. De´ spota oJ qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ didou` " katastolh` n do´ xh" ajnti` pneu´ mato" ajkhdi´a" . . . (O Master, God of the spirits and of all flesh, who gave the ornament of glory . . . ) Of these four prayers, three correspond to prayers 1, 2, and 5 of the Barberini Euchology. The third prayer seems to be proper to the tradition of the Italo-Greek schematologia, a Byzantine monastic liturgical manual containing the rites of monastic vesting and consecration, as well as the rites for the burial of a monk.32 This is an extremely important element for understanding the mechanism of the shape of the celebration in Grottaferrata G.b. X. The second prayer, used in the rite we are discussing as a dismissal or ajpo´ 31 32

Parenti, “La celebrazione,” 107–8. Cf., eg., Grottaferrata G.b. 43, fols. 157v–158v, Mess. gr. 172, fol. 111r.

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lusi" prayer after a group of odes of the hymnographical canon, is in fact a kefaloklisi´a or inclination prayer, a prayer meant by its very nature for the conclusion of a celebration. Several extant euchologies testify to this original destination of the prayer, putting it immediately after the first classical prayer, “God of the spirits and of all flesh.” Often it is introduced, as in the Barberini Euchology, by the usual diaconal invitation: Ta` " kefala` " hJmw'n ktl. (Let us bow our heads to the Lord). So it is obvious that the compiler has just distributed in the monastic matins suo loco the series of prayers contained in its model (a euchology), simply placing them one after another. Since there was no particular criterion for the distribution and the function of the single prayers, it is important to observe that the compiler was inspired by the same technique applied in the composition of the Liturgy of the Hours, where the prayers of the cathedral office were usually inserted into monastic vespers and matins to create the synthesis we know as the Stoudite-type office or akolouthia. So at the level of the euchology, the history of the funeral rite is no different from the general history of the Byzantine Liturgy of the Hours, particularly of matins. Besides, the compiler used the same method when organizing the solemn hours of Good Friday, harmonizing the euchology elements of the rite of Constantinople with the cathedral rite of Jerusalem.33 The Cathedral-Stational Celebration This second section of the celebration is undoubtedly the most interesting, comprising as it does three identical liturgical structures in the following way. I.

Psalm 22 ⫹ hymnography Litany ⫹ prayer Hymnography Epistle to the Romans

II. Psalm 23 ⫹ hymnography Litany ⫹ prayer Hymnography Epistle to the Corinthians III. Psalm 83 ⫹ hymnography Litany ⫹ prayer Hymnography Epistle to the Corinthians So there are three antiphonal psalms, each with a longer than usual hymnographical perisse, followed by a litany of the deacon accompanied by the customary presidential prayer, plus one hymnographical kathisma and a New Testament lection. The initial rubric makes it clear that this second section of the service represents a switch to a new celebrative typology: “and a chorostasimos is made: two choirs, and the right one begins with the 33

Parenti, “La celebrazione,” 101–7.

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first antiphon having as its refrain the triple Alleluia.” 34 Indeed, the language here seems more proper to the cathedral than to the monastic liturgy—but which cathedral liturgy? For such a liturgical unit constituting a particular and independent structure is found in none of the known types of Constantinopolitan celebration: neither the eucharist, nor the other sacramental mysteries, nor the cathedral or monastic hours yield such a structure. Of course one could suppose that a similar early structure of responsorial psalmody (psalm ⫹ Alleluia) and prayers was subsequently amplified by the inclusion of hymnographical elements according to the process of antiphonalization documented in the sixth–seventh centuries for the chants of the Byzantine ordo missae, a process that can be considered organic. Concerning the origins of the liturgical unit in question here, two hypotheses have been proposed. The first, formulated by Vitaliano Bruni, sees in the threefold group a possible imitation of the Jerusalem cathedral vigil, by analogy with the three-psalm structure of Kyrios polyeleos in Sunday matins.35 A second hypothesis, by Miguel Arranz, identifies in this group the psalms of the primitive Constantinopolitan funeral service, which was, according to him, nothing else than a pannychis or a partial post-vespertine vigil.36 Although very seductive as well as ingenious, Arranz’s proposal remains only a hypothesis because none of the sources, liturgical or extraliturgical, attest to such a practice. The first full description of a Constantinopolitan cathedral pannychis (vigil) goes back only to the eleventh century, the date of the Praxapostolos codex Dresden 104A, where we first see it. In this document, the pannychis is already a hybrid of both Byzantine and hagiopolite elements, rendering it difficult if not impossible to get behind it to the original structures. Is there any way out of the impasse? I believe that an element not yet given sufficient consideration by scholars calls for more attentive reflection: the presence of the scripture lessons. For a very close and, one hopes, appropriate parallel is offered by the celebrative structures of the Jerusalem cathedral liturgy, in particular its stational liturgy. A survival of this structure is preserved also in the present Byzantine-Palestinian synthesis in the first part of Good Friday matins. In this proposal, the three-psalm unit in question would represent but one more case of the frequently observable atrophy of a stational celebration. This proposal is not entirely gratuitous. For another celebration in the same euchology manuscript, this time of the Liturgy of the Word following the Apostle lesson in the third stational unit (III), must perforce be referred to the Jerusalem liturgical context proposed here. The schema of this parallel is as follows. (a) Mesodion (b) Epistle to the Thessalonians (c) Alleluia (d) Gospel (e) Ektene ´ ia kai` gi´netai corosta´ simo"⭈ du´ o coroi´, kai` a“rcetai oJ dexiw'n coro` " ajnti´fwnon a⬘⭈ uJpo´ yalma Allhlou j triplou'n (fol. 79v). 35 Bruni, I funerali di un sacerdote, 120. 36 Arranz, “Les prie`res presbyte´rales de la ‘Pannychis’ II,” 131. 34

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The hagiopolite provenance of this unit is betrayed unmistakably by the presence of the technical term mesodion, the Jerusalem term corresponding to the Byzantine prokeimenon.37 In the same euchology G.b. X the term mesodion is used exclusively in celebrations of hagiopolite provenance, such as the above-mentioned Great Hours of Good Friday.38 In any case, the secondary character of this unit of lessons is so obviously an erratic structure that its composition demands an explanation. The whole structure from (a) to (d) constitutes an easily recognizable liturgical unit that could have been the remnant of a proprium missae with a Byzantine ektene added. This could be an ulterior confirmation of the composite character of the celebration. The Farewell and Funeral Rites At this point, after the chant of a troparion ( O J rw'nte´ " me a“fwnon), perhaps only the first of a series, the manuscript inserts the farewell kiss of the deceased (aspasmos) by those present while the farewell chant, Deu'te teleutai'on ajspasmo´ n, is sung. The celebrant blesses the oil using the same formula as in the blessing of the prebaptismal anointing, with explicit reference to the earlier folia containing that formula in the Initiation rites.39 Note that nothing is said about where the celebration takes place, though the rubric implies that we are already at the tomb. This detail would confirm once again the processional-stational character of the above-mentioned psalms. While the body is laid in the tomb, a hymn (tropa´ rion) is sung which is in fact Psalm 117:19 with Psalm 131:14, concluding with a Marian refrain: Kai` ti´qetai tou' leiya´ nou [sic] eij" t(o` ) mnh'ma⭈ ya´ llo(men) to` trop(a´ rion) tou'ton [sic], h«c(o") b⬘⭈ jAnoi´xate´ moi pu´ l(a"), sti´c(o")⭈ Au”th hJ kata´ pausi´" mou, kai` le´ g(etai) to` aujto` trop(a´ rion), q(eotoki´on)⭈ Th` n pa'san.40 It is probable that we have here a direct influence of the Roman-German Pontifical, where we find this rubric: “Tunc incipiat cantor antiphonam: Aperite mihi portas iustitiae; ingressus in eas confitebor domino; haec porta domini, iusti intrabunt in eam. Ps. Confitemini [ . . . ] Hic claudant sepulchrum et cantent istam antiphonam: Haec requies mea in saeculum saeculi; hic habitabo quoniam elegi eam. Ps. Memento, domine.” 41 Such Roman-Byzantine contamination is not surprising, since it is not the only case in the manuscript.42 The celebrant then pours the blessed oil three times over the body of the deceased, singing Alleluia exactly as in the baptismal rites when, shortly before the immersion of the neophyte, the celebrant pours the oil into the baptismal font, chanting as well the Alleluia.43 In both cases the paschal symbolism, based on Romans 6:3–5, is obvious: the 37 S. Parenti, “Mesedi-Mesv´ dion,” Crossroad of Cultures: Studies in Liturgy and Patristics in Honor of Gabriele Winkler, ed. H.-J. Feulner, E. Velkovska, and R. F. Taft, OCA 260 (Rome, 2000), 543–55. 38 Parenti, “La celebrazione,” 92. 39 Grottaferrata G.b. X, fol. 82v: zh´ tei ojpi´sw [fol. 49r], eij" to` a”gion ba´ ptisma, ejkei' ejgra´ fh. 40 Grottaferrata G.b. X, fol. 82v. 41 C. Vogel and R. Elze, Le pontifical romano-germanique du dixie`me sie`cle, vol. 2, ST 227 (Vatican City, 1963), p. 300 no. 61, p. 302 no. 69. 42 Cf. A. Strittmatter, “The Latin Prayer ‘Ad infantes Consignandos’ in the Byzantine Rite of Confirmation,” OCP 21 (1955): 308–20. 43 BAR, 124.3.

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tomb, like the baptismal font, is the place of death—but at the same time the place of resurrection.44 Then prayers are offered for those present, and after putting the gravestone over the tomb, the celebrant blesses it, tracing out the sign of the cross with a hoe, and thus the funeral concludes. A series of prayers for different categories of the dead (hegumen, bishop, monk, deacon, child) follows; these prayers, together with the hymnography (which one would have expected to find but which is not given), seem to be the only variable elements of the celebration. THE FUNERAL OF A MONK IN THE SCHEMATOLOGIA As early as the eighth-century Barberini Euchology, one can observe how the euchology redactional structure placed the prayers for the deceased immediately following those for the various grades of monastic initiation.45 This redactional relationship would continue through the centuries in the Schematologion, a book containing almost exclusively not just the prayers but the entire ritual for the conferral of the monastic schema or habit, as well as for the funeral of a monk. The manuscript tradition of this book is extensive, stretching from the eleventh through the sixteenth century.46 The following are some of its more significant examples. Grottaferrata G.b. V/G.a. XXV The oldest extant source seems to be the Italo-Greek manuscript Grottaferrata G.b. V and G.a. XXV (A.D. 1018/19), unfortunately badly damaged. The funeral rite here is analogous to that of the tradition of Grottaferrata G.b. X, deriving, like the latter, from the so-called Nilian school of scribes.47 Despite differences, the basic similarity of the two sources consists in the fact that the funeral rite, though accompanied by a ritual of monastic profession, is not destined for the funeral of a monk—at least not necessarily so— but for any deceased Orthodox Christian. This is clear from the rich anthology of hymnographical canons following the rite proper, where compositions certainly meant for monks, nuns, and the hegumen48 are juxtaposed with others for lay persons or children (fols. 7r–46v); the last ones are also put side by side with the respective presidential prayers (fols. 35v–36r). The Nilian provenance of this source is also betrayed by the already-mentioned telltale rubric derived from the Roman-Germanic sacramentary. G. Winkler, Das armenische Initiationsrituale. Entwicklungsgeschichtliche und liturgievergleichende Untersuchung der Quellen des 3. bis 10. Jahrhunderts, OCA 217 (Rome, 1982). 45 BAR, nos. 244–56, 258–63 (monastic initiation), nos. 264–70 (funerals). 46 Examples in M. Wawryk, Initiatio monastica in liturgia byzantina. Officiorum schematis magni et parvi necnon rasophoratus exordia et evolutio, OCA 180 (Rome, 1968), and Bruni, I funerali di un sacerdote, 43–79, passim. 47 S. Luca`, “Attivita` scrittoria e culturale a Rossano: Da S. Nilo a S. Bartolomeo da Simeri (secoli X–XII),” in Atti del Congresso internazionale su S. Nilo di Rossano, 28 settembre–1 ottobre 1986 (Rossano-Grottaferrata, 1989), 25–73, esp. 28 n. 12 and 63 n. 169. 48 Some of them published by M. Arco Magrı`, “L’inedito canon de requie di Andrea Cretese,” Helikon 9–10 (1969–70): 475–76; eadem, Clemente innografo e gli inediti canoni cerimoniali (Rome, 1979), 45, 55, 66; Romanos le Me´lode, Hymnes, Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes par. J. Grosdidier de Matons, vol. 5, Nouveau Testament (XLVI–L) et hymnes de circonstance (LI–LVI), SC 283 (Paris, 1981), 8, 375. 44

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Kai` o”tan te´ qoun to` lei´yanon eij" to` n ta´ fon ya´ llei oJ l(ao´ ")⭈ ajnoi´xate´ moi pu´ la" dikaiosu´ nh"⭈ i”na eijselqw' ejn aujtai'", proskunh´ sw ku´ rion to` n Qeo´ n. Kai` le´ gei sti´co"⭈ Au”th hJ kata´ pausi´" mou, kai` pa´ lin to` aujto´ ⭈ ajnoi´xate´ moi pu´ la", kai` doxa´ zei kai` le´ gei⭈ O J pisteu´ wn eij" pate´ ra . . . 49 (Ps. 117:19; Ps. 131:14) And while the body is laid in the tomb, the deacon sings: Open to me the doors of justice to enter and adore, Lord. And he says the verse: This is my rest . . . ; and again the same: Open to me the doors . . . then he says Glory . . . , and: One who believes in the Father . . .

The Romano-Germanic provenance of this rubric is in fact the most interesting point of comparison with the euchology Grottaferrata G.b. X. For the Greek translations offered by the two Nilian manuscripts are not identical, an indication that in the same area of provenance of both manuscripts, imitation of Latin usages was a spontaneous practice. In this instance the differences in the Greek text are explained by the presence of two different Latin recensions of the same rite, and is not the result of diffusion and redactional development within the same Greek translation tradition. So we can take the Nilian schematologion as representing a not-yet-mature witness of the formation of this type of book, one in which the deceased are not yet divided into clear and distinct categories with regard to the order of the funeral celebration. Grottaferrata G.b. XLIII We must locate in the same eleventh century, and in an area of southern Italy where the Latin and Greek liturgical cultures were apparently not in contact, the formation of a special, exclusively monastic funeral rite, of which the Ta´ xi" kai` ajkolouqi´a ginom(e´ nh) ejpi` teleuth´ (santo") monacou' of Grottaferrata G.b. XLIII (fols. 108 ff) provides a good example. This certainly Italo-Greek manuscript, difficult to locate more precisely, was written by two copyists of high professional standard inspired by the decorative models of the so-called blue style.50 Its funeral celebration can be divided into three parts: (a) in the cell, the washing and dressing of the body; (b) in the church, the funeral service; and (c) at the cemetery, the burial. All three ritual moments are linked by respective processions. The rubrics have become very detailed: the monk is washed from the knees down and on the head, then dressed in the monastic habit covered with a shroud, and borne into the church. If the dead monk is a hegumen, priest, or deacon, he is laid in front of the altar, and the Gospel book is placed on his chest. If the deceased is a lay monk, he is placed on the right side of the church, if a woman, on the left side. If a monk dies during the night, the watch by his body consists in the kanw´ n of matins, followed by prime, and only then the funeral, ta` th'" khdi´a". If a monk dies during the day or in the afternoon, vespers are celebrated for him somewhat earlier than usual, followed by the funeral (khdeu´ etai). So the funeral rite (khdi´a) is a liturgical unity that accompanies but is distinct from the Liturgy of the Hours. Its proper elements are Psalm 118 divided into three sections with a presidential prayer after each, followed by Psalms 22, 23, and 114, a rich selection of hymnographical compositions, the celebration of the Word, the anointing with mu´ ron, and the farewell greeting. Then a procession chanting the Trisagion hymn proceeds to the tomb, where 49 50

Grottaferrata G.a. XXV, fol. 5v. Cf. L. Perria, “Manoscritti miniati in ‘stile blu’ nei secoli X–XI,” RSBN 24 (1987): 121.

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some prayers are said and Ezechiel 37:1–14, a lesson proper to Holy Saturday matins, is read. The choice of this reading shows a clear association of the burial of a Christian with that of Christ. An appendix gives a selection of scripture lessons for the eucharistic liturgy and an anthology of hymnographical compositions.51 The presence of the group of Psalms 22, 23, and 114 is an element common to the above-mentioned euchology Grottaferrata G.b. X. But here the three psalms are said one after another without the presidential prayers, which are distributed at the end of the sections of Psalm 118, an element that will tend more and more to comprise the core of the funeral. Messina gr. 172 Messina gr. 172, a rich and elegant schematologion written in 1178–79 in the Reggio style, gives three different funeral rites: for monks, for the faithful departed in general, and for children. The manuscript is thus one of the first known witnesses to funeral rites constituted according to different categories of the deceased. MONASTIC FUNERALS The monastic rite (Ta´ xi" kai` ajkolouqi´a ginome´ nh ejpi` teleuthko´ ti monacv') begins with a minutely detailed description of the dressing of the monk in his cell, stressing that it is not permitted to see his nakedness (fol. 92v). The celebrant then opens the service, as customary, with a blessing (eujloghto` " oJ qeo` " hJmw'n oJ zw´ ntwn kai` nekrw'n ejxousia´ zwn, pa´ ntote nu'n kai` ajei` ktl.); then, to the singing of the Trisagion hymn, the traditional Byzantine funeral dirge, the coffin is borne in procession to the narthex where the funeral takes place. The first part of the funeral rite resumes the structure already seen: Litany Alleluia with troparia Psalm 118:1–93 Litany with the usual prayer Psalm 118:94–176 Troparia anastasima Litany and prayer After this unit a second one follows containing these elements: Psalm 119 ⫹ hymnographical kathisma Litany and prayer Psalm 120 ⫹ hymnographical kathisma Litany and prayer Some of them published by M. Arco Magrı`, “L’inedito canon de requie,” 475–76; eadem, “Un canone inedito di Teodoro Studita nel cod. Messanensis gr. 153,” in Umanita` e Storia, vol. 2, Scritti in onore di A. Attisani (Naples, 1971), 97; eadem, Clemente innografo e gli inediti canoni cerimoniali. Prolegomeni, testo, incipitario, Biblioteca di Helikon - Studi e Testi 12 (Rome, 1979). 51

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Makarismoi Hymnographical canon of eight odes Litany and prayer after the third and sixth odes Epistle and Gospel Litany and prayer To interpret this structure is not at all easy. Psalms 119 and 120 belong to the group called the “Gradual Psalms” (Pss. 119–132), the ajnabaqmoi´. The same name is also given to a series of hymns composed according to the eight tones and formerly intercalated between the verses of the psalms. These hymns, on which there are still no reliable scholarly studies, are now sung before the Gospel at Sunday and festive matins. In the context of the cathedral Liturgy of the Hours, the first three gradual psalms (Pss. 119–121) were sung at the vigil (pannuci´") according to such sources as the praxapostolos Dresden 104 (11th century),52 Jerusalem Hagios Stauros 43 (A.D. 1122),53 and the later Greek witnesses.54 In a few late Georgian manuscripts this vigil structure, taken out of its celebrative context, is used as a votive rite for the living and dead.55 At first sight the presence of the two gradual psalms could be interpreted as a remnant of the Constantinopolitan-type cathedral vigil, thus supporting the hypothesis of a dependence of the funeral on the pannychis. But a more attentive analysis leads us right back to monastic matins. For in many hymnographical manuscripts from the tenth century on, contrary to present practice, the festal Gospel is read within the hymnographical canon, in the following way: Sixth ode of the canon Kontakion Antiphons and gradual psalms Prokeimenon Gospel Makarismoi So our schematologion does not point to the origin of the funeral from the cathedral vigil. Rather, it demonstrates the evolution of the displacement of the Gospel within the history of monastic matins, the stages of which are reflected in the funeral rites. POSTMORTEM RITES OF SUFFRAGE FOR THE SOULS OF THE DEAD AND PRIVATE COMMEMORATIONS Beyond the funeral burial rites, in Byzantine society the anniversary of the death of a person, especially an important person, also furnished an occasion for the “liturgicization” of social life. The Byzantine mentality had inherited the Greco-Roman notion of the progressive stages of the separation of the soul from the body on the third, ninth, 52 M. Arranz, “Les prie`res presbyte´rales de la ‘Pannychis’ de l’ancien Euchologe byzantin et la ‘Panikhida’ des de´funts, I,” OCP 40 (1974): 336–38. 53 Ibid., 339–40. 54 Ibid., 340. 55 Arranz, “Les prie`res presbyte´rales de la ‘Pannychis’ II,” 124–27.

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and fortieth days after death.56 These days become, then, occasions to guarantee the church’s suffrages for the dead according to a practice in use until now. The corresponding celebration, now called trisa´ gion nekrw´ simon or tw'n kekoimhme´ nwn or simply trisa´ gion,57 has a very simple structure, composed as follows: (a) Initial blessing (b) Trisagion—Our Father (c) Funeral troparia: Meta` pneuma´ twn dikai´wn . . . Eij" th` n kata´ pausi´n sou . . . Su` e« oJ qeo` " hJmw'n oJ kataba´ " . . . H J mo´ nh aJgnh` kai` a“cranto" . . . (d) Litany (e) Presidential prayer (f) Dismissal (g) Chant “Eternal memory” The first witness to this short rite, from the second half of the twelfth century, is the ´a ejpi` teleuth´ santo") of the Middle Eastern euchology “Rite for the Deceased” (Akolouqi j Sinai gr. 973 (A.D. 1152/53), where the rite comprises only [a], b, d, and e.58 Another rite, almost identical with the modern one, is found in an appendix to the typikon (ritual) of the Italo-Greek monastery of Casole near Otranto, preserved in the manuscript C III 17 of the National Library of Turin (fol. 178v), dated 1173.59 A more developed rite is given by the euchology Ottoboni gr. 344, written in 1177 by Galaktion, priest and second singer of the cathedral of Otranto. This source has the particularity of using a prayer from the fourth-century Apostolic Constitutions (Syria, ca. 380) in the same way as another Salentan euchology, the Barberini gr. 434 (13th century);60 the Salentan suffrage rites are found also in Vaticanus gr. 2296 (15th century).61 Byzantium also gave particular importance to suffrages for the founders of a monastery, especially when the founder was the emperor or a member of his family. The typika provided the most minute details for the celebration of different commemorations (mnhmo´ suna). The twelfth-century typikon of the monastery of the Savior Pantokrator furnishes a good example of this.62 To the same category of suffrages and commemorations belong the intercessions said by the priest during the anaphora, and the accompanying diptychs proclaimed by the deacon, on which the basic study has been written by Robert Taft.63

Dagron, “Troisie`me, neuvie`me et quarantie`me jours,” 419–30. ´a" tou' JEsperinou' kai` tou' “Orqrou, ta` " qei´a" kai` iJera` " Leitourgi´a" E.g., JIeratiko` n perie´ con ta` " Akolouqi j jIwa´ nnou tou' Crusosto´ mou, Basilei´ou tou' Mega´ lou kai` tw'n Prohgiasme´ nwn, meta` tw'n sunh´ qwn prosqhkw'n (Rome, 1950), 291–94. 58 Published by Dmitrievskii, Opisanie, 2:110. 59 J. M. Hoeck and R. J. Loenertz, Nikolaos-Nektarios von Otranto Abt von Casole. Beitra¨ge zur Geschichte der ostwestlichen Beziehungen unter Innozenz III. und Friedrich II., StPB 11 (Ettal, 1965), 10. 60 S. Parenti, “Preghiere delle ‘Costituzioni Apostoliche’ in alcuni eucologi italo-greci del medioevo,” EphL 113 (1999): 47–52. 61 A. Jacob, “Fragments liturgiques byzantins de Terre d’Otrante,” Bulletin de l’Institut Historique Belge de Rome 43 (1973): 370–73. 62 P. Gautier, “Le Typikon du Christ Sauveur Pantokrator,” REB 32 (1974): 32–35. 63 Taft, Diptychs (as above, note 19), 140–42. 56 57

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DAILY, WEEKLY, AND YEARLY GENERAL COMMEMORATIONS OF THE DEPARTED The departed were also remembered regularly on a daily, weekly, and yearly basis. In today’s liturgical year one can distinguish a weekday cycle organized around a series of commemorations for every day of the week. Each day is dedicated to one or more saints, who are celebrated with the respective hymnography of canons and stichera called, precisely, nekrw´ sima. The elaboration of this cycle is rightly attributed to the ninth-century hymnographers Joseph and Theophanes. But some traces are already found in the Palestinian horologion or book of hours Sinai gr. 863, a ninth-century manuscript reporting a text that may be still earlier. In this source, Monday and Tuesday are considered days of penitence, Wednesday and Friday are dedicated to the Cross, Thursday to the Mother of God, and Saturday to the martyrs.64 A later Syriac horologion offers a variant system: Tuesday is in honor of John the Baptist, Thursday of the apostles, and Saturday of the martyrs—and the dead.65 The manuscript tradition of the hymnographical books gives other variants of this series, which appears to have been established by the tenth century, though not in every detail.66 The cycle originated, then, in the Middle East and was received in Constantinople by the eleventh century, when Michael Psellos dedicated a small treatise to it.67 The hypothesis that the series of weekday commemorations takes its origins from Anastasios of Sinai’s Commentary on the Hexaemeron (CPG 7770) is to be rejected:68 that work is at least four centuries later than Anastasios, who died sometime after 700. Note that Saturday in this weekly system, as it appears in the eighth-century manuscripts of the Georgian lectionary edited by M. Tarchnischvili, is a day of the saints and/ or of the dead: “Haec acolouthia sabbatorum. Psalmus et alleluia sanctorum aut animae.” 69 It is not impossible that the choice of Saturday as the day for commemorating the dead was influenced by the old Jewish belief that on this day, rest—the Sabbath rest—was given not only to the living but also to the souls of the dead in Sheol. More important from the perspective of Christian theology, of course, is the coincidence of Saturday as the day of simultaneous commemoration of the saints and of the dead. The hagiopolite decision to put together the saints and the deceased remains in the same theological direction as expressed in the Urtext of the Chrysostom anaphora cited earlier, in which there was no distinction whatever in the original intercessions between the saints and the departed: the eucharistic oblation was offered for both. Taft’s study on “Praying to or for the Saints” has demonstrated this crucial point.70 J. Mateos, “Un Horologion ine´dit de Saint-Sabas. Le codex sinaı¨tique grec 863 (IXe sie`cle),” in Me´langes Euge`ne Tisserant, vol. 3, ST 233 (Vatican City, 1964), 49–54. 65 M. Black, A Christian Palestinian Syriac Horologion (Berlin MS. Or. Oct. 1019) (Cambridge, 1954), 85–86 (ordinary of Vespers) and 103–43 (hymnographical anthologion). 66 Ch. Hannick, “Le texte de l’Oktoechos,” in Dimanche. Office selon les huits tons, jOktw´ hco", La prie`re des Eglises de rite byzantin 3 (Chevetogne, 1972), 39–40 and 54. 67 K. Snipes, “An Unedited Treatise of Michael Psellos on the Iconography of Angels and on the Religious Festivals Celebrated on Each Day of the Week,” in Gonimos. Neoplatonic and Byzantine Studies Presented to Leendert G. Westerink at 75 (Buffalo, N.Y., 1988), 189–205. 68 This was the hypothesis of A. Grabar, “L’iconographie du dimanche principalement `a Byzance,” in Le Dimanche, Lex Orandi 39 (Paris, 1965), 169–84. 69 M. Tarchnischvili, Le grand lectionnaire de l’Eglise de Je´rusalem (Ve–VIIIe sie`cle), CSCO 189 (Louvain, 1959), 83–85. 70 On this see Taft “Praying to or for the Saints,” 439–55. 64

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The annual commemorations of the dead held nowadays on Carnival Saturday and the Saturday before Whitsunday are unknown to the liturgical order of the Great Church. In any case the commemoration of Carnival Saturday is to be considered another loan from Jerusalem71 imported to Constantinople by the Stoudite monks mainly as a commemoration of their departed brothers,72 which in other circumstances would become a commemoration of those fallen in war.73 Note, however, that all of these commemorations have to do with Saturday. Two other long intercessionary prayers for the dead ( H J ajenna´ w" bru´ ousa zwtikh` kai` fwtistikh` phgh` ktl. and So` n ga` r wJ" ajlhqw'" kai` me´ ga o“ntw" musth´ rion ktl.) are found in some manuscripts and in the funeral rite textus receptus, included among the prayers of the Kneeling Service at vespers Pentecost Sunday evening, which marks the end of the Easter period.74 In this way the dead are commemorated on Saturday before Whitsunday and at sunset on Whitsunday itself. A funeral office has coalesced and is perfectly recognizable by the end of the ferial office (Monday to Friday) of the Mesonyktikon.75 The last prayer to be noted is a prayer pertaining to the genre of opisthambonos prayers recited “behind the ambo” after the original dismissal of the eucharistic liturgy. One such prayer is destined for liturgies offered in suffrage for the dead; its textual tradition is limited to the Italo-Greek mss.76 COLLECTIONS OF CANONS Regarding the kontakion that its translator, Grosdidier de Matons, calls the Hymne aux saints moines et asce`tes ( W J " ajgaphta´ ), and which the kontakia collections prescribe for Cheesefare Saturday (th'" turofa´ gou), the Saturday before Lent, it should be noted that the Saturday in question was not originally destined for the commemoration of the dead, as witnessed by the tenth-century manuscript H of the typikon of the Great Church.77 According to Grosdidier de Matons, this kontakion, transmitted in three versions of unequal length, should be taken as an exhortation directed at the living monks and not as meant for the celebration of their funerals: this is the situation in witness Q of the manuscript tradition, the eleventh-century Patmos 213.78 But it is also true that three schematologia (Grottaferrata G.b. V and Vaticanus gr. 1863 and 1869) transmit this hymn precisely as part of the funeral of a monk.79 The second prooimion of the kontakion is taken literally from Psalm 83:2, one of the three psalms of the vigil attested already at the end of tenth century in the above-mentioned Grottaferrata G.b. X. Grosdidier de Matons relativizes this liturgical argument, probably because he knew of the use of Psalm Tarchnischvili, Le grand lectionnaire, 45–46. M. Arranz, Le Typicon du monaste`re du Saint-Sauveur `a Messine. Codex Messinensis gr. 115, A.D. 1131, OCA 185 (Rome, 1969), 187–88; cf. Dmitrievskii, Opisanie, vol. 1, Tupika´ , 503–4. 73 Th. De´torakis and J. Mossay, “Un office byzantin ine´dit pour ceux qui sont morts `a la guerre, dans le cod. Sin. gr. 734–735,” Le Muse´on 101 (1988): 183–211. 74 ˆte dans l’ancien Cf. M. Arranz, “Les prie`res de la Gonyklisia ou de la Ge´nuflexion du jour de la Penteco Euchologe byzantin,” OCP 48 (1982): 92–123. 75 JWrolo´ gion perie´ con th` n hJmeronu´ ktion ajkolouqi´an (Rome, 1937), 38–40. 76 T. Minisci, “Le preghiere ojpisqa´ mbwnoi dei codici criptensi, I,” BollGrott, n.s., 2 (1948): 123. 77 ´ glise, 2:8. Mateos, Le Typicon de la Grande E 78 Romanos le Me´lode, Hymnes, vol. 5, ed. Grosdidier de Matons, 373–74. 79 Ibid., 374–75 with other later mss. 71 72

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83 in the funeral rites only from the later twelfth-century manuscript Vaticanus gr. 1863.80 CONCLUSION Can any overriding conclusions be gleaned from this mass of detail? From the point of view of the liturgical sources, the history of Byzantine funerals is marked by two basic currents, cathedral and monastic. But ritual history apart, Byzantine funerals are also a subject of historical, thematic, and theological interest. 1. With respect to the historical evolution of the ritual structures, the development is rather simple. We are dealing with an ancient repertory of prayers of the celebrant traditionally inserted into a ritual framework modeled on monastic matins of a Stoudite type. In this context, the history of the funeral is not at all different from the parallel history of vespers, the vigil or pannychis, and of Stoudite monastic matins. In the tenth century there is still only one funeral rite. Then the evolution of matins generates several different funeral typologies for as many categories of the dead: clergymen, monks, laity. But these three funerals are not so much three distinct rites as three stages in the evolution of one and the same original, pristine funeral rite. 2. The integration of the celebrant’s ancient prayers for the dead within the structure of monastic matins with its rich hymnography has brought into juxtaposition two different ways of seeing death. In the presidential prayers, there prevails the New Testament categories of rest and repose in the bosom of Abraham in the hope of the resurrection, while in the hymnography there dominates a realism that is often macabre. The vision of death here is not, in a certain sense, “theological” (that is, based on God and human destiny as seen through divine revelation in the scriptures) but rather “anthropological.” The dead person whose funeral is being celebrated is the one speaking of death to those present, insisting on the decomposition of the body and the vanity of the human adventure. In this way the Byzantine homo religiosus realizes his wish to “warm his brothers,” a desire proper to the rich man in the parable of Lazarus and the rich man from Luke 16:19–31. This vision of death transmitted by the hymnography matures in the background of Middle Eastern monasticism and has its exact parallel, for example, in the Gallican monastic funeral.81 Of course, in no Christian tradition should one expect from the funeral rite a detailed treatise on eschatology, and this is true also for the Great Church. Nevertheless, it should be noted that the ideas developed by Byzantine funeral hymnography provoke in the relatives mourning the deceased an effect exactly opposite to that consolation of hearts that the ancient Inclination Prayer aimed to produce. Between these two opposing visions only a coexistence is possible, but certainly not an organic synthesis. In the hymnography all the Hellenistic uncertainty about the hereafter, conceived as a place of turbulence and discomfort rather than as a place of quiet and peace, lives on. But what is still more surprising is the total lack of any allusion to the paschal death of Christ illumined by the resurrection: because of the dynamics of the risen Christ’s victory over death, it provides the classic Christian typology of the Christian’s transition to the other life. 80 81

Ibid., 380–81. Ph. Rouillard, “I riti dei funerali,” in Anamnesis 7: I sacramentali e le benedizioni (Genoa, 1989), 206.

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3. The archaic character of the beautiful prayer O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ " (“God of the spirits and of all flesh”) found in the excavations of Nessana was already noted. I now analyze its contents briefly, on the basis of the oldest text in the Barberini Euchology from the eighth century. God of the spirits and of all flesh, who has vanquished death and trampled on the devil and given life to the world, give rest to the soul of your servant N. in a place of light, a place of refreshment, a place of repose, from which pain, sorrow, and sighing have fled; because you are so good and love mankind, forgive his every offense, whether in word or deed or thought; for there is no man living and never will be who does not sin; but you alone are without any sin, your righteousness is an everlasting righteousness, and your word is truth. For you are the life and the resurrection of the dead, and we give glory to you . . .

The prayer is addressed to the triune God, while in the textus receptus the address has been made christological, which is not really justifiable. So to God as the Holy Trinity is attributed the victory over the devil and over death in favor of the life of the world. This affirmation of the positive project of God for humankind and his creation enabled the compiler to ask rest for the souls of the dead in the messianic place described in the terminology of Isaiah 35:10. The asking for rest is of course connected to the request for forgiveness based on the divine filanqrwpi´a, God’s love for humankind, and this petition is given a more important place with respect to either the sinfulness of man or God’s justice, so that the one mitigates the other. The Inclination Prayer (kefaloklisi´a) completes the concepts expressed in the first prayer: Lord O Lord, you are the relief of the troubled and the consolation of the mournful and redeemer of all the afflicted. Comfort those who are seized with pain for the deceased; being merciful, heal all suffering of sadness gripping their hearts, and give rest to your servant reposing in the bosom of Abraham in the hope of the resurrection; because you are the resurrection of your servants, and we give glory to you . . .

The attention here is shifted from the deceased to the mourners, for whom comfort and consolation are asked. This request, formulated in the context of the liturgical celebration, is meant to obtain a real healing of the spirit. It is precisely in this prayer that we can find, perhaps, the reason why St. Theodore of Stoudios in his correspondence counts funerals among the sacraments, an idea now being taken up again by Greek Orthodox theology. In this perspective of charismatic healing entrusted to the ministry of the church, the funeral could be placed among the better-attested sacraments (musth´ ria) of the remission of sins and the anointing of the sick. The two prayers complement each other, creating a perfect circle of ecclesiastical communion (koinwni´a): the mourners and the church both pray for the dead, while the church prays for both the mourners and the deceased. In this context one can grasp the modern understanding of liturgical theology, which sees in the funeral more a celebration of life for the benefit of the living than a celebration for the departed. 4. Some of the ritual elements offer an implicit paschal perspective. In the most ancient ritual, Grottaferrata G.b. X, the celebrant pours oil on the tomb, an oil expressly blessed with the same formula used for the oil of the prebaptismal anointing. During the pouring of the oil, the Alleluia is chanted as at baptism. This reflects the root symbolism

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of the Epistle to the Romans 6:3–5, for baptism is a burial with Christ unto resurrection with him; and the same symbolism is applied to the funeral concluded in this way with the hope of final resurrection. If the liturgy is a symbol of Christian life, death cannot be extraneous to this process of symbolization, but must be an organic part of it. When in the twelfth century the oil is no longer poured on the still-empty tomb but directly onto the body of the dead, the symbolism evaporates. A more optimistic hypothesis could identify a parallel with the anointing of the body of Christ intended by the myrrh-bearing women, the first witnesses to the resurrection, and for that reason immortalized in Byzantine Sunday matins. No text, however, supports such a hypothesis. Universita` degli Studi di Siena

Appendix Funerals in Grottaferrata G.b. X (10th–11th century), folios 77r–83r

Psalms are numbered according to the Septuagint numeration. The orthography is normalized, and iotacisms corrected without notice. Forms with phonetical particularities are noted in the apparatus. The apparatus includes also the corrected forms of the reading and some late Greek forms. Minor editorial interventions are noted in the text with standard parentheses ( ) for suspended letters, square brackets [ ] for letters lacking for material reasons, ⬍ ⬎ for letters added, { } for letters to be cancelled. IHEG ⫽ E. Follieri, Initia Hymnorum Ecclesiae Graecae, 6 vols., (Rome, 1960–66). 77r A j kolouqi´a eij" koimhqe´ nta. Crh` ginw´ skein o”ti protiqeme´ nou tou' leiya´ nou me´ son th'" ejkklhsi´a", eij me` n ejsti`n kosmiko´ ",1 a“rcetai oJ iJereu´ "⭈ “Eujloghme´ nh hJ basilei´a,” kai` le´ gei ta` eJxa´ yalma, eij de` ejsti`n monaco´ ", ouj le´ gei ta` eJxa´ yalma, ajlla` to` n ⬘ yalmo´ n⭈ “ O J katoikw'n” (Ps. 90:1), kai` meta` to` te´ lo" tou' yalmou' oJ dia´ kono" ` ´ thn sunapthn⭈ Ej n eijrh´ nh tou' Kuri´ou. U J pe` r th'" a“nwqen eijrh´ nh". U J pe` r mnh´ mh", koimh´ sew", ajne´ sew", ajnapau´ sew" kai` ajfe´ sew" aJmartiw'n tou' dou´ lou tou' qeou' oJ d(ei'na), tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. U J pe` r tou' sugcwrhqh'nai2 aujtv' te kai` hJmi'n pa'n plhmme´ lhma eJkou´ sio´ n te kai` ajkou´ sion, tou' Kuri´ou. 77v U J pe` r tou' katata´ xai aujto` n ejn ko´ lpoi" A j braa` m kai` Ij saa` k kai` Ij akw´ b, tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. U J pe` r tou' sunariqmhqh'nai aujto` n ejn corv' tw'n ejklektw'n ejn th' basilei´a tw'n oujranw'n, tou'. U J pe` r tou' euJrei'n aujto` n ca´ rin kai` e“leo" ejn hJme´ ra th'" kri´sew", tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. U J pe` r tou' katapemfqh'nai aJgi´ou" ajgge´ lou" eijrh´ nh" oJdhgoujnta" aujto´ n, tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. U J pe` r tou' parasth'nai aujto` n a“mempton kai` ajkata´ kriton tv' foberv' bh´ mati tou' Cristou' kai` euJrei'n e“leo" kai` a“fesin aJmartiw'n, tou' Kuri´ou. ”Opw" Ku´ rio" oJ qeo` " oJ prosdexa´ meno" to` pneu'ma aujtou' katata´ xh aujto` n ejn cw´ rv3 fwteinv' e“nqa oiJ di´kaioi ajnapau´ ontai, tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. U J pe` r tou' rJusqh'nai hJma'" ajpo` pa´ sh". O J iJereu` " th` n eujch´ n⭈ O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa" kai` zwh` n tv' ko´ smv carisa´ meno", ajna´ pauson th` n yuch` n tou' dou´ lou tou'd(e) ejn to´ pv fwteinv'{n}, ejn cw´ ra ajnayu´ xew", e“nqa ajpe´ dra ojdu´ nh, lu´ ph kai` stenagmo´ "⭈ pa'n aJma´ rthma pracqe` n ejn lo´ gv h‘ e“rgv h‘ kata` dia´ noi78r -an wJ" ajgaqo` " kai` fila´ nqrwpo" qeo` " sugcw´ rhson, o”ti oujk e“stin a“nqrwpo" o’" zh´ setai kai` oujc Cod. kosmiko´ n. Cod. sugcwreqh'nai. 3 Cod. corw'. 1 2

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aJmarth´ sei⭈ su` ga` r mo´ no" pa´ sh" aJmarti´a" ejkto` " uJpa´ rcei", kai´ hJ dikaiosu´ nh sou dikaiosu´ nh eij" to` n aijw'na kai` oJ lo´ go" sou ajlh´ qeia. O J dia´ kono"⭈ A j ntilabou'. Ta` ejle´ h tou' qeou' kai` th` n filanqrwpi´an aujtou' kai` a“fesin aJmartiw'n aijthsa´ ` menoi, eJautou" kai` ajllh´ lou" kai` pa'san th` n zwh` n hJmw'n Cristv' tv' qev' paraqw´ meqa. Ej kfw´ (nhsi")⭈ ”Oti su` ei« hJ zwh` kai` hJ ajna´ pausi" tw'n kekoimhme´ nwn, kai` soi` th` n do´ xan ajnape´ mpomen. Kai` le´ gei to` A j llhlou´ i¨a, h«co" pl. b⬘. Skia` parercome´ nh ejsti`n oJ bi´o" tw'n ajnqrw´ pwn, pro´ skairon 4 a“nqo" kai` met∆ ojli´gon marai´netai, dio` to` n dou'lo´ n, sou, Criste´ , meta` dikai´wn ajna´ pauson.5 Ej n tv' nav' eJstw'te" th'" do´ xh" sou, ejn oujranv' eJsta´ nai nomi´zomen⭈ Qeoto´ ke, pu´ lh ejpoura´ nie, a“noixon hJmi'n th` n qu´ ran tou' ejle´ ou" sou (IHEG 1:472). Kai` eujq(u` ") le´ gei to` n “Amwmon, yalmo` " rih⬘, Maka´ rioi oiJ a“mwmoi, e”w" tou'⭈ Zh´ setai (Ps. 118:1–175). Kai` le´ gei ka´ qisma, h«co" pl. a⬘⭈ A j na´ pauson, swth` r hJmw'n (IHEG 1:98). Kai` eujq(u` ") to` n kano´ na, kai` eij" th` n g⬘ tou' kano´ no" le´ getai pente´ sticon eij"6 ta` diakonika´ , zh´ tei o”ti proegra´ fhsan, kai` oJ iJereu` " th` n eujch´ n⭈ Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ7 tw'n qlibome´ nwn 78v paramuqi´a kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn para´ klhsi" kai` pa´ ntwn tw'n ejn ojligoyuci´a ajnti´lhyi" uJpa´ rcwn, tou` " tv'{n} pe´ nqei tou' koimhqe´ nto" sunecome´ nou" th' sh' eujsplagcni´a8 paramu´ qhsai, pa'n a“lgo" lu´ ph" ejn th' kardi´⬍a⬎ aujtw'n qera´ peuson, kai` to` n dou'lon to` n d(ei'na) ejp∆ ejlpi´di ajnasta´ sew" kekoimhme´ non ejn ko´ lpoi" A j braa` m ajna´ pauson. O J dia´ kono"⭈ A j ntilabou', sw'son, ejle´ hson. Ta` ejle´ h tou' qeou' kai` th` n filanqrwpi´an aujtou' kai` a“fesin aJmartiw'n. Ej kfw´ (nhsi")⭈ Su` ga` r ei« ajna´ pausi" tou' sou' dou´ lou, kai` soi´ th` n do´ xan. Kai` ya´ llei to` konda´ kion, kai` eij" th` n "⬘ oJ dia´ kono" pente´ sticon eij"9 ta` diakonika´ . Eujch´ ⭈ De´ spota Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " hJmw'n, oJ pla´ sa" to` n a“nqrwpon kat∆ eijko´ na sh` n kai` oJmoi´wsin, kai` qe´ meno" ejn aujtv' pnoh` n zwh'", aJmarth´ santa de` aujto` n qana´ tv ejpagagw` n kai` to` n ejk gh'" eij" gh'n ajpostre´ fwn, th` n de` yuch` n eij" eJauto` n proskalou´ meno", aujto` " ajna´ pauson th` n yuch` n tou' dou´ lou sou oJ d(ei'na) ejn to´ pv fwteinv', ejn to´ pv ajnayu´ xew", e“nqa ajpe´ dra ojdu´ nh, lu´ ph kai` stenagmo´ ", e“nqa ejpiskopei' to` fw'" tou' prosw´ pou sou, Ku´ rie, ejn ko´ lpoi" A j braa´ m 79r kai` Ij saa´ k kai` Ij akw´ b, meta` pa´ ntwn tw'n aJgi´wn tw'n ajp∆ aijw'no´ " soi eujaresthsa´ ntwn, kai` ei“ ti ejplhmme´ lhsen, ei“te ejn pra´ xei h‘ lo´ gv h‘ kata` dia´ noian, aujto` " wJ" ajgaqo` " kai` fila´ nqrwpo" qeo` " a“ne", a“fe", sugcw´ rhson, paridw` n aujtou' te kai` hJmw'n ta` ajnomh´ mata, hJmw'n de` ta` te´ lh th'" zwh'" ajnw´ duna kai` ajkatai´scunta kataxi´wson, o”te qe´ lei" kai` o”te bou´ lh - mo´ non a“neu aijscu´ nh" kai` paraptwma´ twn. O J dia´ kono"⭈ jAntilabou', sw'son. Ta` ejle´ h tou' qeou' kai` th` n filanqrwpi´an. Ej kfw´ (nhsi")⭈ Su` ga` r ei« hJ ajna´ pausi" tou' sou' dou´ lou, kai` soi` th` n do´ xan. Cod. ajnqh'. Ineditum videtur. 6 Cod. ejk. 7 Cod. oJ. 8 Cod. eujsplacnia. 9 Cod. eJk. 4 5

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Kai` le´ gei to` konda´ kion, kai` eij" th` n q⬘ oJ dia´ kono" ta` diakonika` - to` pente´ sticon proegra´ fh. O J iJereu` " th` n eujch´ n⭈ De´ spota oJ qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ didou` " katastolh` n do´ xh" ajnti` pneu´ mato" ajkhdi´a", kai` th' ajporrh´ tv sou sofi´a eJnw´ sa" yuch` n kai` sw'ma, kai` pa´ lin ajna{na}lu´ wn, to` ⬍n⬎ me` n cou'n tv' coi?, to` de` pneu'ma pro` " eJauto´ n, kaqw` " e“dwka", ajfelko´ meno"⭈ aujto´ ", de´ spota Criste´ , pro´ sdexai th` n yuch` n tou' dou´ lou sou oJ d(ei'na) kai` kataxi´wson aujto` n meta` tw'n aJgi´wn sou ajnapau´ esqai eij" to´ pon fwteino´ n, eij" cw´ ra⬍n⬎ ajnapau´ sew", eij" cw´ ran ajnayu´ xew", 79v ejkei', o”qen ajpe´ dra ojdu´ nh, lu´ ph kai` stenagmo´ ", o”ti oujk e“stin toi'" dou´ loi" sou qa´ nato" ⬍wJ"⬎ ajlhqw'", ajlla` yuch'" meta´ stasi"⭈ kai` ei“ ti h”marten ejn lo´ gv h‘ e“rgv h‘ ejnqumh´ sei, pa´ ride wJ" ajgaqo` " kai` fila´ nqrwpo" qeo´ ", tw'n penqou´ ntwn ajntilh´ ptwr, kai` paramuqi´a10 genou'⭈ kata´ lamyon th` n ajclu` n th'" ajqumi´a" aujtw'n tv' noerv'{n} sou fwti´, hJma'" de` tou` " sunelqo´ ⬍n⬎ta"11 eij" th` n tou' leiya´ nou timh` n perikra´ tunon, kai` i”lew" genou' tai'" aJmarti´ai" hJmw'n. O J dia´ kono"⭈ jAntilabou', sw'(son). Ta` ejle´ h tou' qeou' kai` th´ n. Ej kfw´ (nhsi")⭈ ”Oti su` ei« hJ a“fesi" tw'n ptaisma´ twn hJmw'n kai` soi` th` n do´ xan. Kai` le´ gei fwt(agwga´ rion), h«co" pl. b⬘⭈ Nu'n ajnapausa´ mhn kai` eu»ron a“nesin pollh` n o”ti ejte´ cqhn ejn fqora' kai` metete´ qhn pro` " zwh´ n (IHEG 2:543). Le´ gei to` aujto` b⬘ kai` g⬘. Q(eotoki´on)⭈ Nu'n ejxelexa´ mhn th` n qeomh´ tora aJgnh´ n, o”ti ejte´ cqh{"} ejx aujth'" Cristo` " oJ pa´ ntwn lutrwth´ " (IHEG 2:546). Kai` le´ gei ta` stichra` eij" tou` " ai“nou". Kai` gi´netai corosta´ simon, du´ o coroi´, kai` a“rcetai oJ dexiw'n coro´ "⭈ ajnti´fwnon a⬘, uJpo´ yalma⭈ jAllhlou´ i¨a triplou'n, h«co" b⬘, yalmo` " kb⬘⭈ Ku´ rio" poimai´nei me kai` oujde´ n me uJsterh´ sei{"} (Ps. 22:1). Kai` meta` to` plhrw'sai o”lon to` n yalmo´ n, le´ gei Do´ xa, 80r kai` le´ gei to` tropa´ rion h«co" b⬘⭈ Ej k gh'" plastourgh´ sa" me, eij" gh'n pa´ lin poreu´ esqai th' paraba´ sei me kate´ krina"⭈ e“sthsa" hJme´ ran ejta´ sew" ⬍ejn h» ta` krupta` th'" eJka´ stou pra´ xew"⬎12 fanera` pari´stantai ejnw´ pio´ n sou⭈ to´ te fei'sai mou, ajnama´ rthte oJ qeo´ ", kai` tw'n ejsfalme´ nwn moi sugcw´ rhsin didou´ ", th'" basilei´a" sou mh` cwri´sh" me (IHEG 1:388). Kai` nu'n⭈ W J " a“nqo" marai´netai kai´ (IHEG 5:152). O J dia´ kono"⭈ “Eti kai` e“ti ejn eijrh´ nh tou' Kuri´ou. U J pe` r mnh´ mh", koimh´ sew", ajne´ sew", kai` makari´a" ajnapau´ sew". ”Opw" Ku´ rio" oJ qeo` " hJmw'n katata´ xh to` pneu'ma aujtou' ejn to´ pv fwteinv', e“nqa oiJ di´kaioi ajnapau´ ontai. U J pe` r tou' rJusqh'nai hJma'". Kai` klino´ meno"13 oJ iJereu` " th` n eujch` n le´ gei⭈ De´ spota Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " oJ th'{"} sofi´a{"} sou kataskeua´ sa" to` n a“nqrwpon kai` th' eijko´ ni{"} sou timh´ sa" aujto´ n, kai` qe´ meno" ejn aujtv' pnoh` n zwh'", kai` eijsagagw` n eij" to` n ko´ smon tou'ton politeu´ esqai ejp∆ ejlpi´di zwh'" aijwni´ou, aJmarth´ santa de` aujto` n14 qana´ tou ejpagagw` n kai` dialu´ sa", kai` to` n me` n ejk gh'" eij" gh'n ajnalu´ wn, th` n de` yuch` n pro` " eJauto` n proskalou´ meno", aujto` " de´ spota fila´ nqrwpe, pro´ sdexai to` pneu'ma tou' dou´ lou sou to` n d(ei'na), kai` pros- 80v -ago´ menon pro` " to` n a”gion qro´ non sou, pa´ sh" timh'" kai` ajne´ sew" ajxi´wson fula´ sswn eij" ajna´ stasin, kai` ei“ ti wJ" a“nqrwpo" sarki` zw'n lo´ gv h‘ e“rgv h‘ ejn dianoi´a Cod. paramu´ qei". Cod. sunelqw'ta". 12 Suppl. ex Triv´ dion katanuktiko´ n (Rome, 1879), 780. 13 Cod. kli´na". 14 Cod. aujtw'. 10 11

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h”marten, aujto` " wJ" ajgaqo` " kai` ejleh´ mwn qeo´ ", a“ne", a“fe", sugcw´ rhson, paridw` n aujtou' kai` hJmw'n ta` paraptw´ mata. jAntilabou', sw'son, ejle´ hson. Ta` ejle´ h tou' qeou' kai` th` n filanqrwpi´an. Ej kfw´ (nhsi")⭈ Su` ga` r ei« oJ qeo` " mo´ no" oijkti´rmwn, kai` soi` pre´ pei. Kai` meta` th` n eujch` n ka´ qisma, h«co" b⬘⭈ Mnh´ sqhti, Ku´ rie, wJ" (IHEG 2:436). Kai` eij" to` Do´ xa ajnti` q(eotoki´on) le´ gei⭈ Sh´ meron cwri´zomai (IHEG 3:497). O J ajpo´ stolo" pro` " RJ wmai´ou"⭈ jAdelfoi´, w”sper di∆ eJno` " ajnqrw´ pou hJ aJmarti´a, te´ lo"⭈ zw'nta" de` tv' qev' ejn Cristv' Ij hsou' tv' Kuri´v hJmw'n (Rom. 5:12–6:11). jAnti´fwnon b⬘, yalmo` " kg⬘ yallome´ nwn uJpo´ yalma⭈ jAllhlou´ i¨a triplou'n, h«co" g⬘⭈ Tou' Kuri´ou hJ gh` kai` to` plh´ rwma aujth'" (Ps. 23:1), kai` plhrou'sin15 to` n yalmo´ n⭈ le´ gei h«co" g⬘⭈ jAna´ pauson, Ku´ rie, th` n yuch` n tou' dou´ lou sou.16 Do´ xa. Tv' tu´ pv tou' staurou' sou, Criste` oJ qeo´ ", oJ qa´ nato" nene´ krwtai (IHEG 4:369). O J dia´ kono"⭈ “Eti kai` e“ti ejn eijrh´ nh. U J pe` r mnh´ mh", koimh´ sew", ajne´ sew", kai` makari´a" ajnapau´ sew" tou' ajdelfou' hJmw'n oJ d(ei'na) tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. ”Opw" Ku´ rio" oJ qeo` " hJmw'n 81r katata´ xh to` pneu'ma aujtou' ejn to´ pv fwteinv' e“nqa oiJ di´kaioi ajnapau´ ontai, tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. U J pe` r tou' katata´ xai ` ` ´ ` ´ ` ` ´ ` “ aujton ejn kolpoi" jAbraam kai Ij saak kai Ij akwb, enqa oiJ dikaioi. U J per tou' rJusqh'nai hJma'". O J iJereu` " th` n eujch´ n⭈ O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ tw'n oJrwme´ nwn kai` tw'n ajora´ twn poihth´ ", oJ kata` th` n ajpo´ rrhto´ n sou boulh` n eJnw´ sa" yuch` n {kai`} sw´ mati, kai` pa´ lin kata` to` qe´ lhma th'" sh'" ajgaqo´ thto" dialu´ wn to` pla´ sma sou o’ ejpoi´hsa", kai` to` n me` n cou'n tv' coi÷ ajnalu´ wn, to` de` pneu'ma pro` " ⬍eJ⬎auto` n proskalou´ meno", kai` katata´ sswn monai'" me´ cri th'" ajnasta´ sew" kai` ajpokalu´ yew" tou' monogenou'" sou uiJou'⭈ aujto` " de´ spota, ajntilabou' th'" yuch'" tou' dou´ lou{"} sou, kai` ajnagagw` n aujth` n ejk tou' kosmikou' sko´ tou" kai` th'" ejxousi´a" tw'n ajntikeime´ nwn duna´ mewn rJusa´ meno", kata´ taxon ejn cw´ rv17 fwteinv', ejn cw´ ra zw´ ntwn, o”qen ajpe´ dra ojdu´ nh, lu´ ph kai` stenagmo´ ", sugcwrh´ sa" aujtv' ta` aJmarth´ mata, sugnw´ mhn para´ scwn toi'" ajnqrwpi´noi" plhmmelh´ masin, 81v ejn de` th' ca´ riti´ sou diafula´ xa", mnh´ sqhti kai` tw'n sunelhluqo´ twn timh'sai to` oJmoiopaqe´ ", kai` lo´ gisai aujtoi'" to` n ko´ pon kai` th` n spoudh` n eij" e“rgon dikaiosu´ nh", kai` tw'n penqou´ ntwn kai` ajdhmonou´ ntwn mnh´ sqhti, Ku´ rie, kai` paraka` leson aujtw'n th` n kardi´an, kai` paramuqhsa´ meno" ejle´ hson aujtou` " kai` hJma'", kai` sw'son ejn th' ejndo´ xv sou basilei´a. O J dia´ kono"⭈ jAntilabou', sw'son. Ta` ejle´ h tou' qeou' kai` th` n filanqrwpi´an. Ej kfw´ (nhsi")⭈ ”Oti pre´ pei soi pa'sa do´ xa, timh` kai` kra´ to" kai` megalopre´ peia. Kai` le´ gei ka´ qisma, h«co" pl. d⬘⭈ O J buqoi'" sofi´a" filanqrw´ pw" (IHEG 3:6 var.). Kai` le´ gei Do´ xa. 18 Parh'lqe hJ skia´ (IHEG 3:281). O J ajpo´ stolo" pro` " Korinqi´ou". jAdelfoi´, gnwri´zw uJmi'n to` eujagge´ lion, te´ lo"⭈ kai` ou”tw" ejn Cristv' pa´ nte" zwopoihqh´ sontai (1 Cor. 15:1–22). Cod. plhrw´ sin. Ineditum videtur. 17 Cod. corw'. 18 Cod. paragiw. 15 16

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jAnti´fwnon g⬘, uJpo´ yalma⭈ jAllhlou´ i¨a triplou'n, yalmo` " ph⬘, h«co" pl. d⬘⭈ W J " ajgaphta` ta` skhnw´ mata´ sou, Ku´ rie tw'n. Kai` le´ gei Do´ xa⭈ “Algo" tv' jAda` m ejcrhma´ tisen (IHEG 1:78). Kai` nu'n. “Ontw" mataio´ th" ta` su´ mpanta (IHEG 3:122). O J dia´ kono"⭈ “Eti kai` e“ti ejn eijrh´ nh. U J pe` r mnh´ mh", koimh´ sew", ajne´ sew", kai` makari´a" ajnapau´ sew" tou' ajdelfou' hJmw'n oJ d(ei'na), tou' Kuri´ou dehqw'men. ”Opw" Ku´ rio" oJ qeo` " hJmw'n katata´ xh to` pneu'ma 82r aujtou' ejn to´ pv fwteinv', e“nqa oiJ di´kaioi aj(napau´ ontai). U J pe` r tou' rJusqh'nai hJma'". O J iJereu` " th` n eujch´ n⭈ O J qeo` " tw'n pneuma´ twn kai` pa´ sh" sarko´ ", oJ Ku´ rio" tw'n kurieuo´ ntwn, oJ qeo` " th'" paraklh´ sew", oJ to` n qa´ naton katargh´ sa", oJ to` n dia´ bolon katapath´ sa", kai` zwh` n carisa´ meno" tv' ge´ nei tw'n ajnqrw´ pwn, oJ qeo` " tw'n pate´ rwn hJmw'n, oJ qeo` " tw'n aJgi´wn, hJ ajna´ pausi" tw'n qlibome´ nwn, ajna´ pauson th` n yuch` n tou' dou´ lou sou ejn to´ pv fwteinv'{n}, ejn to´ pv ajnayu´ xew", o”qen ajpe´ dra oJdu´ nh, lu´ ph kai` stenagmo´ ", kai` para´ scou aujtv' eij" ko´ lpou" U jAbraa` m kai` pa´ ntwn tw'n aJgi´wn katagh'nai, kai` toi'" penqou'sin ca´ risai paramu´ qion, tw'n qlibome´ nwn oJ swth´ r, tw'n ojligoyu´ cwn hJ paramuqi´a, fu´ laxon de` hJma'" ejn tv' aijw'ni tou´ tv kai` ejn tv' me´ llonti. O J dia´ kono"⭈ jAntilabou'. Ta` ejle´ h. Ej kfw´ (nhsi")⭈ Oijktirmoi'" kai` filanqrwpi´a tou' monogenou'" sou uiJou'. Kai` le´ gei ka´ qisma, h«co" pl. b⬘⭈ Th' parousi´a sou th' fobera'.19 O J ajpo´ stolo" pro` " Korinqi´ou". jAdelfoi´, ti´ poih´ sousin oiJ baptizo´ menoi uJpe` r tw'n nekrw'n, te´ lo"⭈ 82v oujde` hJ fqora` th` n ajfqarsi´an klhronomei' (1 Cor. 15:29–50). Mesv´ dion, h«co" pl. b⬘⭈ Makari´a hJ oJdo` " h’n poreu´ h sh´ meron, o”ti hJtoima´ sqh soi to´ po" ajnapau´ sew". Sti´co"⭈ Ej pi´streyon, yuch´ mou, eij" th` n ajna´ pausi´n sou, o”ti Ku´ rio" eujerge´ thsen. O J ajpo´ stolo" pro` " Qessalonikei'"⭈ jAdelfoi´, ouj qe´ lw uJma'", te´ lo"⭈ ejn toi'" lo´ goi" tou´ toi" (1 Thess. 4:13–18). jAllhlou´ i¨a, h«co" pl. d⬘, sti´co"⭈ Maka´ rio" o’n ejxele´ xw kai` pros(ela´ bou) (Ps. 64:5). Eujagge´ lion kata` Ij wa´ nnhn. Ei«pen oJ Ku´ rio" pro` " tou` " ejlhluqo´ ta", te´ lo"⭈ ajlla` to` qe´ lhma tou' pe´ myanto´ " me patro´ " (John 5:[25]20–30). J rw'nte´ " me a“(fwnon) (IHEG 3:168). Kai` gi´netai oJ ajspasmo` " Kai` le´ gei th` n ejktenh´ n. Kai` ya´ llousin⭈21 O tou' leiya´ nou, yallo(me´ nou) tou' stic(hrou'), h«co" b⬘⭈ Deu'te, teleutai'on ajspasmo´ n (IHEG 1:296). Kai` oJ iJereu` " aJgia´ zei e“laion, ejmfusa' g⬘ kai` sfragi´zei g⬘ kai` le´ gei th` n eujch´ n⭈ “De´ spota Ku´ rie oJ qeo` " tw'n pate´ rwn hJmw'n,” zh´ tei ojpi´sw, eij" to` a”gion ba´ ptisma, ejkei' ejgra´ fh. Kai` tiqeme´ nou22 tou' leiya´ nou eij" to` mnh'ma, ya´ llo(usi) to` tropa´ rion tou'to{n}, h«co" b⬘⭈ jAnoi´xate´ moi pu´ la" (IHEG 1:123). Sti´co"⭈ Au”th hJ kata´ pausi´" mou.23 Kai` le´ getai to` aujto` tropa´ rion, qeotoki´on⭈ Th` n pa'san (IHEG 4:83). Ineditum videtur. Cf. Mateos, Typicon, 2:194. 21 Cod. ya´ lloun. 22 Cod. ti´qete. 23 Ineditum videtur. 19 20

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Kai` ejpice´ ei ejpa´ nw aujtou' to` a”gion e“laion stauroeidw'" g⬘, ya´ llonto" to` jAllhlou´ i¨a, h«co" pl. d⬘. Kai` meta` tou'to oJ dia´ kono"⭈ Tou' Kuri´ou de(hqw'men). 83r O J iJereu` " th` n eujch` n eij" to` n ta´ fon⭈ Ku´ rie, Ku´ rie, hJ tw'n qlibome´ nwn, zh´ tei o”ti proegra´ fh ojpi´sw eij" th` n (sic) g⬘, st⬍r⬎e´ yon fu´ llon g⬘. Kai` ti´qontai aiJ pla´ kai, kai` lamba´ nei24 oJ iJereu` " to` skali´drion meta` ta` " cei'ra"25 kai` sfragi´zei to` n ta´ fon met∆ aujto` stauroeidw'", kai` ajpoplhrou'tai pa'sa ajkolouqi´a tou' leiya´ nou. 24 25

Cod. lamba´ nnei. Cf. gr. med.

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2001 © 2002 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

Death, Judgment, Heaven, and Hell in Byzantine “Beneficial Tales” JOHN WORTLEY

t is the common experience of people who indulge themselves in the less sophisticated realms of earlier Byzantine literature, hagiographical material for instance, “popular” chronicles, and the like, frequently to encounter narratives of an anecdotal nature which they distinctly remember having already read in a different context. These might appear in a different dress each time, but they are still recognizably the same (or very similar) stories, even when they occur only partially or integrated with portions of other stories. After a number of such experiences, it is impossible to resist the conviction that such anecdotes are the outcroppings of a vast and interrelated tales-tradition which, hitherto, has remained largely buried beneath the literary debris in which it is encountered. It was to investigate the full extent and dimensions of this tradition that I undertook in 1982 the compilation of a Re´pertoire designed to serve as a research tool in the hands of those who concern themselves with all types of quasi-popular literature related to the Byzantine tradition. After eighteen years and a great deal of effort, that Re´pertoire is now operable. Complete it is not and may never be, for new tales and new connections between the known ones are surfacing all the time. But, after graduating from its inception on filing cards to a simple computer program, the Re´pertoire is now freely accessible to all on the Internet, where it will continue to be updated from time to time.1 This Re´pertoire already contains abstracts of more than a thousand units (all crossindexed in various ways), most of which might not inappropriately be termed the paraleipo´ mena of Greek hagiography, the so-called spiritually beneficial tales (dihgh´ sei" yucwfelei'"), although many of them predate the heyday of hagiography. The earliest ones were recorded toward the end of the fourth century, by which time they could have been in oral circulation for many years. Most of the major collections of tales and apophthegmata were complete by the beginning of the seventh century, but tales continued to appear intermittently until the eleventh century. Indeed, there seems to have been a brief revival of the tale as a literary conceit in the tenth century, but in the eleventh the great codification of monastic lore in the Synagoge of Paul Euergetinos seems to have capped the flow of new tales and brought the tradition to a close.2 The existing tales continued nevertheless to be retold and recopied; many of them are now in print, and together they provide a rich, fascinating literature characterized by its vigorous spontaneity.

I

1 2

J. Wortley, A Re´pertoire of Byzantine Beneficial Tales (hereafter W), at http://home.cc.umanitoba.ca/~wortley. ´v tv' Bo´ rtoli); 6th ed., 4 vols., Athens, 1980. Paul Euergetinos, Synagoge (Venice, 1783 para` Antwni j

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As one would expect of such a literature, it also offers the reader some valuable insights into the mentality of people of little or no sophistication, of “everyday” people as far as we can tell. But this has to be qualified: most of the tales began life as the oral teaching of the monastic communities that flourished mainly in Egypt but also in SyriaPalestine and elsewhere, in the fourth to sixth centuries. True, the tales have a decidedly secular element in them from the very beginning. Even in the earliest collection of monastic lore, the late fourth-century History of the Monks in Egypt,3 there are stories about laypeople living in the world and very much up-against worldly problems. The proportion of such stories increases significantly with the advance of time, but the monastic element never disappears. The tales never completely detached themselves from their monastic origins but rather remained firmly wedded to them, just as many of the earlier tales first occur interspersed by their strictly monastic cousins, the apophthegmata. But then, this monastic connection may be an accurate reflection of contemporary conditions. Monks and monasticism were a very important element of the later Roman way of life and, far from disappearing from it, became an increasingly influential element as the monks moved into the cities and the phenomenon of the urban monastery developed. There is, moreover, little doubt that it is largely due to monastic transmission, both oral and in writing, that the tales have come down to us. Hence we have to be ever aware that, even when a tale seems to speak most directly of secular life and “how it really was,” we are hearing that tale through a monastic earphone, or viewing it through a monastic lens so to speak. In a word, everything that follows in this paper could be an indication not so much of what people “in the world” did and thought, as of what those who had abandoned the world thought one ought to do and think. Yet from the way in which these stories were told and retold across the centuries we can deduce that they functioned as a vigorous folklore; and we know that no people perpetuates a folklore totally inimical to its own beliefs and aspirations. Whether they are of the desert or of the world, many of the stories are rich in couleur locale and can be very rewarding for scholars in many fields who take the trouble to acquaint themselves with the curious peculiarities of the genre to which the tales belong. By consulting the indices of the Re´pertoire or by operating search engines on the abstracts, one discovers that they are capable of providing a wealth of data on a variety of matters: almsgiving, baths, clothes, debt, emasculation, food, gardens, graves, Jews, magic, to name a few examples. But these are for the most part material considerations; the question this paper asks is: might the tales reveal something of what the people who told and heard the tales thought, and in particular what they thought about the “last things”? It is relatively easy to deduce from the dominical parables that sowers sowed, that the road from Jerusalem to Jericho was infested with bandits, and that shepherds were prone to losing sheep; it is a much more difficult thing to discover the beliefs of the Palestinian farmer, the traveler, or the shepherd. However, since the tales are far more numerous than the parables and frequently more prolix, they may be a little more eloquent of their subjects’ beliefs. We know that later Romans were obliged to “look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come.” Not to do so was sacrilege; Emperor Michael II was 3

Historia Monachorum in Ægypto, (hereafter HME), ed. A.-J. Festugie`re, SubsHag 53 (Brussels, 1971).

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said to have “attained the very acme of godlessness” precisely by “denying the resurrection to come and decrying the good things promised in the next world.” 4 Assuming then that later Romans did expect a world to come, what exactly were they expecting? It is no exaggeration to say that the scriptures did not give them much to go on. Most of the Old Testament writers had no such expectation, while the New Testamant texts are, to say the least, somewhat laconic concerning “the last things.” He who would say something about them was pretty well obliged to “make it up” from somewhere or other, either by extrapolating on the slight hints given in the scriptures or by borrowing from some other tradition (both of which the church appears to have left men free to do). It is therefore hardly surprising to discover that the tales demonstrate only a little consensus on the question of the last things and some quite amazing disparities. Take for instance the question of whether the prayers of the living could benefit the departed. Here some tales follow the paradigm of the story of Dives and Lazarus5 and the answer is decidedly no, for “between us and you there is a great gulf fixed.” Thus a daughter burns her hand trying in vain to rescue her mother from the flames.6 Another story tells how a religious sister once fell into an ecstasy in which she was conducted by two elderly persons in white, first before the heavenly throne, then to a place of punishment. There, in a river of fire, she saw many sisters she knew. They begged her to pray for their release from their ( just) punishment; which she did, but in vain. Whereupon the suffering sisters prayed her to return and warn the other sisters what awaited them if they did not amend their (shockingly) sinful lives.7 Per contra, Paul the Simple had a sinful disciple who died. Paul prayed to God and the Mother of God to show him the disciple. He saw him, carried by two figures, completely petrified and inactive. Then he had a second vision of him, released and claiming that it was due to Paul’s prayers that he was released from the chain of his sins; this was confirmed by the Mother of God.8 Here is an anecdote of Gregory the Great: “Once when he was traveling the paved road, he came to a deliberate halt and offered a fervent prayer to the Lord, the lover of souls, for the sins of Emperor Trajan to be forgiven. He immediately heard a voice carried to him from God saying: ‘I have heard your prayer and do grant Trajan forgiveness. But make sure you never again offer a prayer to me for the impious.’” 9 Thus we have tales taking diametrically opposed positions on the question of whether prayers for the dead 4 Ioannis Skylitzae synopsis historiarum, ed. I. Thurn, CFHB 5 (Berlin-New York, 1973), 28.3–4: th` n me´ llousan ajna´ stasin ajqetw'n kai` ta` ejkei'qen ejphggelme´ na ajgaqa` diasu´ rwn (ajna´ stasi´n te th` n me´ llousan kai` ta` ejkei'qen ajpistw'n ajgaqa´ Ú Theophanes Continuatus, ed. I. Bekker, CSHB (Bonn, 1838), 49.1–2, PG 109:61D.) 5 Luke 16:19–31. 6 W064, BHG 1322t / W065, BHG 1318f. 7 This is a long story; W852, BHG 1322ib, visio monialis cuiusdam, clearly a replay of Luke 16:19–31. 8 W626, in the Apophthegmata patrum: collectio systematica (hereafter Sys), of which no complete edition exists so far. Pelagius and John (hereafter P&J) provide a Latin translation of the earliest extant version (6th–7th century), PL 73:851–1052. In “Histoires des solitaires ´egyptiens,” ROL 12 (1907) through 18 (1913), passim, F. Nau (hereafter N) published the Greek text of the first four hundred tales found in cod. Paris. Coislin. 126 with French translation of tales 1–215. The first of three volumes of a critical edition of Sys is now available: Les Apophtegmes des Pe`res, Collection systematique, chapitres I–IX, ed. J.-C. Guy and B. Flusin, SC 387 (Paris, 1993). W626 is P&J 10.50, Sys 10.72, N599. 9 [Pseudo] John of Damascus (? Michael Syncellus, 761–846 ?), de his qui in fide dormierunt, PG 95:261D– 264A.

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were thought to be of any avail, even though the consensus of the church at large generally supposed that they were. Here is another dissonance: of the stories attributed to the tenth-century bishop Paul of Monemvasia, No. 13 bears striking resemblance to No. 2 in several ways, both in content and in form. But there is also a very important difference, which almost renders it unthinkable that they are the work of the same author. In the next world as portrayed in the second tale the protagonists are a heavenly eunuch and some “black-faced ones” (aijqi´ope").10 But the next world of No. 13 is a very different affair; only angels have to do with the heroine of that story.11 The Byzantine church had no precise eschatology to be sure and, within certain limits, the individual was free to form his or her own opinions about death, judgment, heavenly rewards, and infernal punishments. Hence a great variety of beliefs sprang up concerning “the last things,” and this variety is well illustrated in the tales. On two points, however, the tales are unanimous: first, that death is inevitable; second, that it does not necessarily come “like a thief in the night.” 12 More than a dozen tales echo the topos already found in Athanasios’ Life of Antony13 (which is in so many ways both radical and germane to the tales-tradition) that righteous souls, and even not-sorighteous souls if they were not beyond redemption, could have a premonition of death. Palladius (for instance) encountered a monastery of women at Antinoe¨, one of whose members, after sixty years in the ascetic life, was advised by the local patron saint of her impending death.14 Michael, priest of the Great Lavra of St. Sabas for more than fifty years, knew the precise day on which he would die,15 and at Isidore’s monastery in the Thebaid, not one of the thousand monks ever got sick, “but when came the translation [meta´ qesi"] of each, he announced it to all, laid down and died.” 16 There are many similar incidents elsewhere; nor was it only professional religious or even the righteous who were forewarned. The second narrative of Paul of Monemvasia (already mentioned) is the tale of “The man who was called to account three days before his death,” told to Paul by a friend with whom he was speaking “on the subject of the departing of the soul and of how it is called to account by unclean spirits”—as though this were a frequent topic of conversation in tenth-century Monemvasia. It is a fascinating story of a man who, by stealing a paper, had effectively cheated his mother out of a slave in the hope of money (which he never received). In a vision he is apprised that death is imminent, but he is to be allowed time for repentance and amendment of life.17 The devil appears to Antony first as a dragon, then as a black child: th' fantasi´a me´ la" aujtv' fai´netai pai'", Vita Antonii, ed. G. J. M. Bartelink, Athanase d’Alexandrie, Vie d’Antoine, SC 400 (Paris, 1994), 6.1; see Bartelink’s important note on this first appearance of the black demon in monastic literature (p. 147 n. 2). 11 J. Wortley, Les re´cits ´edifiants de Paul, ´eveˆque de Monembasie, et d’autres auteurs (hereafter PMB) (Paris, 1987), pp. 36–41, 104–8; Eng. trans. and notes, J. Wortley, The Spiritually Beneficial Tales of Paul, Bishop of Monembasia and of Other Authors (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1996), pp. 68–71, 108–11. 12 1Thess. 5:2, 2Peter 3:10. 13 Vita Antonii, 89.2 14 Historia Lausiaca (hereafter HL), by Palladios, bishop of Hellenopolis, ed. E. C. Butler, The Lausiac History of Palladius, vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1904), 3–169, chap. 60 and nn. 103–105; W220, Synaxarium CP, 695.35. 15 G. Garitte, “‘Histoires ´edifiantes’ ge´orgiennes,” Byzantion 36 (1966): 396–423, no. 30, W954. 16 HME 17.3 17 PMB, no. 3, W703, BHG 1449f. 10

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The evidence of the tales may seem to suggest that later Romans thought that death was reversible. This is scarcely surprising since the Gospel passage where Christ commands his disciples to continue his healing ministry includes a command to “raise the dead,” 18 which the Apostle Paul (for one) is said to have obeyed.19 There are at least twenty-five tales that imply the resuscitation of the dead in one way or another. Those raised up include: eight corpses (unspecified, in one case a skull only), seven monks, three children, three maidens, two entombed (probably the same tale), one officer, one layman, one priest, one merchant, and one pagan mistress. Of those who are credited with raising the dead, the great majority, fourteen of them at least, are monks. There are also one bishop and three priests, one said to be indignus, another ebriosus, but it was mainly monks, and particularly holy monks at that, who were credited with the charisma of raising the dead. However, on closer inspection, the evidence is by no means conclusive that the dead were ever resuscitated. It is significant that some reports of dead-raising are unwontedly guarded. Thus, for instance: “The word went around [ejxh'lqe fh´ mh] that [Macarius the Egyptian] raised up a dead man in order to convince a heretic who refused to believe in the resurrection of the body, and this rumour still circulates in the desert.” 20 The story of Sisoes indicates both reluctance and reticence: A secular person came to Sisoes with his son, who died on the way. The father prostrated himself before this abba, leaving the boy’s corpse lying there. Thinking the child had merely failed to get up again after the act of obeisance, Sisoes commanded him to arise; which he did, and went out, alive again. Sisoes was distressed when he realized what had happened, for he did not intend to raise the dead (ajkou´ sa" de` oJ ge´ rwn ejluph´ qh⭈ ouj ga` r h“qele tou'to gene´ sqai). He charged everybody to keep silent concerning this matter for as long as he lived.21 It would appear that sometimes the fathers’ compassion got the better of their discretion. A young disciple of Gelasios was kicked to death by the cellarer for eating a fish he was set to guard; then Abba Gelasios restored the youth to life.22 Now, with respect to all the foregoing instances it would be well to recall the dominical words at the raising of Jairus’ daughter: to` paidi´on oujk ajpe´ qanen ajlla` kaqeu´ dei (Mark 5:39); in none of them was the patient unquestionably dead. It is already clear that not many of the supposed raisings from the dead were rewards for piety, presumably because the greater good would indeed be to remain undisturbed. Some of the raisings serve an overtly worldly purpose. Theodoret of Cyrrhus (for instance) tells how Abba Palladius, finding the corpse of a merchant at his door, urged the dead young man to explain, whereupon the corpse sat up, looked around, and pointed to the murderer, who was found to have a bloody dagger in his possession.23 And this: Matt. 10:8: nekrou` " ejgei´rete, cf. nekroi` ejgei´rontai Matt. 11:5 and Luke 7:22, also the dominical examples of the raising of Lazarus (John 11) and of the Widow of Nain’s son (Luke 7:11–17). 19 Acts 20:9. 20 HL 17.11, ed. Butler, p. 46, 17–19, and Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica, 13.14.1–2. 21 W444, Apophthegmata patrum, Collectio alphabetica (hereafter A/B), ed. and trans. J.-B. Cotelier (1686), PG 65:71–440: Sisoes 18. 22 W405, A/B Gelasius 3. 23 W866, Theodoret, bishop of Cyrrhus, Filo´ qeo" JIstori´a / Historia religiosa (hereafter HR), ed. with French trans. P. Canivet and A. Leroy-Molinghen, Histoire des moines de Syrie, 2 vols. SC 234, 259 (Paris, 18

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Macarius the Egyptian was one of seven monks who once went to work on the harvest. Among the gleaners there was a widow who was weeping all the time because her husband had died in possession of a sum of money (entrusted to him) which was now lost. She and her children were in danger of being sold into slavery if the money was not paid over. So Macarius and the brothers prayed at her husband’s grave, asking him where the money might be. “In my house, at the foot of the bed,” came the dead man’s answer. Macarius told him to sleep on until the day of resurrection. The money was found and repaid; the children (who had apparently already been enslaved) were set free.24 There is a third story, very similar to this one, in which the dead person (a girl in this case) not only speaks, but appears—alive: Abba Spyridon had a virgin daughter who shared her father’s piety. A friend of the family committed an object of great value to her. In order to ensure its safety, she hid it in the ground. A little later she died, then came the one who had committed the object to her care. Unable to find the girl, he came to her father . . . who went to his daughter’s tomb. He prayed God to show him the promised resurrection ahead of time, and he was not disappointed. The daughter immediately appeared, alive, to her father, indicated the place where the object was lying, and then disappeared.25 Although the persons in these instances appear undoubtedly to be dead, it could not be argued that the dead were restored to life; merely that communication was established with them for a brief moment (and a specific purpose), something that may present fewer problems for those who “look for the resurrection of the dead” than for those who do not. Hence here there are no pejorative connotations such as Saul incurred when he had recourse to the Witch of Endor in order to converse with the deceased Samuel (1 Sam. 28). Although not always so blatant or as worldly as the cases mentioned so far, most of the supposed raisings-from-the-dead serve some kind of practical purpose. This, however, might not be so in the well-known story of the abba who resurrected a departed brother in order to bid him farewell: “Abba Peter, priest of the Lavra of our holy father Saint Sabas, told us that when Hagiodoulos was higoumen of the Lavra of the blessed Gerasimos, one of the brethren there died without the elder knowing of it. When the precentor struck the wood[-en signal] for all the brethren to mourn together and send the dead man on his way, the elder came and saw the body of the brother lying in the church. He grieved at not having been able to take leave of him before he died. Going up to the bier, he said to the dead man: ‘Rise up and greet me, brother,’ and the dead man rose up and greeted him. Then the elder said to him: ‘Take your rest now until the Son of God shall come and raise you up again.’” 26 This anecdote is cited verbatim in order 1977–79), 7, 1–3. See also Euergetinos, Synagoge 1.10.34–36 and cf. Chaucer, “The Prioress’ Tale.” In Apuleius, Metamorphoses, 2.28–30, a priest of Isis raises a dead man to accuse his murderer. Intimation by a dream is more common, e.g., ibid., 8.8 and 9.31. 24 W426, A/B Macarius the Egyptian 7, PG 65:265AC. 25 W449, A/B Spyridon 2, PG 65 417D–420A ⫽ Socrates, Historia ecclesiastica, 1.12, PG 67:104–5. 26 W257, John Moschus, Pratum spirituale (hereafter PS) ed. J. P. Migne (after Fronto Ducaeus and J.-B. Cotelier) with the Latin trans. of Ambrose Traversari (1346–1439), PG 87:2851–3112: chap. 11. A very similar narrative is found elesewhere, among the string of tales appended to the longer (unpublished) version of The Life of Saint Marcian the Œconomos of Constantinople, BHG 1033c,d. The present writer is responsible for all translations in this article.

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to illustrate some of the difficulties arising when beneficial tales are used as evidence of beliefs. The Bollandists, who first clearly distinguished a separate genre of the narratio animae utilis, have also from time to time attempted a definition of it. Hippolyte Delehaye said the tales were “nouvelles destine´es `a mettre en lumie`re une doctrine religieuse,” 27 a particularly apt definition given the double meaning of the epithet religieux. Quoting this definition, Franc¸ois Halkin went further: “Sans attache nette avec aucun pays ni aucune ´epoque de´termine´e [les re´cits] laissent dans un anonymat sans relief les personnages fictifs dont ils rapportent les exploits.” 28 Elsewhere the same scholar said that dihgh´ sei" yucwfelei'" are “des sortes de paraboles de´veloppe´es dont les he´ros ne sont pas toujours imaginaires . . . qui incarnent pour ainsi dire en un exemple frappant, voire paradoxal, un enseignement the´orique difficile et transcendant.” 29 Here surely is a salutary warning that we are no more to take the circumstances of a tale “for real” than we should take the scenery and trappings in the theater: we should rather look for that “enseignement the´orique difficile et transcendant” which is the real point of the story: in this case, probably that Christian filadelfi´a is stronger than death. Whether the corpse was actually resuscitated is rather beside the point. Since, however, the later Romans looked for the resurrection of the dead, it is scarcely surprising that they thought it possible for the dead to be seen by or to communicate with the living, and there is no lack of evidence that this was so. Abba Pambo (for instance) said he saw two deceased rich brothers-become-monks, both standing before God in Paradise (this was to settle an argument about whether the ascetic one or the hospitable brother would be greater in the Kingdom).30 A recurring topos in later stories concerns a person who has either departed this life under some sort of ecclesiastical ban or been marooned in life by the death of the person who had banned him. Since it was held that only he who bound could loose—this is the usual interpretation of the famous “Petrine clause” 31 in the tales—one or the other of the two has to return from the dead and set matters to rights.32 Such is the curious tale de arca martyris concerning one who dies a martyr’s death but who remains excommunicate at the time of his execution. He is accorded a decent burial in a church, but his coffin removes itself from the church each time the deacon cries: “All the catechumens withdraw”—until the excommunication is finally lifted by a posthumous reconciliation.33 Monks and martyrs have no monopoly of this topos: there is the charming “lay version” concerning two brothers, one of whom died while they were at enmity with each other. The survivor was sent to a centurion at Constantinople who H. Delehaye, “Un groupe de re´cits ‘utiles `a l’aˆme,’” in Me´langes Bidez (Brussels, 1934), 257. F. Halkin, “La vision de Kaioumos et le sort ´eternel de Philentolos Olympiou (BHG 1322w),” AB 63 (1945): 56. 29 Recherches et documents d’hagiographie byzantine, SubsHag 51 (Brussels, 1971), 261, 303. 30 W185, HL 14: Pae¨sios and Isaias. 31 kai` o’ eja` n dh´ sh" ejpi` th'" gh'" e“stai dedeme´ non ejn toi'" oujranoi'" ktl. Matt. 16:19. 32 W001, BHG 1322e, de vindicta diaconi et presbyteri seu miraculo CP. patrato, a Niceta Chartoulario, W005, BHG 1322ea, de diacono quem presbyter ligaverat, and W706, PMB06, BHG 1449g, de sacerdote a divinis suspenso are of this order. 33 W039, BHG 1449s, de monacho excommunicato et martyre, W040, de arca martyris (a): BHG 1322u.ua (summary in Michael Glykas, Annales, ed. I. Bekker, CSHB (Bonn, 1836), 524.15–525.8) (b): BHG 1322v ⫽ Anastasios the Sinaite, ed. F. Nau, “Le texte grec du moine Anastase sur les saints pe`res du Sinaı¨” [1–40 ⫹ appendix], OC 2 (1902): 58–89, and “Le texte grec des re´cits utiles `a l’aˆme d’Anastase (le Sinaı¨te),” OC 3 (1903): 56–75, tale no. 54. 27 28

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at first denied that he had any ability to be of assistance. But, finally, he took the surviving brother to the Great Church by night. The doors opened at his prayers; the dead brother appeared, and a reconciliation was effected. A subsidiary point of this story—not by any means uncommon in this monastic literature—is that not only monks are holy men.34 The tales provide examples of deceased persons appearing to the living when the departed is in need of something, for example, a decent burial in the case of the grazer (bosko´ ") of Skopelos; a long-overdue new church for St. Julian, or a meeting with a sixthcentury pope of Alexandria—requested by Pope Leo the Great.35 There are also cases of the dead appearing in order to repay debts, as in the story of an officer (magistriano´ ", agens in rebus) on imperial service who, finding a dead man lying naked, clothed him with one of his own garments. Later he damaged a foot; amputation seemed to be necessary as the foot was turning black. The doctors planned to operate the following morning but, by night, one came who, by anointing and exercising the foot, restored it to health. The healer was none other than the naked cadaver whom the officer had covered, still wearing the garment he had donated. The man had been sent by Christ to reward the officer for his charity.36 (The western legend of St. Martin of Tours and his cloak is one of several manifestations of this topos.) There are even stories which indicate that the dead were capable of communicating with the living in writing, on occasion. This is not so surprising as it may seem, for at least eighteen stories mention the use of writing in one way or another, clear signs of a literate society. Thus the fine story of Synesius’ conversion, too long unfortunately to cite verbatim: A bishop persuaded a pagan philosopher to be baptized, but the latter doubted very much whether there was such a thing as eternal life and whether alms really are a loan to God, repaid a hundredfold. (“He that hath pity on the poor lendeth unto the Lord and that which he hath given will he repay unto him again” 37 is a recurrent theme of the tales.) In spite of his doubts, he gave the bishop three hundred pounds of gold as “a loan to God,” for which he demanded a receipt. When he died, at his own request he was buried with this receipt in his hand. Later, he summoned the bishop to his tomb to take the receipt; it was endorsed: “sum repaid one hundredfold”—and also that he had attained eternal life.38 It was axiomatic and scripturally attested that Christ would “come again . . . to judge both the quick and the dead.” Of the second coming there is very little, indeed almost nothing, in the literature we are examining. Concerning the last judgment the Gospel gives a very clear lead in the narrative of the Sheep and the Goats,39 yet this is rarely W051, BHG 1318y, de duobus fratribus post alterius mortem reconciliatis; this may be an abbreviation of a longer tale, for the visitors enter (chap. 5) eij" ta` " ejxwte´ ra" pu´ la", but in leaving are said only to pass through ta` " ejndote´ ra". 35 W301 PS 084; W335, PS 146, BHG 1440km, de Eulogio Alexandrino et ecclesia Juliani; W337, PS 148, BHG 982e, visio Theodori episcopi. 36 N038, W528, BHG 1445x, de magistriano et cadavere nudo, P&J 11.2. 37 dani´zei Qev' oJ ejlew'n ptwco´ n, kata` de` to` do´ ma aujtou' ajntapadw´ sei aujtv', Prov. 19:17. 38 W049, BHG 1322r etc. and BHG 1442, PS 195, de Synesio et Evagrio. On the conversion of Synesios, see Evagrios, Historia ecclesiastica, 1.C.15, ed. J. Bidez and L. Parmentier (London, 1898), p. 25; Synaxarium CP, 774.42–776, and George the Monk, Chronicon, ed. de Boor, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1904), 2:676.12–678.15. 39 Matt. 25:31–46. 34

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followed in the tales. This may be because it implies a final and general judgment at the end of time, toward which the consensus of the church at large was already tending by the end of the fourth century. The tales, however, generally opt for an immediate and individual judgment, the Gospel model for which would be the the story of Dives and Lazarus,40 well supplied with a surprisingly rich variety of detail. One tale even suggests a two-tier arbitration, that is, for monks and laymen: An unsatisfactory monk whose mother dies has a vision of her being taken to the judgment meta` tw'n krinome´ nwn. She is amazed that he who had “gone to save his soul” should have been selected for judgment too: kai` su eij" to` n to´ pon tou'ton ejlqei'n katakri´qh";41 On the other hand, Abba Silvanus had a curious vision of the judgment, one of the few that does echo the lo´ gion of the Sheep and the Goats. He saw many monks going to perdition while many secular persons were entering the Kingdom—a further reminder that monks have no monopoly on holiness.42 Another important exception and a curious one is the narrative de sorte animarum visio presbyteri Patmensis in which Abba John of Patmos tells the long story of one who related how he came to be a monk. He was a priest; not sinful, but negligent. He fell sick and was twenty days without food. Two men dressed in white came and took him before the court of the twelve apostles, Peter presiding.43 He was ordered to witness the sufferings of the damned. This was followed by a vision of the saints; there he saw the Mother of God praying to God (a pillar of flame) to have mercy on the world, and also many angels. His companion told him that he could be with the blessed if he followed the directions of Abba Philip and became a monk, which he did.44 Usually in the tales the judgment is not portrayed as a final hearing, but as a dispute immediately following death. The feuding protagonists are the forces of light and darkness respectively: the question at stake is whether the departing soul will be borne aloft by the angels or swept down to the lower regions by demons. The earliest intimation of such a confrontation is in a vision of Antony the Great whose Life by Athanasios is, as already stated, an integral part of the tales-tradition: “A whole year long I prayed for the place of the righteous and of the sinners to be revealed to me.45 I saw a great giant, high as the clouds, black and with his hands stretched up toward heaven, and below him there was a lake the size of the sea. And I saw souls, flying like birds. Those who flew free of his hands and head were saved, while those who were struck by his hands were falling into the lake. Then a voice came to me saying: ‘Those you see flying up are the souls of the righteous; they are saved in Paradise. But the others, the ones being led off down to Hades, are they who followed the desires of the flesh and bore grudges.’” 46 The black Luke 16:19–31. Sys. 3.38, P&J 3.20, probably a very old tale as it is attributed to Pachomios, Oeuvres, ed. L. T. Lefort, 2 vols., CSCO 160 (Louvain, 1956), 1:28–29. 42 W445, A/B Silvanus 2. 43 Presumably inspired by the saying: “When the Son of Man shall sit on the throne of his glory, ye also shall sit upon twelve thrones, judging the twelve tribes of Israel” (Matt. 19:28; cf. Luke 22:30), but the discrepancies are obvious. 44 W880, BHG 1322zi; see also HME 8.33. 45 Thus Macarius the Egyptian (the Great) of Scete: “Then [the power of God] begins to reveal before the heart the afflictions of those who are being punished and many other things . . .” Letter 1.13, ed. P. Ge´hin, “Le dossier macarien de l’Atheniensis gr. 2492,” Recherches augustiniennes 31 (1999): 89–147, p. 107, 79–86. 46 HL 21.16–17, shorter version in Vita Antonii, 66. 40 41

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giant is scarcely ever mentioned again in the tales.47 In fact this whole vision seems to be a remnant of a different tradition (as yet unrecognized) in which the ascending souls have no strength but their own to evade the captor and to fail to do so is to be cast into a watery (not a fiery) hell. It is, however, a second vision of Antony that furnishes what became the usual scenario: a vision in which he felt himself being taken out of the body and up into the air by “some guides” (oJdhgou´ menon uJpo´ tinwn). Then he saw some “bitter and cruel ones” (pikrou` " kai` deinou´ " tina") standing in the air and endeavoring to prevent him from mounting up. When “the guides” withstood them, those others asked them whether he was their subject. They wanted an account of him from his birth, but Antony’s guides (oiJ to` n jAntw´ nion oJdhgou'nte") refused, saying to them: “The Lord has written off the period from his birth, but you may demand an account of [his life] from the time when he became a monk and dedicated himself to God.” Since they accused him but could get no conviction, the way was made clear and without impediment for him [to ascend].” 48 Although this experience concerns only Antony’s monastic life, all the elements of many subsequent visions of the last judgment are here. As noted above, rarely in the tales is the judgment portrayed as a board of inquiry or tribunal but rather as a verbal or physical tussle or tug-of-war between the forces of light and the powers of darkness; a struggle that takes place, not at some indeterminate time in the future, but promptly at the hour of death, even around the deathbed of the agonisant. Thus a resuscitated taxeotes recalled how black-faced-ones (aijqi´ope") and others clad in white had battled for possession of him, the latter finally wrestling him from the hands of the former so that (in this case) he could return to the body and repent; black versus white.49 The demons are frequently referred to as aijqi´ope", especially the ones associated with pornei´a.50 Angels are invariably clothed in white, sometimes with faces shining like the sun, occasionally said to be eunuchs or imperial officers. Thus a man granted three days for repentance and amendment of life says to his confessor: “Are you blind and could not see that imperial personage and the illustrious men who accompanied him? Nor the black-faced-ones who were standing at the door? . . . That eunuch who was speaking with me just now, whose face was brighter than the sun and whose clothing glistened like light? When he came here with his illustrious terrifying men, there came some evil-looking black-faced-ones with eyes like fire and they stood at the door. They were accusing me, saying what I had done and what I had left undone.” 51 It should be noted in passing that the angels did not always show up at the moment of death; it was not worth their while if the state of the departing soul was thought to be hopeless. Thus a monk standing at the gates of a rich man who was dying saw the arrival of black horses with black riders carrying fiery wands. The riders went in and the patient began to cry out: “Lord, help me and be merciful to me.” The riders said: “Now the sun is going down, you remember God. Why did you not seek him when it was first rising? There is not the slightest bit of help or comfort for you now,” and off they went, unopBut see “The Life of Abba Theodosios the Solitary,” W290, PS 066. Vita Antonii, 65.2–5. 49 W010, BHG 1318, 1318a, Anastasios the Sinaite tale A40. 50 See Guy, Les Apophtegmes des Pe`res, 1:244–45 n.1. 51 PMB 03, W703, BHG 1449f. 47 48

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posed, with his wretched soul.52 That, however, is an exceptional case; generally the angels do appear and a genuine discussio or altercation occurs. Sometimes a pair of scales is introduced to settle the argument. Such is the case in the vision of a doctor who had attended a repentant thief on his deathbed at the Sampson hospital in Constantinople during the reign of Maurice (582–602). He saw black-faced-ones who cast accusations against the deceased thief in one of the scales while two angels loaded his tear-soaked kerchief onto the other scale—and thus gained his soul.53 Scales also appear in the tale of the sister of Daniel of Scete: she went astray, was reclaimed, and then died. Daniel subsequently had a dream of a dorufo´ ro" and his company trying to take her soul, but a ruler (a“rcwn—a rare reference to a judge) summoned the angel of repentance to give evidence. First this angel read out all her sins and her sufferings. Then he presented her tears and the blood from her feet (when she followed Daniel back into the desert barefoot) in a receptacle. These were weighed against her sins and found to be heavier. In spite of the demons’ complaints, she was assigned a place of light in the mansions of the saints.54 These two instances of the use of scales are of particular interest here. Scales are mentioned from time to time in the Judaic tradition; Nebuchadnezzar had been “weighed in the balance and found wanting” (Dan. 5:27); Job prays: “Let me be weighed in an even balance” (Job 31:6); and there is the enigmatic mention in Psalm 61:10; but there is no suggestion of the use of scales at a final judgment, nor is there in the Gospels. Per contra, scales figure very prominently in the ancient Egyptian religion as a means of testing the departed soul when it comes into the judgment hall of Osiris. There too is Horus “who leads the deceased into the presence of Osiris and makes an appeal to his father that the deceased may be allowed to enjoy the benefits enjoyed by all who are ‘true of voice’ and justified in the judgement.” 55 The female deity Maat would also be there: “During the trial of the deceased soul, Maat was always present. In some drawings her feather sat on top the scales to guarantee fairness, and the heart of the deceased was always weighed on the balance against the feather. If the heart were found to balance perfectly with truth and justice—being neither too heavy nor too light for it—the dead person was held to have passed the first test and to be nearing immortality.” 56 Wallis Budge (whose words these are) long since opined that Christians of Coptic expression used their Egyptian religious traditions to fill in the vacuums in their Judaeo-Christian beliefs, and he provided at least one striking example of them appropriating Egyptian notions of what they (wrongly) supposed to be hell. He concluded: “How far the Copts reproduced unconsciously the views which had been held by their ancestors for thousands of years cannot be said, but even after allowance has been made for this possibility, there remains still to be explained the large number of beliefs and views which seem to W029, BHG 1322hi, Sys 20.14, N492, de morte divitis, ed. A. Amante, Didaskaleion 1 (1912): 535. W863, BHG 1450m, de latrone converso [bis], Anastasios the Sinaite, D02, In Ps. vi, PG 89:1112A–1116B. 54 W467, Daniel of Scete [unnumbered] BHG 2102e, de sorore Danielis; fuller Syriac text ed. and trans. S. P. Brock, AB 113 (1995): 270–80 gives discussio between the archon and the black-faced-one. W482, ed. Th. Nissen, “Unbekannte Erza¨hlungen aus dem Pratum Spirituale,” BZ 38 (1938): 351–76, no. 4, BHG 1440r, de moniali paenitenti and W961, BHG 1438r, cod. Athen. 513, fol. 198rv, de moniali meretrice, are essentially the same story. 55 E. A. Wallis Budge, Egyptian Ideas of the Future Life (London, 1899), 72. 56 R. A. Armour, Gods and Myths in Ancient Egypt (Cairo 1986), 164. 52 53

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have been the peculiar product of the Egyptian Christian imagination.” 57 There are aspects of the tales-tradition (the judgment by scales being one of them) that might well derive from traditional Egyptian beliefs, but there are others that apparently cannot. The deathbed confrontation of eunuchs/angels and aijqi´ope"/demons is an obvious example. Is this a “peculiar product of the Egyptian Christian imagination” or might it derive from a dualistic (Mesopotamian?) source rather than an Egyptian one?58 Consider the tale of two brothers who once agreed to become monks. They lived apart for several years until one of them fell ill. In an ecstasy, he saw angels trying to take him and his brother to heaven, but opposing demons stood in the way (kai` ajph´ nthsan hJmi'n aiJ ajntikei´menai duna´ mei", a“peiroi tv' plh´ qei kai` foberai` tv' ei“dei). These could not prevail, for: “Great is the assurance which purity confers,” one of the angels was heard to remark (mega´ lh parrhsi´a hJ aJgnei´a).59 It is a clear case of darkness versus light, flesh versus spirit, pornei´a versus aJgnei´a, and so forth. Hence the angels usually do get possession of the soul of the departed in the case of the truly righteous and, once free of the black-facedones, joyfully bear it aloft. This is witnessed to over and over again by those who claim to have seen the souls of the righteous being carried to heaven by choirs of angels.60 In some instances, certain souls whose righteousness is somewhat questionable only escape the black-faced-ones by the skin of their teeth. This is usually the case when a particular virtue is held to atone for shortcomings in other departments, echoing Christ’s words to “the woman which was a sinner”: “Her sins which are many are forgiven; for she loved much.” 61 There is something of this in the story of a woman whose daughter had been wronged by Emperor Zeno (474–491). She was always imprecating the Mother of God to avenge her; the Holy Mother appeared to her and said she would like to oblige her, but “[Zeno’s] right hand prevents me.” The explanation of this is that the emperor in question was given to great acts of mercy, that is, to generous almsgiving (h«n ga` r ejleh´ mwn pa´ nu).62 The lesson here is clearly that almsgiving can “cover a multitude of sins.” 63 We learn from the following story that the fear of death was a powerful incentive to almsgiving. There was a rich man in Alexandria who fell ill and, fearing death, he took thirty pounds in gold and gave it to the poor. Then he recovered and regretted what he had done. He 57 Wallis Budge, Egyptian Ideas, 110–15. Athanasios portrays Antony having to stipulate very forcibly that his corpse is not to be subject to the Egyptian tradition of embalming (Vita Antonii, chap. 90), which gives some indication of the extent to which Christians were engulfed by pagan practices and beliefs. 58 It is certainly not to be found in the Gospels: witness the lo´ gion of the Great Net: “at the end of the world the angels shall come forth and sever the wicked from among the just and shall cast them into the furnace of fire”: Matt. 13:49. 59 W630, N622, Sys 11.62, P&J 11.24a, cited here from Euergetinos, Synagoge, 1.10.2. 60 Antony the Great saw the soul of Amoun the Nitriote carried to heaven by a great crowd, Vita Antonii, chap. 60, Pachomios saw angels taking away the soul of Silvanus, Paralipomena de SS. Pachomio et Theodoro, chaps. 4, 13, ed. F. Halkin, Le Corpus Athe´nien de Saint Pachoˆme, Cahiers d’Orientalisme 2 (Geneva, 1982), 76– 78; Benedict saw the soul of Germanus, bishop of Capua, Dialogues Gre´goire le Grand, ed. A. de Vogu ¨ ´e, trans. Paul Antin, 3 vols. Sources chre´tiennes, nos. 251, 260, 265 (Paris, 1978–1980), 2.35.3, vol. 1, p. 238; other examples are numerous. 61 Luke 7:37 and 47. 62 W351, PS 175, BHG 1322, de Zenone imperatore. 63 1 Peter 4:8 says ajga´ ph kalu´ ptei plh'qo" aJmartiw'n, suggesting that the ambiguity that attaches to our word charity is no new thing.

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had a devout friend with whom he shared his regrets. The other replied: “You ought to be glad that you presented that money to Christ.” The first man was not convinced, so he continued: “Look, here are thirty pounds” (for he too was rich). “Come now to the church of St. Menas, declare: ‘It is not I, but this man here who has performed the vow’ and take the money.” He made the declaration when they came to St. Menas’—and took the money. But just as he was coming out of the door he died. They told the original owner of the pieces of gold to take what was his, but he said: “By the Lord, I will do no such thing, for from the moment I gave them to Christ they are his; let them be given to the poor.” 64

That almsgiving, plus confession to a priest, are the surest way of escaping the clutches of the demons is the main point of a vision of Macarius the Egyptian. He sees angels descending and ascending bearing human souls, which grimy beings endeavour to snatch down. At the control post (telw´ nion) of sexual sin (pornei´a) the angels are challenged for a soul they carry; they call the man’s guardian angel to witness that, sinner though he be, he did make a full confession to a priest before death; hence he is allowed through. Then comes a eunuch of whom the demons say: “He did many wicked things from his youth up, things unbecoming of him as a Christian and as a eunuch: fornication, adultery, and defiling himself with those who work the sin of Sodom,” but by almsgiving and confession he has gained admittance. A pious soul comes next and is joyfully received into heaven, and lastly a steward who has strangled himself: he is led off to hell.65 Some sins could be compensated for by good words, but not all. This is demonstrated by the story de eleemosynario fornicatore: There was a man who was equally given both to almsgiving and to pornei´a (which usually means any kind of illicit sexual activity, in thought, word, or deed) right to the day of his death. A dispute arose concerning his fate and, when prayer was made, it was revealed to a solitary (e“gkleisto") in a vision that the man was saved from hell but barred from heaven. So let no man say: “Even though I am a lecherous man, my salvation is assured because I give alms.” (ka‘n porneu´ sw, poiw' ejlehmosu´ nhn kai` sw´ zomai).66 Presumably this man could have saved his soul by adding confession to a priest to his almsgiving, but then he would have had to refrain from his disorderly life in order to validate his confession. The point here appears to be not that the sin of pornei´a was in itself inexcusable, but that his persistence in it rendered it so. If the worst came to the worst and the demons made off with a soul, the situation was still not entirely without hope. The beneficent presence of the female deity Maat at the trial of the departed Egyptian has already been noted; the Mother of God is frequently portrayed as intercessor for the deceased Christian in some tales. These for the most part deal with cases where a person, once condemned, is sent back to earth and given a second chance. Thus Anna of Constantinople, standing in a place where there was “much weeping and wailing and ceaseless gnashing of teeth,” prayed to the all-holy Mother of God: “Have mercy on me and deliver me from this gloomy predicament so that I might escape and repent in sincerity.” Then she was informed that the Mother of 64 W531, N047, Johannes Monachus, “Liber de Miraculis,” ed. M. Huber, Sammlung mittellateinischer Texte 7 (Heidelberg, 1913), no. 17, George the Monk, Chronicon, 4.231, ed. de Boor, 678.16–683.2, PG 110:841A. 65 W719, BHG 999n, A/B Macarius the Egyptian 2, PG 34:224–29, de angelo custode, bis. 66 W062 BHG 1322y, de eleemosynario fornicatore sub Germano patriarcha. There is a Cypriot version of this tale, W504, BHG 1322w, de Philentolo fornicatore, and yet a third version, BHG 1322xd, cod. Vat. S. Petri C 149, fols. 253v–255, which I have not yet seen.

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God had acceded to her request; she was to return to her body in order to repent in sincerity and make peace with her brothers. In two months’ time she would be summoned again, which indeed she was.67 Clerical negligence could account for one’s escape from the pit. In the Dialogues (a portion of which consists of Latin dihgh´ sei" yucwfelei'"), Gregory the Great tells of a priest named Severus who, when summoned to attend a dying man, finished pruning his vine before going; meanwhile the man died. As the priest wept before the corpse, it revived. The man told how fearful (taetri) men, with insupportable fire issuing from their mouths and nostrils, took him; and how these were then stopped by a fine-looking youth (pulchrae visionis iuvenis) who said: “Take him back, for Severus is weeping.” Thus the man gained seven days for repentance; on the eighth day he died in peace and joy.68 Failing some such intervention, the condemned soul was doomed to hell. In the tales, Hell is usually portrayed as a river (or lake, Rev. 20:14) of fire. The Gospels refer to “an outer darkness” and also to “a furnace of fire,” in both of which “there is lamentation and gnashing of teeth,” 69 thus in a sense combining the two Jewish “hells” of Gehenna and Sheol. The same conflation is found in some of the tales, as (for instance) in the Tale of the Burnt Hand. There a daughter sees her mother in a dark, gloomy house, up to her neck in the fire.70 In another story, hell is seen as “a dark and noisome place of fire” in which notorious heretics are being tormented.71 Elsewhere a priest of Patmos has a vision of naked men and women in a river of fire, including emperors and empresses who ruled badly and sinfully,72 while, for the Monophysites, there was Emperor Marcian hanging on hooks of fire in the midst of the flames, prey to suffering.73 In the Apocryphal Acts of Thomas (probably of gnostic origin) a resuscitated pagan girl describes her experiences of hell and of a most foul black man who took her into the pit where there was a stench and wheel of fire with souls hanging on it74 —and so it goes on. Yet, grim though the subject may be of the sufferings of the damned, John Moschos has preserved a story that relieves it with a rare shaft of humor. An elder living near the city of Antinoe¨ had a very undiligent monk among his disciples, one who never improved in spite of much exhortation. Then the younger man died, whereupon the elder prayed to have the state of that man’s soul revealed to him. What he saw was a river of fire and the brother up to his neck in it. “Did I not warn you?” he asked him. “Yes,” came the reply, “and it is thanks to you that my head is not suffering.” “What do you mean?” asked the monk. “It is because of your prayers,” the other replied, “that I am standing on the head of a bishop.” 75 W713, PMB 13, BHG 1449k, de mortua ad vitam revocata, 10th century, W644, “The Vision of Romanus Lekapenos” is another good example of the Virgin’s intervention, also one of a tale embodied in a late chronicle, Theophanes Continuatus, 4.4, CSHB, 33:438.20–444.14; PG 109:456C–457C. 68 W390, Gregory the Great, Dialogues, 1.12.1–3, 6th century, Italy. 69 Matt. 8:12, 13:42 and 50. 70 W064, BHG 1322t, Sys 18.35, Euergetinos, Synagoge, 1.9.3 (pp. 140–42), de filia boni patris et malae matris. 71 W267, PS 026, BHG 1450zv, de Theophane nestoriano converso. 72 W880, BHG 1322zi, de sorte animarum visio presbyteri Patmensis. 73 W804, John Rufus, bishop of Maı¨ouma, Plerophoriai (hereafter Pl), ed. F. Nau, with French trans. PO (Paris, 1912), 8:1–161, no. 27, the vision of Peter the scholarios. 74 W928, Acts of Thomas, Act 7:55–57. 75 W279, PS 044, W279. 67

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The tales have far less to tell us about the joys of the blessed than of the discomforts of the damned. Visions of heaven are fairly rare; here is the testimony of Abba Athanasios. One day, this black thought [logismo´ "] came into my mind: what difference does it make whether we fight the fight or not? I fell as though into a trance and one came who said to me: “Follow me.” He led me into a place filled with light and stood me before a door the appearance of which was beyond description. We were hearing what sounded like an innumerable multitude within, singing hymns to God. When we knocked, somebody inside heard us and cried: “What do you want?” My guide replied: “We want to come in.” The other answered, saying to me: “Nobody comes in here who lives negligently [oJ ejn ajmelei´a zw'n]. If you want to come in, go and fight the fight, holding nothing in the vain world to be of any account.” 76

Another monk had a vision in which he saw heaven as a great city (no doubt inspired by Rev. 21) in which the people were wearing different kinds of clothes and had diverse faces. He talked first to a man who had known great poverty and severe sickness in life (he was a leper, lelwbhme´ no"), all of which he had borne with great patience. His reward was gorgeous raiment. Then he spoke to a slightly less well dressed monk who had been faithful to the end; third, to a man wearing simpler raiment who had been honestly and decently married; finally, to two persons in fairly clean garments who had lived very sinful lives, but who repented at the end and, by confession, were received into the city.77 The clothing theme (cf. Rev. 6:11) is taken up in the tale of Sozomen who gave his garment to a poor man whom he found as he went around the squares of Constantinople (mid-4th century.) Subsequently he had a dream of a most beautiful paradise, in which there were men with golden chests that contained all the rich clothing he was going to receive as his reward for the garment he had just given to Christ, a hundredfold.78 Apart from the reference to “Abram’s bosom” (Luke 16:22) and the invitation: “Come ye blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world” (Matt. 25:34), the Gospels have little to say about heaven. However, given Jesus’ words to the repentant thief: sh´ meron met∆ ejmou' e“sh e´ n tv' paradei´sv (Luke 23:24), it is hardly surprising that heaven is often portrayed as a paradise in the original sense of the word: as a beautiful garden (Old Persian, pairidaeza, a park or enclosure.) When some brothers prayed that they might see to what degree their colleague Paul had attained (eij" poi'a me´ tra e“fqase), they were granted a vision of him in a garden of great variety and charm (para´ deison poiki´lon kai` pa´ nterpnon).79 The daughter of an upright father but of a most disorderly mother was taken first to see her late father. She was led “to a great plain of paradise where there were trees of such variety and beauty defying description, abounding in all kinds of fruit.” 80 Some even succeeded in bringing back souvenirs of paradise. Thus Patermouthios said that he had been corporally transported to paradise where he had seen the saints and where he had tasted the fruits, of which he brought back with him a huge fig. This object was greatly venerated, and the mere fragrance of it was capable of curing disorders.81 Euphrosynos, the despised and lowly cook W326, PS 130; W958 (cod. Paris. grec. 1596, pp. 475–76 is the same story, different persons). W920, BHG 1322k, cod. Paris Supp. grec. 1319, fols. 42v–49, de coronis electorum. 78 W925, BHG 1322s, de Sozomeno eleemosynario. 79 W045 BHG 2363, Paulus monachus hypotacticus. 80 W064, BHG 1322t, Sys 18.35, Euergetinos, Synagoge, 1.9.3 (pp. 140–42), de filia boni patris et malae matris. 81 W158, HME 10.21–23. 76 77

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of a monastery, was seen by a monk (in a dream) to be in charge of a garden of delights, from which he gave the monk a wondrous apple. The following morning the monk found the apple in bed with him; it healed many who partook of it.82 Beyond that, the tales do not have much to tell about heaven. What of those who went neither to heaven nor to hell? That such there were believed to be has already been illustrated by the story de eleemosynario fornicatore, of whom it was attested by a vision that he was saved from hell (by his almsgiving) but barred from heaven by his continued wantonness. The notion that there might be a “middle state” between heaven and hell, a limbo, is borne out by the following tale. There was an elder who was richly endowed with the gift of being able to see into men’s hearts [dioratiko` " pa´ nu], and there was, living in secular society, a virtuous Hebrew, a man of mercy and hospitality, possessed of many great virtues. The elder became aware of the Hebrew’s good works, so he went to him, exhorting and teaching him from the holy scriptures in the hope of persuading him to be baptized. When his coreligionists, the malicious Jews, his wife and children, realized that, after being exhorted at great length, he was almost ready to deny [their beliefs], they cut him off from the exhortations of the elder and the worthy path. Denied his spoil, the great elder retired into his own monastery. Some considerable time later, the elder visited the Hebrew and found him unbelieving and not accepting even a little of the elder’s teaching, but rather bitterly objecting to it, after the manner of his unruly and stiff-necked race. Again the elder withdrew, then a third time he tried again, accomplishing nothing. This elder held to the ancient belief, frequently confirmed by divine revelation: that the good works and deeds of the unbaptized are destructive; that the unbaptized who perform such good works are sent to the fire. It now came about, according to the disposition of God, that the Hebrew died. When the great elder heard of this he wrestled in his spirit with the question of what had become of the Hebrew; to where had he been assigned and what had become of his good works? He prayed to God about this, and the Hebrew was revealed to him, sitting at a richly laid table—but blind. Taking him by the hand [the elder] said to him: “Have you any idea what is before you on the richly laid table lying close to you? I am the monk who used to urge you to be baptized. Even though you resisted me then, now you have the chance to be [baptized,] to see and to delight in these good things. If you are willing, I will call upon God who will restore you to life in the body. I will then baptize you and, with the light [of baptism], you will delight in everything, remaining so forever.” The other replied: “What, and have to die again?” When he had been informed by the elder that he could not inherit immortality without tasting of death he said to him: “Let me be as I am. I cannot taste death again, a second time. The memory [of my death] and the unforgettable bitterness [of it] are with me still.” And that was how the elder’s question was answered.83

The elder’s question is not really answered: the Jew’s undoubtedly virtuous behavior cannot prevail against his refusal to become a Christian. For “works done before the grace of Christ and the Inspiration of his Spirit are not pleasant to God . . . we doubt not that they have the nature of sin,” as certain Anglican divines would state the traditional position in the thirteenth of the (Thirty-nine) Articles of 1562. Rather was the elder’s dilemma resolved by the notion of a third alternative, where righteous Jews and charitable W036, BHG 628c, de Euphrosyno coquo. W006, BHG 1317t, de Hebraeo qui noluit reviviscere et baptizari, ed. P. Canart, Byzantion 36 (1966): 22–23, followed by some very apposite comments and reference to a similar passage in The Life of Saint Basil Junior. 82 83

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sinners could dwell, neither feeling the pains of hell nor enjoying the delights of paradise, a rather gray area not unlike the Hebrew Sheol. What then is to be concluded from all this? First, that the dihgh´ sei" yucwfelei'" do have some things to tell us about the later Romans’ beliefs concerning the last things: the kind of hell they feared, the sort of heaven they hoped for, and a process by which they would attain the one or the other, but these beliefs are to be apprehended by attending to the scenarios of the stories rather than to their direct statements. Most of what the stories have to teach is to be found in the reports of visions which, acutely subjective though they undoubtedly be, insofar as they manifest a degree of consensus, might reasonably be thought to reflect commonly held opinions. Taking the relatively sparse statements about “the last things” in the scriptures (especially in the Gospels) as their starting point, the stories fill in details and supplementary matter of various kinds. If (as we suspect) here is some indication of pre-Christian Egyptian influence in this supplementary matter, this is not to be wondered at since the ancient Egyptians’ religion focused largely on the fate of the dead and possessed a highly developed eschatology. And here there may be a clue to resolving a question that has perplexed the present writer for many years: where do the roots of this eremitic folkore lie? Several other tales-traditions have been investigated, but other than in a very few exceptional cases, little or no connection with the dihgh´ sei" yucwfelei'" has come to light so far. That is until the resemblances with Egyptian religious lore began to appear (compare, e.g., the telw´ nia with the fortytwo “negative questions” of Maat).84 The next stage of inquiry will be diligently to examine that lore to see how many other apparent points of contact with the Christian tales there are. Yet if some influence from the religion of Osiris is to be suspected in the tales, it is neither the only nor perhaps the strongest. This is borne out by the almost complete absence of a supreme, almighty judge in the eschatology of the tales, in spite of the scriptural attestations that Christ will come to judge on the one hand and the predominance of Osiris as judge in the Egyptian tradition. Instead, there is this tussle of angels versus demons which decides the ultimate fate of the soul, these and those being empowered by the extent to which the deceased was sinful or righteous in life. The tales seem to suggest that it is to them that the keys of the kingdom of heaven (and hell) are given, which is scarcely compatible with Christian doctrine. Maybe this too will turn out to be a “peculiar product of the Egyptian Christian imagination” pace Wallis Budge, but maybe not; only time will tell. University of Manitoba 84

E. A. Wallis Budge, The Book of the Dead (repr. New York, 1960), 313–18 et passim.

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2001 © 2002 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

“At the Hour of our Death”: Mary’s Dormition and Christian Dying in Late Patristic and Early Byzantine Literature BRIAN E. DALEY, S.J.

t the end of a celebrated early article entitled “Eucharist and Christology in the Nestorian Controversy,” Henry Chadwick commented, in his characteristically dense and suggestive fashion, on the “deep religious connexion” that seems to exist between the conception of the person of Christ promoted by Cyril of Alexandria and his later followers, especially those who were to reject the dogmatic formula of the Council of Chalcedon, and the dramatic rise of interest in and devotion to the Virgin Mary in the eastern churches during the fifth and sixth centuries.

A

The whole tendency of Monophysite piety was to minimize the significance of Christ’s soul. As the Antiochenes clearly perceived, the result is that Christ loses solidarity with us. Is there not, then, a consequent need for popular piety to clutch at someone, with a vital part in the drama of redemption, who is beyond doubt oJmoou´ sio" hJmi'n? . . . In such a situation it would be a reassurance if there could be someone in solidarity with the rest of mankind who had risen again in the body. . . . Accordingly, there seems little need for surprise that such a story as the Assumption of the Virgin became current in Monophysite circles during this period.1

At the time Chadwick’s article appeared, in 1951, the scholarly world was preparing to commemorate the fifteen hundredth anniversary of the Council of Chalcedon, and Pope Pius XII had just declared, in the previous year, that the belief that Mary had been assumed bodily into heaven at the end of her life—had been allowed by God to share immediately, along with Jesus her son, in the resurrection of the body—was an integral part of the Christian tradition of faith. Although he offered little further comment, Chadwick’s observation that “for the most part popular piety remains Monophysite to this day” clearly implied a certain disjunction between the faith of Chalcedon and the newly canonized Catholic dogma of Mary’s Assumption. It also suggested that the popular tradition of piety on which the latter rests may well be connected with an exaggerated emphasis on the divine transformation of the human element in the person of the Incarnate Word, more reflective of the christology of the later opponents of Chalcedon than of mainstream dogma. 1

H. Chadwick, “Eucharist and Christology in the Nestorian Controversy,” JTS, n.s., 2 (1951): 163–64.

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Scholarly understanding of the nuances and aims of Cyril’s christology, and of that of his Antiochene opponents, has changed significantly since Chadwick wrote in 1951. Fewer scholars today would assume that a “monophysite” view of the person of Christ necessarily implied that Christ is less in “solidarity with us” than Chalcedon understood him to be, or that the Antiochene theologians were particularly interested in emphasizing such solidarity themselves.2 Even so, the origins and original intent of the story of Mary’s death and entry into glory, which seems to have taken shape in Antioch, Palestine, and Egypt during the century or so after the Council of Chalcedon, undoubtedly remain embedded in the christological debates of the time. The complex mass of narrative sources that present that story to us, extant in varying degrees of completeness in all the ancient languages of the eastern Mediterranean world, has been studied intensely over the past half century, even though critical editions—or accessible noncritical editions— are still lacking for many of these sources. Despite widely varying theories on the chronology and mutual relationships of these texts, it seems probable that the narrative of Mary’s glorious end, her “dormition” or death and her “assumption” into glory or resurrection, was circulated first of all, as Chadwick indicates, within Christian groups that rejected the council’s two-nature, one-hypostasis formulation of the structure of Christ’s person.3 In all the Christian churches, the fifth century was a time of meteoric rise for the figure of Mary in popular devotion, art, and homiletics, as well as in the spotlight of theological controversy between the Antiochene and Alexandrian “schools.” On the political level, the positive support for the cult of Mary by the powerful princess (later empress) Pulcheria should not be underestimated;4 and on the theological and liturgical levels, it seems clear that the growing emphasis on the divinity of Christ, and on the transforming effect of that divinity on his own humanity and that of all who come into contact with him, resulted also in an increasing exaltation of the role of Mary, the human being closest to him, in the story of salvation. And even if this growth in Marian devotion and the multiplication of her privileges in fifth- and sixth-century Greek theology was not the expression of a need for a more accessible human mediator with God, as Chadwick See, for instance, F. Young, Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture (Cambridge, 1997), esp. 161–212; J. O’Keefe, “Impassible Suffering? Divine Passion and Fifth-Century Christology,” TheolSt 58 (1997): 39–60, and bibliography cited there. 3 The standard surveys of the history of the narrative and the theological interpretations of the Dormition story are: M. Jugie, La mort et l’assomption de la Sainte Vierge. Etude historico-doctrinale (Vatican City, 1944); A. Wenger, L’assomption de la T. S. Vierge dans la tradition byzantine du Vie au Xe sie`cle. Etudes et documents (Paris, 1955); E. Cothenet, “Marie dans les apocryphes,” in H. de Jouaye du Manoir, Maria, vol. 6 (Paris, 1961), 71–156; less reliable in detail, but very valuable for its mass of bibliographical information, is S. C. Mimouni, Dormition et assomption de Marie. Histoire des traditions anciennes (Paris, 1995). See also the introduction to my translation of the Greek homiletic material on the Dormition: On the Dormition of Mary. Early Patristic Homilies (Crestwood, N.Y., 1998), 1–45. For a list of all known ancient versions of the Dormition narrative, and an attempt to classify them chronologically by narrative detail, see M. van Esbroeck, “Les textes litte´raires sur l’assomption avant le Xe sie`cle,” in Les Actes apocryphes des Apoˆtres: Christianisme et monde paı¨en (Geneva, 1981), 265–88 (repr. in M. van Esbroeck, Aux origines de la Dormition de la Vierge [London, 1995] I). Van Esbroeck’s classification and proposed dating of these texts, although conjectural in some cases, is the system followed by most scholars today. 4 For a discussion of Pulcheria’s devotion to Mary, and its support by Proklos, patriarch of Constantinople in the 430s and early 440s, see N. P. Constas, “Weaving the Body of God: Proclus of Constantinople, the Theotokos and the Loom of the Flesh,” JEChrSt 3 (1995): 169–94. See also K. Holum, Theodosian Empresses. Women and Imperial Dominion in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, Calif., 1982), esp. 147–74; V. Limberis, Divine Heiress. The Virgin Mary and the Creation of Christian Constantinople (London, 1994), 53–61. 2

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suggested, still it does seem to represent, if one may put it this way, a kind of “spillover” of holy power and transcendent benevolence from the increasingly exalted figure of Christ. By the end of the fifth century, in Greek homiletics Mary had come to be evoked with a kind of ecstatic wonderment as the fulfillment of a whole range of typological figures from the Bible,5 while in sacred iconography and the Hymnos Akathistos she was majestic queen, patron of her people, protector of the city.6 Surely the story of Mary’s remarkable death and her almost immediate entry into the transformed condition of Christ’s risen body, which seems first to have been circulated among anti-Chalcedonian Christians in the late fifth century, must be seen as part of that spillover, that sharing in the role and qualities of the glorified Christ. What I would like to argue here, however, is that another, more strictly eschatological concern was also at work in the development of the Dormition story, as well as in the rapid spread of its liturgical celebration and its theological interpretation by preachers: specifically, the concern to respond to a deep anxiety in the face of death that apparently began to be felt by Christians throughout the Mediterranean world just before 400, by depicting Mary as both the model of serene and holy dying and as the exemplar of the fully achieved salvation promised to all who die in faith. By the eighth century, at any rate, it is clear in the interpretations of Mary’s Dormition by some of the classical homilists of the time that the story and the feast are as much about the general Christian hope for heaven, hope for an eternal happiness that will begin at death and that eventually will include the transfigured body as well as the soul, as they are about the uniquely exalted role of Mary herself. Christian conceptions of death in the first three centuries of the church’s history tended, in general, to mirror those of ancient Israel and popular Hellenistic culture. Most early Christian writers assume that death consists in the separation of the conscious soul from the material body, and that the best hope of the believer is that he or she will rest in a state of comfort among the dead—in “the bosom of Abraham,” perhaps, or in what Tertullian calls the inferiora terrarum7 —until the eschatological transformation of history, the final resurrection of the dead, and the judgment of all who have lived by the triumphant Christ.8 In the most common early western understanding, forcefully expressed by Tertullian, only the martyrs can be expected to join the patriarchs and 5 For references, see my article, “The ‘Closed Garden’ and the ‘Sealed Fountain’: Song of Songs 4:12 in the Late Medieval Iconography of Mary,” in Medieval Gardens (Washington, D.C., 1986), 261 and n. 16; Mimouni, Dormition, 390–413. 6 For the text and an English translation of the Akathistos hymn, see G. G. Meerssemann, The Acathistos Hymn (Fribourg, 1958); for a discussion of its origins, see C. Trypanis, Fourteen Early Byzantine Cantica, WByzSt 5 (Vienna, 1966); J. Grosdidier de Matons, Romanos le Me´lode et les origines de la poe´sie religieuse `a Byzance (Paris, 1977); Limberis, Divine Heiress, 89–92. For the development and importance of Marian iconography in the 5th and 6th centuries, see Averil Cameron, “Images of Authority: Elites and Icons in Late Sixth-Century Byzantium,” in Byzantium and the Classical Tradition, ed. M. Mullett and R. Scott (Birmingham, U.K., 1981), 205–34; J. Pelikan, Imago Dei. The Byzantine Apologia for Icons (Princeton, N.J., 1990), 121–51. 7 De Anima, 55, (CCSL), 2.862.11; cf. Justin, Dialogue with Trypho (ed. M. Marcovich, Patristische Texte und Studien 47 [Berlin, 1997], 80.32–81.36), 5; Irenaeus, Against the Heresies (SC 294), 2.34.1–2, 352–54, and (SC 153), 5.31.1–2, 390–96. 8 For full discussions of the early Christian understanding of death and expectations of salvation, see A. C. Rush, Death and Burial in Christian Antiquity (Washington, D.C., 1941); J. A. Fischer, Studien zum Todesgedanken in der Alten Kirche (Munich, 1954); A. Stuiber, Refrigerium Interim. Die Vorstellungen vom Zwischenzustand ¨hchristliche Grabeskunst (Bonn, 1957); B. E. Daley, The Hope of the Early Church. A Handbook of Patristic und die fru Eschatology (Cambridge, 1991), esp. 5–43.

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prophets of old in Paradise immediately after death. Cyprian of Carthage, it is true, and some later authors insisted that all who live and die in courageous fidelity to their faith will be admitted immediately, as souls, into the Kingdom of God,9 and Clement of Alexandria was convinced that those who have learned impassibility and have become “true Gnostics” during this life will come, at the end of the present life, to the “sacred abode” of the apostles and saints.10 Still, the conception of the place of the dead essentially in terms of a more restful version of Sheol or Hades, rather than as bliss in the presence of God, seems to have persisted among ordinary Christians. The fourth-century Syriac writers Aphrahat and Ephrem, along with Hilary of Poitiers in the West, imagine both the souls and the bodies of the dead as “sleeping” under the earth until the end of history:11 and the commendation of the dead given in the prayerbook of Sarapion of Thmuis—an Alexandrian collection probably put together in the early 350s—asks that the soul of the deceased person be given “rest . . . in green places, in chambers of rest (ejn tamiei´oi" ajnapau´ sew") with Abraham and Isaac and Jacob and all your saints,” until, in the day of final resurrection, “you may render to [the body] also the heritage of which it is worthy in your holy pastures.” 12 Against the background of such a passive conception of personal existence after death, it is easy to see why classically formed Christians, like Clement of Alexandria or Ambrose of Milan, continued to urge the view on their readers that death, as rest from labor, is a benefit for those who have lived well,13 who have made their lives, in Platonic style, a “preparation for departure.” 14 Gregory of Nazianzus, who frequently stresses the oppressiveness and fragility of the present life, in the style of the book of Ecclesiastes,15 himself cherishes the hope that “every fair and God-beloved soul, when it is freed from the bonds of the body, . . . at once enjoys a sense and perception of the blessings that await it . . . and feels a wondrous pleasure and exultation, and goes rejoicing to meet its Lord,”16 so he, too, speaks of grieving as vain and death as a welcome release. In his To Fortunatus, 12–13, (CSEL 3/1.345–47). Stromateis, 6.13.106–14.109 (GCS 52.485–86); cf. 4.26.163–65 (GCS 52.320–21); 7.12.79 (GCS 17/2.56). 11 See Daley, Hope, 72–75 and 95 for references. 12 Sarapion, Euchologion, 18 (ed. Maxwell E. Johnson; OrChr 249 [Rome, 1995], 68. Similarly, the prayer for the dead given in book 8 of the Apostolic Constitutions (Antioch, late 4th century) asks that God place the departed soul “in the place of the holy ones, in the bosom of Abraham and Isaac and Jacob, with all those who have pleased God through the ages and have done his will”; in that peaceful place, the text later says, the just may hope to “see the glory of your Christ” (SC 336.256–58). In this text, it is not clear whether this hoped-for vision of glory is something to be enjoyed immediately after death, or only after the resurrection at the end of history. 13 See, e.g., Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 4.11.80 (GCS 52.283–84) and 7.13.82 (GCS 52.58–59); Ambrose, De bono mortis, 4.14–15 (CSEL 32/1.715–17), 5.16 (CSEL 32/1.717–19), 8.31–33 (CSEL 32/1.730–33), etc.; De excessu fratris, 2.3–7, 20–22. 14 See, e.g., Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 2.20.109.1 (GCS 52.172); Gregory of Nazianzos, Or. 7.18–19 (SC 405.224–28) (life as mele´ th lu´ sew"). 15 See, e.g., Poems, II, 1, 31–32 (PG 37.1299–1305); Or. 7.18–19 (SC 405.224–28) (on the death of his brother Caesarius). 16 Or. 7.21. For a perceptive reading of Gregory’s view of death in its continuity with the spiritualized and intellectualized understanding of the Platonic tradition, see C. Moreschini, “La ‘meditatio mortis’ e la spiritualita` di Gregorio Nazianzeno,” in Morte e immortalita` nella catechesi dei padri del III–IV secolo, ed. S. Felici (Rome, 1985), 151–60. See also J. Mossay, “Perspectives eschatologiques de saint Gre´goire de Nazianze,” Questions liturgiques et paroissales 45 (1964): 320–39; and idem, La mort et l’audela` dans saint Gre´goire de Nazianze (Louvain, 1966). 9

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funeral oration for his father, Gregory sets death in the context of a calm philosophical vision that owes as much to Platonic and Stoic anthropology as it does to the Gospel. Life and death, as they are called—apparently so different—are in a sense mutually dependent, and exist in tension with each other. For the former takes its rise from the corruption that is the mother of all of us, runs its course through the corruption that consists in the constant replacement of the present with something new, and comes to its end in the corruption that destroys this life altogether; while the latter, which is able to release us from the ills of this life, and which often transfers us to the life that is above, is not, in my opinion, properly called death at all, and is more dreadful in name than in reality. . . . There is one life: to look ahead to life. There is one death: sin, for it is the destruction of the soul.17

So in the new hagiographical genre portraying the ascetic life as the Christian “philosophy,” the death of saints like Antony or Macrina was presented as embodying a calm and clear-eyed realization that departure from the body held no dangers for the soul, and was even to be welcomed joyously, as bringing about the union with Christ that one had so long desired.18 In the last decades of the fourth century, however, a new sense of insecurity and dramatic foreboding seems to have entered into the perception of both human history and the individual human life, among many Christians of both Greek East and Latin West. Unsettled, perhaps, by Emperor Julian’s sudden decision in 362 to ban Christians from teaching in publicly supported schools, and by the threat of invasion from a variety of migrating peoples, many Christians in the decades before and after 400 seem to have shared a growing apocalyptic sense that history was nearing a disastrous end.19 At about the same time, a new emphasis on death as a fearful and violent event, in which hostile demons struggle with protecting angels over the fate of each departing soul, begins to show itself more and more widely in Christian literature. For the Latin West, Eric Rebillard has recently argued at some length that the transition from the classic serenity of an Ambrose in the face of death, to the anguish of an Augustine, a Peter Chrysologus, or a Leo, was largely due to Augustine’s theology and was grounded in his growing conviction of the powerlessness and sinfulness of human nature, developed in his controversy with the Pelagians.20 However one judges Rebillard’s thesis—and it seems to me not to explain the more dramatic apocalyptic forebodings of some of Augustine’s own correspondents, let alone the terrors of Sulpicius Severus or Jerome, which antedate the Pelagian controversy—it is at least more likely that the strongly agonistic view of death that begins to appear in Greek and Coptic ascetical and hagiographical literature of the late fourth Or. 18.42 (PG 35.1041AB). See Athanasius, Life of Antony, 92 (SC 400.370–72); Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Macrina, 23–25 (SC 178.216– 28); cf. Gregory of Nazianzos, Or. 8.21–22 (SC 405.290–96), on the serene and prayerful death of his ascetical sister, Gorgonia. For a thoughtful interpretation of the treatment of Antony’s death in Athanasius’s Vita, as a paradigm of a new ascetic ideal of death, see M. Alexandre, “A propos du re´cit de la mort d’Antoine (Athanase, Vie d’Antoine: PG 26.968–974, par. 89–93). L’heure de la mort dans la litte´rature monastique,” in Le temps chre´tien de la fin de l’Antiquite´ au Moyen-Age, IIIe–XIIIe s. (Paris, 1984), 263–82. 19 For the evidence of this change in the perception of contemporary history, see B. E. Daley, “Apocalypticism in Early Christian Theology,” in The Encyclopedia of Apocalypticism, II: Apocalypticism in Western History and Culture, ed. B. McGinn (New York, 1998), 21–39. 20 E. Rebillard, In Hora Mortis. Evolution de la pastorale chre´tienne de la mort aux IVe et Ve sie`cles (Rome, 1994). 17 18

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century probably has its roots not in learned disputes but in popular Christian piety, and may perhaps reach back to pre-Christian notions common to a number of Near Eastern cultures. Although Athanasius, for instance, presents Antony’s own death as an utterly peaceful event, he describes an earlier vision the saint had of the normal dying person’s struggle with evil spirits, as if it were happening to himself. He saw himself as if he were outside himself, and as if he were being led through the air by certain beings. Next he saw some foul and terrible figures standing in the air, intent on holding him back so he could not pass by. When his guides combatted them, they demanded to know the reason why he was not answerable to them. And when they sought an accounting of his life from the time of his birth, Antony’s guides prevented it, saying to them, “The Lord has wiped clean the items dating from his birth, but from the time he became a monk and devoted himself to God, you can take an account.” 21

This same notion, that repulsive and frightening demons wait to detain the dying soul and to drag it off to hell—that they act as assessors or “tax collectors” (telw'nai) to hold each soul accountable for all its past sins—appears early in the Christian literature of Egypt: in the Gnostic “First Apocalypse of James” and even in a few of Origen’s homilies.22 But it was used with especially powerful effect in the desert monastic literature of the fourth and fifth centuries,23 combined with dire warnings of the severity of God’s coming judgments and depictions of the sufferings of the damned.24 The first letter ascribed to Antony regards the Bible’s descriptions of the punishments of the wicked and the rewards of the just after death as one of the three “gates for souls,” leading to healing repentance in this present life. A homily attributed to Cyril of Alexandria, which almost certainly comes from the monastic world of the fifth-century Egyptian desert, even if it is not by Cyril himself, depicts a separate demonic examination on the use of each of the five senses, and portrays in abundant and harrowing detail the world of torture that awaits convicted sinners after death.25 Athanasius, Life of Antony, 65 (SC 400.304–6), trans. R. C. Gregg (New York, 1980), 79 (alt.). First Apocalypse of James (Nag Hammadi V, 3), 33.2–36.1 (ed. A. Veilleux, Bibliothe`que Copte de Nag Hammadi 17 [Quebec, 1986], 40–46); in its present form, this work shows some signs of Syrian origin, but the idea of demonic tax collectors is clearly Egyptian: see Origen, Homily on Luke, 23.5–6 (GCS 35.154–55; ˆle du de´mon au jugement SC 87 bis. 318–20). On this theme in early Christianity, see J. Rivie`re, “Le ro particulier chez les pe`res,” RSR 4 (1924): 43–64; idem, “Mort et de´mon chez les pe`res,” RSR 10 (1930): 577–621; A. Recheis, Engel, Tod und Seelenreise. Das Wirken der Geister beim Heimgang des Menschen in der Lehre der alexandrinischen und kappadokischen Va¨ter (Rome, 1958). 23 See, e.g., the first Greek Life of Pachomius, 93 (ed. F. Halkin, Sancti Pachomii vitae Graecae; Subsidia Hagiographica 19 [Brussels, 1932] 62–63), and the Bohairic Life, 83 (ed. L.-Th. Lefort, S. Pachomii vita Bohairı´ce scripta, CSCO 89 [Leuven, 1965], 93–94; trans. CSCO 107, 62); or the Coptic fragments of Schenute of Atripe, Op. 42 (CSCO 42.189; trans. 96.111) and 82.1 (CSCO 73.199–202; trans. 108.121 f). 24 See, e.g., Apophthegmata Patrum, Evagrius, 1 (PG 65.173AC); ibid., Macarius, 38 (PG 65.280AB); Macarius of Egypt, Visio (PG 34:386–92). 25 Cyril of Alexandria (?), Homily 14, On the Departure of the Soul, and on the Second Coming (of Christ) (PG 77:1072–90). A small part of this homily also appears in the alphabetical Apophthegmata under the name of Cyril’s uncle and predecessor, Theophilus. Related texts from the Schenute tradition, as well as the style of the homily, suggest that the source is Egyptian and ascetical, although it is unlike the other work of both ¨hchristlichen Literatur, vol. 4 (Freiburg, 1923), 65; Theophilus and Cyril. See O. Bardenhewer, Geschichte der fru M. Richard, “Les ecrits de The´ophile d’Alexandrie,” Le Muse´on 52 (1939): 33–50, esp. 41–42. 21 22

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“What fear and trembling do you think the soul will experience on that day,” the preacher asks, “when it gazes on the dreadful, fierce, cruel, merciless, untamable demons circled around it, as dark as Ethiopians? The very thought of them is more oppressive than any punishment! Just by looking at them, the soul will be cast into turmoil, terrified, racked with pain, and made to shrink with horror and distress, and will flee for refuge to the angels of God. The soul will be protected by the holy angels, as it makes its way forward and upward through the air, but it will discover toll stations (telw´ nia) guarding and controlling the way, blocking the path of the souls that are trying to ascend. And each toll station deals with its own particular sins.” 26

In a more sustained narrative form, the Apocalypse of Paul—probably composed, in its present form, by Greek monks in or near Constantinople during the first two decades of the fifth century—also tells of the role of protective and challenging angels at the death of each individual, and describes at length the divine judgment that follows and the various punishments and rewards meted out to the dead as a result.27 All of these fourthand fifth-century works suggest a new preoccupation, especially in the ascetical milieu, with the uncertainty of human fate after death, an unrelenting emphasis on the need for penance and conversion, and a dread of the severity of the judgment that awaits each departing soul. It is a far cry from both the quiet anonymity of Hades and the peace of Abraham’s bosom. Christian theological literature of the later fifth and sixth centuries, however, shows signs of a decided attempt to correct the imbalance of this anxious picture, by connecting the death of the individual once again with the more hopeful promises of salvation central to Christian tradition. A striking example is the treatment of the church’s funeral liturgy in the Ecclesiastical Hierarchy of Pseudo-Dionysius. In the introductory section to his description and interpretation of these rites, the author remarks that the death of those who have lived holy lives should be as different from the deaths of “profane” people as their whole lives have been: “When those who have led a holy life consider the truthful promises of God, since they have observed the truth of them in some way at the Resurrection [of Christ], they come to the end of death with a divine joy and a firm and sincere hope, as though they were coming to the conclusion of their holy contests. They understand perfectly that through their resurrection to come their rewards will be in a perfect and endless life and salvation.” 28 Rejecting a variety of what he considers erroneous notions of the afterlife—that it will be perpetually disembodied; that souls will receive other bodies and live on earth again; or that the beatitude promised us is simply material, worldly happiness, in some millenarian paradise29 —Dionysius contends that those whose lives are sanctified in faith know instead that “their entire selves will receive the Christlike inheritance.” 30 The baptized who have deviated from the path of faith may see their approaching end as a warning, a questioning of the value of their former behavior; but PG 77:1073C2–D1. Apocalypse of Paul, 8–18, 31–51 (ed. K. von Tischendorf, Apocalypses Apocryphae [Leipzig, 1866; repr. Hildesheim, 1966] 38–48, 56–69). See P. Piovanelli, “Les origines de l’Apocalypse de Paul reconside´re´es,” Apocrypha 4 (1993): 25–64; C. Carozzi, Eschatologie et au-dela`: Recherches sur l’Apocalypse de Paul (Aix-en-Provence, 1994), with introduction, analysis, and corrected Latin text. 28 Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, 7.1.1, ed. G. Heil and A. M. Ritter, Corpus Dionysiacum 2, Patristische Texte und Studien 36 (Berlin, 1991), 120.16–22; trans. T. L. Campbell (Lanham, Md., 1981), 79. 29 Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, 7.1.2, 121.10–12. 30 Ibid. (ed. Heil and Ritter, 121.22–23; trans. Campbell, 80). 26 27

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the holy person is filled “with a sacred joy” as he or she sees death come near, and that joy will communicate itself to the holy person’s friends: “The friends of the one fallen asleep, in accordance with their divine relationship and similarity of life, call him blessed, whoever he is, because he has triumphantly arrived at the goal of his prayers. They offer up songs of thanksgiving to the Author of his victory, and pray that they, too, may come to the same lot.” 31 Dionysius then goes on to describe the funeral rites—allusively, as is his wont, but in considerable detail. The actual liturgy depicted bears enough similarity to the prayer for the dead in the fourth-century Apostolic Constitutions to suggest that Dionysius, too, is presenting us with a recognizable picture of the fifth-century Antiochene liturgy of burial. In his opening prayer for the deceased, the bishop “pronounces a holy prayer praising the august Deity who delivers us from the unjust tyrannical power oppressing us all, and conducts us to his most just judgments” 32 —no demon examiners are thought of here as conducting a summary judgment on a Christian’s life. The texts of the prayers and the contents of the scriptural readings to which Dionysius alludes, as well as the rite of anointing the corpse and what seems to be eucharistic communion for the assembled community,33 are all sacred actions which, in Dionysius’s view, “sanctify the whole person, effect the work of his complete salvation, and announce through all the holy ceremonies that his resurrection will be absolutely perfect.” 34 Although his sermons frequently contain allusions to the prospect of judgment after death, Caesarius of Arles (ca. 470–543), who was presumably a contemporary of the author of the Dionysian corpus, seems to imagine that searching process as involving body and soul at the time of resurrection.35 A brief collection of prayers for the time of death and the service of burial, however, appended to Caesarius’s rule for nuns in a ninthcentury manuscript, which seems either to have been composed by him or to come from the church of his time, presents the death of a Christian, in its ideal form, as the journey of her soul through the underworld directly to a region of light: “Permit her to cross over the gates of hell and the paths of darkness and remain in the mansions of the saints and in the blessed light, as you once promised to Abraham and his descendants.” 36 The language of these prayers is largely reminiscent of the older Latin conception of death as a time of peaceful waiting, but there is at least the hint of special and immediate reward for a person who has consecrated her life to God. The last two decades of the sixth century witness to a continuing concern on the part Ibid., 7.1.3 (ed. Heil and Ritter, 122.15–19; trans. Campbell, 81). Ibid., 7.3.1 (ed. Heil and Ritter, 124.4–7; trans. Campbell, 83). 33 The structure of the ceremony described—opening prayers and psalms; the reading of scripture and a homily by the deacon; the dismissal of catechumens after the homily; the reading out of diptychs; the kiss of peace and concluding intercessions—suggests that the burial service is also a eucharistic liturgy, as does Dionysios’ concluding statement that the anointing of the corpse, which recalls baptism, and “the most sacred symbol of the divine communion,” promise salvation for the body as well as for the soul of the deceased. 34 Ecclesiastical Hierarchy, 7.3.9 (ed. Heil and Ritter, 130.3–5; trans. Campbell, 89). 35 See Daley, Hope, 208–9, for references. 36 Caesarii opera, 2, ed. G. Morin (Maredsous, 1942), 127; trans. F. S. Paxton, Christianizing Death. The Creation of a Ritual Process in Early Medieval Europe (Ithaca, N.Y., 1990), 54. For a detailed study of this and the other prayers of this brief ritual appended to Cesarius’ rule, as well as of their relationship to other Gallican liturgical prayers, see D. Sicard, La liturgie de la mort dans l’e´glise latine de`s origines `a la re´forme carolingienne (Mu ¨ nster, 1978), 260–79. 31 32

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of church leaders in both East and West to affirm that death is not simply a sleep or a period of inert waiting for final transformation, but that the souls of the dead are very much alive, and that both the joy of the blessed and the punishments of the damned begin immediately with death. In a little-known work written shortly after 582 On the State of Souls after Death, Eustratius, a presbyter of Hagia Sophia who is better known as the biographer of Patriarch Eutychius (552–565, 577–582), drew on classical philosophy and the leading voices of the Christian tradition—especially the Cappadocian fathers and John Chrysostom—to argue that the souls of the dead are not inactive in any sense but continue to operate, either in praising God in heaven or in occasionally carrying out missions for God on earth. Citing a passage from Chrysostom that refers to the life after death of the souls of both the damned and the saints, Eustratius asks: “If, then, even before the resurrection, those who have expended their efforts on the virtues enjoy the dignity of the angels when they depart this life, and offer their hymns to God along with the angels as a work of their own, and if those who are weighed down by troubles in this life have them as their advocates and helpers before God, with what right do you say that they can neither appear [on earth], nor be active, nor do anything else at all?” 37 Eustratius’s Roman contemporary, Pope Gregory the Great, is similarly concerned, in the fourth book of his Dialogues, to remind his readers of the prospect of immediate judgment, purification, reward, or damnation after death, and cites the experiences of many in his own day who have had vivid dreams and visions of the souls of the dead, warning of these things. Some of his anecdotes reflect the same sense we have met in fifth-century eastern ascetical literature, that the death of sinners involves a conflict with menacing demons, while “the sound of heavenly singing” accompanies the death of the elect.38 Like Eustratius, Gregory seems to be particularly eager to demolish the notion that the dead are simply quiescent, or that they are incapable of continuing interaction with the living, even as they enjoy or suffer the fruits of the life they have led, in a transcendent state of existence beyond the grave.39 It is in the context of this late antique concern for the fate of the human soul at death and beyond, and of attempts within the Greek church, especially, to offer a more reassuring picture than what was being promoted in the ascetical literature or in works 37 Eustratius Presbyter, De statu animarum post mortem, 17, 18 in J.-P. Migne, Theologiae Cursus Completus (Paris, 1840), 494. This work has not yet been fully published in Greek; a partial edition, along with the Latin translation included by Migne in his collection, first appeared in Leo Allatius, De Utriusque Ecclesiae Occidentalis atque Orientalis Perpetua in Dogmate de Purgatorio Consensu (Rome, 1655), 336–580. In the work, Eustratius refers to his former patriarch, Eutychius, as dead which places its composition after 582. This work is summarized by Photius, Bibliotheca, 171 (ed. R. Henry, 2: Edition Bude´ [Paris, 1960] 165–67). See Daley, Hope, 200. 38 E.g., Dialogues, 4.15 (SC 265.58–62). 39 See, e.g., Gregory’s powerful narrative of the “immense throng” of heavenly men and women who surrounded the holy Roman recluse Romula at her death: Dial. 4.16 (SC 265.66); cf. ibid., 18 (SC 265.70) and 22 (SC 265.78): “God wished to have the voices of these spirits reach human ears, so that human beings might learn in a human way that if they serve God zealously they will live their true lives hereafter.” In his Moralia in Job (14.72–74: CCSL 143A.743–45), Gregory tell us that while he was still papal apocrisiarius in Constantinople (579–586), he publicly challenged the assertion of the reigning patriarch, Eutychius, that the body of the resurrection will not be identical with the present, mortal body—an apparently Origenist position that the patriarch, according to Gregory, publicly recanted on his deathbed. Both Greeks and Latins were clearly preoccupied with the fate of the dead during the last decades of the 6th century.

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like the Acts of Paul, I suggest, that one must place the full development of the story and the liturgical feast of Mary’s Dormition in the sixth century, as well as its subsequent theological interpretation. The origins of the notion that Mary’s death was in some way extraordinary, and that she has already been allowed to share in the full reality of the eschatological resurrection, are obscure.40 Epiphanius of Salamis, writing in Palestine in the late 370s, takes an expressly agnostic position on the question of whether she died and was buried at all, or whether she “remained alive,” presumably in the way that Enoch and Elijah were said to have been taken alive into heaven.41 By the 440s, under the patronage of Bishop Juvenal and the exiled empress Eudokia, a basilica in honor of the Theotokos was built in an ancient Jewish cemetery near Jerusalem, in the heart of the Kedron valley, at the foot of the Mount of Olives and adjacent to the site venerated as the Garden of Gethsemane; by the mid-sixth century, at the latest, pilgrims visited the basilica as the place of Mary’s empty tomb. The first reliably datable narrative sources that testify to some kind of personal apotheosis for the mother of Jesus come from the Syriac churches of the late fifth century. A verse homily by the Syriac poet Jacob of Serug, delivered at a synod of anti-Chalcedonian bishops at Nisibis in 489, celebrates Mary’s holy death and glorious entry into heaven.42 After her body is buried on the Mount of Olives by Jesus and the twelve apostles, her soul is depicted as passing first through Hades to comfort the patriarchs and prophets, then entering with them into the Kingdom of God, where she is crowned queen before “the celestial assemblies.” 43 In Pseudo-Dionysius’s treatise On the Divine Names, probably written around 500 in a west Syrian community, there is an enigmatic passage in which the author, in the persona of a contemporary of the apostles, tells of being gathered with them at what appears to be Mary’s funeral, and of joining with them in an ecstatic outpouring of inspired songs, in praise of the ineffable mysteries that took place then.44 The earliest full narrative of her death and bodily migration from earth to heaven is found in a group of fragmentary Syriac texts in the British Museum, texts representing a source usually dated to the second half of the fifth century.45 In this version, Mary dies 40 For a survey of the highly nuanced terminology developed in late Patristic Greek literature to denote the “mystery” of Mary’s death, see Daley, Dormition, 27–28. 41 Panarion, 78.11, (GCS 37 [Epiphanius 3], 462); ibid., 23 (474). For a discussion of these texts, see Daley, Dormition, 5–7. 42 Although Jacob of Serug (451–519) was not himself a polemical opponent of the Chalcedonian definition, and seems to have retained good relations with some of its supporters, his christology clearly fits the anti-Chalcedonian or “monophysite” pattern of the late 5th and 6th centuries. It seems safe to assume that he was part of the “monophysite” ecclesial communion that had broken contact with the imperial church. See R. C. Chesnut, Three Monophysite Christologies (Oxford, 1976), 6, 119–22. 43 The only available edition of the Syriac text of this memra¯ is that of P. Bedjan, Sancti Martyrii, qui et Sahdona, quae supersunt omnia (Paris-Leipzig, 1902); a partial English translation by T. R. Hurst is available in Marianum 52 (1990): 86–100, and a full translation, by M. Hansbury, in Jacob of Serug on the Mother of God (Crestwood, N.Y., 1998), 89–100. 44 On the Divine Names, 3.2 (ed. Heil and Ritter, 141). This passage is tentatively identified in the early scholia on Dionysios, by John of Skythopolis, as referring to the death of Mary and her entry into glory (PG 4:236C; Eng. tr. P. Rorem and J. C. Lamoreaux, John of Scythopolis and the Dionysian Corpus [Oxford, 1998] 199–200); it is repeatedly quoted by the early homilists on the Dormition, as containing the earliest and most reliable narrative account of the event. 45 These texts, identified as the “obsequies” narrative or S1 by Michel van Esbroeck, are dated to the 5th century by all scholars who have studied them except Mimouni, who prefers to put them in the 6th century on the basis of his own scheme for the development of the Dormition narrative (Dormition, 78–86). For details on their manuscript identity and publication, see Daley, Dormition, 7 and n. 16. A long narrative of Mary’s

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and is buried by the apostles; Jesus receives her soul, and her body is then transferred by angels to Paradise, where it is buried under the Tree of Life to await the resurrection. The two earliest Greek accounts—probably also from the late fifth or early sixth century—tell a much more elaborate story of Mary’s death and burial. One of these narratives (Van Esbroeck’s G1) begins with the announcement by an angel to Mary of her approaching death, in which she is presented with a palm branch from Paradise as a symbol of her coming triumph; they conclude with the discovery by the apostles, three days after Jesus received her soul in death, that her body has also been conveyed by the angels to Paradise, where it is now reunited with her soul.46 In the other (Van Esbroeck’s G2), narrated in the person of John the Evangelist, the apostles are also gathered from the ends of the earth to be with Mary at her death. Many people from Jerusalem, hearing of her approaching end, visit her at Bethlehem and are cured of various illnesses. Finally, Jesus comes to receive her soul, as the apostles sing praise and as Mary blesses the whole assembly. She is buried, despite resistance from Jews; three days later her tomb is discovered to be empty, “and we all perceived,” the narrator concludes, “that her spotless and precious body was translated to Paradise.” 47 It is not until the end of the sixth century that the narrative of Mary’s death and entry into glory seems to have become fixed in its general outline and accepted by all the major churches of the eastern Mediterranean world, whether they subscribed to the imperially sponsored christology of Chalcedon or not. Its origins, however, seem clearly to have been among those who opposed Chalcedon, probably above all monastic communities in Syria and around Jerusalem. Scholars have recently suggested that the final form of the story may represent a compromise between the “aphthartist” party among the non-Chalcedonians—those (eventually even including Emperor Justinian48) who death, burial, and translation to Paradise, which clearly belongs to the same tradition as these Syriac fragments and Jacob of Serug’s homily, is the so-called Liber requiei, now preserved in full only in an Ethiopic translation dating from the 13th century or later. The modern editor of this work, Victor Arras, argues in his introduction to the text (De transitu Mariae apocrypha Aethiopice, I, CSCO 343 [Leuven, 1973], v–viii) that it is the fullest representative of the original source—probably written in Greek—from which not only the Syriac witnesses derive their story, but also the earliest extant Greek accounts (Van Esbroeck’s G1 and G2), the longer Greek narrative of John of Thessalonike (G4: see below), the Latin narrative of Pseudo-Melito (L1), two 8th-century Old Irish narratives (H1), and some Georgian fragments recently discovered and published by Van Esbroeck (I1–3: “Apocryphes ge´orgiens de la dormition,” AB 91 [1973]:55–75, repr. in his Aux origines de la dormition, V). The Ethiopic text, however, contains other known apocryphal stories about Mary, Joseph, and Jesus, which seem more likely to have been added to an older narrative of Mary’s death than to have been omitted by the other early witnesses. As a result, it is difficult to accept Arras’s confident assertion that this Ethiopic text represents the version that is “omnium . . . (fide) dignissimus, quamvis vitiatus” (introduction, viii). 46 This narrative, which clearly shows Gnostic or Hermetic features (see secs. 11, 20), was published by Antoine Wenger from a Vatican manuscript: L’assomption de la T. S. Vierge, 210–40 (in Wenger’s typology, “R”). 47 Pseudo-John the Evangelist, Transitus Mariae, ed. K. von Tischendorf, Apocalypses Apocryphae (Leipzig, 1886), 95–112 (here 112); trans. M. Rhodes James, The Apocryphal New Testament (Oxford, 1926), 201–9 (here 208). 48 For a discussion of Justinian’s late edict—now lost—supporting the “aphthartist” christology, see F. Loofs, “Die ‘Ketzerei’ Justinians,” in Harnack-Ehrung: Beitra¨ge zur Kirchengeschichte (Leipzig, 1921), 238–48; M. Jugie, “L’empereur Justinien a-t-il e´te´ aphthartodoce`te?” EO 24 (1925): 399–402. Justinian himself always strongly supported the official Chalcedonian formulation of the person of Christ, although he worked for an interpretation of it that would be acceptable to the non-Chalcedonian party. There were “aphthartists,” however, among both Chalcedonians and non-Chalcedonians: see Leontius of Byzantium, Contra Aphthartodocetas (PG 86:1317A–1320C).

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maintained that the divinizing effect of the hypostatic union upon the human flesh of Christ freed it, and perhaps also the flesh of Mary in which that union was achieved, from the very possibility of corruption from the moment of Incarnation—and the “nonaphthartists,” like Severus of Antioch and Leontius of Byzantium, who held that the flesh of both Mary and Jesus was normal, mortal, and subject to all sinless forms of corruption.49 One early retelling of this unified narrative of Mary’s dormition is contained in a sermon preached by Theodosius, the influential anti-Chalcedonian patriarch of Alexandria from 535, in the year of his death, 566/567. Although the sermon now exists only in Coptic, it was probably delivered in Greek, and the author claims as his source for the dormition story a manuscript from Jerusalem, which he had consulted in the library of St. Mark in Alexandria. After a considerable introduction extolling Mary’s many virtues, Theodosios presents a brief narrative of her life, followed by an extended retelling of the story of her death. Here the emphasis, as he begins, is clearly on Mary’s terror at her approaching end; in a dream, she encounters Jesus, who warns her that her death is near, and she is immediately filled with dread. For the just as well as the sinner, she says, death is a journey across a vast sea of fire; she continues: what shall I say about the separation of soul from body? Oh, that moment is full of fear and terror! We are told that two powers accompany the soul: one light, the other hideous shadow, full of disgusting and fearful shapes. If the soul is just, it is led toward them with compassion and well-meaning encouragement, and one realizes that one is at peace with one’s creator. But if the soul is sinful, those [spirits] who belong to the light withdraw, and those who belong to darkness approach with anger, striking the soul, darting suddenly at it, beating it, grinding their teeth, pouring out flames of fire from their mouths on the face of the soul.50

The portrayal of the anguish of death here is familiar from the Egyptian ascetical tradition. But the point of the narrative is clearly to counteract such terrors. As Mary prays to die peacefully, surrounded by virgins with lamps and censers, and supported by the apostles Peter and John, Jesus appears, telling her that a better life “in the heavenly Jerusalem” awaits her,51 and promising that 206 days after her body is placed in the tomb52 he will come again to reunite her soul and her body and lead both into glory.53 Theodosios proceeds to describe Mary’s peaceful death, her funeral procession and burial—complete with the traditional detail of an attempt by Jews to hinder it by violence—and the joyful reception of her soul in heaven. After 206 days of watching by her tomb, the apostles see Christ appear again; he opens her tomb and summons her body On the possibility of an “aphthartist” influence on the development of the standard dormition narrative, see Mimouni, Dormition, 461–71 and the literature cited there. 50 Vat. Copt. 61, fol. 131v: M. Chaıˆne, “Sermon de The´odose, patriarche d’Alexandrie, sur la dormition et l’assomption de la Vierge,” ROC 29 (1933–34): 305. Chaıˆne offers both a complete Coptic text and a complete translation of this sermon; a text and English translation of its narrative section have been published by F. Robinson, in Coptic Apocryphal Gospels (Cambridge, 1896), 90–127. 51 Chaıˆne, “Sermon de The´odose,” 307. 52 The sermon lays great stress on the date of Mary’s death, which it places on the 20th of Tobi (29– 30 January by our calendar), and that of her bodily assumption, the night of the 15th–16th of Mesori (22 August by our calendar). This seems to represent the Egyptian liturgical practice of celebrating her death, or dormition, separately from her assumption, a practice that may well be reflected in the 18 January date of the assumption festival in the early Gallican missals. 53 Chaıˆne, “Sermon de The´odose,” 309. 49

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forth to be reunited with her soul, saying, “Rise, you who are free! Go, bring to the whole world that liberty by which I have redeemed all of my creation! Rise up, O holy body; be united to this blessed soul, and receive it in resurrection before the eyes of all creation!” 54 Theodosius concludes his sermon by assuring his hearers that Mary has “received glory for all the human race.” 55 Those who practice compassion toward the poor and the weak, and who celebrate the memory of Mary and the saints, will have powerful patrons before Christ, interceding “that the frail little skiffs of our bodies and souls might themselves arrive in safe harbor.” 56 This narrative and its interpretation, by a patriarch who was himself apparently facing death and whose Coptic church had traditionally viewed death in the darkest of colors, conveys a particular poignancy in its studied attempt to replace fear with consolation and hope.57 The Palestinian, Syrian, and Byzantine churches of the sixth century may generally have imagined death in less dramatic terms, yet the same sense of anxiety before demons, the same fear of a pitiless judgment and a journey into dark and unknown regions, seems by then to have percolated into the popular Christian imagination throughout the empire. It seems significant, then, that it was during the last two decades of the sixth century—the decades in which both the presbyter Eustratius and Pope Gregory the Great urged their own, more positive picture of the fate of the dead—that Emperor Maurice (582–602) not only refurbished the basilica at Gethsemane marking the traditional site of Mary’s tomb,58 but established the liturgical celebration of her death and her entry into glory as a feast for the whole empire.59 The Dormition story seems to have been thought to contain a message the world needed to hear. The first extant Greek homily for the feast—as distinguished from the earlier documents I have mentioned, which simply narrated the reported events of Mary’s death and entry into glory—is that of John of Thessalonike, who was bishop of that city for at least some of the time between 610 and 649. John’s homily is largely also a retelling of the Dormition story, as it had now become stabilized throughout the churches of the East, but it includes a brief hortatory introduction. He says that he has composed it in order to put its liturgical celebration, which had been delayed in Thessalonike until then, on the sound footing of reliable tradition; his predecessors had been reluctant to introduce the feast, despite Maurice’s policy, because the accounts circulating of Mary’s death were generally unreliable and occasionally heretical.60 Here John proposes to offer an authenIbid., 312. Ibid., 313. 56 Ibid., 314. 57 The Coptic tradition seems to have continued to find consolation and inspiration for a courageous death in the story of Mary’s end. The present-day liturgy for death and burial of the Ethiopian Orthodox Church, which is thought to have been derived, through an Arabic translation, from Coptic liturgical books in the 14th century, includes a long prayer to be said over the linen burial cloth before the wrapping of the body, which recounts the story of Mary’s death at length, with some details reminiscent of Theodosius’s homily. ¨ hlein See F. E. Dobberahn in Liturgie im Angesicht des Todes. Judentum und Ostkirchen, ed. H. Becker and H. U (Skt. Ottilien, 1997), 1:657–79 (analysis), 2:882–86 (translation of this prayer). For a description of contemporary practices of mourning among Coptic Christians, which apparently no longer avert to the Dormition ¨rk, ibid., 1:629–55. narrative, see L. Sto 58 This is attested by the Georgian lectionary of Jerusalem: M. Tarchnischvili, ed., Le grand lectionnaire de l’Eglise de Je´rusalem 2: CSCO 204 (Leuven, 1960), 27. 59 So Nikephoros Kallistos Xanthopoulos, Church History, 17.28 (PG 147:292). 60 Homily on the Dormition, 1, ed. M. Jugie, PO 19 (Paris, 1925), 376. 54 55

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tic report, based on his culling of material from the best earlier accounts. His purpose, he says, is to glorify the Mother of God in a fitting way,61 but it seems just as clearly to be that of giving his hearers a paradigm for holy dying, a story that models both normal fear and proper ritual practice, and that offers in return a more exalted hope. The details of the Dormition story, as John of Thessalonike tells it, reveal the classical shape of the narrative from now on. After she has been apprised of her coming death by an angel, and given a branch of palm that is to serve—in this, as in many of the Dormition accounts—as a kind of emblem for her funeral procession as well as a traditional symbol of victory,62 Mary prays earnestly to Christ to be saved “from the powers that will confront [her] soul” in the hour of death. She is joined by friends and relatives, and later by the twelve apostles, miraculously gathered on clouds from the ends of the earth; all of them light lamps and join her in her vigil, singing psalms as she prepares the garments for her burial.63 During their watch, Mary remarks to those gathered in her house that death in itself is not terrible, “for it is a universal thing. I am only afraid of the enemy who makes war on everyone. He can do nothing, of course, against the righteous and faithful; but he defeats the unbelieving and sinners, and those who do their own will— he does in them whatever he desires.” 64 Mary’s friends immediately reply, “Sister, you who have become Mother of God and mistress of all the world, even if all of us are afraid, what do you have to fear? . . . You are the hope of us all. We little ones—what shall we do, or where shall we escape?” 65 Mary immediately urges them not to weep, but to rejoice; she herself, however, in the paragraphs that follow, is depicted alternately as calm and full of courage, and as weeping and anxious about the immediate future, especially about the possibility that hostile Jews may try to burn her body before it is buried.66 Mary eventually dies, on the third day after the narrative begins, in a way that determined the later Byzantine iconography of the Dormition: Jesus and the archangel Michael come to her house, and Jesus takes her soul—which John describes as human in form but lacking any features to distinguish it sexually,67 and seven times more brilliant than the sun—wraps it in veils, and gives it to Michael to bear away.68 Mary is buried with Ibid., 2, ed. Jugie, 378 (Daley, Dormition, 49). Michel van Esbroeck uses the palm branch, as well as a number of other details, as the distinguishing ´raires sur l’ Assomption,” mark of one of the two main branches of Dormition apocrypha: “Les textes litte 268–69. In some versions, the angel who gives it to her tells her that he has taken it from the tree of life in Paradise, under which she will later be laid to rest. 63 Homily on the Dormition, 4–6, ed. Jugie, 380–84 (Daley, Dormition, 50–55). 64 Ibid., 5, ed. Jugie, 382 (Daley, Dormition, 52). 65 Ibid., ed. Jugie, 382 (Daley, Dormition, 52). 66 Ibid., 6, ed. Jugie 383–86 (Daley, Dormition, 53–54). 67 The lack of sexual characteristics in this eschatological human form reflects a Greek theological tradition going back to Gregory of Nyssa. In his sermons On the Making of the Human Person (PG 44.177D–196B) 16–18, Gregory argues that the “original” form of the human creature, contained only in the mind of God but most fully reflective of God’s image, lacked the differentiation of the sexes, but that this difference was included in the earthly realization of humanity with the purpose of imposing some limits on sin, since sexual reproduction is closely linked to mortality; in the final perfection of the human person, however, when the “original” form will finally be attained, sexual characteristics will disappear. See also Gregory of Nyssa, On the Soul and the Resurrection (PG 46.148B–149A); for a 7th-century witness to the same tradition, see Maximus Confessor, Ambigua, 41 (PG 91:1304–16). For a recent reinterpretation of the passage in On the Making of the Human Person, see J. Behr, “The Rational Animal: A Rereading of Gregory of Nyssa’s De hominis opificio,” JEChrSt 7 (1999): 219–47. 68 Homily on the Dormition, 12: Jugie 396 (Daley, Dormition, 62–63). 61 62

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elaborate ceremony (including the prominent use of her palm branch and the singing of Psalm 113 [114–115]—beginning “Israel has come out from Egypt”—during the funeral procession69), and John of Thessalonike tells us that three days later, when the disciples opened her tomb to venerate her body, they found only an empty shroud. The interpretive core of the homily, however, comes not at the end but in a long discourse delivered by the apostle Peter to the assembled mourners just before Mary’s death. Peter praises them for keeping their lamps lit during their vigil, and urges them to do the same with the “immaterial lamp” of the inner person, so that death may be for all of them an entry into “the marriage feast to rest with the bridegroom. For so it is with our mother Mary. For the light of her lamp fills the world, and will not be quenched until the end of the ages, so that all who wish to be saved may take courage from her. Do not think, then, that Mary’s death is death! It is not death, but eternal life, because ‘the death of the just will be proclaimed glorious before the Lord’ (Ps. 115 [116]:15).” 70 John of Thessalonike’s retelling of the fully developed Dormition story, as well as the other extant narrative and homiletic sources, provide details of ritual action surrounding Mary’s death and burial that were clearly considered important by him and later commentators on the Dormition tradition, details that I can only summarize here. Forewarned by God, Mary realizes that death is near; friends and neighbors gather around her bed to console her and pray for her peaceful passing—women from the neighborhood, plus the twelve apostles and St. Paul, gathered from the ends of the earth, and sometimes also other figures associated with the New Testament, like Dionysios the Areopagite. Mary urges them all not to weep or mourn, but simply to carry torches, to burn incense, and to pray the Psalms incessantly in a kind of long vigil service; some of the apostles give elaborate sermons, apostolic exhortations that may be intended as the equivalent of scripture readings. Then Mary dies peacefully, commending her soul into Jesus’ hands; her body is wrapped in the grave clothes she herself has prepared; she is brought to burial in a procession that again includes torches, incense, and the singing of Psalm 113; finally, she is laid in the tomb with solemn prayers, and in some sources the apostles are said to have been inspired by the Holy Spirit to improvise “mystical hymns”: religious poems, presumably, that were not taken from the Psalter. Although the shape and details of the ceremonies of Mary’s death and burial do not directly correspond to what we know of ancient Antiochene or Byzantine rituals surrounding death,71 these narratives are clearly intended to describe an extended solemn liturgy and to hold that liturgy up to their hearers as a central part of how to die well. Ibid., 13, ed. Jugie, 398 (Daley, Dormition, 64). This detail, present in at least two 6th-century narrative sources for the Dormition story (Wenger’s R and A: G1 and L4 in Van Esbroeck’s listing), suggests the use of this psalm in burial rites of the period. We have no other sources to corroborate this for the Byzantine liturgy, although both this psalm and Ps. 114 (116) (“I love the Lord, because he has heard my voice and my supplication”) appear in an early—perhaps even contemporary—Latin Ordo Defunctorum, to be chanted at the moment of death. See Paxton 39; Sicard 2–33. Richard Rutherford has observed that the wording of the first line of Ps. 113 (114) in these Dormition narratives is different from the usual form: not “As Israel came forth from Egypt,” but the declarative “Israel has come forth from Egypt.” As in later Latin liturgical formulations, Mary’s passage through death is conceived as a new typological realization of the Exodus of God’s people. See R. Rutherford, “Psalm 113 (114–115) and Christian Burial,” StP 13 (1975): 391–96. 70 John of Thessalonike, 9, ed. Homily on the Dormition, Jugie, 390 (Daley, Dormition, 58). 71 For full descriptions of the various liturgies surrounding Jewish and eastern Christian death and burial, with the original versions and German translations of the texts currently in use in these communities, see ¨ hlein, Liturgie im Angesicht des Todes (as above, n. 57). Becker and U 69

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In the two centuries that followed John of Thessalonike’s retelling and reinterpretation of the story of Mary’s Dormition, other Greek preachers also attempted to reflect on the wider theological significance of what was now a universally observed liturgical feast: lesser-known preachers like the sixth-century Palestinian bishop Theoteknus of Livias and the unknown author of a late seventh-century homily attributed to Modestus of Jerusalem, as well as major figures of the eighth- and ninth-century church such as Germanus of Constantinople, Andrew of Crete, John of Damascus, and Theodore of Stoudios. Most of them work a modest summary of the now-traditional narrative into their sermons, usually emphasizing that it can claim the authority of no less a figure than Dionysius the Areopagite, but they are clearly hesitant to accept all the details at face value. All of them, more importantly, suggest that what the church celebrated in the story of Mary’s death and resurrection was a great “mystery” that involved not only her but in some way all of humanity, indeed all of creation.72 Perhaps the clearest development of this theological reflection on the meaning of the Dormition festival, and on the narrative it presumes, can be found in Andrew of Crete’s eloquent trilogy of sermons for the all-night vigil of the feast, probably composed during the early decades of the eighth century. The second of these sermons begins with a sustained reflection on the significance for Christian faith of what is being celebrated. Andrew here reminds his hearers that the central Christian Mystery is that of Christ: the Incarnation of the Word, and the redemption worked for all humanity through his presence in the world, his death, and his resurrection. “He accepted even the experience of corruption, he mingled with the dead and entered the cheerless realm of the underworld, so that we might escape the bonds that awaited us there and might pass over to the world of incorruption.” 73 This does not mean, of course, that those who now live by faith in Christ escape the necessity of dying; the point, rather, is that “we shall die, but we shall not remain enslaved by death, as once we did when we were bound by it through the legal bond of sin.” 74 For all Christians, he writes, death truly is a transitory sleep—a “dormition” (koi´mhsi")—“a passage into a second life.” 75 Since even Jesus, in sharing our lot, endured human death and entered into the underworld himself, none of us is dispensed from making that same journey; for Andrew, however, the important message of Christian faith is that “the souls of all who submit to God’s law and show, in the Holy 72 See, for instance, the homily of Ps.-Modestos, 7 (Daley, Dormition, 90–92); see also the Dormition homilies of Andrew of Crete, I, 5 (Daley, 108 ff); John of Damascus, I, 12 (Daley, 196 f). The recognition that the classical Dormition story asserted nothing less than full resurrection of Mary’s body—even though church authors had tended to avoid that term, probably because it is used in the New Testament and the earlier tradition primarily for the resurrection of Christ at Easter and the eschatological resurrection of the saints— is clearly attested by the 12th-century grammarian Michael Glykas, in the twenty-second of his Chapters on difficult passages in scripture: see S. Eustratiades, Micah` l tou' Gluka', Eij" ta` " ajpori´a" th'" qei´a" Grafh'" kefa´ laia, 22 (Athens, 1906), 258–66. 73 Homily II, 1 (Daley, Dormition, 118). 74 Ibid., 2 (Daley, Dormition, 118). 75 Ibid. (Daley, Dormition, 119). The verb koima´ w, sleep, is a fairly common euphemism for dying in classical Greek poetry; its substantival version, koi´mhsi", is not generally used in this sense, but appears in the Septuagint version of the book of Sirach (46:19 [for the “death” or end of the world]; 48.13), in John 11:13, and in Christian literature of the first four centuries. With the general acceptance of the story of Mary’s holy death and entry into heavenly glory, she seems rapidly to have become the figure with whom this term is primarily associated.

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Spirit, a heavenly pattern of life while they are still in the flesh will be taken from [the region of death] to a place of light that more befits the holy state of the saints. . . . As for the beauty and greatness of that place, its infinite blessedness and its loveliness that exceeds even the mind’s power to comprehend, they will doubtless see all these things more clearly and more profoundly who have drawn closer to God than we have.” 76 Against the background of this universal Christian hope, Mary’s Dormition, in Andrew’s view, was simply a direct and immediate realization of the deliverance from death promised to all human beings: an “ecstatic movement toward the things we only hope for during this life, a passage that leads us on toward transformation into a state like that of God.” 77 Like all of us, even Jesus, Mary too had to descend into the underworld of bodily death; but her descent was less slow and laborious than ours will be, her stay in the condition of mortal decay much briefer, in proportion to the degree that her holiness, as Mother of God, is greater than ours. “The period of time for which death and bodily decay held power over her,” he writes, “was only as long as was necessary for her to move, at natural speed, through unknown regions and to come to know them firsthand, regions where she had never set foot before and that she was now crossing as in a journey through foreign, uncharted territory.” 78 The manner of her passing over to heaven, he has Mary herself tell his hearers a few paragraphs further on, “had its own peculiar dignity, above the lot of every other mortal,” but “the change itself will be common to you all.” 79 In fact, Andrew asserts openly at the end of his first homily for the feast, the miracle they are celebrating is something “common to us all, yet proper to her”;80 “this is our frame we celebrate today,” he insists, “our formation, our disintegration!” 81 What the Dormition festival commemorates, in other words, is really nothing else than the universal Christian hope for a life and transformation reaching beyond death, rooted in the life and death of Mary’s son. In 1978 Hans-Georg Beck argued, with typical erudition and flair, that despite the deeply Christian character of Byzantine culture in so many respects, there remained throughout its history, in popular attitudes to death, strong elements of a “mentality”— a de facto way of looking at things—that was more in continuity with antique fatalism than with the Christian hope just described.82 However one may judge his conclusions, the evidence Beck presents certainly illustrates intellectual and emotional conflict and ambivalence, within Byzantine literature, toward death as the ultimate threat to human happiness—a tension, in the terminology Beck borrows from John Henry Newman, between a widespread “notional assent” to the Christian Gospel’s promise of eternal life and an underlying “real assent” to a darker, pre-Christian apprehension of death as simple and inexorable deprivation of all that gives human existence color and joy. Part of the problem, I suspect, is that Greek theology never articulated a clear and unanimous vision of the Christian eschatological hope, at least not in the unambiguous Andrew of Crete, Homily II, 3 (Daley, Dormition, 120). Ibid., 4 (Daley, Dormition, 121). 78 Ibid. (Daley, Dormition, 121 f). 79 Ibid., 7 (Daley, Dormition, 125). 80 Homily I, 8 (Daley, Dormition, 114). 81 Ibid., 9 (Daley, Dormition, 114). 82 H.-G. Beck, Die Byzantiner und ihr Jenseits. Zur Entstehungsgeschichte einer Mentalita¨t, AbhMu ¨ nch, Hist.Kl. (1979, no. 6). 76 77

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terms in which it had come to speak of the trinity of hypostases within the single reality of God, or the two unmingled yet unseparated natures in which the single hypostasis of the Son had his being. There had been no major controversies on eschatology, except for intermittent debates with the Origenist tradition on the corporeal character of the resurrection body and on universal salvation or apokatastasis. Apart from Gregory of Nyssa’s brilliant dialogue On the Soul and the Resurrection or his briefer, more strictly philosophical discourse On the Dead, no Greek theologian had attempted, in the patristic period, to move Christian thought in a systematic and reflective way beyond the vision of immortality sketched out in Plato’s Phaedo, or the Stoic quest for freedom from passion and irrational fear. Ordinary people’s view of death was undoubtedly still overshadowed, through the late patristic period and well into medieval Byzantium, by the dreary prospect of a dank underworld and the dreadful vision of demonic judges harassing the soul at death. In effect, I would argue, the only clear and viable medium in late Christian antiquity for proclaiming the prospect of a gracious transformation of all humanity by God that would reach through and beyond the terrors of death was the story, the feast, and the theological interpretation of Mary’s death: a death witnessed by the apostles and the church, and celebrated with prayer and pious ritual, in which Jesus himself received the departing soul in his arms, and the body, though buried, itself soon came to share in Jesus’ own bliss and glory. The recent date and questionable origins of the story raised some Orthodox eyebrows in the sixth century, but seem not to have mattered in the end. What was important was the news that one of our own kind—the Theotokos, the source of the Savior’s humanity—herself already shared, after death, in the glorious life of the risen Christ, and that Christ had appointed her as our patron to help us navigate the same journey.83 Occasionally, one glimpses a hint of the idea that such a postmortem transformation was indeed still being accomplished in other extraordinarily holy people. In his Life of Symeon the Fool, Leontius of Neapolis, in the mid-seventh century, reports that the end of that saint, too, was what could best be called a koi´mhsi", a falling asleep. Unlike Mary, Symeon was simply buried in a stranger’s tomb by a few friends, without ritual washing, incense, procession, candles, or psalms. But when his faithful follower John the deacon, with other admirers, opened his grave shortly afterwards, to move him to a more honorable resting place, they found that Symeon’s body, too, was gone, “for the Lord had glorified him and translated him.” 84 It seems possible, at least, that the Mystery of Mary’s 83 Significantly, the extant homilies on the Dormition from 7th- and 8th-century authors stress the new role of patron given to Mary after her death and glorification: see esp. John of Thessalonike, 14 (Daley, Dormition, 67); Andrew of Crete, III, 9 (Daley, Dormition, 144); Germanos, I, 8 and II, 2 (Daley, Dormition, 160, 170); John of Damascus, II, 17 (Daley, Dormition, 221 f). It seems to have become commonplace to pray to the Theotokos for help at the hour of death: Theophanes reports this of the dying iconoclast emperor Constantine V Copronymos (Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. Carolus de Boor [Leipzig, 1883] 1.448), and Leo the Deacon (History 10.11 [PG 117.924C]) gives the same picture of John I Tzimiskes. In the 5thcentury Apocalypse of Paul (chap. 46, Tischendorf, 64), Mary is the spokesperson for all the saints who have interceded for Paul and have asked that he be granted his vision of the afterlife. Similarly, in an anonymous 10th-century Byzantine apocalypse, Mary is depicted as interceding with Christ for a respite in the sufferings of the damned—a role that in Apocalypse of Paul (chap. 44, Tischendorf, 62–63) is given to Michael and the other angels. See L. Radermacher, ed., Anonymi Byzantini de caelo et infernis epistula (Leipzig, 1898); Beck, Jenseits, 49 f. 84 Leontios of Neapolis, Life of Symeon the Fool, 168, ed. L. Ryde´n (Uppsala, 1963), trans. D. Krueger, Symeon the Holy Fool Leontius’s Life and the Late Antique City (Berkeley, Calif., 1996), 169 f). A similar disappearance is

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Dormition had already assumed for Leontius the paradigmatic role that Andrew of Crete, some fifty years later, would boldly proclaim it to have for all believers: “this is our Mystery,” our transformation—our pattern and promise of eschatological hope. University of Notre Dame reported of the body of St. Andrew the Fool, in the life of that saint by Nicephorus the Presbyter—a work of disputed date, but probably from the late 10th century and apparently modeled on Leontius’s life of Symeon. Andrew, who has lived on the streets of Constantinople most of his adult life, dies alone; his corpse is found lying on the ground in a subterranean portico, by a poor woman who has been drawn to it by the heavenly fragrance it is emitting. She runs to tell others of this phenomenon, and when they return together, “they saw no one; they were deeply amazed by the fragrance of myrrh and incense, but were unable to find the remains of the saint. For the Lord had transferred him (mete´ qhke—one of the common terms in the Dormition literature for Mary’s transition to glory), by a peculiar judgment which only that person knows, who understands God’s hidden decrees.” (Life of St. Andrew the Fool, ed. L. Ryde´n, 2 vols., Studia Byzantina Upsaliensia 4:2 [Uppsala, 1995], 300; PG 111:888B [translation mine]).

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“To Sleep, Perchance to Dream”: The Middle State of Souls in Patristic and Byzantine Literature NICHOLAS CONSTAS

“Their death is more like dreaming than dying.” (John of Damascus, On the Orthodox Faith, 4.15)

n the Byzantine world, one’s location in the social order was largely defined by one’s relation to the cosmic order. Coordinating the intimate immensity of the macrocosmic with the microscopic enabled the Byzantines to appropriate and inhabit the cosmos with a culturally sanctioned sense of purpose and direction. Within these orders, living and dying were paradoxically inseparable, and the contemplation of death was recommended as a way of orienting oneself to life, by locating the self, with greater intensity and purpose, within the mystery of existence.1 This study is concerned with patristic and Byzantine beliefs about the immediate postmortem phase of existence, understood as a liminal, intermediate phase between death and resurrection. Never precisely defined, this para-eschatological state appears as an attenuated, semiconscious mode of existence, of indefinite relation to time and space. It is often a phase of self-discovery, or of being self-discovered, in which one’s true character is uncovered and revealed. As a mode of self-confrontation and encounter, it is frequently seen as a form of judgment anticipatory of a future resurrection and a final judgment. Although heavily indebted to the classical tradition, patristic and Byzantine eschatology necessarily broke new ground, inasmuch as the Greeks had rather different notions of survival, if they can be said to have had any at all. Doubts about immortality appear already in Homer,2 as well as in Plato and Aristotle, and, perhaps, Plotinus, who was reluctant to posit a form of the individual, which alone could insure its existence in the

I

1 See, e.g., John Climacus, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, 6 (“On the remembrance of death”), who notes that “even the Greeks have said as much, describing philosophy as a meditation on death,” alluding to Plato, Phaedo (64ab, 67e, 81a) (PG 88:797D); cf. J. A. Fischer, “Mele´ th qana´ touÚ Eine Skizze zur fru ¨ heren griechischen Patristik,” in Wegzeichen, ed. E. C. Suttner and C. Patock (Wu ¨ rzburg, 1971), 43–54. See also M. Fishbane, “The Imagination of Death in Jewish Spirituality,” in Death, Ecstasy, and Other Worldly Journeys, ed. J. J. Collins and M. Fishbane (Albany, N.Y., 1995), 183–208; and P. Hadot, Philosophy as a Way of Life (Oxford, 1995), 93–101, 138–39. 2 On Homeric psychology, see J. Bremmer, The Early Greek Concept of Soul (Princeton, N.J., 1983). Modern study of the soul began with E. Rohde, Psyche: Seelencult und Unsterblichkeitsglaube der Griechen, 2 vols. (Freiburg-Leipzig-Tu ¨ bingen, 1898). Rohde’s work was closely allied with contemporary studies in anthropol-

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realm of the intelligible.3 Advances in the study of biology and physiology during the Hellenistic period further complexified received opinions about the relation of body and soul,4 leaving the Byzantines with a vast and contradictory collection of texts and traditions from which to draw. In addition to the narrative traditions of ancient myth and the learned discourses of philosophy and medicine, the Byzantines had also to reckon with the popular practices of Greek religion, astrology, and magic, especially after the rise of theurgy in late antiquity.5 Motives from this rather different realm of discourse had a significant impact upon patristic and Byzantine eschatology, notably the so-called Himmelsreise der Seele, the belief in the soul’s ascent through a series of planetary spheres where it is detained and interrogated by hostile cosmic powers. But if Byzantine theorists of the afterlife stood squarely in the tradition of Greek speculative eschatology, they were at the same time intensely critical of that tradition. Above all, it was the biblical doctrine of the resurrection of the body that provoked the greatest disjunction between the respective beliefs of Athens and Jerusalem.6 As Tertullian’s ever quotable aphorism suggests, Christian Hellenism stood in dialectical tension with Christian Hebraism, and the collision of these two cultural and religious languages created an equivocal, hybrid idiom with its own peculiar grammar and syntax. By the end of late antiquity, the classical canon had become deeply inflected by the Semitic imaginary, and Jewish and Christian scriptures provided the Byzantines with auogy and folklore, and focused on the notion of the soul as an active double of the embodied self that could wander away in dreams and visions. Homer provided him with no examples of such, but Rohde found it in Pindar, frag. 131b (which also notes that, in sleep, the soul “reveals in visions the fateful approach of adversities and delights”). Also in accord with 19th-century interests, Rohde’s work was almost exclusively concerned with the immortality and destination of the soul. 3 The most comprehensive study of the soul in Plato remains that of T. M. Robinson, Plato’s Psychology, 2d ed. (Toronto, 1995); for the religious context of Plato’s psychology, see W. K. C. Guthrie, Orpheus and Greek Religion: A Study of the Orphic Movement (Princeton, N.J., 1993); L. R. Farnell, Greek Hero Cults and Ideas of Immortality (Oxford, 1921), and D. Lyons, Gender and Immortality: Heroines in Ancient Greek Myth and Cult (Princeton, N.J., 1997). For Aristotle, see M. Nussbaum and A. Rorty, eds., Essays on Aristotle’s De Anima (Oxford, 1992), and R. Sorabji, Aristotle Transformed: Ancient Commentators and Their Influence (Ithaca, N.Y., 1990). Plotinus equivocates at Ennead, 5.7.1: “Is there an idea of each particular thing? Yes, if I and each one of us have a way of ascent and return to the intelligible, the principle of each of us is there. If Socrates, that is, the soul of Socrates, always exists, there will be an absolute Socrates, in the sense that, in so far as they are soul, individuals are also said to exist in this way in the intelligible world” (Loeb, V [Cambridge, Mass., 1984], 223); cf. H. J. Blumenthal, Plotinus’ Psychology (The Hague, 1971), and R. Bolton, Person, Soul, and Identity: A Neoplatonic Account of the Principle of Personality (London, 1995). 4 For a helpful survey, see J. Annas, Hellenistic Philosophy of Mind (Berkeley, Calif., 1992). It was during the Hellenistic period that the blessed dead, who throughout antiquity had been consigned to a subterranean netherworld, were relocated to the sublunar heavens; cf. F. Cumont, Afterlife in Roman Paganism (New York, 1922), 70–90, and A. J. Festugie`re, La re´ve´lation d’Herme`s Trisme´giste, vols. 3–4 (Paris, 1949–54), who studies Hellenistic religious and philosophical traditions that focused on the desire of the human soul to transcend the cosmos in order to make contact with a hypercosmic God. 5 On which see E. R. Dodds, The Greeks and the Irrational (Berkeley, Calif., 1951), 283–311 (⫽ Appendix II: “Theurgy”), and G. Shaw, Theurgy and the Soul. The Neoplatonism of Iamblichus (University Park, Pa., 1995); cf. the 11th-century renaissance of Platonic and hermetic studies fostered by Michael Psellos and John Italos (below). 6 The phrase belongs to Tertullian, De praescriptione haereticorum, 7 (ed. A. Kroymann, CSEL 70 [Vienna, 1942], 10), though it should not be taken as unambiguous enthusiasm for “instruction from the porch of Solomon”; cf. idem, Adversus Judaeos (CSEL 70 [1942], 251–331).

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thoritative texts that permanently colored their views of the afterlife. The parable of Lazarus and the Rich Man (Luke 16:19–31)7 was of particular relevance in this regard, as were passages from the Old Testament and its apocrypha, and it is to a distinctive strand of Jewish apocalyptic piety represented in such texts as 2 Baruch and 4 Ezra that the Byzantine middle state of the soul owes many of its basic features.8 If the use of classical myth and philosophy was largely determined by scripture, then scripture itself was but a rough sketch fulfilled in the person of Christ, whose own soul had sojourned famously in Hades. As a result, disparate and unwieldy traditions regarding the fate of the soul after death could be organized by being ordered to the death of Christ as to a universal prototype (cf. Col. 1:18). The exemplary death of Christ was memorialized in liturgy, monumentalized in art, and mimetically reenacted in the passions of the martyrs and in the death-by-asceticism of the saints. Indeed, before the Byzantines developed a coherent theological position on the fate of the soul after death (and it is by no means clear that they did), they had long worshiped one who rose from the dead, and had constructed an elaborate system of devotion to the saints—the living dead—forming a deeply embedded and heavily sedimented repertoire of liturgical traditions that variously shaped eschatological discourse. Theory, in other words, followed upon practice, and it was gradually acknowledged that the doctrine of the resurrection and the cult of the saints presupposed a rather particular theological anthropology, and (given the macrocosmic character of the human being), a corresponding cosmology and eschatology.9 After centuries of reflection and debate, the implications of these devotional and cultic first principles assumed the status of deeply held theological convictions. Not least among them was the belief in the active In addition to the theme of poverty and riches, patristic and Byzantine exegesis of the Lucan parable was concerned with the memory of sins committed in the body, and with the ability of saintly and sinful souls to recognize each other in the afterlife. See, for example, Justinian’s condemnation of Origenism: “If it is true that souls preexist their bodies, they would be conscious of and remember the deeds they wrought before they entered the body, just as they are conscious of and remember them after death, as we shall demonstrate from the words of the Lord in the Gospel of Luke [followed by a verbatim citation of Luke 16:19–28]” (Ad Menam liber adversus Origenem, ACO, 3:196, lines 11–17); cf. J. F. Dechow, “The Heresy Charges against Origen,” in Origeniana Quarta (Innsbruck, 1987), 112–22; M. Alexandre, “L’interpre´tation de Luc 16.19–31, chez Gre´goire de Nysse,” in Epektasis, ed. J. Fontaine and C. Kannengiesser (Paris, 1972), 425–41. 8 Both 2 Baruch and 4 Ezra are concerned with situating the souls of the righteous dead in view of an impending, earthly reign of the Messiah. In 2 Baruch, the souls of the dead are kept in the “treasuries of Sheol” (21:23, 24:1), while 4 Ezra speaks of seven chambers in Hades guarded by angels (7:78–101). 1 Enoch 1–36 (“The Book of the Watchers”) consigns dead souls to one of three corners in a hollow mountain in the west (22:5). The Wisdom of Solomon encloses the “souls of the righteous in the hand of God” (3:1–2), while 4 Maccabees places them alongside the throne of God (17:18). Wisdom 3:1–9 was read at Byzantine memorials of the martyrs, and illustrated in monumental painting, on which see S. Der Nersessian, “Program and Iconography of the Frescoes of the Parreclesion,” in The Kariye Djami, ed. P. A. Underwood, vol. 4 (Princeton, N.J., 1975), 305–49, esp. 331–32 (“The Souls of the Righteous in the Hand of God”). Related texts include: 1 Sam. 28:3–25 (the spirit of Samuel and the “witch” of Endor); Job 19:25–26 (immortality and resurrection); Ezech. 37:5–13 (vision of the dry bones); Isa. 26:7–19 (resurrection as national revival); Dan. 12:1–10 (universal resurrection of the dead). 9 For an early, and formative, example of this connection, see Basil of Caesarea, Hexaemeron, 1.4: “It is absolutely necessary that the cosmos should be transformed if our souls are due to be transformed in a different kind of life. Just as the present life has affinities (suggenh') with the nature of this world, so the kind of existence which will apply to our souls tomorrow will have an environment appropriate to their condition” (ed. S. Giet, SC 26 [Paris, 1968], 102). 7

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survival of the saintly soul and the abiding connection of such souls to the scattered fragments of their bodies. The continuity of the earthly and eschatological body was matched by the continuity of memory and consciousness, producing a powerful, living presence that was made available to the Byzantine faithful from within the transcendent time and sacred space of liturgy. However, despite the inherited apparatus of cult, alternative schools of thought reached rather different conclusions on these matters and contested those of the official church. In virtually every period of Byzantine history, critical voices denied that the souls of the dead could involve themselves in the affairs of the living or intercede on their behalf in heaven. Based on a more unitive, materialist notion of the self as irreducibly embodied, some thinkers argued that the souls of the dead (sainted or otherwise) were largely inert, having lapsed into a state of cognitive oblivion and psychomotor lethargy, a condition sometimes described as a state of “sleep” in which the soul could only “dream” of its future punishment or heavenly reward. Still others argued for the outright death of the soul, which, they claimed, was mortal and perished with the body, and which would be recreated together with the body only on the day of resurrection. Obviously, such views nullified the need for liturgies and memorial offerings for the dead. They also undercut the religious efficacy, social fetishization, and cultural commodification of relics and icons. Needless to say, these rival eschatologies provoked shrill arguments to the contrary from church officials who, among other things, were deeply invested in the lucrative traffic of the sacred. We may be tempted, therefore, to conclude that the middle state of souls between death and resurrection was more muddle than mystery, and yet the Byzantines were in no great hurry to impose on it anything like systematic definition or closure. To the extent that Byzantine eschatology was rooted in the symbolic representations of liturgy, burial practices, and the mystery of Christ and his saints, any attempt at systematic definition was not only elusive but perhaps undesirable. Nevertheless, Byzantine ambiguity was to have its limits. When the Byzantines encountered the Latin doctrine of purgatory, in cursory fashion at the Council of Lyons (1274), and again more fully at the Council of Ferrara-Florence (1438–39), they were forced to articulate their beliefs on the subject (and thus construct their own doctrinal identity), if only in dialectical contrast to the Latins.10 It is ironic, then, that the Byzantine theology of death and the afterlife attained its consummate expression as a eulogy pronounced over the dying body of Constantine’s ill-fated empire. EARLY FORMULATIONS One of the earliest attempts to produce an eschatology with specific attention to the middle state of souls belongs to Irenaeus of Lyons (ca. 130–202), who did so in polemical counterpoint to early Christian chiliasm and Valentinian gnosticism.11 For the Chiliasts, the existence of an intermediate state between death and resurrection was necessary to “They were, those people, a kind of solution,” to quote from Cavafy, Waiting for the Barbarians, trans. E. Keeley and P. Sherrard, C.P. Cavafy: Collected Poems (Princeton, N.J., 1992), 19. 11 The central passage is Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, 5.31–32 (ed. A. Rousseau, SC 153 [Paris, 1969], 389– 404). Here I am helped by the work of C. Hill, Regnum Caelorum. Patterns of Hope in Early Christianity (Oxford, 1992), 9–18; see also C. Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336 (New York, 1995), 21–58. 10

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accommodate the souls of the righteous as they awaited the establishment on earth of a messianic kingdom lasting a thousand years (cf. Rev. 20:3–7). Their Gnostic opponents, on the other hand, denied the resurrection of the body, along with the need for a temporary place of rest for the soul, which, they believed, proceeded directly to heaven.12 Irenaeus, while rejecting both the Gnostic denigration of the flesh as well as the chiliastic belief in a resuscitated corpse, nevertheless agreed with the Chiliasts that personhood was inclusive of the body,13 and he likewise affirmed the existence of a penultimate state prior to the resurrection. Until then, the souls of the dead reside in an “invisible place allotted to them by God” (Adv. Haer. 5.31.2), where they retain the “form” of their physical bodies along with their memories of life on earth (Adv. Haer. 2.34.1–2, citing Luke 16.19– 31). It is worth noting that, for Irenaeus, the interim state of the soul (as well as the millennium) is a period of training in a larger process of growth in which the righteous gradually become accustomed to life in God. Clement of Alexandria (ca. 150–215), who wrote a book on Christ the Pedagogue, also viewed salvation as a process of growth, understood largely as a system of education. For Clement, the death of the body is a change for the better and marks an advance in the gnostic science of God. After death, souls will be educated by angels in a seminar scheduled to last for a thousand years. Upon completion of their studies, graduating souls are transformed into angels and given teaching responsibilities over incoming freshmen, while their former teachers receive promotion to the rank of archangel.14 The martyrs, having already taken their advanced degrees through earthly correspondence courses, constitute a class of eschatological ´elites and are conducted immediately with full tenure into the presence of God. In an opinion that was to gain wide currency, Clement notes that Hades, which was once a receptacle for all the dead, has been emptied by Christ and now receives only the souls of sinners.15 Clement states that these souls also undergo a process of education, although in their case it takes the form of painful purification Invoking the exemplum Christi, Irenaeus notes that, “If these things are as they say, then the Lord himself would have departed on high immediately after his death on the cross.” Adv. Haer. 5.31.1 (SC 153 [Paris, 1969], 391); see below, note 40. 13 The paradigmatic body envisioned by Irenaeus is primarily that of the martyr, whose vindication demands the compensatory glorification of the flesh: “It is only just that in the same creation in which the saints toiled and were afflicted, being tested in every way by suffering, that they should receive the reward of their suffering, and that in the same creation in which they were slain because of their love for God, in that they should be revived again, and that in the creation in which they endured servitude, in that same creation they should reign.” Adv. Haer. 5.32.1 (SC 153 [Paris, 1969], 397–99). Cf. Andrew of Caesarea (d. 614): “It is foolish to think that the body will be resurrected divorced from its own members, through which it worked either good or evil, for it is necessary that the members that glorified God should themselves be glorified (cf. 1 Kings 2:30)” (ed. F. Diekamp, Analecta Patristica [Rome, 1938], 166). 14 Eklogai Prophetikai, 57.1–4; cf. The Shepherd of Hermas, Visions, 2.2.6, where the righteous are promised “passage with the angels,” and H. Bietenhard, Die himmlische Welt im Urchristentum und Spa¨tjudentum (Tu ¨ bingen, 1951), 186–88 (“Die himmlische Akademie”). Clement can also speak of such education in terms of “painful purification” and “cultic initiation” (Strom. 6.14.109.5; Prot. 12.118.4). See also Plato (Phaedrus, 248–49; Republic, 10.615), who posited a period of 1,000 years between the soul’s various incarnations during which it resides on a star. That the righteous will become angels is denied by the anti-Origenist writer Methodios of Olympos, De Resurrectione, 1.51.2; cf. L. G. Patterson, Methodius of Olympus (Washington, D.C., 1997), 170–74. 15 Strom. 6.6.44.5–47. Marcion had earlier noted that Christ removed from Hades only those who were the enemies of the unjust god of the Old Testament, cited by Irenaeus, Adv. Haer. 1.27.3 (SC 264 [Paris, 1979], 350–52). On Clement’s use of Irenaeus, see, L. G. Patterson, “The Divine Became Human: Irenaean Themes in Clement of Alexandria,” StP 31 (1997): 497–516; on the links between martyrdom and gnosticism, see A. van den Hoek, “Clement of Alexandria on Martyrdom,” StP 26 (1993): 324–41. 12

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in the flames of a “prudent, discerning (fro´ nhmn) fire, which penetrates the soul that passes through it.” 16 Much of Clement’s work was developed by his successor Origen (ca. 185–253/54), who was, according to Brian Daley, “the most controversial figure in the development of early Christian eschatology.” 17 Origen was also the most voluminous author of antiquity, allegedly producing some two thousand works, although according to his disciple Pamphilius, even Origen himself never dared to write a treatise on the soul (Apol. 8; PG 17:604). The collusion of controversy and prolixity adversely affected Origen’s literary corpus, and his eschatology must be pieced together from the wreckage of fragments, paraphrases, and tendentious translations. At times, Origen suggests that all souls reside in Hades, which contains places of rest (the “bosom of Abraham”) and places anticipatory of future punishment (De princ. 4.3.10). Elsewhere, however, he states that after the death of Christ, the souls of the saints go immediately to paradise (Hom. in Lk., frg. 253; Dial. Her. 23). Origen also believes that saintly souls subsist in “luminous bodies” made of “subtle matter” as a kind of vehicle enabling their continued activity and appearances on earth.18 These souls take an active interest in the affairs of the living (Comm. in Mt. 15.35; Jn. 13.58 [57] 403), interceding on their behalf at the divine altar and assisting them as they grow in knowledge and wisdom (cf. Ex. Mart. 30.38; Hom. in Num. 24.1; Hom. in Cant. 3; Hom. in Jos. 16.5). Origen also teaches that the souls of the wicked will be punished in the “invisible fires of Gehenna,” although like Clement, he too sees these as having an ultimately corrective and therapeutic function. In fact, Origen believes that, in order to enter paradise, all souls must pass through the flaming sword of the cherub that stands guard outside the gates of Eden (cf. Gen. 3:24; 1 Cor. 3:11–15).19 If the soul has preserved the grace of 16 Strom. 7.6.34.4; cf. W. C. van Unnik, “The ‘Wise Fire’ in a Gnostic Eschatological Vision,” in Kyriakon, ed. P. Granfield and J. A. Jungmann (Mu ¨ nster, 1970), 277–88. The older study by G. Anrich, “Clemens ¨r H. J. Holtzmann und Origenes als Begru ¨ nder der Lehre vom Fegfeuer,” Theologische Abhandlungen, Festgabe fu (Tu ¨ bingen-Leipzig, 1902), 95–120, is still useful; cf. T. Spacil, “La dottrina del purgatorio in Clemente Alessandrino ed Origene,” Bessarion 23 (1919): 131–45. See also Plato, Gorgias, 34.478, 81.525; Phaedo, 62.113d; Protagoras, 13.324b; Laws, 5.728c; and Vergil, Aeneid, 741–42, 745–47. 17 B. Daley, The Hope of the Early Church: A Handbook of Patristic Eschatology (Cambridge, 1991), 47. 18 Contra Celsum, 2.60, alluding to the “shadowy apparitions” of the Phaedo, 81d (trans. H. Chadwick, Origen, Contra Celsum [Cambridge, 1986], 112–60). It is significant that these remarks occur in a discussion about the resurrected body of Christ, although that the soul necessarily has a bodily form is also a corollary of Origen’s belief that God alone is incorporeal; cf. M. Simonetti, “Alcune osservazioni sull’interpretazione origeniana di Genesi 2,7 e 3,21,” Aevum 36 (1962): 370–81; H. Crouzel, “Le the`me platonicien de ‘ve´hicule de l’aˆme’ chez Orige`ne,” Didaskalia 7 (1977): 225–38; repr. in idem, Les fins dernie`res selon Orige`ne (Hampshire, U.K., 1990), III; E. R. Dodds, Proclus: The Elements of Theology (Oxford, 1963), 313–21 (“The Astral Body in Neoplatonism”), and J. J. Finamore, Iamblichus and the Theory of the Vehicle of the Soul (Chico, Calif., 1985). 19 L. R. Hennessey, “The Place of Saints and Sinners after Death,” in Origen of Alexandria. His World and Legacy, ed. C. Kannengiesser and W. L. Peterson (Notre Dame, Ind., 1988), 295–312. See also H.-J. Horn, “Ignis Aeternis: Une interpre´tation morale du feu ´eternel chez Orige`ne,” REG 82 (1969), who argues that Origen is dependent on the Stoics, for whom the pathe were like a “burning fever” that decomposed the harmony of the soul. See also H. Crouzel, “L’exe´ge`se orige´nienne de 1 Cor 3.11–15 et la purification eschatologique,” in Epektasis, ed. J. Fontaine and C. Kannengiesser (Paris, 1972) 273–83; repr. in idem, Les fins dernie`res, II. Origen’s belief that the fires of Hell would come to an end (i.e., his doctrine of a universal apokatastasis) is partly a response to Gnostic charges of a cruel and vindictive God, cf. Hom. in Lev. 11.2 (ed. W. A. Baehrens, GCS 29 [Leipzig, 1920], 6, p. 450, line 26).

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baptism, its passage through these gates is relatively painless. If not, it undergoes a purgatorial “baptism of fire.” 20 In an allegorical interpretation of the Exodus narrative, Origen states that when the soul “sets out from the Egypt of this life” and begins its long journey toward heaven, it will gradually come to understand the “pilgrimage of life, which we understand only dully and darkly so long as the pilgrimage lasts. But when the soul has returned to rest, that is, to the fatherland in paradise, it will be taught more truly and will understand more truly what the meaning of its pilgrimage was” (Hom. in Num. 27). After its exodus from the body, the soul will continue to be “educated and molded” by “princes and rulers who govern those of lower rank, and instruct them, and teach them, and train them to divine things.” Having discovered the meaning of life in the body, the soul will in turn learn the various secrets of scripture, the differences among the heavenly powers, the reason for the diversity of creation, the nature of providence, and, “after no small interval of time,” the righteous will ascend from the earthly paradise and embark upon planetary travel, passing through the heavenly spheres, and learn the nature of the stars (De prin. 2.11.5–7). The eschatology of Gregory of Nyssa (ca. 335–394)21 marks an important shift away from the highly intellectualist reading of the soul in Clement and Origen toward greater interest in the unity and interdependence of soul and body. In his De hominis opificio (written in 379), Gregory stages a confrontation between Plato and Moses, in which he weighs the doctrine of reincarnation against the creation of man described in the book of Genesis. “I cannot,” Gregory says, “be both posterior and anterior to myself ” (§29), and he rejects the notion of the soul’s preexistence and transmigration in a succession of different bodies (§28; cf. De anima §8). Gregory asserts that the human person is a union of mind and body and, in rather Aristotelian terms, argues that it is only in and through the body that the mind can realize itself in its natural finality. Body and soul conspire Origen calls baptism the “first resurrection,” while the postmortem passage through the flaming sword he calls a “second resurrection,” or a “baptism by fire,” on which see H. Crouzel., “La ‘premie`re’ et la ‘seconde’ re´surrection des hommes d’apre`s Orige`ne,” Didaskalia 3 (1973): 3–19; cf. Gregory of Nazianzos, Oration 43.70: “Basil escaped the flaming sword, and, as I am well assured, has attained paradise” (PG 36:592A). 21 On Gregory’s psychology and eschatology, see, G. B. Ladner, “The Philosophical Anthropology of St. Gregory of Nyssa,” DOP 12 (1958): 59–94; L. F. Mateo-Seco, “La teologia de la muerte en la ‘Oratio Catechetica Magna’ de San Gregorio de Nisa,” Scripta Theologica 1.2 (1969): 453–73; idem, “La muerte y su mas alla en el ‘Dialogo sobre el Alma y la Resurreccion’ de Gregorio de Nisa,” ibid., 3.1 (1971): 75–107; M. Alexandre, “Le ‘De Mortuis’ de Gre´goire de Nysse,” StP 10 (1970): 35–43; J. Cavarnos, “The Relation of Body and Soul ¨rrie et al. (Leiden, in the Thought of Gregory of Nyssa,” in Gregor von Nyssa und die Philosophie, ed. H. Do 1976), 61–78; C. Kannengiesser, “Logique et ide´es mortices dans le recours biblique selon Gre´goire de Nysse,” in ibid., 85–103; M. Harl, “La croissance de l’aˆme selon le de infantibus de Gre´goire de Nysse,” VChr 34 (1980): 237–59; H. Meissner, Rhetorik und Theologie: Der Dialog Gregors von Nyssa de Anima et Resurrectione (New York, 1991); C. Roth, “Platonic and Pauline Elements in the Ascent of the Soul in Gregory of Nyssa’s Dialogue on the Soul and the Resurrection,” VChr 46 (1992): 20–30; R. Williams, “Macrina’s Deathbed Revisited: Gregory of Nyssa on Mind and Passion,” in Christian Faith and Greek Philosophy in Late Antiquity, ed. L. Wickham et al. (Leiden, 1993), 227–46; E. Peroli, “Gregory of Nyssa and the Neoplatonic Doctrine of the Soul,” VChr 51 (1997): 117–39; J. Zachhuber, Human Nature in Gregory of Nyssa (Leiden, 2000). For Gregory of Nazianzos, see J.-M. Szymusiak, Ele´ments de the´ologie de l’homme selon saint Gre´goire de Nazianze (Rome, 1963); J. Mossay, La mort et l’au-dela` dans saint Gre´goire de Nazianze (Louvain, 1966); J. M. Mathieu, “Remarques sur l’anthropologie de Gre´goire de Nazianze et Porphyre,” StP 17.3 (1982): 1115–19. For Basil, see M. Girandi, Basilio di Cesarea e il culto dei martiri nel IV secolo. Scrittura e tradizione (Bari, 1990), 165–77 (“Il culto per le reliquie”), and A. d’Ale`s, “Le Prince du sie`cle” (below, note 58). 20

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together in the animation of the human, and the soul grows with the body in such a way that the two together recapitulate the evolutionary history of the intelligible and material creations. In a remarkable passage, Gregory suggests that the imago dei resides, not within the mind as such, but within the conjunction and interdependence of mind and body. Just as the mind is manifested through a plurality of sensory operations and activities, so too is the divine Trinity itself a single nature that is revealed through a plurality of operations and attributes (§6; cf. De anima §2). In advocating a more unitive anthropology, Gregory argues for the profound dependence of the mind on the body. In order both to express itself and to receive impressions from without, the mind must come to its senses (§10), and there can be, he says, no intellectual perception without a material substrate (§14); he dismisses as so much Platonism the idea that the soul can operate independently of a body (§13).22 Consistent with this view, Gregory compares the souls of the dead to the minds of those who are asleep: “In a certain sense, sleep and waking are nothing more than the intertwining of death with life: our senses are dulled in sleep and our awakening brings about the resurrection we long for” (De mort., PG 46.521C). In his Dialogue on the Soul and the Resurrection (written in 380), Gregory stages yet another confrontation between Athens and Jerusalem, casting his dying sister Macrina in the role of biblical exegete, while he himself raises stereotypically Greek objections to the doctrines of immortality and resurrection (§1). After discoursing on the necessity of eternal life for the proper fulfillment of human virtue, Macrina gathers up some of the anthropological threads from the De hominis opificio, and argues that the relationship between mind and body is so intimate that, even after death, the soul remains sympathetically linked to the physical remains of its former partner, down to the tiniest atoms and particles (§2). Though tragically severed from the body, the soul continues to exist in a dimension without spatial extension, and can thus abide even with the most widely dispersed of its bodily fragments and somehow remain whole (§2; cf. §6). Based on an etymological derivation of Hades (a” dh") from the word ajeide´ ", Macrina insists that Hades is not a physical place, but rather a state or condition of the soul (§3).23 She consequently rejects what she considers to be an outdated cosmology in which Hades 22 Cf. Gregory of Nyssa, Discourse on the Holy Pascha: “What is it we call man? Is it both [i.e., body and soul] together, or one of them? Surely it is clear that the conjunction of the two is what gives the living thing its character. . . . There is no division of the soul from the body when it practices theft or commits burglary, nor again does it by itself give bread to the hungry or drink to the thirsty or hasten unhesitatingly to the prison to care for the one afflicted by imprisonment, but for every action the two assist each other and cooperate in the things that are done” (ed. E. Gebhardt, Gregorii Nysseni Opera [Leiden, 1967], 9.1, 266–67; trans. S. Hall, in The Easter Sermons of Gregory of Nyssa, ed. A. Spira and C. Klock [Cambridge, Mass., 1981], 21). Gregory’s ethical understanding of the relationship between body and soul parallels the virtually universal parable of the “Blind and the Lame,” on which cf. L. Wallach, “The Parable of the Blind and the Lame: A Study in Comparative Literature,” JBL 62 (1943): 333–39, and M. Bergman, “The Parable of the Lame and the Blind: Epiphanius’ Quotation from an Apocryphon of Ezekiel,” JTS 42 (1991): 125–38. 23 Cf. Methodios, De resurrectione, 2.28: a” dh" . . . para` to` ajeide´ ", dia` to` mh` oJra'sqai, kaqa´ per ejle´ cqh kai` jWrige´ nei (ed. G. N. Bonwetsch, GCS 27 [Leipzig, 1917], 385, line 21; PG 18:316B); cf. H. Crouzel, “L’Hade`s et la Ge´henne selon Orige`ne,” Gregorianum 59 (1958): 291–331; repr. in idem, Les fins dernie`res, X. See also, G. L. Prestige, “Hades in the Greek Fathers,” JTS 24 (1923): 476–85, a study based on material compiled for G. W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1961), p. iii, n. 1; and J. Jeremias, “a” dh",” in Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, ed. G. Kittel, vol. 1 (Grand Rapids, Mich., 1964), 146–49.

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provides the subterranean foundation upon which earth and heaven are respectively stacked.24 Macrina also has much to say about purification after death, which, she says, will be proportionate to one’s attachment to the flesh. The “purifying fire” with which all flesh will be salted (cf. Mark 9:49) will be relative to the combustible material—the moral “fuel”—supplied by each soul (cf. 1 Cor. 3:13) (§6–7). To prove her point, she has recourse to the parable of Lazarus and the Rich Man (Luke 16:19–31), as well as to various analogies, including that of a dead body pinned under a house that has collapsed in an earthquake: “Not only are such bodies weighed down by fallen debris, but they are also pierced by spits and stakes which are found in the pile. Whatever these bodies are likely to endure when they are dragged out by their relatives (they will be mangled and torn, lacerated by the debris and the nails, and by the force of those who pull them out)— some such experience I think will happen to the soul, when the power of divine love for mankind draws its own out from the irrational and immaterial debris” (§7).25 In sum, the general direction of Gregory’s thought is a movement away from the Platonic dualism of mind and body (evident in his early works) in the direction of a more Christian understanding of the human person as a unitive conjunction of the two. The Greek preference for the intelligible over the sensible is brought into balance by the New Testament belief in the resurrection of the body. The recapitulation of the intelligible and the sensible in the human person—body and soul—constitutes a harmony of opposites, a unification of creation within the human microcosm, in order for the cosmos as a whole to be united to God. The body is no longer that into which the soul is exiled. Instead, exile means being away from the body. THE MIDDLE STATE OF SOULS: MEMORY AND MIMESIS The intimate juxtaposition of body and soul and the nature of their relationship after death continued to exercise the imaginations of theologians as well as the patrons of sacred shrines. For all parties, the body was increasingly seen as foundational to the nature of human identity, and corporeal relics and personal objects were granted a critical role in epitomizing the material continuity of the self as it passed from life into death. Fragments of bone and bits of clothing helped to keep alive the memories of the lives that preceded them, although they were more than just medieval artes moriendi. In venerating relics, the Byzantines embraced living saints, as well as their own death; each informed the other. The relic of the body was thus deeply marked by the presence of 24 Other late antique Greek theologians who deal with the subject of Hades and the afterlife include John Chrysostom (ca. 340–407), In Lazarum hom. 1–7 (PG 48:963–1054); Eustratios, Refutation (after 582) (ed. L. Allatius [cited below, note 66]); Andrew of Caesarea (563–614), Curatio, frag. 1 (ed. F. Diekamp, AnalPat, 165–66); Andrew of Crete (ca. 660–740), In vitam humanam et in defunctos (PG 97:1284D–1292A); Ps.-Athanasios, Quaestiones ad Antiochum 16–35, 133–35 (PG 28:607D–617C, 681AD): cf. G. Bardy, “La litte´rature patristique des ‘Quaestiones et Responsiones’ sur l’Ecriture sainte,” RevBibl 42 (1933): 328–32; Ps.-Dionysios (6th century), De ecclesiastica hierarchia, 7 (“Rites for the Dead”) (PG 3:552D–569A); and Anastasios of Sinai (d. after 700), Quaestiones, 89–91 (PG 89:716–721C). 25 Cf. Gregory of Nyssa, Concerning those who have died: “Our irrational attachment to transient beauty, regardless of what it happens to be, causes intense suffering. . . . On the other hand, the pain of death acts as a midwife to another life” (ed. G. Heil, GNO 9.1 [Leiden, 1967], 28, lines 9–10, 47, lines 1–2). For Nyssa’s exegesis of the Lucan parable, see M. Alexandre, “L’intepre´tation de Luc 16.19–31 chez Gre´goire de Nysse” (above, note 7).

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the soul, while the soul, after death, was equally marked by the memory of its life in the body.26 The Byzantines were sensitive to the lack of correspondence between inner states and outer expressions, and they knew that one’s outward appearance by no means reveals what goes on within (cf. Matt. 23:27–28). After death, however, the soul was thought to become a mirror of the self, reflecting its inner dispositions and ruling passions. Between the body and the soul, an exchange took place producing, on the one hand, the subjective corporeality of relics and, on the other, like the picture of Dorian Gray, the corporeal subjectivity of the soul. The fluid self acquires, as it were, a material body and appearance as the finite is inserted into infinity. A striking example of this belief can be found in a sermon by Dorotheos of Gaza (b. ca. 506) on the “Fear of the Punishment to Come.” 27 According to Dorotheos, the various thoughts and mental images to which the soul is habitually attached in life will constitute its new environment and reality as consciousness is carried over into death. Thoughts and memories will have as much power over the self as they did in life, indeed more so, notes Dorotheos, inasmuch as they can now be avoided through the distractions of the body. After death, however, repressed memories and unfulfilled desires will reaffirm themselves, occurring and recurring with massive force and unmitigated intensity, from which there will be no possibility of escape, for there will be no dispassionate point of reference. This psychological model is taken in a somewhat different direction by Niketas Stethatos (ca. 1005–90), who is also attentive to the role that memory and consciousness play in the period between death and resurrection. In his treatise On the Soul (written ca. 1075),28 Stethatos argues that soul and body are a complex, interactive unity, and that, without the body, the human person is incomplete.29 After sorting out what faculties are proper to the body, what to the soul, and what to the union of the two (§12.64–67), 26 Charles Barber has recently noted that there exists no major study of the “function and significance of memory” in the Byzantine world (see his “The Truth in Painting: Iconoclasm and Identity in Early-Medieval Art,” Speculum 72.4 [1997]: 1028, n. 32). Similar studies for the medieval West, however, provide important leads. See, e.g., O. G. Oexle, “Memoria und Memorialbild,” in Memoria. Der geschichtliche Zeugniswert des liturgischen Gedenkens im Mittelalter, ed. K. Schmid and J. Wallasch (Munich, 1984), 384–440. Oexle attends to how the physically absent (living and dead) were rendered present through the invocation of their names in a liturgical setting, and how liturgy created communities of memory in which the living and the dead could be gathered together. See also M. Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge, 1992); M. McLaughlin, Consorting with Saints: Prayer for the Dead in Early Medieval France (Ithaca, N.Y., 1994); and B. Gordon and P. Marshall, eds., The Place of the Dead: Death and Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, 2000). 27 Dorotheos of Gaza, Discourse 12 (ed. L. Regnault, SC 92 [Paris, 1963], 384–88; trans. E. P. Wheeler [Kalamazoo, Mich., 1977], 183–86); the narrative and rhetorical power of this text resists paraphrase; cf. Plato, Gorgias, 525. 28 J. Darrouze`s, ed., Nice´tas Ste´thatos. Opuscules et lettres, SC 81 (Paris, 1961), 56–153; cf. D. Tsamis, JH Telei´w´ pou kata` Nikh´ tan to` n Sthqa´ ton (Thessalonike, 1971). si" tou' Anqrw j 29 Like Gregory of Nyssa, Stethatos notes that body and soul are a “coexistent and contemporaneous” (sunu´ parkton, oJmo´ cronon) microcosm, although his chief paradigm for this relationship is the christology of Chalcedon: “God united [in the human being] two natures [i.e., body and soul] in one hypostasis without confusion” (§3.14, p. 78, line 9; cf. line 12, where the two natures are said to subsist in “one prosopon”). Cf. Symeon the New Theologian, Second Practical Chapters, 2.23, 3.62 (ed. J. Darrouze`s, SC 51 [Paris, 1957]; trans. P. McGuckin [Kalamazoo, Mich., 1982], 69–70, 96); and Second Theological Discourse (ed. J. Darrouze`s, SC 122 [Paris, 1966], 136, lines 96–99; trans. P. McGuckin, 126).

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Stethatos considers what from among these survives the transition from life to death (§13.68–78). Like “marks on a tablet,” he says, the soul registers the impressions it has received in life, each one tinting the soul’s complexion in one way or another.30 In addition to the indelible etchings of memory that are common to all human souls, the souls of the saints retain various modes of noetic perception and transcendental knowledge,31 and after death they find themselves in exalted, heavenly places (topoi) constellated according to their distinctive charisms and affections (§70). Stethatos later indicates that these topoi are actually “angelic powers,” or the “shadows cast by angelic wings,” or, in one instance, “the wings of Christ” (§72–73, §79–80).32 Sheltered within these sacred pinions, the saintly soul rests in the hope of future blessings, remembering its former good deeds and sensing the prayers and works of mercy offered on its behalf (§72). Watching over the soul is its guardian angel, who prompts the soul to a remembrance of things past and draws its attention to the good things currently being done for it on earth. Although the saintly soul is “at rest” with respect to the faculties it employed while in the body, its memory becomes clear and focused, and it is vividly conscious of the memorials, liturgies, and feasts held in its honor (§73).33 Here Stethatos gestures toward the experience of dreams in sleep (§73) as an analogy for the mind’s postmortem preoccupation with its past deeds and future prospects, as well as for its active independence from the passivity of the sleeping (i.e., dead) body. That the context 30 This is the result of the soul’s “power of receptivity” (antileptike dynamis). Cf. Symeon the New Theologian, Discourse, 28.6 (trans. C. J. de Catanzaro, Classics of Western Spirituality [New York, 1980], 299). Dorotheos had similarly noted that “the souls of the dead remember everything that happened here—thoughts, words, desires—nothing can be forgotten . . . whatever is in a man here is going to leave the earth with him, and going to be with him there” (trans. Wheeler, 185–86). 31 Namely, the “knowledge of beings, immanent reason, noetic sensation, and the intuition of intelligibles,” all of which are part of the vocabulary of mysticism and mystical experience; cf. Tsamis, “H Telei´wsi", 102–8, 117–37. 32 Stethatos’ placement of departed souls among the angels is partly a response to those who sought to place them in an earthly paradise, a problem he addresses in his sequel to On the Soul called On Paradise, and “ qw", vol. 1, pts. a concern shared by Philip Monotropos (fl. ca. 1100), Dioptra, 4.10 (ed. S. Lauriotes, in JO A 1–2 [Athens, 1919–20], p. 222). For both Stethatos and Monotropos, paradise had been superseded by the kingdom of heaven through the death and resurrection of Christ; cf. M. Chalendard, Nice´tas Ste´thatos: Le Paradis spirituel et autres textes annexes (Paris, 1944); V. Grumel, “Remarques sur la Dioptra de Philippe le Soli¨randner in Akrothinia [Vienna, 1964], taire,” BZ 44 (1951): 198–211, esp. 208–9 (with additions by W. Ho 23–40); and A. Wenger, “Ciel ou Paradis: Le se´jour des ˆames, d’apre`s Philippe le Solitaire, Dioptra, livre IV, chapitre X,” BZ 44 (1951): 560–69. Earlier writers held precisely this view (e.g., Photios, Amphilochia, 15.2 [PG 89:715–26]), as did Michael Glykas, Theological Chapters, 11 (ed. S. Eustratiades [below, note 36], 1:136– 49), largely on the basis of Luke 23:43. Cf. Symeon the New Theologian, On Penitence, 9: “When he went down to hell he raised them up from there and restored them, not to paradise whence they had fallen, but to the very heaven of heaven (cf. Ps. 68:34)” (trans. de Catanzaro, 99). On the “wings of Christ” as a symbol of “protective (skepastikon) power,” see Ps.-Basil, Adversus Eunomium, 5 (PG 29:757D), cited by Theodore of Stoudios, Antirrheticus, 2.44 (PG 99:384C; trans. C. Roth, St. Theodore the Studite, On the Holy Icons [Crestwood, N.Y., 1981], 71). 33 Or, conversely, outraged at breaches in these rituals; cf. the 11th-century Apocalypsis Anastasiae, in which the female Saints Tetrade, Paraskeve, and Kyriake (i.e., Saints Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday) complain to Christ about those who eat meat on Wednesdays and Fridays (days of fasting), or who work, or have sex with their spouses on Sundays (R. Holmberg, ed., Apocalypsis Anastasiae [Leipzig, 1903], 12–13). Cf. Eustratios, Refutation, 28 (ed. L. Allatius, p. 560, cited below, note 66), who notes that the dead are “conscious” (aijsqa´ nontai) of the memorials offered on their behalf.

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for these remarks is the cult of saints and relics seems evident, as when Stethatos further notes that good souls are fragrant, a sensation frequently associated with the mortal remains of holy persons (§79). The court philosopher Michael Psellos (1018–81) shares many of these concerns, although he discusses them in the terms and categories of Neoplatonic psychology and metaphysics. At death, the harmonics generated by the union of body and soul fall silent, and the soul of the sage begins its ascent into a “dawn beyond light,” being purged of its attachments to the body by the purifying fire of divinity. As the soul is increasingly assimilated to the life of God, its memory of life in the body begins to fade, although Psellos acknowledges that certain souls are entrusted providentially with the care of human beings and with the protection of cities and nations.34 Questions about the survival of memory and consciousness among the departed saints continued to be discussed in the following century, as evidenced in the twenty-first and twenty-second Theological Chapters of Michael Glykas (fl. 1150).35 Glykas deftly weaves together dozens of patristic sources, although Sophronios Eustratiades, who edited the Theological Chapters nearly a hundred years ago, noted that Glykas derived some of this material from the synaxarion of the Protopsychosabbaton, a compendious liturgical apology for the efficacy of prayers and memorial offerings for the dead.36 Paraphrasing a passage from Dorotheos of Gaza that is not cited in the synaxarion, Glykas states that the thoughts of sinful souls eternally return to the scenes of their crimes, and they can remember only those whom they sinned against, so that murderers, for example, can remember only the faces of their victims.37 In addition to these various psychological and mnemonic models, the Byzantines also developed a view of the afterlife loosely based on the postmortem experiences of Christ, whom scripture proclaimed to be the “firstborn of the dead,” a “second Adam” in solidar34 Michael Psellos, De omnifaria doctrina, 64 (“On the Separation of Body and Soul”), ed. L. G. Westerink (Nijmegen, 1948), 43; Philosophica minora, 1.40 (“On Hades”), ed. J. Duffy (Stuttgart-Leipzig, 1992), 144–45; Philosophica minora, 2.13, ed. D. J. O’Meara (Stuttgart-Leipzig, 1989), 34–35, 44–45; ibid., 2.20 (“On the Memory of the Soul after Death”), 93–95; ibid., 2.15 (“Against Origen”), 75–76; ibid., 2.16 (“On the Soul”), 76–77; ibid., 2.23 (“On How the Soul Enters and Departs from the Body”), 98–99; ibid., 2.24 (“On the Soul”), 99–100; ibid., 2.27 (“On the Soul”), 102–3; cf. P. Joannou, Christliche Metaphysik in Byzanz: Die Illuminationslehre des Michael Psellos und Johannes Italos (Ettal, 1956), 124–39. I am grateful to Stratis Papaioannou for these references. 35 This important work has never been studied. See the initial assessment of P. Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge, 1993), 366–82, esp. 370–82, who notes that “common to [these chapters] is a preoccupation with the relationship between body and soul, the corruptible and the incorruptible, and death and immortality in human nature. . . . [Glykas’] preoccupation with the creation and corruption of matter, the relationship of body and soul, and the programme of Divine Providence, reflects a concern to define the Orthodox position on matters where it was in danger of being contaminated by dualist heresy and Hellenic philosophy. The Bogomil doctrine of the irredeemable corruption of the physical world, and Neoplatonic ideas of the eternity of matter and metempsychosis . . . undoubtedly contributed to the climate of debate and uncertainty which Glykas reflects.” 36 S. Eustratiades, ed., Eij" ta` " ajpori´a" th'" Qei´a" Grafh'" Kephalaia, 2 vols. (Athens, 1906; Alexandria, 1912), 1:240 n. 1 (⫽ Eustratiades’ note); Theological Chapters, 21–22 ⫽ pp. 240–46, 247–57; cf. Theological Chapters, 9 (p. 120); for the synaxarion notice, cf. Triv´ dion Katanuktiko´ n (Athens, n.d.), 22–24. I follow Magdalino (above, n. 35) in translating the title of Glykas’ work as the Theological Chapters. 37 Theological Chapters, 20 (p. 242, lines 6–13); cf Ps.-Athanasios, Quaestiones ad Antiochum, 32: “The souls of the righteous remember us, but not the souls of sinners in Hades, for whom it seems likely that they think only about the punishment that awaits them” (PG 28:616D).

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ity with humanity even in his death (cf. Col. 1:18; 1 Cor. 15:20–22). The Byzantine christomimetic tradition was deeply enculturated, and the exemplum Christi was a master metaphor according to which the relationship between body and soul in human beings was seen as analogous to that obtaining between humanity and divinity in Christ.38 Christology, in other words, provided an illuminating paradigm for anthropology and stimulated symbolic reflection on the fate of souls after death, a situation that John Meyendorff has aptly characterized as a “christocentric eschatology.” 39 Generally speaking, the exemplary death of Christ established a fundamental law of human existence, namely, temporary residence in an interim state until the general resurrection of the dead. Based on Matthew 10:24 (“A disciple is not above his teacher, nor a servant above his master”), the soul’s tarriance between death and resurrection became a universal lex mortuorum, although the souls of the righteous could now endure this experience in solidarity with Christ, to whom they were mimetically linked: “For where I am, you will also be” (John 14:3).40 Similarly, the Byzantine practice of conducting memorial services on the third and the fortieth day after death was seen by some as a ritual imitatio of Christ’s resurrection on the third day and of his ascension into heaven on the fortieth.41 However, this was by 38 This analogy, popularized by Cyril of Alexandria and turned into a polemical device by Severos of Antioch, came to be seen as inadequate and was eventually rejected; cf. Leontius Scholasticus, De Sectis (PG 86:1245A–1249D); Justinian, Contra Monophysitas (PG 86:1116–17; trans. K. Wesche [Crestwood, N.Y., 1991], 38–40), and Confessio rectae fidei (PG 86:1004C; trans. Wesche, 171–72); and John of Damascus, De fide orthodoxa, 33 (ed. B. Kotter, vol. 2 [Berlin, 1973], 2, 113), although later writers continued to make use of it. See also P. Schwanz, Imago Dei als christologisch-anthropologisches Problem bis Clemens von Alexandrien (Halle, 1970); R. Norris, “Christological Models in Cyril of Alexandria,” StP (1975): 255–68; idem, “The Problem of Human Identity in Patristic Christological Speculation,” StP 17.1 (1982): 147–59; P. Stockmeier, “Das anthropologische Modell der Spa¨tantike und die Formel von Chalkedon,” Annuarium Historiae Conciliorum 8 (1976): 40–52; K.-H. Uthemann, “Das anthropologische Modell der Hypostatischen Union,” Kleronomia 14 (1982): ¨hen Kirche bis Chalcedon 215–32; F. Gahbauer, Das anthropologische Modell. Ein Beitrag zur Christologie der fru (Wu ¨ rzburg, 1984); and A. Grillmeier, Christ in Christian Tradition, vol. 2.2 (Louisville, Ky., 1995), 34–39, 498–500. 39 J. Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology (New York, 1983), 221. 40 This idea can be found already in Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, 6.31.2, citing Matt. 10:24 (SC 153, p. 395); cf. Michael Glykas, Theological Chapters, 20 (1:245, lines 15–25), citing Andrew of Crete (PG 97:1049–52); and Philip Monotropos, Dioptra, 2.11: “If you have heard that souls are in Hades, they are not, as formerly, in pain and torment, but in comfort and rest” (ed. S. Lauriotes [above, note 32], p. 93). Philip cites John 14:3 in this context at Dioptra, 4.11 (p. 222); cf. J. Lebourlier, “A propose de l’e´tat de Christ dans la mort,” Revue des sciences philosophiques et the´ologiques 46 (1962): 629–49; 47 (1963): 161–80. See also Basil of Caesarea, On the Holy Spirit, 35: “How can we accomplish the descent into Hades? By imitating through baptism the descent of Christ into the tomb” (ed. B. Pruche [Angers, 1947], 169). The only exceptions to this universal law were Enoch (cf. Gen. 5:24) and Elijah (cf. 2 Kings 2:11–12), who had been bodily translated to heaven prior to their death. 41 Cf. Apostolic Constitutions, 8.42.1: “Celebrate the 3rd-day of those who have fallen asleep with psalms and prayers, on account of the one who rose on the 3rd-day” (ed. M. Metzger, SC 336 [Paris, 1987], 258); and Eustratios, Refutation, 29 (ed. L. Allatius, pp. 551–52, cited below, note 66), who notes that “the 3rd-day memorial is a typos of the 3rd-day resurrection, the 9th of the [postresurrection] appearance of Christ on the 8th-day plus one” [i.e., not counting the day of the resurrection], and the 40th a typos of the ascension.” See also Macarius of Alexandria, Sermo de exitu animae: “On the 3rd-day after death, Christian souls are summoned to heaven to bow before God in imitation of Christ’s resurrection” (PG 34:389BC); and the study by ˆme apre`s la mort,” Le A. van Lantschot, “Re´ve´lations de Macaire et de Marc de Tarmaqa sur le sort de l’a Muse´on 63 (1950): 178–80. For later writers on this theme, see Philip Monotropos, Dioptra, 2.11, 4.8 (ed. S. Lauriotes, p. 94, 220, cited above, note 32); Symeon of Thessalonike (archbp., 1416–29), De ordine sepulturae, 155 (PG 155:688–92); and Joseph Bryennios, First Sermon on the Last Judgment (ed. E. Boulgaris, vol. 2 [Leipzig, 1768; repr. Thessalonike, 1990], 300, 304–5).

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no means a universally accepted tradition, and others understood these memorials as marking the gradual dissolution of the body in a process that reversed its initial formation in the womb. The human face, for example, was believed to take form on the third day after conception, and therefore said to decompose on the third day after death. At the same time, the gradual decay of the body on the third (and the fortieth) day after death coincided with stages in the soul’s formation in the womb of the afterlife. These were critical days for the travail of the soul, during which time the body of the church assembled for corporate prayer. This, in fact, is the tradition followed by the synaxarion notice mentioned above.42 The Byzantine iconographic tradition provides further examples of mimetic connections between the death of Christ and that of his followers. In his study of the iconography of the “Man of Sorrows,” Hans Belting has noted that the “sleep” of Christ portrayed in these images is “spatially and temporally undetermined,” and that the metaphor of “death-sleep” suggests the paradoxical simultaneity of human death and divine life in the one person of Christ. This was also noted by Anna Komnene (1083–1153), who described one of these portraits as an image of the “Bridegroom and Judge” (i.e., suffering humanity and omnipotent divinity) who “sleeps the sweet sleep.” 43 With respect to the image of the Anapeson, Belting notes that the reclining figure of the drowsy Christ Emmanuel is, again, asleep and at the same time awake, a paradox that anticipates the sleep of death in the tomb.44 The symbolism is derived from a curious combination of Hebrew scripture and Greek legend. Alluding to the “lion of Judah” in Genesis 49:9, the reclining Christ was said to be “crouching down (anapeson), having fallen asleep as a lion” (cf. Gen. 49:9; Rev. 5:5), an animal that was fabled to sleep in its lair with its eyes open. As such, it was seen as an image of Christ, who “did not close the eye of his divinity as he slept in his tomb.” 45 Philip Monotropos (fl. ca. 1100), a contemporary of Anna Komnene, invokes the symbolism of the Anapeson in his discussion of Christ’s The main witness to this tradition is a passage in the De mensibus of John Lydos (ca. 490–565), a work dealing with the history of calendars and feasts (ed. R. Wu ¨ nsch, [Leipzig, 1898], 84–86); cf. the study of G. Dagron, “Troisie`me, neuvie`me et quarantie`me jours dans la tradition byzantine: Temps chre´tien et anthropologie,” in Le temps chre´tien de la fin de l’antiquite´ au moyen ˆage, IIIe–XIIIe sie`cles (Paris, 1984), 419–30. Note that the synaxarion (cited above, note 36) focuses not on the face, but the heart, which appears on the 3rd day of gestation, solidifies into flesh on the 9th day, and on the 40th assumes full form. On the 9th day after death, the body disintegrates, and the heart alone survives until the 40th day, when it too is dissolved. 43 H. Belting, The Image and Its Public in the Middle Ages. Form and Function of Early Paintings of the Passion, trans. M. Bartusis and R. Meyer (New York, 1991), 103–4, 118–20; cf. H. Belting, Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image before the Era of Art, trans. E. Jephcott (Chicago, 1994), 270–71. 44 Belting, The Image and Its Public, 104. In the church of Manasija, the Anapeson is paired with the image of the “Souls of the Righteous in the Hand of God” (Wis. 3:1; cf. above, note 8) above the tympanum of the western door of the nave, with David and Solomon standing at either side. David’s scroll reads: “Awake, why sleepest thou, O Lord?” (Ps. 44/43:23), while Solomon’s reads: “The souls of the righteous are in the hand of God” (Wis. 3:1); S. Stanojevic´, Le monaste`re de Manasija (Belgrade, 1928), XVII; cf. A. Xyngopoulos, Thessalonique et la peinture mace´donienne (Athens, 1955), pl. 18.2. Der Nersessian, “Program and Iconography,” 332, notes that this is a “symbolic representation of Christ’s messianic mission,” but seems to miss the connection between the sleeping Christ and the sleeping souls. Note that David and Solomon also figure prominently in the iconography of the resurrection; cf. A. Kartsonis, Anastasis. The Making of an Image (Princeton, N.J., 1986), 186–203. 45 In the words of Leontios of Constantinople, On Easter (cf. Physiologos, 5–6), trans. P. Allen with C. Datema, Leontius Presbyter of Constantinople (Brisbane, 1991), 112 and n. 59. 42

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descent into Hades, and it eventually entered the hymnology of Christ’s ritual burial service on Holy Saturday.46 It would seem, then, that based on the example of Christ, the discontinuity of death had become no more permanent than “such stuff as dreams are made of.” However, the various similarities between Christ and his human followers paled with respect to one fundamental difference. It was a basic dogma of the early church that, while Christ was born in the “likeness of sinful flesh” (Rom. 8:3), he had nevertheless lived his life on earth without sinning (cf. Heb. 4:15; 7:26; 1 Pet. 2:22; John 8:46; 1 John 3:5). At the time of his voluntary death, therefore, he could not be held accountable to the “one who holds the power of death, that is, the devil” (Heb. 2:14), and on the eve of his passion he announced that the “ruler of this world is coming, and in me he will find nothing” (cf. John 14:30).47 The same could hardly be said of his fallible followers (cf. 1 Cor. 1:5, 6:11; Eph. 2:1–3; Col. 3:5–7). DANGEROUS PASSAGE If a “Christian end to our lives, painless, without shame, and peaceful” (Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom) was the ideal for which the church prayed and to which the Byzantines aspired, not all were fortunate enough to attain it. Patristic and Byzantine literature contains harrowing accounts of the soul’s experience immediately after its departure from the body, at which time it meets its own conscience by means of graphic encounters with its thoughts, words, and deeds, as its life is critically screened and reviewed.48 These encounters often take the form of prosecution by demons in the charged setting of a courtroom, with angels acting as counsels for the defense. At other times, the scene shifts to an aerial “tollgate” (telonion) where souls ascending to heaven are detained by passport control and have their moral baggage inspected by demonic customs officials.49 The First 46 Cf. Philip Monotropos, Dioptra, 2.11 (ed. S. Lauriotes, p. 94, cited above, note 32); and the lauds of Holy Saturday matins: “Come and behold today the one from ‘Judah who fell asleep,’ and let us cry out prophetically to him: ‘Crouching down, you slept as a lion. Who shall dare to rouse you, O king?’” Note also that the “sleep” of Adam (during the creation of Eve) typified the “sleep” of Christ on the cross, from whose side emerged the ekklesia (Gen 2:21, John 19:34); cf. Methodios, Symposium, 2.2–4, 3.8 (PG 18:49–53, 72–73). 47 Cf. Basil, Hom. 11 (on Ps. 7): “The noble athletes of God, who have wrestled with invisible enemies their whole life, after they reach the end of life, are examined by the ‘prince of the world.’ . . . You may learn this from the Lord himself who said concerning the time of his passion, ‘Now the prince of the world is coming, and in me he will have nothing’ (John 14:30). He who had committed no sin said that he had nothing” (PG 29:232–33; trans. A. C. Way, Saint Basil: Exegetic Homilies, The Fathers of the Church, 46 [Washington, D.C., 1963], 167–68); cited by Michael Glykas, Theological Chapters, 20 (ed. Eustratiades, p. 242, lines 15–20, cited above, note 36). 48 On the whole subject, see C. Zaleski, Otherworld Journeys. Accounts of Near-Death Experience in Medieval and Modern Times (New York, 1987); and C. Carozzi, Le voyage de l’aˆme dans l’au-dela` d’apre`s la litte´rature: Ve–XIIIe sie`cle (Paris, 1994). Sometimes these experiences occur in corpore as an agonizing struggle at the deathbed (psychomachia), as, for example, in the tale of Stephanos cited by John Climacus, Ladder, 7 (“On Mourning”) (PG 88:812BD). 49 ˆle du de´mon au See G. Every, “Toll Gates on the Air Way,” EChR 8 (1976): 139–51; and J. Rivie`re, “Ro jugement particulier chez les pe`res,” RSR 4 (1924): 43–64. For the social context, cf. the vivid descriptions in Basil, Against Usury (Hom. 12, on Ps. 14; PG 29:268–80; trans. FOTC 46, 181–91); and W. R. Farmer, “Who Were the ‘Tax Collectors and Sinners’ in the Synoptic Tradition?” in From Faith to Faith (Pittsburgh, 1979), 167–74; J. Gibson, “Tax Collectors and Prostitutes in First-Century Palestine: Mt. 21.31,” JTS 32 (1981): 429–33; F. G. Downing, “The Ambiguity of ‘the Pharisee and the Toll-Collector’ in the Graeco-Roman World of Late Antiquity,” Catholic Biblical Quarterly 54 (1992): 80–99; H. Saradi, “The Byzantine Tribunals: Problems

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Apocalypse of James (33:2–36.1) combines elements from both and describes a trial held at each person’s death by three demons who “demand toll, and take away souls by theft.” 50 Despite the accretions of Christian morality and Byzantine bureaucracy, these narratives are little changed from ancient beliefs in the planetary spheres as the seats of vicious astral rulers who imprinted their vices on embryos at the moment of birth and hindered the soul’s flight to heaven after death. Safe passage was obtained only by imitating the gnostic savior, whose own successful escape became the referential paradigm for the postmortem experiences of his initiates.51 It is probably no coincidence that later Christian redactions of these narratives occur primarily in works by monastic writers, and in the lives of monastic saints, who understood themselves to be “living like angels” and thus locked in spiritual combat with demons.52 At the hour of death, these same forces struggle to claim the departing soul. In Athanasios’ Life of Antony, for example, the saint has a vision of souls ascending from the earth, as a grotesque giant gnashes its teeth and clutches at those that were “accountable to him.” 53 A similar vision in the Bohairic life of Pachomios depicts three angels escorting shimmering souls to heaven on a pure cloth, while dark, sinful souls are torn out by fishhooks and dragged to hell tied to the tail of a “spirit horse.” 54 in the Application of Justice and State Policy (9th–12th c.),” REB (1996): 165–204. For a full-length study, see E. Badian, Publicans and Sinners: Private Enterprise in the Service of the Roman Republic (Ithaca, N.Y., 1972; repr. 1983). I am thankful to Susan Holman for many of these references. 50 Trans. W. Schoedel in The Nag Hammadi Library in English, ed. J. Robinson (Leiden, 1996), 265–66. Much of the Apocalypse is concerned with various formulae (probably related to burial rites) for escaping the celestial toll collectors. 51 On which, see I. Culianu, Expe´rience de l’extase: Extase, ascension et re´cit visionnaire de l’helle´nisme au Moyen ˆ Age (Paris, 1984), rev. and expanded in idem, Psychoanodia, vol. 1 (Leiden, 1983); and idem, Out of This World (Boston, 1991). See also T. Abusch, “Ascent to the Stars in a Mesopotamian Ritual: Social Experience and Religious Metaphor,” and A. Yarbo Collins, “The Seven Heavens in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses,” both in Death, Ecstasy, and Other Worldly Journeys, ed. J. Collins and M. Fishbane (Albany, 1995), 15–39 and 59–93; and S. Johnston, “Rising to the Occasion: Theurgic Ascent in Its Cultural Milieu,” in Envisioning Magic, ed. P. Scha¨fer and H. Kippenberd (Princeton, N.J., 1997), 165–94. 52 Zaleski, Otherworld Journeys, 167, notes that some of this may be the result of the “sensory deprivation and perceptual isolation” characteristic of the ascetic life, a theme that has been studied in detail by V. MacDermot, The Cult of the Seer in the Ancient Middle East. A Contribution to Current Research on Hallucinations Drawn from Coptic and Other Texts (London, 1971). Dorotheos prefaces his discussion of postmortem pangs of conscience with the following: “Do you want me to give you an example to make this clear? Suppose one of us were shut up in a dark cell with no food or drink for three days without sleeping or meeting anyone, or psalmodizing, or praying, and not even thinking of God. You know what his passions would do to him” (trans. Wheeler, 184). 53 Athanasios, The Life of Antony 65 (ed. G. J. M. Bartelink, SC 400 [Paris, 1994], 304); Athanasios, On the Psalms (PG 27:304A); cf. J. Danie´lou, “Les de´mons de l’air dans la vie d’Antoine,” in Antonius Magnus Eremita (Rome, 1956), 136–46; M. Alexandre, “A propos du re´cit de la mort d’Antoine. L’heure de la mort dans la litte´rature monastique,” in Le temps chre´tien (as above, note 42), 263–82; and D. Brakke, “Athanasius of Alexandria and the Cult of the Holy Dead,” StP 32 (1997):12–18. On the Origenism of Antony’s demonology, cf. S. Rubenson, The Letters of St. Antony: Monasticism and the Making of a Saint (Minneapolis, 1995), 86–88. See also the fourth apophthegma of Theophilos, where demons “accuse our souls as in a lawsuit, bringing before it all the sins it has committed from youth until the time it has been taken away” (PG 65:200B; trans. B. Ward [Kalamazoo, Mich., 1975], 69–70, no. 4). The Menologion of Basil II contains an image of Antony watching the soul of Amoun transported to heaven by angels (Il Menologio di Basilio II [Turin, 1907], pl. 90). 54 See Pachomian Koinonia, vol. 1 (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1980), 105–9; cf. the first Greek life, 360–61, and F. Cumont, “Les vents et les anges psychopompes,” in idem, Pisciculi: Studien zur Religion und Kultur des Altertums (Mu ¨ nster, 1939), 70–75. See also A. Recheis, Engel, Tod und Seelenreise: Das Wirken der Geister beim Heimgang des Menschen in der Lehre der Alexandrinischen und Kappadokischen Va ¨tern (Rome, 1958), 169–77.

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The eleventh-century Life of Lazaros Galesiotes narrates the tale of a sinful layman who in a vision beheld his soul being tried in a courtroom after death, after which he resolved to become a monk. On his way to the monastery, night fell, and as he slept by the side of the road, he was awakened by a figure in the guise of a monk, who led him to a precipice from where he pushed him to his death. This episode was revealed in a dream to the abbot who beheld angels escorting the dead soul to heaven, although demons were also grasping at it, attempting to drag it downward. “Leave him to us,” the demons shouted, “for he is ours, and performed our deeds until the hour of his death. You have no grounds to take him, for you have nothing in him” (cf. John 14:30). In defense of their claim, the demons produce a catalogue55 of the man’s sins arranged under various headings. The angels argue that, on the contrary, the man intended to repent, and his intention was accepted by God. The demons object, arguing that the man “failed to confess [his sins] and did not truly repent.” At that point, the litigation is interrupted by a voice from heaven, which rules in favor of the defendant: “His desire to repent, to become a monk, and to cease from his evil ways is verified by his deeds. The fact that he failed to arrive at the monastery where he would have confessed and repented was not his fault, but yours, who hindered him on his way. Therefore, in place of the monastic labors that he would have performed, I accept his blood, which was shed unjustly by you.” With that, the demons vanish (“like smoke”), and the angels, rejoicing, carry the soul to heaven.56 Origen was among the first to make use of this (originally Egyptian?) tradition and did so on the basis of John 14:30.57 Cyril of Alexandria (378–444), like his predecessor Athanasios (d. 373), was also a confederate of the monks of Egypt, and the chief executive officer of a sprawling church bureaucracy. In one of his sermons, Cyril describes the soul’s progress through an infernal revenue service staffed by a swarm of “archons, cosmocrats, 55 The written catalogue of sins is based in part on Col. 2:12–15: “God made you alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses, having canceled the bond (cheirographon) which stood against us with its legal demands; this he set aside nailing it to the cross. He disarmed the principalities and powers and made a public example of them.” In patristic and Byzantine exegesis, this passage was merged with Eph. 2:2 and 6:12: “You were once dead through following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air. . . . For we are not contending against flesh and blood but against principalities, against the powers, against the world rulers of this present darkness, against the spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places.” See also Jude 9, where the archangel Michael and Satan quarrel over the body of Moses; cf. M. Stone, Adam’s Contract with Satan: The Legend of the Cheirograph of Adam (Bloomington, Ind., 2001). 56 Gregory Monachos, The Life and Conduct of Our Holy Father Lazaros Galesiotes, 132 (AASS, Nov. 3 [Brussels, 1910], 547–48). The questions posed by the demons in the life suggest monastic concern about the problem of incomplete penance, which may explain why this is one of the few such tales in which God himself intervenes in order to pronounce the final sentence. Anastasios of Sinai, qu. 83, was less certain about such cases, opining that “God alone knows” (PG 87:709–12). Note the parallel to the prebaptismal rite, itself a kind of courtroom drama with the exorcist as advocate, Satan as accuser, and God as judge; cf. A. Mingana, Commentary of Theodore of Mopsuestia on the Lord’s Prayer and on the Sacraments of Baptism and Eucharist, Woodbrooke Studies 6 (Cambridge, 1933), 31; H. Kelly, The Devil at Baptism: Ritual, Theology, and Drama (Ithaca, N.Y., 1985). 57 Origen, Hom. in Luc., 23 (PG 13:1862): “When this age is over, and our life is changed for another, we shall find some sitting at the ends of the world to do the business of a toll collector, looking us through with the greatest diligence lest something belonging to him should be found in us. The ‘prince of this world’ seems to me like a publican, as it is written of him, ‘he comes, and has nothing in me’” (John 14:30; cf. above, note 47); cf. Hom. 25 (ibid., 1893) and idem, De principiis, 2.11.6; Contra Celsum 6.22–23 and 6.31, which records a list of passwords that the Gnostics believed would grant them passage through the “eternally chained gates of the archons after passing through what they call the ‘Barrier of evil’” (trans. Chadwick, pp. 347–48). See also the Acts of Thomas, 148, 167, and the Apocalypse of Paul, 13–18.

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teloniarchs, logothetes, and praktopsephistai” (fiscal officials of low rank). At the first five of these weigh-stations (telonia), each of the bodily senses is closely scrutinized (“from the time of one’s youth until the hour of death”) beginning with sins of the mouth, followed by those of the eyes, the ears, the sense of smell, and touch (PG 77:1073B–1076B; cf. 27:665). The tradition of the tollgates was firmly established throughout the east long before the end of late antiquity,58 although it received typically Byzantine elaboration in the tenth-century Life of Basil the Younger (d. 944).59 Like a play within a play, the life describes the ordeal of a certain Theodora, a pious though not perfect woman, whose soul passes through a series of twenty-two tollgates arranged in three groups of seven, with a final examination for general “inhumanity and hardness of heart.” 60 The story proved to be quite popular and was known, for instance, to Meletios Galesiotes (ca. 1209–86), who mentions Theodora twice by name in the verses of his Alphabetalphabetos.61 It is worthy of note that Mark Eugenikos (d. 1445), who was undoubtedly familiar with the tradition of the demonic tollgates, failed to mention it in his polemics against purgatory at the Council of Florence (1438–39). The attempted cover-up was soon exFor Basil of Caesarea, see A. d’Ale`s, “Le Prince du sie`cle, scrutateur des ˆames selon saint Basile,” Recherches de Science religieuse 23 (1966): 325–28; cf. Macrina’s deathbed prayer: “Let the slanderer (baskanos) not stand in my way” (SC 178, p. 224); Ephrem Graecus, In secundo adventu (ed. S. Assemani [Rome, 1746], 275–76); John Chrysostom, Hom. in Mt., 54 (PG 58:532); Macarius, Hom. 43.9: “like the tax collectors who sit along the narrow streets and snatch at passers-by and extort from them, so also the demons watch carefully and grab hold of souls” (trans. G. Maloney, Classics of Western Spirituality [New York, 1992], 155; cf. Hom. 22, p. 222); John Climacus, The Ladder of Divine Ascent, 5, on the “impassable water of the spirits of the air” and the “rendering of accounts after death” (PG 88:773AB; trans. C. Luibheid, Classics of Western Spirituality [New York, 1982], 126); and ibid., 7, where a dying soul “seems to be rendering account to someone . . . charged with offenses of which he was innocent” (PG 88:812BD; trans. Luibheid, 142); Eustratios, Refutation, 27: “The Rich Man died ‘and was buried’ (cf. Luke 16:22), which means that he was unable to pass by the world ruler of darkness and his apostate powers and orders” (cf. Eph. 6:12) (ed. L. Allatius, pp. 537–39; cited below, note 66); Diadochos of Photiki, On Spiritual Knowledge, 100: the unrepentant “will not be able freely to pass by the rulers of the nether world” (ed. E. des Places, SC 5 [Paris, 1966]; trans. G. E. H. Palmer et al., Philokalia, vol. 1 [London, 1979], 295); Hesychios the Priest, On Watchfulness and Holiness, 161: a prayer that “the prince of this world and of the air (cf. John 14:30, Eph. 2:2) will find our misdeeds petty and few” (trans. Palmer, Philokalia, 1.190); Theognostos, On the Practice of the Virtues, 61: a good soul is greeted at death by an angel and “unharmed by the evil spirits” (trans. Palmer, Philokalia, 2.373). 59 The vita, which has a complicated textual tradition, has been edited by S. G. Vilinskii, Zhitie sv. Vasiliia novogo v russkoi literature, vol. 2 (Odessa, 1911); the recension of the vita containing the legend of Theodora has been edited by A. N. Veselovskii, “Razyskaniiakh v oblasti russkogo dukhovnogo stikha,” Sbornik Otdeleniia russkogo iazkya i slovesnosti Imperatorskoi Akademii nauk 46 (1889–90); 53 (1891–92); cf. C. Aggelides, JO Bi´o" tou' oJsi´ou Basilei´ou tou' Ne´ ou (Ioannina, 1980), esp. 178–87, which deals with the Theodora narrative. For an extensive paraphrase, see Every, “Toll Gates,” 142–48. See also Symeon the New Theologian, Hymn 28 (ed. L. Neyerand, SC 174 [Paris, 1971], p. 310.202–10); and Philip Monotropos, Dioptra, 5 (pp. 237–41). 60 Cf. Basil, Hom. 22 (on Ps. 114): “In twenty-one years a man is wont to undergo three variations and vicissitudes of age and life, and in each week (i.e., of seven years) its proper boundary circumscribes the past and displays a visible change . . . the youth imperceptibly disappears, and the old man is transposed into another form, so that life is wont to be filled with many deaths, not only by the passage of time, but by the lapses of the soul through sin” (PG 29:493 AB; trans. FOTC 46, 358). Note the rabbinic tradition in which Job asks not to be judged for the sins he committed before the age of twenty-two, i.e., the age of reasoned adulthood, and the number of letters in the Hebrew alphabet. 61 T. Simopoulos, ed., Mele´ tio" oJ Galhsio´ th" (Athens, 1978), no. 180 (“On the Remembrance of Death”), p. 492, line 54; Basil the Younger is also mentioned (p. 492, line 71); no. 181 (“On the Separation of the Soul and the Resurrection of the Body”), p. 493, line 19. On Meletios, see R. Macrides, “Saints and Sainthood in the Early Palaiologan Period,” in The Byzantine Saint, ed. S. Hackel (Birmingham, U.K., 1981), 81–82. 58

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posed, however, by Eugenikos’ disciple, Gennadios Scholarios (ca. 1400–1472) who, in one of his grand gestures toward the West, stated that the trial of the “tollgates” was, in fact, the Byzantine equivalent of purgatory, minus the fireworks.62 Indeed, the soul of Theodora was, in the end, spared the ordeal of the tollgates after her spiritual director, St. Basil the Younger, indulged her with a gold coin taken from the coffers of his own merits (§18.8). Scholarios’ intriguing assertion notwithstanding, these narratives were valued more for their power to catalyze religious conversion, as was the iconography of the Last Judgment, which was also considered instrumental in repentance and conversion, prompting in viewers the fear of punishment and damnation.63 The mere thought of rapacious tax collectors and grasping lawyers created great anxiety among the Byzantine populace and, as symbolic devices, were judged effective in fostering a sense of final reckoning and ultimate accountability. The salutary utility of these terrible little tales was not lost on their authors. The Life of Antony, for instance, notes that: “Having seen this [i.e., the vision of the ascending soul] . . . [Antony] struggled the more to daily advance,” adding that the saint shared the vision with others “for whom the account would be beneficial, that they might learn that discipline bore good fruit” (§66).64 THE SLEEP OF SOULS AND THE CULT OF SAINTS Unlike the souls of sinners, the souls of the saints, in virtue of their tax-exempt status, were thought to proceed more or less directly either to heaven, or to paradise, or to the bosom of Abraham, or to some such similar place of repose. They were, however, taxed by other problems.65 The absence of any official doctrinal pronouncements on the status 62 Gennadios Scholarios, On Purgatory, 2, ed. L. Petit et al., Oeuvres comple`tes de Georges Scholarios, vol. 1 (Paris, 1928), 533; idem, On the Fate of the Soul after Death, 7, ibid., 513; cf., with caution, H. C. Barbour, The Byzantine Thomism of Gennadios Scholarios (Vatican City, 1993). 63 See Theophanes Continuatus (ed. I. Bekker [Bonn, 1838], 164.8–16); cf. R. Stichel, Studien zum Verha¨ltnis von Text und Bild spa¨t- und nachbyzantinischer Verga¨nglichkeitsdarstellungen (Vienna, 1971), 33, 70–75. 64 SC 400, p. 310; cf. the psychomachia in the 4th apophthegma of Theophilos, which concludes with: “Where then is the vanity of the world? Where is vain glory? Where is carnal life? Where is pleasure? Where is fantasy? Where is boasting? Riches? Nobility? Father, mother, brother? . . . Since this is so, in what manner ought we not to give ourselves to holy and devout works? What love ought we to acquire? What manner of life? What virtues? What speed? What diligence? What prayer? What prudence? Scripture says, ‘In this waiting, let us make every effort to be found blameless and without reproach in peace’ (cf. 1 Cor. 1:7–8). In this way, we shall be worthy to hear it said: ‘Come, O Blessed of my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world’” (PG 65:200D–201A; trans. B. Ward, 70). Cyril of Alexandria, in his De exitu animi, poses a series of thirty such rhetorical questions, including: “Where now is the eloquence of rhetors, and their vain and clever tricks?” (!) (PG 77:1077CD). A similar vision in the life of Elias Speliotes concludes by asking: “How many tax collectors and publicans await us in our ascent? For at that time there shall be an exacting examination of thoughts, words, and deeds. And who, brethren, shall be found without fault at that hour? Thus we should continuously ponder these things and repeat them, safeguarding ourselves from every sin and vain word” (AASS, Sep. 3 [Paris-Rome, 1868]), 876. 65 For one thing, the greed of church officials and the popular demand for an unending supply of holy bones threatened to reduce the cult of saints to a Byzantine farce, as can be seen in the satire on relics by Christopher of Mytilene (ca. 1000–1068), who ridicules the “ten hands of the martyr Prokopios, the fifteen jawbones of Theodore, the eight feet of Nestor, the four skulls of George, the five breasts of Barbara, the twelve arms of Demetrios, the twenty skeletons of Panteleimon, and the sixty teeth of Thekla,” complaining that both naive faith and the desire for gain have transformed the martyrs into “beasts with many heads and dogs with many breasts, making Nestor an octopus, and Prokopios a hundred-handed giant [i.e., Aegaeon of Greek mythology].” Christopher’s cabinet of curiosities also contains the “hand of Enoch, the buttock of

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of the soul after death encouraged, or at least did not prevent, various factions and parties from contesting, challenging, and in some cases ultimately rejecting the church’s devotion to the cult of saints. They did so based on the belief that the souls of the dead (sainted or otherwise) were more or less inert and thus could not intervene in, or be influenced by, the affairs of the living. Extant are two major responses to these challenges, the first by Eustratios, a sixthcentury presbyter of Constantinople,66 and the second by John the Deacon,67 dated to some time in the eleventh century. Jean Gouillard has suggested that the positions criticized in these two works are a survival of the thnetopsychism encountered by Origen in Arabia, noted by Eusebios in his Church History, and listed as a heresy by John of Damascus.68 As its name suggests, thnetopsychism was the belief that the soul was mortal and died with the body at the moment of death. It is unclear if Arabian thnetopsychism is related to the Syriac tradition of the soul’s dormition espoused by writers like Aphrahat (d. ca. 345), Ephrem (d. 373), and Narsai (d. 502), according to whom the souls of the dead are largely inert, having lapsed into a state of sleep, in which they can only dream of their future reward or punishments.69 The Syriac tradition of the soul’s “sleep in the dust” (Job 21:26), with its links to the Old Testament and Jewish apocalyptic, stands as Elijah, and the finger of the archangel Michael,” to which he adds a “feather from Gabriel dropped in Nazareth, and a thrice-pupiled eyeball of a Cherubim,” Ad Andream Monachum, in Die Gedichte des Christophoros Mitylenaios, ed. E. Kurtz (Leipzig, 1903), no. 114, pp. 76–80. 66 Eustratios, Presbyter of Constantinople, A Refutation of Those Who Say That the Souls of the Dead Are Not Active and Receive No Benefit from the Prayers and Sacrifices Made for Them to God, in Leo Allatius, ed., De Utriusque Ecclesiae Occidentalis atque Orientalis Perpetua in Dogmate de Purgatorio Consensu (Rome, 1655), 336–580. Allatius’ Latin translation of this work was reprinted by J.-P. Migne, Theologiae cursus completus, vol. 18 (Paris, 1841), 465–514. Eustratios was the disciple of Eutychios of Constantinople, who died in 582, after which, according to J. Gouillard (below, note 67), the Refutation was written; cf. N. Constas, “An Apology for the Cult of the Saints in Late Antiquity: Eustratius Presbyter of Constantinople, De statu animarum post mortem (CPG 7522),” JEChrSt (forthcoming). Compare the earlier reactions of Proklos, Hom. 5 (PG 65:716BC); Theodoret, Curatio, 8.10 (SC 57 [Paris, 1958], 313); Basil of Seleucia, Or. 39 (PG 85:449); and Ps.-Chrysostom, In s. Thomam (PG 59:498). A corollary move was to reject the practice of liturgies and memorials for the dead, on which see Ps.-John of Damascus, De his qui in fide dormierunt (PG 95:269D). 67 John the Deacon, On the Veneration of the Saints. Addressed to Those Who Say That They Are Unable to Help Us after Their Departure from This Life, text in J. Gouillard, “Le´thargie des ˆames et culte des saints: Un plaidoyer ˆr,” TM 8 (1981): 171–86; cf. J. Haldon, “Supplementary Essay,” in The Miracles ine´dit de Jean Diacre et Maı¨sto of St. Artemios, ed. V. S. Crisafulli and J. W. Nesbitt (Leiden, 1997), 45–55; G. Dagron, “Holy Image and Likeness,” DOP 45 (1991): 32–33; idem, “L’ombre d’un doute: L’hagiographie en question, VIe–XIe sie`cle,” DOP 46 (1992): 59–68, esp. 45–47. 68 John of Damascus, Haeres. 90: “Thnetopsychists are those who say that human souls are like the souls of animals, and perish with their bodies” (ed. B. Kotter, Die Schriften des Johannes von Damaskos, vol. 4 [Berlin, 1981], 57). Clement had earlier rejected the Greek version of thnetopsychism (cf. Plato, Phaedo, 96b4) in Paed. 1.6, but Origen notes that Lev. 17:14 had been used to support the theory of two souls, a higher and a lower, the latter present in the blood and subject to bodily desire and death: Dialogue with Heracleides (ed. J. Scherer, SC 67 [Paris, 1960], 76–110); cf. Origen, De princ. 3.4.2, and the notice by Eusebios, Historia ecclesiastica, 6.37 (Loeb, II [Cambridge, Mass., 1980], 90–91). 69 F. Gavin, “The Sleep of the Soul in the Early Syriac Church,” JAOS 40 (1920): 103–20, argues that the later tradition of Syriac “soul sleep” was actually Aristotelian, i.e., if the soul is the “form” of the body, then it cannot survive the body’s dissolution. But cf. P. Kru ¨ ger, “Le sommeil des ˆames dans l’oeuvre de Narsaı¨,” OrSyr 4 (1959): 193–210; idem, “Gehenna und Scheol in dem Schriftum unter dem Names des Isaak von Antiochen,” OKS 2 (1953): 27–79; E. Beck, “Ephra¨ms Hymnen u ¨ ber das Paradies,” Studia Anselmiana 26 (1951): 77–95; P. Gignoux, “Les doctrines eschatologiques de Narsai,” Oriens Syrianus 11 (1966): 321–52, 461–88, and 12 (1967): 23–54; M.-J. Pierre, Aphraate le Sage Persan. Les expose´s, SC 349 (Paris, 1988), 191–99.

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a corrective to overly Hellenized views of the afterlife, and was canonized at a Nestorian synod in the eighth century (786–787) presided over by Timothy I (d. 823), who rejected anything else as blatant Origenism.70 Gouillard notes that variations of thnetopsychism and hypnopsychism existed alongside the views of the official church until the sixth century when they were resoundingly denounced by Eustratios. Responding to the charge that the souls of the dead are “incapable of activity” (ajnene´ rghtoi, a“praktoi) and “confined to one place” (§2), Eustratios perilously raised the stakes by arguing that, on the contrary, the souls of departed saints are even more active in death than they were in life (§14). Eustratios’ opponents further argued that the earthly appearances of saints are merely “phantasms” produced by a “certain divine power” which “assumes their shapes and forms” (§2; §13; §16). But this, Eustratios countered, would make a liar of God and “mislead the faithful as to the true nature of their benefactors.” It would, in more dramatic terms, reduce the church to a “stage of mimes and jesters . . . [or a] theater where actors don the masks of others, like the ‘false faces of hypocrites’ in the Gospel of Matthew” (Matt. 6:16) (§18). Apparently facing the same dilemma, Anastasios of Sinai (d. after 700) sought a compromise and suggested that the earthly appearances of saints are actually angels who take on the forms of various holy people, chiefly to show up in church on the appropriate feast day.71 Thnetopsychism continued to challenge the patience and ingenuity of church officials, as evidenced by writers such as John the Deacon, Niketas Stethatos, Philip Monotropos (Dioptra, pp. 210, 220), and Michael Glykas, all of whom are keenly interested in the survival of consciousness and memory among the souls of the departed saints. John the Deacon, for example, attacks those who “dare to say that praying to the saints is like shouting in the ears of the deaf, as if they had drunk from the mythical waters of Oblivion” (line 174). The allusion to the Platonic fountain of Lethe (Rep. 10.621C) in this passage suggests that the source of trouble may have been connected with the eleventh-century revival of Neoplatonic and Chaldean studies. Stethatos’ contemporary work On the Soul, for example, with its concern for the postmortem survival of memory and noetic sensation, contains a marginal note (§74) indicating that the work was written “against the Thnetopsychists.” Jean Darrouze`s, who edited this text, claims that this note was added by Stethatos himself after he republished the work as an attack on John Italos (p. 21, n. 3). Gouillard likewise sees the treatise by John the Deacon as yet another volley launched Similarly, Photios (ca. 810–893) notes that Stephen Gobar (d. 578?) rejected the eschatology of Gregory of Nyssa, and believed that after death the soul stays with its body in the grave (Bibliotheka cod. 232; PG 103:1093D–96A). On Timothy I and the synod, see A. Guillaumont, “Sources de la doctrine de Joseph Hazzaˆyaˆ,” Oriens Syrianus 3 (1958): 3–24; the anti-Origenist remarks occur in the Lettre de Timothe´e `a Boktis˘ˆo (ed. O. Braun, CSCO Scriptores Syr. vol. 30 [Louvain, 1953], p. 44); cf. O Braun, “Zwei Synoden des Katholikos Timotheos I,” OC 2 (1902): 308–9. 71 Anastasios, Quaestiones, 89 (PG 89:718CD); cf. Dagron, “Holy Image,” 32, who calls this a “striking masquerade regulated by God.” The Ps.-Athanasian version of this masquerade (Qu. 22; PG 28:612) is rejected as spurious by Glykas, who nevertheless notes that “sometimes they [i.e., the saints] themselves appear to us on their own, at other times, instead of them, angels are sent, and sometimes it is the grace of the Holy Spirit” (Theological Chapters, 21, p. 248). Note that not long after Eustratios’ Refutation, the Byzantine cult of saints faced a new threat in the form of Iconoclasm, a movement that may have derived some of its impetus from traditions and beliefs such as these; cf. the Life of Stephen the Younger, 29, where the Iconoclasts are said to have “blasphemed against the saints and the Theotokos, saying that they are unable to help (boethein) us ´ tienne le Jeune (Aldershot, 1997), 127, lines 24–26. after death,” ed. M.-F. Auze´py, La vie d’ E 70

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against this man, who was, in the words of Anna Komnene, “full of dialectical aggression” (Alex. 5.8). Italos, it will be remembered, was born in southern Italy and moved to Constantinople around 1049. His popular lectures on Neoplatonism stirred up considerable commotion resulting in his condemnation by a synod in 1082. Among the various charges brought against him was the crime of believing in the “transmigration of souls and their destruction and reduction to nothingness with the death of the body.” 72 Modern commentators have sought to absolve Italos of this charge on the grounds that he could not possibly have espoused Plato’s and Aristotle’s mutually contradictory theories about the fate of the soul after death. However, Byzantine Neoplatonism, much like the late antique variety, was in many ways an attempt to synthesize the academic with the peripatetic.73 In Plotinus and Porphyry, for instance, memory is acquired through the lower soul’s alienation in and through the body, causing the soul to forget the intelligible world and its presence in it. But the higher soul remains impassible, and at death, the lower soul ceases to exist, memory dies, and the intellect returns to God.74 The notion that human beings had two souls can be found already in Philo and Origen. Photios was accused of believing in two souls, one that sinned and another that did not.75 The tension between the two was precisely what Psellos was trying to resolve.76 See the synodikon, ed. J. Gouillard, “Le Synodikon de l’Orthodoxie. Edition et commentaire,” TM 2 (1967): 1–316; the quotation is from p. 57/59, lines 193–97, anathematizing those who “prefer the foolish wisdom of secular philosophers, and who follow their teachers, and who accept the transmigration of human souls, or who likewise believe that, like irrational animals, the souls of humans die with their bodies.” See also J. Gouillard, “Le proce`s officiel de Jean l’Italien. Les actes et leur sous-entendus,” TM 9 (1985): 133–74; L. Clucas, The Trial of John Italos and the Crisis of Intellectual Values in Byzantium in the Eleventh Century (Munich, 1981), 9–10, 53–54; and R. Browning, “Enlightenment and Repression in Byzantium in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries,” Past and Present 69 (1975): 3–23. Italos was further charged with rejecting the cult of saints, and with having thrown a stone at an icon of Christ, although another source notes that the abuse hurled was only verbal (cf. Gouillard, “Synodikon,” p. 59, lines 209–13; and idem, “Le proce`s officiel,” 155, 157). 73 Anna Komnene, Alex. 5.9 (ed. L. Schopen, CSHB 39 [Bonn, 1839], 262–63), notes that Italos, after being “promoted to the Chair of General Philosophy, with the title ‘Consul of the Philosophers,’ devoted his energies to the exegesis of Aristotle and Plato.” 74 For Plotinus, memory is acquired along with individuality and the desire to be different from the One, and thus appears only after the soul has left the higher region of the Intellect (Ennead, IV.4.5.11–13). Memory occurs only in time (IV.3.25.13–15). Conversely, the higher, ideal self can participate in Intellect only at a loss of individuality and memory, although in some sense consciousness is maintained (IV.4.2.30–2); cf. G. Gurtler, “Plotinus and the Alienation of the Soul,” in The Perennial Tradition of Neoplatonism, ed. J. J. Cleary (Leuven, 1997), 221–34; idem, Plotinus: The Experience of Unity (New York, 1988), 59–67 (“Consciousness and Memory”); and C. Steel, The Changing Self: A Study on the Soul in Later Neoplatonism: Iamblichus, Damascius and Priscianus, trans. S. Haasl (Brussels, 1978). 75 See Theophanes Continuatus (⫽ Symeon Magister), Chronographia, 35: “Photios ascended the pulpit and publicly stated that . . . every human being has two souls: one that sins and another that does not.” Photios is said to have dodged the accusation by means of “cunning arguments” (ed. I. Bekker [Bonn, 1838], 673). See also the tenth charge of the anti-Photian synod of 869: “Even though both the Old and the New Testaments teach that man has only a single rational and logical soul, and though this very same belief is confirmed by all the divine fathers and teachers of the church, there are certain people who nevertheless hold that man has two souls, an opinion that they maintain by means of certain incoherent arguments; these this holy and ecumenical council loudly condemns” (Mansi, vol. 16, p. 404, cf. 456, lines 31–33); cf. F. Dvornik, The Photian Schism (Cambridge, 1948), 33. 76 See esp., Psellos, Philosophica Minora, II.20 (“On the Memory of the Soul after Death”), ed. D. J. O’Meara (Stuttgart-Leipzig, 1989), 34–35; cf. O. J. F. Seltz, “Antecedents and Signification of the Term dipsychos,” JBL 72

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THE PERSISTENCE OF PURGATORY In the final years of the empire, eschatology became a major topic of discussion between the Greek and Latin churches.77 As mentioned above, the notion of the soul’s postmortem purification by fire was not entirely absent from the Greek theological tradition. At the reunion Council of Ferrara-Florence (1438–39), the Latins noted with approval the purgatorial theories of Gregory of Nyssa, to which many a pro-unionist head nodded in agreement. Taking up the gauntlet, Mark Eugenikos, the metropolitan of Ephesos (1392–1445), argued that Nyssa had spoken of such purgations with respect to all souls, and not just the souls of the wicked. Moreover, Eugenikos insisted that the purification described by Nyssa was envisioned as taking place, not immediately after death, but only after the Last Judgment, that is, not with the stripping off of the body in death, but with the restoration of the body in the resurrection. In any case, Eugenikos stated, Nyssa, at least on this point, had “missed the mark” (th'" ajkribei´a" parasfale´ nto"), and he suggested that they use Maximos the Confessor as a basis for reunion instead. Eugenikos, in fact, was being polite. The Latin invocation of highly suspect passages in Gregory of Nyssa appeared, in eastern eyes, to be nothing more than the heretical teaching of Origen, who likewise had envisioned an end to the fires of hell.78 As a disciple of Gregory Palamas (1347–59), Eugenikos tended to view all discussion of fire and light in the context of divinization experienced as a vision of the uncreated light of God. From Eugenikos’ point of view, Palamism rendered purgatory redundant, and he therefore took the discussion in a new and different direction. For Eugenikos, heaven and hell are names for the relative places produced by the eschatological encounter of created and uncreated energies. Face to face with eternity, the one and the same light of God will both illumine and incinerate, and between those two poles of experience there stands a “great chasm, which none may cross” (cf. Luke 16:2679). The spatialization of divine light was a central point in the theology of Basil of Caesarea, for whom the illuminating presence of the Holy Spirit was the dwelling place of 66 (1947): 211–19; R. Ferwerda, “Two Souls: Origen’s and Augustine’s Attitude toward the Two Souls Doctrine. Its Place in Greek and Christian Philosophy,” VChr 37 (1983): 360–78; G. Stroumsa and P. Fredrikson, “The Two Souls and the Divided Will,” in Soul, Self, and Body in Religious Experience, ed. A. Baumgarten, J. Assmann, and G. Stroumsa (Leiden, 1998), 198–217; and G. Stroumsa, “The Two Souls,” in his Barbarian Philosophy: The Religious Revolution of Early Christianity (Tu ¨ bingen, 1999), 282–91. 77 For a summary of these discussions, see R. Ombres, “Latins and Greeks in Debate over Purgatory, 1230–1439,” JEH 35 (1984): 1–14; for the Council of Lyons, see V. Laurent and J. Darrouze`s, Dossier grec de l’Union de Lyon (1273–1277) (Paris, 1976), 497–501. For the beginnings of the debate, see Michael Glykas, Theological Chapters, 85 (p. 580); M. Roncaglia, Georges Bardane`s, me´tropolite de Corfou et Barthelemy de l’ordre Franciscain (Rome, 1953); and G. Dagron, “La perception d’une diffe´rence: Les de´buts de la ‘querelle du purgatoire’,” in Actes du XVe Congre`s d’Etudes Byzantines. Athe`nes, Sept. 1976, vol. 4 (Athens, 1980), 84–92. For general studies, see R. Ombres, The Theory of Purgatory (Dublin-Cork, 1978); J. Le Goff, The Birth of Purgatory, trans. A. Goldhammer (Chicago, 1984). 78 Eugenikos, Oratio altera, chaps. 15–18 (ed. L. Petit, PO 15.1 [Paris, 1920; repr. Turnhout, Belgium, 1974], pp. 122–28); the quotation critical of Nyssa is from chap. 15 (p. 122, lines 28–29); on Maximos the Confessor, see chap. 18 (p. 82), citing Maximos, Quaestiones et Dubia, 13 (PG 90:796); for Eng. trans. and commentary, see P. Sherwood, The Earlier Ambigua of St. Maximus the Confessor (Rome, 1955), 215–19. 79 Eugenikos cites the Lucan parable in Oratio prima, chap. 14, no. 7 (PO 15, p. 58, lines 12–28); Oratio altera, chap. 4 (PO 15, p. 111, lines 20–30), and chap. 23, no. 7 (p. 147, lines 9–22).

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the sanctified.80 The elision of space with light was also a philosophical presupposition of Neoplatonic metaphysics,81 and while Eugenikos cites Dionysios the Areopagite directly, he found John of Damascus’ discussion of spatiality particularly valuable. According to the Damascene, “the ‘place’ (topos) of God is the ‘place’ where God’s energy is present . . . it is that which participates in God’s energy and grace.” 82 With the theology of Gregory Palamas, the late antique metaphysics of light received new vigor and expression, and it remained for Mark Eugenikos to extend that theology into the eschaton. For Eugenikos, the souls of the righteous dwell in the Spirit as in a kind of light-space, which they occupy and experience as pure vision (theoria), like figures shimmering in the gold ground of an icon, “sages,” as it were, “standing in God’s holy fire.” 83 The vision of God, according to Eugenikos, is unique to each soul and modifies spatial orientation by establishing particular modes of reference and relation.84 In one compelling image, he suggests that the souls of the righteous are like the friends of a king who have received invitations to a royal banquet. They move toward God with joy, beholding the palace looming on the horizon and contemplating with delight the hour of celebration.85 Eugenikos cites a similar passage from Gregory of Nazianzos who describes the soul as “graciously advancing forward (i”lew" cwrei') to God.” 86 Basil’s second doxology, which he defended against criticism, used the locative preposition “in” (ejn) as a way to characterize the Spirit’s function within the economy of creation and redemption; see his On the Holy Spirit, chaps. 25–26 (58–64), ed. B. Pruche (Angers, 1947), 219–31; cf. M. A. Donovan, “The Spirit: Place of the Sanctified in Basil’s De Spiritu Sanctu,” StP 17.3 (1982): 1073–84. See also H. Alfeyev, “The Patristic Background of St. Symeon the New Theologian’s Doctrine of the Divine Light,” StP 32 (1997): 231–38. 81 On which see L. Schrenk, “Proclus on Space as Light,” Ancient Philosophy 9 (1989): 87–94; cf. W. Beier¨r Philosophische Forschung 5 (1961): 334–62, repr. in Die waltes, “Plotins Metaphysik des Lichtes,” Zeitschrift fu Philosophie des Neuplatonismus, ed. C. Zintzen (Darmstadt, 1971), 75–115, with a Nachwort at 116–17; and F. Schroeder, Form and Transformation: A Study in the Philosophy of Plotinus (Montreal, 1992), 24–39. 82 Cited by Eugenikos, Responsio, chap. 2 (PO 15, p. 153, lines 21–24). The Areopagitical citations (Celestial Hierarchy, 15, and On the Divine Names, 1.4) are at ibid., p. 155, lines 15–27, and p. 156, lines 19–30. 83 Eugenikos has a rich vocabulary for the middle state of souls that have reposed “in faith.” Such souls reside in “appropriate places (prosh´ konte" to´ poi) and are entirely at rest.” They are “free in heaven with the angels and near (para` ) to God himself, indeed they are in paradise from whence Adam fell” (Or. alt. chap. 3, p. 110, lines 5–9). Eugenikos notes that these souls enjoy the “blessed vision (qewri´a) of God and of God’s effulgence (ai“glh)” (ibid., lines 15–17). In a citation from Gregory of Nazianzos, the righteous are described as receiving the “ineffable light (a“fraston fw'") and the vision (qewri´a) of the holy and sovereign Trinity, shining more brightly and purely” (ibid., chap 9, p. 116, lines 29–31 ⫽ Nazianzos, PG 35.945). This state can be called the “vision (qewri´a) of God, or participation and communion (metoch` kai` koinwni´a) with God, or the kingdom of heaven,” Responsio, chap. 1 (p. 153, lines 15–17). 84 Oratio altera, chap. 23, no. 4 (p. 144, lines 24–30): “The most perfect reward for the pure of heart and soul is to see God, although all do not see God in the same way” (tou´ tou de` oujc oJmoi´w" ejpitugca´ nein a”panta"); cf. Argumenta decem adversus ignem purgatorium, no. 1 (ed. L. Petit, PO 17 [Paris, 1920], p. 285, lines 12–14): th' ejkklhsi´a dokei' polla` " mona` " ejn th' tou' Qeou' tiqeme´ nh qewri´a, ta´ xew´ n te kai` baqmw'n eijsagou´ sh diaforo´ thta, see also Scholarios’ last words to Mark: ajpodhmh´ seia" pro` " o’n hJtoi´masa" seautv' to´ pon th'" ajnapau´ sew" (PO 17, p. 352, lines 19–21). 85 Oratio altera, chap. 4 (p. 111, lines 9–13), citing Ps.-Athanasios, Quaestiones ad Antiochum, 20 (PG 28:609). 86 Oratio altera, chap. 7 (p. 115, line 12 ⫽ Nazianzos, Or, 7, PG 35:781). At rest and yet paradoxically in motion, the notion of the soul’s “stationary movement” is a spatial construal of the patristic doctrine of “sober inebriation” and “watchful sleep.” See, e.g., Maximos the Confessor, Thal. 50: “The soul, established by God on account of the natural unity in which it has come to exist, will acquire an ever-moving rest and a stationary uniformity of motion around the same, one, and only thing eternally” (PG 90:760A); cf. P. Plass, “‘Moving Rest’ in Maximus the Confessor,” ClMed 35 (1984): 177–90; P. Blowers, “Gregory of Nyssa, Max80

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The metaphor of movement, however, indicates that the souls of the righteous, despite their state of bliss, are nevertheless incomplete. These souls are merely on their way to the palace—they have not yet arrived at the banquet. Their “share (klh'ron) in the joy of the kingdom,” therefore, remains only “partial (merikh` ajpo´ lausi") and incomplete (ouj telei´a).” 87 Their imperfection, moreover, is not, in this case, a corollary to the theory of the soul’s perpetual progress in God. Rather, Eugenikos says that such souls are “incomplete and, as it were, cut in half (ajtelei'" o“nte" kai` oi»on hJmi´tomoi), because they lack the incorruptible body that they will receive after the resurrection.” 88 The disembodied soul had by this time been long understood to be but one piece of a psychosomatic puzzle apart from which it could not know perfection. Even after death, Eugenikos asserted, the soul continues to be drawn to (ejpicwria´ zein) the proximity of its body in language reminiscent of its sympathy and attraction toward God.89 Body and soul, being in this way identified, can be said to occupy the same space, intersecting at the site of their holy relics, which become sacred places of passage and encounter. Relics are thus conjunctive centers in which absolute space becomes identified with a particular place, coextensive with the physical space of the church building. As a result, the loca sanctorum have a complex, symbiotic relationship with the souls and bodies of their heavenly patrons. On the one hand, the saints are present in their temples as patrons and benefactors listening attentively and interceding (presbeu´ ein) on behalf of their clients.90 The church, on the other hand, through prayer, anamnesis, and especially through the eucharistic anaphora, can assist (bohqei'n), not just the departed faithful, but even the righteous in their eternal response to the divine call.91 But while the presence of the saints sanctifies the space of the liturgy, the very materiality of that space means that the saints present therein cannot at the same time be completely present with God in heaven. Indeed, Eugenikos notes, even angels cannot be in two places at once: Angels are sent by God from their spiritual place (to´ po") into the bodily world, and they are not simultaneously present or active (ejnergei'n) both here and there. While present imus the Confessor, and the Concept of ‘Perpetual Progress’,” VChr 46 (1992): 151–71; and L. P. Gerson, Kinesis Akinetos. A Study of Spiritual Motion in the Philosophy of Proclus (Leiden, 1973). 87 Oratio altera, chap. 3 (p. 109, line 35; p. 111, line 7), and chap. 6 (p. 114, lines 29–30); cf. Responsio, chap. 1 (p. 152, lines 11–19): “The souls of the saints have not yet (ou“pw) received their proper inheritance (oijkei'on klh'ron), and their enjoyment (ajpo´ lausi") of that blessed state (kata´ stasi") is entirely incomplete and lacking (ajtelh´ " ejsti pa'sa kai` ejlliph´ ") with respect to that restoration (ajpokata´ stasi") for which they hope.” 88 Oratio altera, chap. 6 (p. 114, lines 33–36); cf. the Acta Graeca (ed. J. Gill, Concilium Florentinum. Documenta et Scriptores 5.1 [Rome, 1953], pp. 25–26): “The souls of the righteous experience the vision of God perfectly (telei´w") as souls, but they will experience it more perfectly (telew´ teron) after the resurrection of their own bodies, and then they will shine forth like the sun, or indeed like the very light which came forth from our Lord Jesus Christ on Mount Tabor” (cf. Matt. 17:1–2). 89 Oratio altera, chap. 3 (p. 110, lines. 10–15). Mark develops this position in his treatise On the Resurrection, published by A. Schmemann, Qeologi´a 22 (1951): 53–60, see esp. p. 57, lines 137–39: kai` marturou'sin aiJ tw'n aJgi´wn yucai´, toi'" ijdi´oi" skh´ nesin ejpicwria´ zousi meta` teleuth` n kai` di∆ aujtw'n ejnergou'si. 90 Oratio altera, chap. 3 (p. 110, line 13). On the cult of the saints in the Palaiologan period, see A.-M. Talbot, Faith Healing in Late Byzantium (Brookline, Mass., 1983), and eadem, “New Wine in Old Bottles: The ´ urcˇic´ and D. MouRewriting of Saints’ Lives in the Palaeologan Period,” in The Twilight of Byzantium, ed. S. C riki (Princeton, N.J., 1991), 15–26. 91 Oratio prima, chap. 1 (pp. 39–41), chap. 3 (pp. 43–44); Oratio altera, chap. 12 (pp. 118–19).

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THE MIDDLE STATE OF SOULS there, they perform (ejnergei'n) their proper tasks of standing before God, beholding God, and praising God. But when present on earth they refrain for a time (scola´ zonte" pro` " mikro´ n) from their pure (ajkraifnh´ ") vision of God. John of Damascus, in his chapter on the Place of God, says that, “Although an angel is not contained physically in a place so as to assume form and shape, it is said to be in a place because of its being spiritually present and active (ejnergei'n) there according to its nature, and because of its being nowhere else, but remaining spiritually circumscribed in the place where it acts. For it cannot act in different places at the same time.” 92 . . . For the same reason the vision and enjoyment of the saints is incomplete (ejlliph´ ") since, taking thought for their brethren, they are turned (ejpistre´ fontai) toward the physical world and spend most of their time with us, working miracles through their sacred relics and being present to each one who prays to them. It is not possible for them to be active (ejnergei'n) and sympathetically present (sumpa´ scein) with the faithful and at the same time to enjoy the pure (ajkraifnh´ ") vision of God.93

The soul’s presence in the fragments of its body conditions and limits its presence to God. Although productive of a new mode of spatiality, it remains lodged within the space and time of the fallen world. Nevertheless, it lives with the sure “promise,” or “pledge” (ajrrabw´ n)94 of a perfect eschatological union with God. Until then, its proper mode of orientation is one of “expectation” (prosdoki´a), in which it “expects the resurrection of the dead” in solidarity with the entire body of the church.95 Sinful space, on the other hand, is of an entirely different order. It is devoid of light. It is a dark interval, isolated, confining, and stressful.96 Such space is occupied, and thereby produced, by the isolated soul in conjunction with its opaque, corrupted body. These souls also look to the future (prosdokw'nte"), but in fear and loathing of the coming judgment. Closed within inert and inactive space, like the souls immobilized in Dante’s frozen lake of Hell, they can make no movement or gesture toward God, but anxiously await A corollary notion was that “each angel has under it a different part of the earth or the universe,” according to Gregory of Nazianzos, Or. 28.31 (SC 250 [Paris, 1978], 174, lines 29–31); cf. idem, Or. 31.29: “The Holy Spirit penetrates (cwrou'n) them (i.e., the angels) simultaneously, though they are distributed in various places, which shows that the Spirit is not tied down by spatial limitations (ajperi´grapton)” (ibid., p. 336, lines 40–44); idem, On Rational Natures (ed. C. Moreschini and D. A. Sykes, St. Gregory Nazianzus: Poemata Arcana [Oxford, 1997], 26–32 [text and trans.], 195–214 [notes and commentary]); cf. J. Rousse, “Les anges et leur ministe`re selon Gre´goire de Nazianze,” Me´langes de sciences religieuse 22 (1965): 133–52; T. ˘pidlı´k, Gre´goire de Nazianze (Rome, 1971), 15–23. The visual and hence artistic circumscription of angels S was debated during the iconoclastic controversy, on which see K. Parry, Depicting the Word. Byzantine Iconophile Thought of the Eighth and Ninth Centuries (Leiden, 1996), 81–88. 93 Responsio, chap. 2 (p. 154, lines 10–26, and p. 156, lines 6–17); cf. On the Resurrection, 1 (A. Schemann, Qeologi´a 52 [1951]: 54.42–43): a“ggeloi perigraptoi` kai` a“llote a“llou" to´ pou" ejpilamba´ nonte" eij" diakoni´an ajpostello´ menoi. 94 Responsio, chap. 1 (p. 153, line 10). 95 Eugenikos’ doctrine of eschatological “expectation” is derived from the eleventh article of the NiceneConstantinopolitan creed (prosdokw' ajna´ stasin nekrw'n) and is attested at Oratio prima, chap. 1 (p. 40, line 15 ⫽ prosdoki´a); Oratio altera, chap. 3 (p. 110, line 25 ⫽ prosdokw'nte"); chap. 8 (p. 116, line 18 ⫽ prosdoki´a); chap. 11 (p. 118, line 2 ⫽ prosdokw'nte"); Responsio, chap. 6 (p. 163, line 3 ⫽ prosdoki´a), and On the Resurrection, 1 (Qeologi´a 52 [1951]: 53.5–6 ⫽ prosedo´ kwn). 96 Eugenikos notes that the souls of “sinners are locked in Hades, in what David calls ‘dark places and in the shadow of Death, laid within the lowest pit’ (Ps. 87:7), while Job calls it a ‘land of darkness and gloominess, a land of perpetual darkness where there is no light, neither can any one see the life of mortals’ (Job 10:22)”; Oratio altera, chap. 3 (p. 110, lines 18–24), drawing on Ps.-Athanasios, Quaestiones ad Antiochum, 19 (PG 28:609). 92

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the “tyranny of the light.” 97 These the church also prays for, so that they may find “some relief, if not complete deliverance” (mikra'" tino" ajne´ sew", eij kai` mh` telei´a" ajpallagh'").98 Between these shadows and the light there can be no middle ground. In death, as in life, the soul can stand only on either side of a “great chasm which none may cross” (Luke 16:26). There can thus be no purgatorial “third place” (tri´to" to´ po")99 because there can be no middling, intermediate relationship with God (cf. Matt. 12:30; Rev. 3:15–16). Neither is it possible, Eugenikos argued, for souls to suffer “physically” from any kind of “material or bodily fire,” 100 nor would such suffering somehow balance the ledger of divine debts. Eugenikos maintained that the Latin theory of satisfaction imposed human limits and logic on divine love and implied that God could forgive great sins but not small ones which must be punished. Citing the case of the “good thief ” transported to Paradise (Luke 23:43), and the Publican who “went to his house justified” (Luke 18:14), Eugenikos held that God’s love and forgiveness are absolute. Even the emperors themselves, he noted, do not punish wrongdoers after granting them amnesty. If sin is forgiven, punishment is not required since God’s justice and holiness do not “demand” punishment in order to be “satisfied.” 101 A “third place,” Eugenikos concluded, could be only an allegorical place, segmented from the real space and time (kairo´ ") of the final judgment,102 and as such represents only the didactic or proleptic production of “expectant,” prophetic space.103 Above all, there can be no purgatory because the full and final epiphany of deified humanity must await the resurrection of the transfigured body. The “kingdom is prepared, it has not yet been given (hJtoimasme´ nh ouj dedome´ nh); the fires, too, have been 97 Unlike the sainted souls hastening to the royal banquet, Eugenikos describes the souls of sinners as “bound within the confines of a prison, like persons who stand accused, and who await in anguish the arrival of the judge and the impending punishments”; Oratio altera, chap. 4 (p. 111, lines, 14–15). 98 Oratio altera, chap. 12 (p. 118, lines 30–31). 99 Oratio altera, chap. 23, no. 7 (p. 147, lines 13–15): mh` ejmfai´nesqai tri´ton tina` to´ pon, to` n ta` " tw'n me´ sw" biwsa´ ntwn yuca` " kaqarqhsome´ na" uJpodeco´ meno, cf. Oratio prima, chap. 5, p. 46, lines 13–18: tou` " krinome´ nou" eij" du´ o moi´ra" dielw´ n . . . oujdamou' kai` tri´tou" pare´ deixe, citing Matt. 25:46. Eugenikos did not misrepresent his tradition on this point, but cf. the Testament of Abraham, trans. E. P. Sanders in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, ed. J. H. Charlesworth, vol. 1 (New York, 1983), 889–91, where a soul is “set in the middle” between the damned and the saved but later taken to paradise through the intercession of Abraham (cf. Gen 18:22, 33). For the plight of a similar soul, and its rescue by a local holy man in the 7th century, cf. F. Halkin, “La vision de Kaioumos et le sort ´eternel de Philentolos Olympiou,” AB 63 (1945): 56–64, and C. P. Kyrris, “The Admission of the Souls of Immoral but Humane People into the ‘Limbus Puerorum” according to the Cypriot Abbot Kaioumos,” RESEE 9 (1971): 461–77. 100 Oratio altera, chap. 11 (p. 118, lines 12–13): pu'r de` swmatiko` n ajswma´ tou" yuca` " kola´ zein te kai` kaqai´rein, ou“t∆ a‘n ei“pomen o”lw"… cf. ibid., chap. 23, no. 8 (pp. 148–49). 101 Oratio altera, chap. 19 (pp. 130–33), and chap. 23, no. 1 (pp. 140–41). 102 Oratio altera, chap. 5 (p. 112, lines 14–15) citing Matt. 8:29: “What have you to do with us, O Son of God? Have you come to torment us before the time (pro` kairou')?” 103 Eugenikos, employing the technical terms of patristic exegesis, notes that the “visions and revelations” (ojptasi´ai kai` ajpokalu´ yei") that some saints beheld of souls in torment are “shadows and outlines of future events” (skiagrafi´ai tine` " tw'n mello´ ntwn kai` diatupw´ sei"), such as the vision of Daniel 7:9; cf. Oratio altera, chap. 10 (p. 117, lines 6–17). Such fire can only be allegorical (ajllhgorikw'") (ibid., chap. 11 [p. 118, line 16]), or “economic” (oijkonomikw'"), that is, uttered at a particular time for the spiritual edification of a particular audience (pro` " crei´an tina` tou' to´ te kairou' kai` tw'n ajkouo´ ntwn wjfe´ leian) (ibid., lines 16–18; cf. ibid., chap. 23, no. 10 [pp. 150–51]).

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prepared, but they are not yet occupied.” 104 The soul without the body is not the self nor can it be judged as such. The place where the body is absent cannot be identified with the self, and to suggest that souls can experience the fullness of heaven or hell before the resurrection is to suggest that the body adds little or nothing to human personhood and the experience of divinization.105 According to Eugenikos, “neither the soul by itself, nor the body by itself is deserving of the name human being, but only both together.” 106 And though body and soul constitute one single form, God can both divide them in death and unite them in the resurrection, just as God divided the single form of the primal light of creation to dwell in the body of the sun (citing Gen. 1:3–5, 14–19).107 Mark develops this analogy when he suggests that, “You are in awe at the beauty of the sun, and you admire the beautiful form of the body—imagine then the two of them coming together: the brightness of the sun and the symmetry and shape of the body by which all beauty is measured. And what would you wonder at more, a fixed, spherical form (sfairoeidh´ "), or the form of the human body with its parts beautifully fashioned and arranged? This is the sun which David called a ‘Bridegroom’ and a ‘Giant’” (Ps. 18:6).108 At the resurrection of the dead, the scattered fragments of body and soul will be gathered and united, and the corporeal plenitude of humanity will assemble for the dawning of a day without end. Then a river of fire will roar forth from the throne of Christ (cf. Dan. 7:9–10): “Unto the just it will appear as light, and unto sinners as a fire more searing than any physical pain, which is why David said, ‘The voice of the Lord divides the flame of fire’ (Ps. 28:7), and this division shall happen because those bodies upon which that fire shall alight are infernal and opaque, which distinguishes them from the bodies of the saints.” 109 The saints, on the other hand, will shine like “gold tried in the furnace (Wisd. 3:6),” 110 and the familiar functions of the body will be glorified and wondrously transfigured. 104 Oratio altera, chap. 5 (p. 112, lines 3–4), in the context of an exegesis of the judgment parable in Matt. 25:41. 105 See Bynum, The Resurrection of the Body, 279–317. 106 Oratio altera, p. 55, lines 71–72. 107 Ibid., p. 55, lines 80–86; cf. Basil, Hexaemeron, 6 (cited below, note 109); cf. John Chrysostom, Hom. 25 in Jo.: “The old man was created on the sixth day, but the new one on the first, that is, on the same day as the light” (PG 59:150, lines 31–32). 108 Oratio altera, p. 58, lines 180–91. The entire psalm verse states: “In the sun he has set his tabernacle; and he comes forth as a bridegroom out of his chamber: he will exult as a giant to run his course.” Cf. Clement, Ekl. Proph. 56.4, 57.3 (the “tabernacle of the sun” ⫽ the “abode of the commanding angel,” or “God himself ”); and Gregory of Nazianzos, Or. 28.29 (SC 250 [Paris, 1978], 166–68, lines 16–22, 1–6). The “spherical form” is a slur on Origen; cf. H. Chadwick, “Origen, Celsus, and the Resurrection of the Body,” HTR 41 (1948): 83–102; A. M. Festugie`re, “Le corps glorieux ‘sphe´roı¨de’ chez Orige`ne,” Revue des sciences philoso¨r Katholische Theologie 82 phiques et the´ologiques 43 (1959): 81–86; J. Bauer, “Corpora Orbiculata,” Zeitschrift fu (1960): 333–41; and Patterson, Methodius, 178–79 (“The Spherical Body of the Resurrection”). 109 Oratio altera, p. 59, lines 223–28; cf. Basil, Hexaemeron, 6: “Do not tell me that it is impossible for these [i.e., light and the solar body] to be separated (cf. Gen. 1:3–5, 14–19) . . . this, too, the Psalmist testifies when he says, ‘The voice of the Lord divides the flame of fire’ (Ps. 28:7). Whence also in the requital for the actions of our lives a certain mysterious saying teaches us that the nature of fire will be divided, and the light will be assigned for the pleasure of the just, but also for the painful burning of those punished” (SC 26 [Paris, 1968], 336–38). 110 Oratio prima, chap. 5 (p. 46, line 29).

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Our eyes will see and we will understand both ourselves and the beauty of God. In place of all food, “I will be filled when I see your glory” (Ps. 16:15). The ears will receive the divine voice with joy, as it is said, “Make me to hear joy and gladness” (Ps. 50:10). We will taste with our lips that the “Lord is good” (Ps. 33:9), and we shall inhale the fragrance of the “Spiritual Myrrh” which “poured itself out for us” (cf. Phil. 4:18; Eph. 5:2). Though the tongue shall cease from its natural work, there will nonetheless resound the “song of those making festival and the sound of joy in the tents of the just” (Ps. 41:51; Ps. 117:15). And together with the curious disciple we shall touch the Word made flesh (cf. John 20:21; 1 John 1:1), and we shall know his wounds, and the reasons for his incarnation and passion. And the stomach, when it accepts the nourishment of the Word, shall give birth. For the body will become entirely spiritual, and its members will be spiritual and the foci of spiritual energies, and thus have its proper use.111

Until then, Eugenikos concluded, “‘Faith’ will rule over the present world, and ‘Hope’ over the period between death and resurrection, but ‘Love’ will reign after the final judgment, and through it the saints will be united to God.” 112 CONCLUSION Most religious traditions have maintained a keen interest in the ultimate destiny of the human person, and to this general rule Byzantine Christianity was no exception. With its attention to the relationship between body and soul, and with its concern for their fate after death and their longed-for reunion in the resurrection, Byzantine eschatology was primarily a transcendental fulfillment of anthropology. That is, the Byzantines believed that only in the clarifying light of the eschaton would the authentically and abidingly human appear in definitive relief and resolution. From this point of view, eschatology and anthropology are so closely interlaced that, in the words of one modern theologian, eschatology is anthropology conjugated in the future tense.113 However, and despite the obvious importance of these themes, the nature of the human and its fate after death were never authoritatively defined or formalized by an ecumenical council, nor were they ever the subjects per se of systematic theological inquiry. Thus throughout the Byzantine world one finds an assortment of eschatologies strewn somewhat carelessly about. Gershom Scholem’s remarks about a similar situation in rabbinic Judaism are worth quoting here: “Apart from basic ideas concerning reward and punishment, life after death, the Messiah, redemption, and resurrection, there is hardly a commonly held belief among the Jews regarding eschatological details. This lacuna provided an obvious opportunity for free play for the imaginative, the visionary, and the superstitious.” 114 111 On the Resurrection, 58–59, lines 197–211; cf. D. Chitty, The Letters of Saint Anthony the Great (Oxford, 1980), 3–5, and the commentary of Rubenson, The Letters of St. Anthony, 71: “The body is not simply to be discarded; it can be transformed. In [Letter 1, Antony] describes how each member of the body can be purified . . . the eyes, the ears, the tongue, the hands, the belly, the sexual organs and the feet, all can become pure through the work of the mind guided by the Spirit.” 112 Responsio, chap. 7 (p. 163, lines 22–39), alluding to 2 Cor. 5:7. 113 K. Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith: An Introduction to the Idea of Christianity, trans. W. V. Dych (New York, 1978), 431. Rahner is not of course addressing Byzantine theological sources, but see J. Meyendorff, Christ in Eastern Christian Thought (Crestwood, N.Y., 1975), 211, who notes that Rahner’s anthropology is “precisely in the line of Greek patristic tradition.” 114 G. Scholem, Kabbalah (Jerusalem, 1974), 333.

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Much the same could be said about the Byzantines, whose central confession of faith, the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed, professed only the return of Christ to “judge the living and the dead” and “expected the resurrection of the dead and the life of the age to come.” Emboldened by this inviting lacuna, the Byzantine horror vacui responded with endless conjectures and speculations.115 As noted above, these latter were selectively indebted to traditions and sources hallowed either by their antiquity, the prestige of their presumptive authors, or by their inclusion in an authoritative canon. But even longestablished and reasonably unambiguous positions, as well as canonical texts of unimpeachable authority, were themselves subject to an ongoing hermeneutical process of reception that over time rendered them susceptible to different readings and rival interpretations. As we have seen, the formation of Byzantine views about the afterlife was also influenced by theological corollaries implicit in liturgical practices such as the worship of the resurrected Christ, prayers and memorials for the dead, and devotion to the cult of saints and relics. Through prayer and contemplation, the various symbols of the earthly liturgy could be recognized and appropriated by thoughtful Byzantines as the exteriorized forms of the same liturgy celebrated invisibly in heaven and upon the altar of the human heart.116 In virtue of these iconic and macrocosmic transparencies, Byzantine eschatology exhibits profound links to the life of liturgy and prayer, and was perhaps easier for the mystic to experience than for the theologian to define. In the endless adventure of consciousness, postmortem encounters with demons and angels were but an extension of similar encounters experienced through the life of prayer in corpore. To descend through prayer into the crucible of the self was to risk an encounter with the demonic, the angelic, and the purifying fire of the divine. Such encounters were unavoidable at the hour of death, at which time the interior landscape of the soul was inexorably externalized and revisited as an ascent of self-discovery through the heavens. It may therefore not be wide of the mark to suggest that Byzantine eschatology is a view of the self and of ultimate things rooted in particular practices, traditions, and experiences of prayer. In this paper I have argued for the rich diversity of Byzantine eschatology (understood as “anthropology in the future tense”), but it would be a mistake to fail to discern larger interlocking patterns within the overall carpet. Let me suggest tentatively, then, and at a fairly high level of abstraction, the presence of two schools of thought reflecting the complex double consciousness of the Byzantines with respect to their Greek and Jewish heritage. Following Jan Bremmer, we may provisionally distinguish between beliefs in a “free soul” and beliefs in a “body soul,” each differing in terms of their eschatological conjugations and corollaries. According to Bremmer, the “free soul” is a kind of active double of the human being, functionally independent of the body, and which represents the individual personality. The “body soul,” on the other hand, is the animating principle of biological life, motion, and growth, often associated with the blood and 115 See Gregory of Nazianzos, Oration 27.10, who encouraged Christian thinkers to “Philosophize about . . . resurrection, about judgment, about reward . . . for in these subjects to hit the mark is not useless, and to miss it is not dangerous”; ed. P. Gallay, SC 250 (Paris, 1978), 96. 116 For a thoughtful statement of this phenomenon, see A. Golitzin, “Liturgy and Mysticism: The Experience of God in Eastern Orthodox Christianity,” Pro Ecclesia 8 (1999): 159–86, and the same author’s contribution to this volume.

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with various bodily organs and faculties. The “free soul” alone survived the death of the body as the active soul of the dead. Bremmer argues that the later identification of these “two souls” constitutes the modern concept of the soul, an identification advanced by Christian views of the human person as irreducibly embodied.117 While it is true that eschatologically reductive beliefs in a “body soul,” including the “sleep” or “death” of that soul, generally emerged within rationalist critiques of the cult of the saints, they could also claim to be a legitimate expression of the Christian tradition. At birth, a person entered the world with only body and soul, but upon baptism received the Holy Spirit as an aspect of his or her personhood and individuality. At death, the Holy Spirit returned to its source in God, while the soul (i.e., the “body soul” or “animal spirit” linked to the blood) entered a period of sleep until the day of resurrection, at which time it would be reunited with the Holy Spirit and come to new life.118 When these two rival traditions were brought together, they produced still further disjunctions, such as the notion of “two souls,” a duality within the self experienced as a simultaneous condition of bondage and release. The precarious interior condition of the divided self was dramatically exteriorized in the narratives of angels and demons struggling at the celestial tollgates, paralleling the systematic interrogations of the monastic confessional as well as the divided inclination of divine mercy and justice.119 It may also have been the case that the Byzantines’ experience of the splintering hierarchies of church and state encouraged the formation of complex and taxing metaphysical systems. At the level of narrative and rhetoric, these systems, as noted above, drew on the traditions of trial and tribulation between life and afterlife available from many strata of Greek culture, as though the one dying were a mythical hero negotiating the gates of Hades. In a monastic environment, the forgiveness or damnation of a member of the community was of the greatest importance, as the practices and exercises undertaken by that community could thereby be assessed as effective or ineffective. At the moment of death, the ascetic perceived the horror behind the possibility that even after a lifetime of struggle and the pursuit of purity, rescue was not assured. The death of the individual becomes a corporate moment as each member must reevaluate the standard to which he holds.120 Bremmer, Concept of Soul, 14–53 (as above, note 2), For a discussion of this question, see the studies by Kru ¨ ger cited in note 69, and Origen, Commentary on Matthew, 57.62: “‘He will divide them in two’ (cf. Matt. 24:50), for they who have sinned are divided: one part of them is put ‘with the unfaithful’ (cf. Luke 12:46), but the part which is not from themselves ‘returns to God who gave it’ (Eccl. 12:7). . . . God will divide them in two when ‘the spirit returns to God who gave it,’ but the soul goes with its body to hell. The righteous, however, are not divided. Instead, their soul goes with their body to the heavenly kingdom”; ed. E. Klostermann and E. Benz, GCS 11 (Leipzig, 1933), p. 144. See also the epigram by Manuel Philes, “On the Resurrection,” which describes souls prior to the resurrection as “hitherto confined in their coffins, and which dwelled beside their bodies, now being freed from the shadows and the gloom, and from the stench of death therein”; cited in N. Constas, “Gregory the Theologian and a Byzantine Epigram on the Resurrection by Manuel Philes,” in Rightly Teaching the Word of Truth, ed. N. Vaporis (Brookline, Mass., 1995), 255–56. 119 On which see J. Carmen, Majesty and Meekness: A Comparative Study of Contrast and Harmony in the Concept of God (Grand Rapids, Mich., 1994). Note the parallel to rabbinic traditions, in which Satan is not simply a figure of complete evil, but represents the principle of justice that brings balance to the principle of mercy; cf. P. Scha¨fer, Rivalita¨t zwischen Engeln und Menschen: Untersuchungen zur rabbinischen Engelvorstellung (Berlin, 1975), 187, 222. 120 See, for example, the intense interest of a monastic community in the death of one of its members described by John Climacus, Ladder of Divine Ascent, 5 (“The Prison”) (PG 88:772C–73A; trans. Luibheid, 126). 117 118

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Another pattern that emerged within the course of this study is what Jaroslav Pelikan has described as a critical shift from Christian idealism to Christian materialism. By the end of the late antique period, Pelikan observes the appearance of a “new Christian metaphysics and aesthetics [and a] new Christian epistemology,” adding that “by the time of the Iconoclastic controversy, the ‘Christian idealism’ that was so prominent, especially in the thought of many of the Alexandrian church fathers such as Clement and Origen, had been counterbalanced by a ‘Christian materialism.’” To this general observation, Henry Maguire has added a further nuance, noting that Iconoclasm had a withering effect on what he calls the “magical” aspects of icons. After Iconoclasm, Maguire argues, it could no longer be the material image that was itself the efficacious source of power, but rather the hypostatic presence and personal involvement and activity of the depicted saint. The posticonoclastic reconceptualization of the icon therefore placed even greater burdens on the souls of the departed saints: deprived of their magical and material props, their own souls were left to do all the work.121 The theology of the icon, of course, was part of the larger Byzantine worldview, embracing implicit and explicit concepts of human nature, the locus of the self, and the fate of the soul after death. As noted above, Byzantine theologians resisted the reduction of the human person to a mere mental entity, and endeavored to work out a conception of the self as fundamentally embodied. Inasmuch as these efforts unfolded against the backcloth of the cult of saints and relics, human identity seemed necessarily to presuppose a strong degree of spatiotemporal continuity, insuring that the individual saint continued to be the same person over time, across space, and beyond death. As a result, the mortal remains of the saints were identified with their glorious eschatological bodies. Conversely, the increasing sense of the self as irreducibly embodied added considerable weight to the experiences and moral choices of that body in what was described above as a “corporeal subjectivity,” a form of postmortem consciousness understood as a reenactment of the body’s experience.122 The notion of “corporeal subjectivity” brings us in turn to yet another common thread that has run through a great many of the writers and traditions considered in this study, namely, the metaphor of death as a state of sleep and dreaming, in which the faculty of memory—a major modality of Byzantine culture—plays a pivotal role. The apparent independence of human consciousness during sleep provided the Byzantines with a helpful and universally shared experience that served as a framework for conjectures about the afterlife. In other words, the Byzantine religious imagination made use of the experience of sleep and dreams in order to organize more abstract thinking by projecting patterns from one domain of experience into another. During sleep, the body is inactive while the soul actively retains consciousness, thoughts, memories, and the capacity to have emotions. In this way, the environment of the other world was frequently held to be a kind of dream world, with mental imagery playing in the next world the role that sense perception plays in this one. “Dreams,” in the words of G. K. Chesterton, “are 121 J. Pelikan, Imago Dei: The Byzantine Apologia for Icons (Princeton, N.J., 1990), 99, 107; H. Maguire, The Icons of Their Bodies (Princeton, N.J., 1996), 138–39. 122 ¨hen Christentum bis zur On which see A. Angenendt, Heilige und Reliquien. Die Geschichte ihres Kultes vom fru Gegenwart (Munich, 1994), esp. 102–22 (⫽ “Das Doppelexistenz: Im Himmel und auf Erden”); C. Bynum, “Why All the Fuss about the Body? A Medievalist’s Perspective,” Critical Inquiry 22 (1995): 1–33.

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like life, only more so.” 123 Indeed, the afterlife promised (or threatened) to be every bit as detailed and vivid as this one, and include a body-image as in dreams in this life. The world beyond the grave is a psychological and spiritual, rather than a physical, world. The postmortem survival (and continuity) of memory and consciousness was also necessary for the punishment of the sinful, the recompense of the righteous, and, as has been noted, as a corollary to the cult of saints. Memory thus becomes the crucial and necessary means to achieve peace with the past and hope for the future. It is intriguing to note that modern science has begun to understand some of the connections between sleep, dreams, and memory. During sleep, the mind organizes and encodes the experiences of the day, a remarkable analogy to the Byzantine belief that the sleep of death is a “time” largely given over to the processes of memory and the ruminations of consciousness. I conclude by returning to the question of Byzantine eschatology as a view of the self and of ultimate things rooted in the experiences of prayer and spirituality. Byzantine apocalyptic and eschatology was not the type that was expected to break into the world violently from without. The exteriorized apocalyptic of John’s Revelation was sealed within the only book of the Bible that was never publicly read in the Byzantine church. Instead, the Kingdom of God was a reality that promised to break through, not from a point outside the cosmos, but from within the depths of the self. It is thus no coincidence that patristic and Byzantine speculation regarding the fate of the soul after death emerged from within the narrow, tomblike confines of the monastic cell, conjured up by a class of black-garbed mourners (“blessed living corpses,” according to the Ladder of Divine Ascent 4) who saw themselves as having “died to the world,” and for whom the memory of death was the point of entry into life. At the very center of the Life of Antony, the founder of eastern monasticism teaches that: “It is good to consider the word of the Apostle: “I die every day” (1 Cor. 15:31), for if we too live as though dying daily, we shall not sin. And the meaning of the saying is this: as we rise day by day we should think that we shall not abide till evening; and again, when we are about to lie down to sleep, we should think that we shall not rise up. For our life is naturally uncertain, and a gift allotted to us daily” (§19). So much for the center. Among Antony’s last words at the conclusion of the Life are these: “Breathe Christ . . . and live as though dying daily” (§91; cf. §89). The Byzantine paradox of death in life, noted at the outset of this study, seems to have been an important aspect, not only of Antony’s theology of death, but of his vision of the monastic life, that is, of his mode of being in the world. From this perspective, the symbolic vocabulary of Byzantine eschatology, both in its heavenly and infernal dimensions, merges effortlessly with the symbolic vocabulary of the Byzantine ascetical and mystical life. The experience of darkness and isolation, the struggle with thoughts and memories that arise in the course of solitary confinement, the pain of sin and the pangs of conscience as a foretaste of impending damnation,124 confrontations with the demonic, the desire to live an “angelic life,” the experience of ecstasy and of ecstatic transport, either in corpore or in Cited in G. Stroumsa, “Dreams and Visions in Early Christian Discourse,” in Dream Cultures: Explorations in the Comparative History of Dreaming, ed. D. Shulman and G. Stroumsa (Oxford, 1999), 191. 124 On which see Symeon the New Theologian, On Penitence and the Fear of God (CWS, 254; cf. 330). 123

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spiritu “I know not” (cf. 2 Cor. 12:2), the notion of repentance and conversion as an interiorized resurrection from the dead,125 and the encounter with God as a purifying light, are at once the basic features of Byzantine spirituality and the basic features of the soul’s final journey to the home of another. In Byzantium, the afterlife was in many ways the inner life turned inside out and writ large upon the cosmos. The contours and dimensions of the inner world shaped the landscape of the outer world, producing an alternative world through the subjective transformation of the self. The Byzantines had no “system” around the last things. Eschatology remained for them an open horizon within theology, an openness perhaps intended to draw experience and thought toward that which lies beyond the bounds of the world of space and time. Perhaps the very inaccessibility of the last things rendered them all the more actual and compelling; a ferment in the present order. It was not the last things that were expected to be carried over into the cosmos, but the cosmos that was called, in and through the microcosm, to be carried beyond itself, out of itself, into the mystery of God, who alone is the first thing and the last thing. Harvard University 125

Symeon the New Theologian, The Example of Symeon the Pious (CWS, 128–29; cf. 181, 296).

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2001 © 2002 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

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“Earthly Angels and Heavenly Men”: The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, Niketas Stethatos, and the Tradition of “Interiorized Apocalyptic” in Eastern Christian Ascetical and Mystical Literature ALEXANDER GOLITZIN

y interests lie in the first half millennium of the eastern Christian world and are focused on a relatively narrow band: the asceticomystical literature of the Christian East and early monasticism and on the roots of that literature in the New Testament matrix of Second Temple Judaism. This is five to twelve hundred years—together with vast cultural and demographic shifts—away from the central figure in this essay, Niketas Stethatos. In spite of this apparent—and real—anachronism, it is precisely the echoes of an ancient literature from earliest Christian and pre-Christian Jewish antiquity, together with the important modifications that literature underwent at the hands of fourth- and fifth-century monastic writers, that struck me when I recalled what I had read previously in and about Niketas. This then directed me back to his writings in order to discover yet more echoes—and those in great abundance—of the ancient currents and motifs that preoccupy me. So I offer this essay as a sort of preliminary notice of elements and trends that lend further substance to frequent observations about the religious life of medieval Byzantium, and that point in other directions where further inquiry may prove fruitful, or at least diverting. In what follows, I first note the question of the survival of Old Testament pseudepigraphic writings in Christianity and provide a glimpse of the revolution under way over the past twenty years in the study of apocalyptic literature; then illustrate the presence of apocalyptic motifs in Niketas’ writings, albeit in “interiorized form”; and conclude with a sketch of the fourth- and fifth-century ascetic writers whom I believe provided Niketas with the means for his appropriation of the ancient themes. Niketas Stethatos was born sometime in the opening decade of the second Christian millennium and died, an old man, toward the eleventh century’s end. He was a learned monk, perhaps best known as that disciple of St. Symeon the New Theologian (d. 1022) who wrote the latter’s vita and edited his works.1 Niketas was also an author in his own

M

Niketas’ life is briefly covered in both I. Hausherr’s edition of Niketas’ vita of Symeon the New Theologian, Un grand mystique byzantin: Vie de Syme´on le nouveau the´ologien, OrChr 12 (Rome, 1928), xv–xxxvii, and in J. Darrouze`s’ introduction, to his edition of Niketas’ works, Nice´tas Ste´thatos: Opuscules et lettres, SC 81 (Paris, 1961), 7–24. 1

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right. His treatises On the Soul, On Paradise, and On Hierarchy, together with a number of letters and shorter works, were edited forty years ago by Jean Darrouze`s for the series Sources chre´tiennes,2 while his three hundred chapters on ascetical and mystical topics found their way into Nikodemos Hagiorites’ eighteenth-century compendium the Philokalia, as well as into J.-P. Migne’s Patrologia graeca.3 He wrote controversial works as well and indeed at one point in his career confronted—not very successfully—the irascible papal legate Humbert of Silva Candida. That he was, though, permitted access to so august a personage, and appears to have ended his days as the abbot of the great monastery of Stoudios, may be taken as evidence that he was a man of the highest ecclesiastical culture and status.4 What was the apparently unlikely relationship between this prominent medieval churchman and certain texts written eight to twelve hundred years before his birth, texts that, with only a few notable exceptions, were not included in the canon of either the Old or New Testaments (even though all or most of them appear under the names of saints from Israel’s ancient or mythic past)? OLD TESTAMENT PSEUDEPIGRAPHA, CHRISTIAN TRANSMISSION, AND THE DEFINITION OF APOCALYPTIC At the end of her book Ascent to Heaven in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses, Martha Himmelfarb poses my question in somewhat broader terms: “In monasteries East and West, OT Pseudepigrapha continued to be copied into the Middle Ages and beyond. Just how these texts were understood, and how their transmission could be squared with the existence of a well-defined canon is a subject worthy of attention.” 5 R. A. Kraft has noted that “from the tenth century onward there is a growing flood of Jewish pseudepigraphic materials in Greek, especially those which deal with the lives and deaths of ancient righteous persons.” 6 He also voices a “hunch” that these documents were “preserved in Greek” before the tenth century by “monastics whose concerns for personal piety . . . led them to ignore prohibitions of such material.” For those contemporary scholars anxious to ferret out strains of pre-rabbinic Judaism in these materials, Kraft also voices a caution which, I think, points directly toward our subject. How, he wonders, “in a Christian context that is conscious of its Jewish roots and thrives on visions and revelations . . . can one tell” where the ancient Jew leaves off and the later Christian begins?7 Monasteries, visions, revelations, and the tenth-century “flood” that Kraft notes all Darrouze`s’ Nice´tas Ste´thatos includes the following works: On the Soul, pp. 56–153; Contemplation of Paradise, 154–227; Letters (8) Appended to the Treatise on Paradise, 228–91; On Hierarchy, 292–365; On the Limits of Life, 366–411; Against the Jews, 412–43; On the Profession of Faith, 444–63; On the Canons, 464–85; On Stoudite Customs, 486–507; and New Heavens and New Earth, 508–15. My references to Niketas’ works cite this edition, e.g., SC, p. 216. 3 Nikh'ta monacou' kai` presbute´ rou⭈ Prw´ th praktikw'n kefalai´wn eJkatonta´ ", Deute´ ra fusikw'n kefalai´wn eJkatonta´ ", Tri´th gnwstikw'n kefalai´wn eJkatonta´ " (henceforth C 1–3), in Nikodemos Hagiorites, Filokali´a tw'n iJerw'n nhptikw'n, 5 vols. (repr. Athens, 1961), 3:273–355; PG 120:852–1010; The Philokalia: The Complete Text, trans. G. E. H. Palmer, P. Sherrard, and K. T. Ware, 4 vols. (London, 1979–1995), 4:79–174 (hereafter Ware et al.). My Greek citations of C refer to Nikodemos’ text. 4 The addressees of his several epistles alone suggest this; cf. Darrouze`s, Nice´tas Ste´thatos, 18–24. 5 M. Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven in Jewish and Christian Apocalypses (Oxford-New York, 1993), 99. 6 R. A. Kraft, “The Pseudepigrapha in Christianity,” in Tracing the Threads: Studies in the Vitality of the Jewish Pseudepigrapha, ed. J. C. Reeves, (Atlanta, 1994), 55–86, here 68. 7 Ibid., 70. 2

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play into the matter of Niketas’ works. Before I turn to him, however, I would like to make two qualifications, the first bearing on the matter of a “well-defined canon,” in Himmelfarb’s phrase, and the second regarding the type of Old Testament Pseudepigrapha of most interest to me. The scriptural canon, particularly of the Old Testament, was slow to achieve a fixed form in the East, at least in all its details.8 Athanasios of Alexandria’s festal epistle of 367 did provide a list that corresponds to the Old Testament of the Hebrew canon,9 but the absence of the so-called deuterocanonical books and their persistence, for example, in the present-day canon of the Greek and Russian churches (with some interesting minor differences) indicate that the canon was not fixed by the end of the fourth century.10 Further, at least two of the books to which Athanasios alludes in his epistle as apocryphal and even heretical, probably 1 Enoch (and perhaps 2 Enoch as well) and the Ascension of Isaiah, continued to be read in Egypt even as he was writing and, in fact, found their way into the very ample canon of Alexandria’s daughter church in Ethiopia.11 Centuries later in Russia, to the best of my knowledge, there was no “Old Testament,” that is, no complete collection of the Old Testament books between two covers, until the publication at the end of the 1490s of the Bible (translated, interestingly enough, from the Vulgate!) sponsored by Archbishop Gennady of Novgorod.12 The Russians seem to have made do until that time with the Palaia, the Old Testament texts appointed for reading at the church’s feasts. The latter collections often included apocryphal or pseudepigraphical materials now preserved soley in Old Church Slavonic, such as, for example, 2 Enoch, the Apocalypse of Abraham, the Ladder of Jacob, together with texts shared with other languages (though not always with Greek), for example, the second half of the Ascension of Isaiah.13 The Quinisext Council, canon 2, may, with its scattershot approval of a number of differ8 The best and practically the only short discussion I know of concerning the canon of scripture in the Orthodox Church is that of M. Prokurat, “Orthodox Interpretation of Scripture,” in The Bible in the Churches, ed. K. Hagen (Milwaukee, 1994), 59–99, esp. 65–93. 9 For a translation of Athanasios’ Paschal Epistle of 367, which includes important remarks on the Pseudepigrapha preserved only in the Coptic, see D. Brakke, Athanasius and the Politics of Asceticism (Oxford, 1995), 326–32 (Coptic addition, 330–32). On the similar reactions of other, contemporary bishops to the pseudepigrapha, see E. Earle Ellis, “The Old Testament Canon in the Early Church,” in MIKRA: Text, Translation, Reading and Interpretation of the Hebrew Bible in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity, ed. M. J. Mulder and H. Sysling (Philadelphia, 1988), 653–90, esp. 665–70. 10 See Prokurat, “Orthodox Interpretation,” 70–74. 11 See E. Isaac’s introduction to his translation of 1 Enoch, in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, ed. J. H. Charlesworth, 2 vols. (New York, 1983, 1985), 1:5–10 (hereafter Charlesworth), as well as Charlesworth’s “Introduction for the General Reader,” 1:xxiii–xxiv. On the reading of the Ascension of Isaiah in late 4thcentury Egypt, see Abba Ammonas in note 47 below. 12 See Prokurat, “Orthodox Interpretation,” 80–93 on the Slavic Bible, esp. 83 on the Palaia: “a ‘Reader’s Digest’ version of the ‘historical books’ dressed up with apocryphal legends”—i.e., the Pseudepigrapha— which “completed the list” of the available Old Testament, together with the Psalter, the prophets, and certain of the Wisdom books. See also E. Turdeaunu, “La Palea byzantine chez les Slaves du sud et les Roumains,” RES 40 (1964): 195–206, repr. in idem, Apocryphes slaves et roumains de l’Ancien Testament (Leiden, 1981), 392–403. 13 I do not know of any one scholarly work in a West European language that focuses on the Slavic pseudepigrapha as a group, save E. Turdeaunu’s essays in Apocryphes slaves et roumains. For something more readily to hand and quickly synoptic, see the introductions and (the now somewhat dated) bibliographies prefacing each of these works in Charlesworth, 1:91–100 (2 Enoch); 681–88 (Apocalypse of Abraham); 2:143–55 (Martyrdom and Ascension of Isaiah); and 401–6 (Ladder of Jacob).

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ent ancient lists, have set the bounds firmly for the imperial church in 695, but things seem to have been rather more fluid in the wider “Byzantine commonwealth.” There is, second, the very broad category of the Pseudepigrapha themselves. Here the reasons for preservation and transmission would surely have varied according to the nature of the particular work. It is not difficult, for example, to imagine why books like the story of Joseph and Aseneth, or The Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs, remain well attested in the East into the late Middle Ages and beyond.14 The first is a moving tale of love and conversion, a kind of religious romance, while morality is the very stock-in-trade of the Testaments. Few if any ancient texts insist more strongly on “family values” than these moralizing sermons placed in the mouths of the sons of Jacob. The works that concern me, however, do not belong to the categories of either romance or homely preaching; they are instead examples of the genre called “apocalypse.” Here again I am obliged to introduce a few qualifications. The generally received sense of the terms apocalypse or apocalyptic immediately evokes images of cosmic catastrophe or perhaps of bad Hollywood movies. With some allowances for academic precision, the focus of biblical scholarship had, until rather recently, been quite similar. Earlier students of apocalyptic literature, whether of the canonical books of Daniel and Revelation, the vast number of similar works written from about 200 B.C. to A.D. 200, or indeed later Christian works from the end of the fourth century on, have concentrated on the eschatological aspects of these texts. These aspects include their view of history (deterministic, the inexorable advance of the divine plan), ex eventu prophecy placed in the mouths of figures set deeply—in the case of the earlier works—in Israel’s past, the signs of the endtimes, and the cosmic struggle and last battle between good and evil, light and darkness, God and the devil. Investigations have usually been accompanied by smug remarks about the decline of prophetic inwardness in Spa¨tjudentum, together with speculation regarding the sociology and psychology represented by the apocalyptic writers whose texts are thus read as expressions of oppressed Jews or Christians under Greek or Roman rule, or of Jewish or Christian sects struggling within an indifferent or hostile majority, and so on.15 While there are certainly insights to be gleaned from this earlier approach, a definition of apocalypse or apocalyptic that focuses exclusively on the characteristics just listed will fail to account for many texts that everyone agrees must be included within the genre. This applies first of all to the grandfather of them all, the “Book of the Watchers,” that is, the first thirty-six chapters of 1 or Ethiopic Enoch, whose composition is at present thought to go back to at least 200 B.C. This text betrays little or no preoccupation with the signs of the end, no ex eventu prophecy, only a discrete impression of historical deter14 See the discussion of the Testaments of the Twelve Patriarchs and of Joseph and Aseneth by, respectively, H. C. Kee and C. Burchard, in Charlesworth, 1:775–80 and 2:177–201. 15 For examples of this earlier approach to apocalyptic literature, see J. Bright, A History of Israel: Third Edition (Philadelphia, 1981), 428–57; G. von Rad, Theology of the Old Testament, trans. D. M. G. Stalker (New York, 1965), 2:300–315; idem, Wisdom in Israel, trans. J. D. Martin (New York, 1972), 263–83; and D. S. Russell, The Method and Message of Jewish Apocalyptic (Philadelphia, 1964), esp. 73–103. More recently, however, see R. A. Horsely and J. S. Hanson, Bandits, Prophets and Messiahs: Popular Movements at the Time of Christ (San Francisco, 1985), 135–89 on the continuation of prophecy into New Testament times, and S. L. Cook, Prophecy and Apocalypticism: The Post-Exilic Social Setting (Minneapolis, 1995), esp. 19–84, proposing that the primary matrix of later apocalyptic literature and thought was the Temple establishment of post-Exilic Palestine.

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minism, and not very much sense of the cosmic struggle (other than a set of naughty angels who give the book its name) that would show up with such force a few generations later in Daniel.16 The same generally holds true for the two apocalypses I mentioned above, the Jewish 2 Enoch and the Christian Ascension of Isaiah, and there are many others of similar nature.17 What these three works are primarily interested in is the ascent itself to heaven, the vision of the divine throne, the hosts and ranks of angels, and the contours of that heavenly geography that include the mysteries of the present and future worlds, for example, the origins of creation, weather-making, and the movements of the heavenly bodies, together with the places and nature of postmortem rewards and punishments. I arrive thus at a definition of apocalyptic proposed by Christopher Rowland in his illuminating book The Open Heaven: “To speak of apocalyptic . . . is to concentrate on the direct revelation of heavenly mysteries,” together with his later observation that these texts assert, in effect, “that certain individuals have been given to understand the mysteries of God, man, and the universe.” 18 The twin emphases on “direct revelation” and “certain individuals” will appear prominently in Niketas. Somewhat more prosaic and circumspect, though still in the same vein, is the definition of apocalypse by John Collins in 1979: “Apocalypse is a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient, disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, in so far as it envisages eschatological salvation, and spatial, in so far as it envisages another, supernatural world.” 19 Again, while the “temporal” dimension will be quite absent in Niketas (as it is, in fact, largely missing in the three apocalypses cited above), together with much of any “narrative framework,” the other elements of Collins’ definition do appear. If both the definitions just given, especially Rowland’s, have a “mystical” ring to them, this is not accidental. One of the single most important contributors to this reevaluation of the apocalyptic was the great scholar of Jewish mysticism, Gershom Scholem. It was the latter’s thesis that a line of continuity ran back from the medieval Jewish creators of Cabbalism to the ancient apocalypticists, with the mediating element between these two sets of literature, separated as they were by more than a millennium and by the rise of rabbinic Judaism, being the curious body of hekalot literature whose antiquity Scholem 16 See Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 5–6; and, at greater length on 1 Enoch, M. Dean-Otting, Heavenly Journeys: A Study of the Motif in Hellenistic Jewish Literature (Frankfurt am Main, 1984), 39–58; and J. Collins, The Apocalyptic Imagination: An Introduction to the Jewish Matrix of Christianity (New York, 1984), 1–32 and 35–46. On the roots of the Enochic literature in the ancient Near East, see G. Widengren, The Ascension of the Apostle and the Heavenly Book (Uppsala, 1950), 7–37. On the relationship of this Enochic and related literature to Christian origins and asceticism, see R. Murray, “Jews, Hebrews and Christians: Some Needed Distinctions,” NT 24.4 (1982): 195–208; idem, “‘Disaffected Judaism’ and Early Christianity: Some Predisposing Factors,” in To See Ourselves as Others See Us (Chico, Calif., 1985), 263–81; M. Barker, quite radically, in The Great Angel: A Study of Israel’s Second God (Louisville, Ky., 1992), esp. 190–231; and, most recently, C. Fletcher-Louis, Luke–Acts: Angels, Christology, and Soteriology (Tu ¨ bingen, 1997), 72–107 and 137–215, esp. 145–56. 17 Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 3, distinguishes eight apocalypses of ascent written between 200 B.C. and A.D. 200. These include: “The Book of the Watchers” (⫽1 Enoch 1–36, esp. 14); “The Similitudes of Enoch” (⫽1 Enoch 37–71, esp. 71); 2 Enoch; The Ascension of Isaiah; The Testament of Levi (esp. chaps. 2–5 and 8); The Apocalypse of Zephanaiah; The Apocalypse of Abraham; and 3 Baruch. 18 C. Rowland, The Open Heaven: A Study of Apocalyptic in Judaism and Early Christianity (New York, 1982), 14 and 76. 19 J. Collins, “Towards the Morphology of a Genre,” Semeia 14 (1979): 9.

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successfully demonstrated.20 Hekalot is the plural of hekal, meaning “palace” or “temple,” and the palaces or temples that comprised the subject of these texts were the heavens or abodes of the angels and, in the seventh and highest heaven or palace, the chariot or merkavah throne of God’s Glory, the kevod YHWH (‰Â‰È „·Î), which had formed the object of the prophet Ezekiel’s visions in Ezekiel 1, 9–11, and 43. The hekalot texts are thus concerned with the aliyah bammerkavah, the ascent to the merkavah, and, thanks to Scholem, have been generally dated to the era of the Talmud’s composition, that is, roughly A.D. 200–600. For, while it is true that works such as the Lesser and Greater Hekalot, together with 3 or Hebrew Enoch, are all later, medieval compilations, the pericopae that comprise them are much earlier and, moreover, often display the same interest in heavenly ascent and disclosure as the earlier apocalypses of ascent.21 Indeed, they are apocalypses of ascent, and, as such and even though they are largely innocent of all of the eschatological emphases that had hitherto been thought to characterize apocalyptic texts, their consideration as apocalypses has forced reconsideration of the genre as a whole.22 At present, therefore, the revelatory emphasis of apocalyptic literature shares center stage with the eschatological, together with the genre’s affirmation that some, however few, have gone up to heaven, to the temple or palace on high, to receive the secrets of the celestial realm. The theme of the “heavenly temple” was recently underscored by, among others, the study of Martha Himmelfarb mentioned earlier. She begins by quoting 2 Enoch 9:17–19, in which the patriarch, after having been escorted to the heavenly throne, undergoes a transformation: “And the Lord said to Michael, ‘Take Enoch and take off his earthly garments and anoint him with good oil, and clothe him in glorious garments.’ And Michael took off from me my garments and anointed me with good oil. And the appearance of the oil was more resplendent than a great light, and its richness like sweet dew, and its fragrance like myrrh, shining like a ray of the sun. And I looked at myself, and I was G. Scholem, Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism (Jerusalem, 1941; repr. 1973), esp. 40–79; idem, Jewish Gnosticism, Merkabah Mysticism and the Talmudic Tradition, 2d ed. (New York, 1965); and idem, On the Mystical Shape of the Godhead: Basic Concepts in the Kabbalah, trans. J. Neugroschel (New York, 1991), esp. 15–55. 21 See, e.g., I. Gruenwald, Apocalyptic and Merkabah Mysticism (Leiden, 1980); C. R. A. Morray-Jones, “Transformational Mysticism in the Apocalyptic-Merkabah Tradition,” JJS 43 (1992): 1–31; and, on this current among the Qumran sectaries, idem, “The Temple Within: The Embodied Divine Image and Its Worship in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Other Early Jewish and Christian Sources,” Society of Biblical Literature Seminar Papers 37.1 (1998): 400–431, together with J. Baumgarten, “The Qumran Sabbath Shirot and the Rabbinic Merkabah Tradition,” Revue de Qumran 13 (1988): 199–213. For an important analysis of the hekalot texts as varying medieval compilations of much earlier pericopae, however, see P. Scha¨fer, “Aufbau und redaktionelle Identita¨t der Hekhalot Zutarti,” JJS 33 (1982): 569–82, and for criticism of Scholem at greater length, D. Halperin, Faces in the Chariot: Early Jewish Responses to Ezekiel’s Vision (Tu ¨ bingen, 1988), esp. 1–114. For the critical texts of the hekalot literature, see P. Scha¨fer, Synopse zur Hekhalot Literatur (Tu ¨ bingen, 1981), as ¨ bersetzung der Hekhalot Literatur (Tu well as Scha¨fer’s four-volume set of translations into German, U ¨ bingen, 1987–95). In English, see P. Alexander’s translation of 3 Enoch in Charlesworth, 1:223–315, as well as M. S. Cohen, The Shi’ur Qomah: Texts and Recensions (Tu ¨ bingen, 1985). On kavod (glory) in the Old Testament, see M. Weinfeld, S.V., KBD in Theological Dictionary of the Old Testament, ed. G. J. Botterwick, H. Ringgren, and H.-J. Fabry, trans. D. E. Green (Grand Rapids, Mich., 1995), 7:22–38; and, in the Old and New Testaments, the older but still valuable article on do´ xa by G. Kittel, Theological Dictionary of the New Testament, ed. G. Kittel, trans. G.W. Bromily (Grand Rapids, Mich., 1964–1974), vol. 3, pp. 233–53; and see also P. Deseille, “Gloire de Dieu,” DSp 6:421–63, for a sketch (without reference to the Jewish background) of the word’s use in early and medieval Christian literature. 22 Thus the inclusion of A. J. Saladini’s article, “Apocalypses and ‘Apocalyptic’ in Rabbinic Literature and Mysticism,” in Semeia 14 (1979): 187–205. 20

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like one of the glorious ones, and there was no apparent difference.” 23 Enoch, in short, becomes an angel, and he does so through, as Himmelfarb remarks, a “heavenly version of priestly investiture.” She lists the elements in the ancient apocalypses (for example, the Ascension of Isaiah, Apocalypse of Abraham, Testament of Levi, Testament of Isaac, to which I would add the remarkable transformation scene in the rabbinic 3 Enoch, cited below), which are of importance for what I shall have to say about Niketas and his monastic predecessors. These elements are the ascent itself, transformation or transfiguration, the theme of light or splendor, isangelic status, and, perhaps most important, that status as conferred through participation in the heavenly liturgy.24 Himmelfarb also points out another detail: the seer shares in the angels’ praise by learning their hymns and so taking his place in the celestial choirs, as in the Ascension of Isaiah 8:17: “And I was allowed to sing my praises with them, too, and also the angel who was accompanying me, and our praises were like theirs.” 25 SELECTED, REPRESENTATIVE TEXTS FROM NIKETAS All of these elements appear, some of them repeatedly, in the writings of our medieval churchman, Niketas. So, too, do the components of both Rowland’s and Collins’ definitions, notably the communication of heavenly mysteries both to and through the seer, and these mysteries as embracing the knowledge of God, the angels, creation, and the world to come. Even the “otherworldly mediator” shows up in Niketas, albeit in somewhat altered form. One element alone is missing: the narrative. For Niketas, who echoes in this respect at once his master the New Theologian and the fourth-century predecessors of both men, the apocalyptic ascent, transformation, and participation in the angelic liturgy has become an interior event. I shall return to these predecessors presently, but for now let me cite some representative passages from Niketas’ writings, a few out of a very great many. The first example requires some extended commentary, since its dense cluster of scriptural citation and allusion signals important elements in the traditions from which Niketas is drawing. The passage is Century 3.60 in the collection of three hundred: “To him who dwells in a cave high on a mighty rock will be given the bread of knowledge and the cup of wisdom unto intoxication, and thus will his water be worthy of trust [or: assured]. He shall see a king in glory and his eyes will look on a distant land. His soul will study wisdom and he will announce to all the eternal place, outside of whose bounds there is nothing.” 26 This appears at first glance to be a simple paraphrase of the following verses from the Septuagint version of Isaiah 33:14–17: “Who shall announce to us that [He is] fire 23 Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 3, citing the translation by A. Pennington, in The Apocryphal Old Testament, ed. H. F. D. Sparks (Oxford, 1984), 337–38. On the heavenly temple, see also, e.g., P. Prigent, Apocalypse et liturgie (Neuchatel-Paris, 1964), 7–13 and 46–68; J. Levenson, Sinai and Zion: An Entry into the Jewish Bible (San Francisco, 1985), 89–184, esp. 179–84; G. Vermes, “Introduction,” The Dead Sea Scrolls in English, 3d ed. (London, New York, 1990), 46–51; A. Acerbi, L’Ascensione di Isaia: Christologia e profetismo in Siria nei primi decenni del II secolo (Milan, 1989), 50–56; and J. Collins, “A Throne in the Heavens: Apotheosis in PreChristian Judaism,” in Death, Ecstasy, and Otherworldly Journeys, ed. J. Collins and M. Fishbane (Albany, N.Y., 1995), 43–58. 24 Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 9–46. 25 Ibid., 56, citing J. M. T. Barton’s translation in Sparks, Apocryphal OT, 801. 26 Filokali´a, 3:342; trans. Ware et al., 4:158 (trans. slightly altered).

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burning? Who shall announce to us the eternal place? Whoever walks in righteousness and speaks honestly, who hates lawlessness and iniquity and whose hands wave bribes away, who stops his ears from hearing of bloodshed and shuts his eyes so as not to look on iniquity. He shall dwell in a cave high on a mighty rock; bread shall be given him and his water [shall be] assured. You shall see a King with glory and your eyes will look on a distant land.” Niketas’ paraphrase nonetheless incorporates some significant changes. He eliminates the shift in the concluding verse from the third person singular to the second person plural. The opening verse of the scriptural passage, “Who shall announce,” now comes after the originally final verse, or, put another way, the annunciation of the “eternal place” becomes a consequence of the vision of the “King in glory.” We also find the addition of the phrases “[bread] of knowledge” and “cup of wisdom unto intoxication” to the “bread” and “water” of the prophet, and “His soul will study wisdom” to the concluding sentence. Overall, Niketas’ use of Isaiah 33:14–17 first of all incorporates other and for him related reminiscences from elsewhere in the scriptures and, second, is intended to combine them into a single portrait, that of the holy man or inspired elder. The first of several scriptural echoes in Niketas concern the “cave” (sph´ laion) and “rock” (pe´ tra) of the first sentence, which would have recalled for our author two of the great theophanies of the Old Testament: the experience of divine presence accorded Elijah in the cave (sph´ laion) on Mount Horeb in 1 Kings 19:9–18 and the visio gloriae awarded Moses, sheltered “in the cleft of the rock” (eij" ojph` n th'" pe´ tra") in Exodus 33:21– 23. In the case of the latter, we might also recall both the subsequent transformation of the lawgiver’s person in Exodus 34:29–35, his face still shining with the reflection of the divine kavod and veiled to avoid frightening the Israelites, and then the use to which St. Paul puts this episode, in 2 Corinthians 3:7–4:6, in order to underline the permanent and greater transfiguration afforded the Christian through Christ.27 Overall, then, the echoes here are all to do with the visio dei, especially the visio dei luminis, together with the attendant transfiguration of the seer. Perhaps it is also of some note that, at least in the contemporary Orthodox Church, these two Old Testament passages are both read at the vespers of the feast of the Transfiguration. In Niketas’ additions of the “[bread] of knowledge” and “cup [krath´ r] of wisdom,” we surely find an allusion to the cup, table, and bread that Wisdom offers in Proverbs 9:2–5. He may also have had in mind the eucharist, especially via John 6:33 and 51, the “living bread,” “bread from heaven,” etc., or “the cup of salvation” of Psalm 116:13, which features in the contemporary Orthodox Church’s precommunion prayers. The note of “intoxication” also recalls the phrase “sober intoxication” used by Philo and later church fathers for the encounter with God, that is, the higher levels of mystical experience. Then there is the phrase u”dwr pisto´ n. In its scriptural context, it appears to mean simply that the righteous will not need to worry about either food or drink in the eschatological city. In the perfected Jerusalem, one’s water will be “assured,” guaranteed. Niketas is using it, I think, for the preaching or teaching of the seer, or saint, who has seen God, thus partaken of Wisdom’s feast, and so is “worthy of trust.” I would therefore understand the phrase as linked in Niketas’ mind to two scriptural texts, the pisto` " lo´ go" of 1 Timothy On St. Paul’s use of Moses and Exod. 33–34 in 2 Cor. 3:3, see A. Segal, Paul the Convert: The Apostolate and Apostasy of Saul the Pharisee (New Haven, Conn., 1990), 58–61; and C. C. Newman, Paul’s Glory Christology: Tradition and Rhetoric (Leiden, 1992), 229–35. 27

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1:15 (cf. also Titus 1:9 and Rev. 21:5) and, perhaps as well, the “living water” that, as Christ promises in John 7:38–39, will stream from all who believe in him and that the evangelist then goes on to identify with the Holy Spirit. I might also point to the related image in Revelation 22:1, the “river of life” flowing from beneath the throne of God and the Lamb, as well as to the latter’s source in the vision of Ezekiel 47:1 ff, the river streaming from the eschatologically renewed temple to water the earth.28 The second sentence of Century 360, Isaiah 33:17, strikes the specific note of theophany: “He [“You” in Isaiah] shall see a king with glory and his [“your”] eyes a distant land.” Patristic writers from the second-century Epistle of Barnabas and Justin Martyr routinely apply this verse to the eschatological vision. Eusebios of Caesarea (d. 339), however, and Aphrahat the Persian (fl. 330s–340s) both—the former with great clarity—link it to the ascetic life, and Aphrahat, at least against the larger background of his work, suggests that the visio dei is not limited solely to the world to come but may also be anticipated in this life. Eusebios writes that the prophet wishes us: “to understand by these words the asceticism of the blessed ones, their way of life as the supreme philosophy. Thus he adds: ‘bread shall be given him and his bread is assured,’ for such a man, having exercised himself [ajskhqei´"] with bread and water in the present life, will enjoy [literally, “have”] the prize and fruit of asceticism which is the glorious vision of the King.” Aphrahat cites the text from Isaiah in tandem with an obvious allusion to the visio dei promised the “pure in heart” in Matthew 5:8, “Qui cor suum a dolo emundat, Regem in decore suo videbunt oculi eius.” 29 Aphrahat’s Syriac Bible, the Peshitta, renders the verse following the Hebrew, “Your eyes will see the King in his beauty,” while Eusebios’ (and Niketas’) Septuagint source changes “beauty” into “glory,” do´ xa.30 That the two terms, “beauty” and “glory,” were both taken as signifying the same splendor or radiance of divinity appears clearly, I think, in a second rather interesting feature of Eusebios’ and Aphrahat’s— and later Niketas’—use of this text. The three Christian writers, in particular Aphrahat See Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 17, on Ezek. 47:1 ff in apocalyptic generally, esp. the flowing river of fire from beneath the heavenly throne; also R. Brown, The Gospel of John, Anchor Bible 29, (New York, 1966), 1:320–24; and J. P. Swete, Revelation (Philadelphia, 1979), 307–11, for the prophet’s eschatological river in the Fourth Gospel and Apocalypse. On “sober drunkeness,” see H. Lewy, Sobra ebrietas: Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der antiken Mystik, ZNW 9 (Giessen, 1929). 29 See Epistle of Barnabas 11 (PG 2:757B); Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho, 70 (PG 6:641A); also Hippolytos, De Antichristo, 44.9 (PG 10:761A–764A), in the 3rd century (and interesting for its linkage of Isa. 33:17 with Dan. 7:13); and in the later 4th and early 5th centuries, Apollinaris, Fragmenta in Psalmos, 67.3 (text in E. Mu ¨ hlenberg, ¨berlierferung, vol. 1 [Berlin: 1975], 26–27); Didymos the Blind, De Trinied., Psalmenkommentaren aus der Katenenu tate, 32 (PG 39:428), included in a string of scriptural praises of Christ which, most interestingly in light of the merkavah traditions’ link with Ezekiel, joins Isa. 33:17 immediately to Ezek. 3:12 (and see the discussion below and note 33 on the “eternal place”); Cyril of Alexandria, Comm. in Isaiam (PG 70:729D–32A); and Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Comm. in Isaiam (PG 91:388AB). The most important for my purposes, however, and discussed above, remain Eusebios, Commentarius in Isaiam, 2.5, ed. J. Ziegler, GCS (Berlin, 1975), 217:17–21; Aphrahat, Demonstration, 6.1, PS 1:252, lines 7–9: , and cf. also, for an echo elsewhere in Aphrahat of the apocalyptic ascent tradition, Dem. 14.35, 661:6–664:7; and for comment, J. Rausch, “The Monastic Concept of Purity of Heart and Its Sources,” Studia Monastica 11.2 (1969): 281–82, who rightly discerns a recollection here of 1 Enoch and parallels. See also M.-J. Pierre’s remarks, in Aphraate le sage persan: Les Expose´s, SC 349 (Paris, 1988), 947 n. 269. 30 The MT of Isa. 33:17 is ÍÈÈÚ ‰ÈÊÁ˙ ÂÈÙÈ· ÍÏÓ, where ÈÙÈ· (byaphyo), “in his beauty,” is rendered (bshuphreh, “in his beauty”) in the Peshitta, and meta` do´ xh" (“with glory”) in the Septuagint. On the latter’s use of do´ xa to cover a number of related, theophanic terms in the Hebrew, see Newman, Paul’s Glory Christology, 134–53. 28

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and Niketas, the first two from the early fourth century and the third from the eleventh, share a visionary use of Isaiah 33:17 with an important representative of Jewish mystical literature, the medieval compilation of older, amoraic (i.e., Talmudic-era) texts called Hekalot Zutarti, the Lesser Hekalot. Peter Scha¨fer’s Konkordanz zur Hekalot Literatur lists Isaiah 33:17 as occurring ten times in the space of six paragraphs in Hekalot Zutarti. The context is R. Ishmael’s discussion of the perilous passage through the sixth hekal to the seventh in order to see the Glory of God enthroned, “the King in His beauty.” 31 I have the impression that the phrase also occurs elsewhere in rabbinic literature, but this one repeated instance will suffice to raise an interesting question about Niketas’ sources. To be sure, given especially Eusebios, we do not need to postulate Stethatos’ direct dependence on Jewish sources for his use of Isaiah 33:17, but there is still an intriguing parallelism here. Eusebios and Aphrahat are rough contemporaries of the Amoraim, the sages of the Talmud, and thus contemporary as well with the rabbis who wrote the passages that would be assembled later in such compilations as Hekalot Zutarti, and there is apparently evidence that, again, both of these two fourth-century, Christian writers (especially Aphrahat) were somewhat familiar with Jewish traditions. Niketas, in turn, is the rough contemporary of the medieval Jewish assemblers of the merkavah texts and of nascent Cabbalism as well, and we know that there was an interest in mystical traditions in medieval Byzantine Jewry. Niketas may then have had some contact with the Judaism of his time and place in a way more or less analogous to the contacts Eusebios and Aphrahat had with the rabbis of, respectively, fourth-century Palestine and Mesopotamia.32 At the least, we have in these mystical streams the example of a certain parallel flow in the two great religious traditions, Christianity and Judaism, two branches of a current that finds its wellsprings in the apocalyptic literature of the Second Temple era. Both Eusebios and Aphrahat, on the one hand, and Niketas, on the other, suggest that there may also have been, at least on occasion, a kind of seepage, as it were, between the sister religions. They had common roots, after all, and a shared territory. Why should we then assume that there was never any percolation of ideas through that common earth? 31 P. Scha¨fer, Konkordanz zur Hekhalot Literatur (Tu ¨ bingen, 1986), 1:300, for “the king in his beauty”; and idem, Synopse, para. 407–12, pp. 172–74, for the passages from Hekalot Zutarti. For the German translation, ¨ bersetzung, 3:145–52. see idem, U 32 I know of no studies devoted to this question, but see A. Scharf, Byzantine Jewry: From Justinian to the Fourth Crusade (New York, 1971), 168–70, for at least the mention of Cabbalists in Byzantine territories at or around the time of Niketas and S. W. Baron, A Social and Religious History of the Jews, vol. 3: Philosophy and Science (New York, 1958), 30–31, who indeed argues for medieval Jewish mysticism as stemming from Byzantine Jewry. On Syrian Christian use of Jewish traditions, see S. Brock, “Jewish Traditions in Syriac Sources,” JJS 30 (1979): 212–32; and particularly for Aphrahat’s acquaintance with Jewish thought, N. Koltun-Fromm, “A Jewish-Christian Conversation in Fourth-Century Iran,” JJS 47 (1996): 45–63. See also Niketas, Against the Jews, which displays a greater familiarity with Jewish thought, particularly in para. 10’s description of the Word incarnate in the “letters” (gra´ mmata) that comprise the Torah (SC, p. 424), than one might expect, together with a surprisingly sympathetic (other than the opening citation of Jer. 4:5–5:20) approach, e.g., the closing reference in para. 24 to Romans 11:26 (440–42) with its invocation of a unity within the “Israel of God” that demands the inclusion of both Christians and Jews. I cannot think of a more pleasingly eirenic recourse to Romans 9–11 in either patristic or later Byzantine literature. For Christian-Jewish relations in Byzantium, and perhaps for modern ecumenism as well, this little treatise of Niketas might repay closer attention than I can give it here.

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The final scriptural echoes that should be pointed out are those that I take to be associated for Niketas with the “eternal place,” aijw´ nio" to´ po", of Isaiah 33:14. These are, I think, both Exodus 24:10, “the place [to´ po"] where stood,” which the Septuagint inserts in front of the Hebrew, “the God of Israel,” in the sentence, “They saw [the place where stood] the God of Israel,” and the song of the cherubim in Ezekiel 3:12, “Blessed be the Glory of God from His place” (Hebrew maqom, ̘Ó; Greek to´ po").33 The “eternal place” is thus the dwelling of God and perhaps a stand-in for the reign or kingdom of God which Niketas’ seer is to “announce to all.” The divine to´ po" is also a term with a considerable history in eastern ascetical-mystical literature, especially prominent in Evagrios Pontikos.34 In any case, I hope this exercise has shown that Niketas’ Century 3.60 is not a simple paraphrase but is instead quite soaked with theophanic and eschatological allusions, including perhaps even a remarkable echo of the rabbinic merkavah lore. But all of this comes with a difference. While we are obviously here in the realm and vocabulary of apocalyptic visions—seeing the enthroned king, the eschatological river, the heavenly temple, perhaps an echo of the angelic liturgy in the “eternal place,” and (not least) the prophetic and inspired calling of the seer—it should also be clear from his subtle manipulations of the original scriptural verse that, for Niketas, it is the seer, the transfigured visionary, who is the subject of interest and whose role is being described. The human recipient is to become himself the spring of living water, and this because, at least by implication, the vision itself has taken place within him, such that it is he who becomes in fact the throne of divinity and locus of the Presence, at once the temple on high and— recalling my earlier discussion of Martha Himmelfarb on vision and transformation— the priest, with the angels, of the heavenly mysteries. I am emboldened to make these assertions because Niketas himself elsewhere in his writings makes every single one of them explicitly, repeatedly, and in detail. His entire treatise, Contemplation of Paradise, is devoted to the siting of the spiritual (nohto´ ") and eternal paradise of heaven within the sanctified soul. As he remarks at the conclusion of the treatise, it is there, within the soul, that one is to find the presence of the Holy Spirit and so the reality of the third heaven to which St. Paul says he ascended in 2 Corinthians 12:2–4. This interior and more spacious paradise, the “great world in the small,” is the “palace [pala´ tion—and recall hekal ] of Christ.” 35 Thus, too, the hallowed intellect is “the altar within us,” the “throne of God.” 36 The inner altar as “throne of God” suggests, furthermore, the 33 Of some note, perhaps, is the use in rabbinic literature of maqom, “place,” as itself a divine name whose resonances overlap with those of the Shekinah. See in this regard E. E. Urbach, The Sages: Their Concepts and Beliefs, trans. I. Abrahams (Jerusalem, 1975; repr. Cambridge, Mass., 1995), 37–79, esp. 66–79. 34 See my discussion of Evagrios on Exod. 24:10, below. 35 Contemplation of Paradise, 8.53 (SC, p. 216) for the “palace of Christ”; 2.19 (p. 176) for the “greater world” and inner “paradise,” and for “the great world in the small,” On the Soul 27 (p. 88). For similar evocations of the inner “paradise” and/or “palace,” see C 2.12 (Filokali´a, 3:301; trans. Ware et al., 4: p. 110); C 2.44 (308; p. 119); C 2.50 (310; p. 121); 3.23 (331; p. 146); 3.38–39 (335; pp. 149–50); On the Soul 11.60 (SC, p. 122); Contemplation of Paradise, 8.58 (p. 224); Ep. 6.2 (pp. 260–62); 6.9 (p. 270); and 6.10 (p. 272). 36 Ep. 6.8–10 (SC, pp. 268–72), on the “inner paradise” and “throne of the Trinity,” in the course of a discussion of 2 Cor. 12:2–4. For the divine throne: (1) as theological problem, not to be considered kat∆ ai“sqhsin, see Ep. 5.6–10 (pp. 252–58)—and note that the discussion begins with the issue of the supporting cherubim, thus recalling Ezek. 1 and the hekalot literature; (2) as the inner Presence, see C 2.42 (Filokali´a, 308; trans. Ware et al., p. 118); C 2.50 (310–11; p. 121), God descending upon the intellect “as upon a

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liturgy of heaven. In Century 3.16, to cite one example, Niketas spells this out: “So long as the nature of the powers within us is in a state of inner discord, we do not participate in God’s supernatural gifts. And if we do not participate in these gifts, we are also far from the mystical liturgy [lit., “priestly work,” iJerourgi´a] of the heavenly altar, celebrated by the intellect through its spiritual activity . . . [but, once the intellect has been purified through ascesis and prayer] we participate in the ineffable blessings of God, and worthily, together with God and God the Word, offer up the divine mysteries of the intellect’s spiritual [noero´ n] altar as initiates [ejpo´ ptai] and priests [iJerei'"] of His mysteries.” 37 The liturgy of the intellect, nou'", at the heavenly altar is no mere theory or metaphor. Niketas understands it as entailing a genuine experience, indeed as a transformation— ajlloi´wsi", change—and he holds, as in the apocalypses of ascent, that this transformation includes a share in the life of the angels. Thus the following from Century 2.43: “If while striving actively to practice the commandments, one should feel suddenly, with inexpressible and ineffable joy, that he is being transformed [ajlloiwqh'nai] with a strange and unaccountable change . . . then he should know that this is God’s sojourning [ejpidhmi´a] with him . . . [which] here and now bestows on him the state [or condition, kata´ stasi"] of the heavenly beings.” 38 The note of concelebration with the angels occurs often in Niketas’ works, but nowhere at greater length than in his treatise On Hierarchy, which is devoted more or less exclusively to this theme. At one point he supplies a particularly striking echo of the ancient apocalypses and, even more so, of the later merkavah literature: each triad of the angelic hierarchy and its corresponding triad in the human—or ecclesiastical—hierarchy has its own special hymn in heaven. The first angelic triad sings the cherubim’s praise from Ezekiel 3:12, “Blessed is the Glory of God from His place,” while the equivalent human triad is assigned the opening doxology of the divine liturgy, “Blessed is the Kingdom . . .” (an additional point, surely, linking the “eternal place” of Century 3.60 with the idea of the kingdom or reign of God). The second triad in each hierarchy is assigned the trisa´ gion of Isaiah 6:3, and in the third triad angels and people both sing the “Alleluia.” 39 throne”; C 3.49 (338; pp. 153–54); and C 2(3), relatedly, see C 3.26 (332; p. 146), for souls “like cherubim,” i.e., bearing the throne, and the virtues like “chariots” in C 3.95 (353; p. 171). For the soul as “altar” (qusiasth´ rion), “temple” (nao´ "), “sanctuary” (aJgiasth´ rion), “place” (to´ tto"), “dwelling place” (katoikhth´ rion), “house” (oi«ko"), “mountain [of God]” (o“ro"), and “tabernacle” (skhnh´ ), in short, the language of the temple and so, relatedly, of theophany and divine indwelling, see C 1.25 (,Filokali´a, 278; trans. Ware et al., p. 85); C 1.49 (284; p. 91); C 1.54 (285; p. 93); C 2.38 (307; p. 117); C 2.49 (310; p. 120); C 2.63 (314; p. 125); C 3.16 (330; p. 144); C 3.52 (339–40; p. 155), referring to Tabor; C 3.55 (340–41; p. 156), Zion and “house of God”; C 3.60 (342; p. 158); C 3.79 (348–49; p. 165); On the Soul, 9.51 (SC, p. 114); and Contemplation of Paradise, 2.20 (SC, p. 176). 37 C 3.16 (Filokali´a, 330; trans. Ware et al., p. 144, slightly altered). For other references to concelebration with or otherwise becoming like the angels, see just below, as well as: C 1.90 (295; p. 103); C 2.47 (309; p. 120); C 2.63 (314; p. 125); C 3.99 (354–55; pp. 172–73); Vie de Syme´on, chap. 33 (p. 44); ibid., 113 (p. 156) and 133–34 (pp. 192–97); On the Soul, 3.16 (SC, pp. 78–80); 10.54 (p. 116); 13.70–71 (pp. 132–34); 14.79–80 (pp. 144–46); 15.83 (p. 150); On Hierarchy, 1.2–4 (SC., pp. 302–4); 7.59 (pp. 356–58); On the Canons, 10 (p. 474); and On Studite Customs, 1 (pp. 486–88). The two latter citations both speak of the ties between the heavenly and earthly liturgies. 38 C 2.43 (Filokali´a, 308; trans. Ware et al., p. 118, slightly altered). 39 On Hierarchy, 3.22–23 (SC, pp. 326–28), and recall my remarks drawn above from Himmelfarb, Ascent to Heaven, 35–36 and 55–56. I cannot recall any instance in the ancient apocalypses where the several angelic

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To the objection that the human side of these hierarchies has, at the least, a very ecclesiastical ring, and that some bishops (or maybe most) do not really deserve to be singing with the angels either here or even especially in the world to come, Niketas offers a kind of escape clause which at the same time underlines the primacy he places on the inner life. Echoing Origen eight hundred years earlier, he explains in On Hierarchy that the “true bishop” is one whose “apostolic rank [ta´ gma ajpostoliko´ n] the Holy Spirit has made manifest in the Church” 40 and who is therefore, by virtue of that experience, both an initiate and communicator of heavenly mysteries, mu´ sth" and mustagwgo´ ".41 The “true bishop,” “initiate,” “mystagogue,” and “priest of the divine mysteries” has a number of other titles as well. These include mediator (mesi´th"), leader or abbot (hJgou´ meno"), lawgiver (nomoqe´ th"), guide (oJdhgo´ "), teacher (dida´ skalo"), physician (ijatro´ "), nazirite (nazirai'o"), prophet (profh´ th"), sage, friend of God, spiritual father “begetting other souls in Christ,” theologian, apostle, and finally “earthly angel” (ejpi´geio" a“ggelo"), and “heavenly man” (a“nqrwpo" oujra´ nio").42 This list, particularly the first and last titles, mediator and earthly angel/heavenly man, leads me to suggest that, for Niketas, the place hymns in the different heavens are quoted, but this does occur in the merkavah texts. Thus see, e.g., Ma’aseh Merkavah, 6, cited at length in Morray-Jones, “The Temple Within,” 416–17 (Hebrew in Scha¨fer, Synopse, 555, pp. 209–10): each of the angelic choirs in the seven heavens has its own hymn, starting with the trisa´ gion in the first heaven. On this text from Niketas’ On Hierarchy and its relation to both Symeon New Theologian and Dionysios Areopagites, including their common stress on the liturgies of heaven and earth as both “inner” and “outer” realities, see A. Golitzin, “Hierarchy vs. Anarchy? Dionysius Areopagites, Symeon New Theologian, Nicetas Stethatos, and Their Common Roots in Ascetical Traditon,” SVThQ 38.2 (1994): 131–79, here 142–52 ff. 40 On Hierarchy, 5.37–38 (SC, pp. 340–42). The recollection of Origen comes from In Mt, PG 13:161BC, cited by I. Hausherr, Spiritual Direction in the Early Christian East, trans. A. Gythiel (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1990), 22. 41 On Hierarchy, 5.39 (SC, p. 342). On the knowledge of “heavenly mysteries,” recall Rowland’s remarks above on this as a virtual definition of apocalyptic, and note the frequent use of this and like phrases— “hidden mysteries,” “unutterable mysteries” (surely a recollection of 2 Cor. 12:4 a“rjrJhta rJh´ mata), “mysteries of the Kingdom,” “God’s mysteries,” etc.—in Niketas. See C 1.1 (Filokali´a, 273; trans. Ware et al., p. 79); C 1.9 (275; p. 81); C 1.45 (283; p. 90); C 1.63 (288; p. 96); C 1.89 (294; p. 103); C 2.40 (307; p. 117); C 2.41 (307–8; p. 118); C 2.49 (310; p. 120); C 2.61 (313–14; p. 124); C 2.64 (314; p. 125); C 2.67 (315; p. 127); C 2.91 (322; p. 134); C 3.13 (329; p. 143); C 3.16 (330; p. 144); C 3.20 (331; p. 145); C 3.31 (333; p. 148); C 3.37 (334; p. 149); C 3.43–44 (336–37; pp. 151–52); C 3.72 (346; p. 163); C 3.80 (349; p. 166); C 3.83 (350; p. 167); C 3.86 (351; p. 168); Ep. 8.2 (SC, pp. 280–82); On Limits, 26 (SC, p. 390); and New Heavens, 1 (SC, p. 508). For an echo of this language in a late 4th-century ascetic writer, see the Letters of Ammonas, 8 (Syriac version), and Ammonas’ prayer for his correspondent that the Spirit reveal to him “all the mysteries of heaven” ( ), ed. M. Kmosko, PO (Paris, 1913 [fascicule], 1915), 10:587, line 10; and cf. also my remarks below on Niketas’ 4th-century roots, together with notes 47, 58–61, 66, and 83–84. 42 On the several titles: for (1) mesi´th", see C 1.35 (Filokali´a, 281; trans. Ware et al., p. 88); (2) hJgou´ meno", see Vie, chaps. 35–58 (pp. 46–78); (3) nomoqe´ th", see On Hierarchy, 2.11 (SC, p. 314); (4) oJdhgo´ ", see C 2.10 (300, p. 110); (5) dida´ skalo", see C 2.10 (300; p. 110); Vie de Syme´on, chaps. 10–12 (pp. 18–22); chap. 149 (pp. 220–22); Ep. 7.7 (SC, p. 280); and On Limits, 32–34 (SC, pp. 394–98); (6) ijatro´ ", see C 2.11 (301; p. 110); and 2.22–23 (303–4; p. 113); (7) nazirai'o", see C 2.7 (300; p. 109); (8) profh´ th", see C 2.34 (306; p. 116); 2.63 (314; p. 125); 2.66 (315; p. 126); 3.58 (341–42; p. 157); 3.89 (352; p. 169); and On Limits, 27 (SC, pp. 390–92), on “false prophets”; (9) sofo´ ", see 3.44 (336–37; pp. 151–52); 3.54 (340; p. 156) lit., partaking of wisdom; and, negatively, On the Canons, 1–2 and 9 (SC, pp. 464–66 and 472); (10) fi´lo" tou' qeou', filo" tou' aJgi´ou pneu´ mato", see C 2.34 (306; p. 116); and 3.58 (341; p. 157); (11) path` r pneumatiko´ ", see C 2.53–54 (311; p. 122); 3.12 (329; p. 143), on spiritual begetting; and Vie, chaps. 35–58 (pp. 46–78); (12) qeolo´ go", see C 3.44 (337; pp. 151–52); Vie, chap. 150 (p. 224); and On Hierarchy, 5.37 (SC, p. 340); (13) ajpo´ stolo", see On Hierarchy, 5.36 (SC, p. 338); (14) a“ggelo" ejpi´geio", a“nqrwpo" oujra´ nio", see C 2.51 (311; p. 121); Vie, chap. 113 (p. 156); On the Soul, 3.16 (SC, p. 78); and 10.54 (SC, p. 116).

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of the otherworldly being in the ancient apocalypses who acts as guide and interpreter for the seer, the angelus interpres, is taken over by the spiritual father. The latter, in and for himself, stands surely in the place of the ancient seer of apocalyptic. He is transformed into light and has acquired angelic status, but, and precisely in view of the latter change, he becomes indeed for others their “guide” and “interpreter,” the one who directs his disciples to a like experience of heaven and who then explains the vision’s meaning. Niketas certainly had two striking models for this figure, his own avowed master, Symeon the New Theologian, and the latter’s spiritual father, Symeon the Pious of the Stoudios. In the former’s vita, Niketas describes his master’s veneration, against the objections of contemporary church authorities, of the elder Symeon as a saint, and quotes the New Theologian as replying to his opponents that he had, after all, seen his venerable elder standing “at the right hand of the Glory of God.” 43 This is an allusion to the incident recorded both in the vita and by Symeon himself in his twenty-second Catechetical Discourse: the latter’s first vision, as a young man, of the uncreated light and of his elder standing within it.44 The old man “at the right hand of the Glory” recalls Acts 7:55–56 and Stephen’s vision of “the Glory of God” and of Christ “standing at the right hand of God.” The spiritual father as alter Christus, or imago Christi, is at the heart of the notion of the sanctified elder as a kind of theophany for his disciple precisely in light of the former’s function as mediator of the divine presence. This particular, eastern Christian, and especially monastic variant on the theme of the imitation of Christ is well enough known not to have to belabor it here, though I note that it must have been a central—or, better, the central— element in Niketas’ portrayal of his own elder and of Symeon the Pious. Recalling, however, the continuing presence of and interest in the apocryphal Old Testament in Christian circles, apocalyptic literature’s own influence on the portrayal of Christ in the New Testament, and Niketas’ use of the motifs of transformation into angelic status and sharing in the heavenly priesthood, it is reasonable to point also to the echo in his picture of Symeon the Pious “at the right hand of the Glory” of the ministering angel of the apocalypses who steps forward from his place beside the heavenly throne to assist the seer and explain his vision. In the canonical scriptures, one might think of Gabriel, clearly an intimate of the Presence, who is sent to explain things to Daniel in Daniel 8:16 ff, and then again, as a heavenly man with overtones of Ezekiel’s figure on the chariot throne, appearing for the same duties in Daniel 10:5 ff. In the Pseudepigrapha, the same pattern is repeated in the angel of the Presence, Jaoel, sent to conduct Abraham on his Vie, chap. 5 (p. 10, lines 20–21): to` n aujtou' pate´ ra ejk dexiw'n parestw'ta th'" do´ xh" oJrw'n tou' qeou'. See also chap. 90 (p. 124, lines 17–18), where the speaker is Symeon himself: “You were shown to me standing at the right hand of God” (wJ" ejmoi ejdei´cqh" ejk dexiw'n tou' qeou' parista´ meno"), and note Symeon’s prayer just above (line 16) to become th'" aujth'" soi do´ xh" koinwno´ ". 44 Vie, chap. 5 (pp. 8–10): “He [Symeon] received the power to see by virtue of the light and, behold, he saw the form of a brilliant cloud, without form or shape, and full of the ineffable Glory of God at the height of heaven, and he saw his own [spiritual] father, Symeon the Pious, standing at the right hand of this great cloud” (ejn gou'n tv' toiou´ tv fwti` ejnergou´ meno" ei«de, kai` ijdou` ei«do" fwteinota´ th" nefe´ lh" ajmo´ rfou te kai` ajschmati´stou kai` plh´ rou" ajrjrJtou do´ xh" qeou' eij" to` u”yo" tou' oujranou', ejk dexiw'n de` th'" toiau´ th" nefe´ lh" iJsta´ menon eJw´ ra to` n eJautou' pate´ ra Sumew´ nhn to` n eujlabh'). So see also Symeon’s own description in Catechetical Discourse, 22, ed. B. Krivocheine, SC (Paris, 1964), 104, pp. 102–4; trans. C. de Catanzaro, Symeon the New Theologian: The Discourses (New York, 1980), 246. 43

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heavenly tour in the Apocalypse of Abraham,45 or the angel of the seventh (i.e., highest) heaven, who is dispatched to provide the same service to the prophet in the Ascension of Isaiah.46 Both of these pseudepigrapha were circulating among Slavic-speaking Orthodox monks within a century or so of Niketas.47 Given the latter’s—and, as I have argued elsewhere, the New Theologian’s—fondness for Dionysios Areopagites,48 Dionysios himself may well have been alluding to the Ascension of Isaiah in Celestial Hierarchy 13, where, and not present in the canonical text of Isaiah 6:1–6, the prophet is conducted to the throne of Glory and visio dei by an angel who then explains the vision and the heavenly liturgy. Unlike the pseudepigraphon, however, and equally unlike both Niketas and the New Theologian, Dionysios spends considerable energy explaining why the angelus inApoc. Abr. 10:3–16; Charlesworth, 1:693–94. Note also Jaoel teaching Abraham the angelic song, which he is to “recite unceasingly,” in 17:4–21 (1:697), followed by the patriarch’s vision of the merkavah and “indescribable light” in the seventh heaven, 18:3–13 (1:698). On the important relationship of this pseudepigraphon to the later hekalot tradition of visionary ascent, see Gruenwald, Apocalyptic and Merkabah, 52–57, particularly the elements of fasting, angelic song, and unceasing repetition. The last is perhaps of interest in view of the ancient monastic emphasis on “unceasing prayer,” especially in light of later developments regarding the “Jesus Prayer.” No one has yet sought to link the latter with ancient apocalyptic, even though the expression “pray without ceasing” is attested as early as the 1st century in St. Paul (1 Thess. 5:17), let alone chart its parallels in the hekalot texts; thus the possibilities await exploration. With regard to the hekalot literature, see the fascinating, 11th-century Jewish text cited by Morray-Jones, “Temple Within,” 425, with its near precise equivalence to later (?) hesychast practice: “who wishes to behold the Merkabah and the palaces . . . must sit in fast for a certain number of days and lay his head between his knees and whisper to the ground many hymns and songs. . . . He then gazes into the inner rooms and chambers as if he were seeing the seven palaces with his own eyes.” For a reliable summary of “unceasing prayer” in eastern ascetic literature, see K. T. Ware, “Ways of Prayer and Contemplation: Eastern,” in Christian Spirituality, vol. 1, Origins to the Twelfth Century, ed. B. McGinn, J. Meyendorff, and J. LeClerc (New York, 1989), 395–414, esp. 402–12. Likewise, the related Byzantine hesychast emphasis on the “uncreated light” seems to find an analogue in the rabbinic “splendor of the Shekinah” (‰ÈÎu‰ ÂÈÊ). On the latter, see I. Chernus, Mysticism in Rabbinic Judaism (BerlinNew York, 1982), esp. the chapter “Nourished by the Splendor of the Shekinah,” 74–87, and, for similar language in Symeon and Niketas, see above, notes 43–44 and below, note 53, together with notes 83–4 on the 4th-century Macarian Homilies and later works. 46 Asc. Is. 7:2 ff; Charlesworth, 2:165 ff. 47 See M. A. Knibb, “Introduction,” Charlesworth 2:145–46 for Asc Is, and R. Rubinkiewicz, “Introduction,” ibid., 1:681–82, for Apoc. Abr., and in greater detail for both, Turdeanu, Apocryphes slaves et roumains, 145–200. It is clear that at least the Ascension had been circulating among Christian ascetics since virtually the time of its composition by a Christian group near Antioch in the early 2d century. Thus see Acerbi, L’Ascensione di Isaia, 277–94. On this and other Old Testament pseudepigrapha, such as 2 Enoch, as favored reading among the medieval Bogomils, see I. Ivanov, Bogomil Books and Legends (Sofia, 1925), 131–227 (in Bulgarian). It was also, clearly, read and copied by Orthodox Slavic monks, and indeed by 4th-century monks as well. Thus recall Athanasios’ allusion above (and note 9) to an apocryphal book of Isaiah, and cf. another late 4thcentury work, the Letters of Ammonas (Syriac version), Ep. 10, quoting Asc. Is. 8:21, the prophet’s ascent to the seventh heaven, and then adding quite like Niketas above: “sunt homines super terram qui ad hanc mensuram pervenere,” PO 10:594 (lines 12–13 Latin, with the Syriac above, line 11). If not the complete text of the ancient work, Niketas may well have had available the Greek Legend of Isaiah, based on the apocryphon, and extant today in a 12th-century manuscript. See R. H. Charles, The Ascension of Isaiah (London, 1900), xxvii– xxviii on the Legend, and 141–48 for an edition of the text with phrases from the ancient apocryphon marked in heavy type. For Niketas’ use of Isaiah as an illustration of the heavenly ascent and transformation, see C 2.26 (Filokali´a, 304; trans. Ware et al., p. 114). 48 See Golitzin, “Anarchy vs. Hierarchy?” and, expanding on the latter with further documentation of Symeon’s admiration for Dionysios, especially with regard to the language of mystical experience, I. Perczel, “Denys l’Are´opagite et Syme´on le nouveau the´ologien,” in Denys l’Are´opagite et sa posterite´ en Orient et en Occident, ed. Y. de Andia (Paris, 1997), 341–57. 45

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terpres is merely an ordinary angel and not from the first level of the heavenly hierarchy, that is, one of the seraphim. The angels, he continues, doubtless to underscore one of his principal reasons for composing his very own New Testament pseudepigraphon, are to their highest officers as our priests are to their bishops.49 In other words, even ascetic visionaries, here represented by Isaiah, require the instruction of the clergy.50 From rabbinic circles roughly contemporary with Dionysios, one can point to the analogous figure of Metatron, the Angel of the Presence and even called “the Lesser YHWH,” who provides, in the opening chapters of 3 Enoch, safe passage to the heavenly courts together with an elaborate explanation of their hierarchies and the heavenly throne to Rabbi Ishmael.51 3 Enoch also features perhaps the most spectacular description of transformation into light and fire available in any of the apocalypses. Metatron was, after all, once the man Enoch, and he becomes an angel at the moment of his exaltation: “When the Holy One, blessed be He, took me to serve the throne of Glory . . . at once my flesh turned to flame, my sinews to blazing fire, my bones to juniper coals, my eyelashes to lightning flashes, my eyeballs to fiery torches, the hairs of my head to hot flames, all my limbs to wings of burning fire, and the limbs of my body to blazing fire.” 52 References to the vision of light, glory, or fire are so frequent in both Niketas and the New Theologian that I limit myself here to just a single incident, albeit a spectacular one: Niketas’ description of one of Symeon’s experiences in chapters 69–70 of the vita. The master is taken wholly out of himself, o”lw" ejxi´stato, finds himself permeated—not unlike Metatron—by the immaterial light (fw'" a“u¨ lon) of divinity, and is told by a heavenly voice, twice, that this is the transformation of the saints in the age to come.53 Here we do not a have a mere vision, but an actual if temporary transfiguration. 49 See Celestial Hierarchy, 13.4, PG 3:304B–5D; critical text ed. G. Heil and A. M. Ritter, Corpus Dionysiacum, vol. 2 (Berlin, 1991), 46:22–49:1; trans. P. Rorem and C. Luibheid, Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works (New York, 1987), 179–80. 50 The usual account of the Dionysian hierarchies reads them as a kind of thinly Christianized adaptation of late Neoplatonist, triadic ontology, thus most recently in A. M. Ritter, “Gregor Palamas als Leser des Dionysios Pseudo-Areopagita,” in de Andia, Denys l’Are´opagite (as above, note 48), 565–79. For a contrary view, see A. Golitzin, Et introibo ad altare dei: The Mystagogy of Dionysius Areopagita (Thessalonike, 1994), 167–230 and 359–92, arguing that they are instead based in great part on ascetical traditions, especially of Syrian provenance, and are designed to reconcile the ascetic visionary tradition with the sacramentally based polity of the church. A striking illustration of this presence of ascetical tradition in the Areopagitica would be to compare Celestial Hierarchy, 8.2 (PG 3:240D; ed. Heil and Ritter, 34:14–16), “the all-embracing principle that beings of the second rank receive enlightenment from beings of the first rank” (trans. Luibheid and Rorem, 168), with Palladios’ “Letter to Lausus,” prefacing his Lausiac History, which offers a virtually identical statement about angelic mediation, including the triadic form, with the purpose of illustrating the principle of spiritual instruction and obedience, i.e., that no one may trust his own will, experiences, or visions, but must test them against the counsel of those wiser than he: “The first order of beings have their learning from the most high Trinity, the second learns from the first, the third from the second, and so on. . . . Those who are higher in knowledge and virtue teach the lower.” R. T. Meyer, trans., Palladius: The Lausiac History, Ancient Christian Writers 34 (New York, 1964), 21; Greek text by C. Butler, The Lausiac History, vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1904), 7. Dionysios simply puts the bishop (“hierarch”) in the place of the monastic elder, exactly the point of his exegesis here of Isa. 6:1–7. 51 See 3 Enoch 1:9 ff, trans. P. Alexander, in Charlesworth, 1:256 ff. 52 Ibid. 15, 1:267. See Morray-Jones, “Transformational Mysticism,” 7–11; and M. Idel, “Enoch Is Metatron,” Immanuel 24–25 (1990): 220–40, esp. 231–37, on Enoch’s experience here as that of exemplary mystic. 53 Vie, chaps. 69–70 (pp. 92–96). For more citations from Symeon on the visio luminis, and a discussion of his sources for it in scripture and the fathers, though without reference either to apocalyptic literature or to parallels in later Jewish mysticism, see the preliminary remarks in A. Golitzin, St. Symeon the New Theologian

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“INTERIORIZED APOCALYPTIC”: FOUR PRECEDENTS FROM FOURTH-CENTURY ASCETICAL WRITERS Participation in the angelic liturgy within the purified heart and the portrait of the transfigured elder or ge´ rwn that we have found in Niketas, together with the themes of light and the visio dei gloriae, are all instances of what I call “interiorized apocalyptic,” the transposition of the cosmic setting of apocalyptic literature, and in particular of the “out of body” experience of heavenly ascent and transformation, to the inner theater of the Christian soul, to “the great world,” as Niketas puts it, borrowing from Gregory of Nazianzos, “within the small.” 54 It seems clear that Niketas could well have read and found profitable some of the ancient pseudepigrapha. It is certainly the case that he incorporated into his thought materials and motifs stemming from the ancient literature at the same time as he recast them into a new, inner-oriented model. Or was that model so very new? We can surely find some basis for it in the foundational documents of Christianity, such as, for example, St. Paul’s promise of the “light of the glory of God in the face of Christ” shining within the Christian heart in 2 Corinthians 4:6, or the words of Christ in John 14:21–24 and 17:22–24, which speak of indwelling, epiphany, and of the gift of the same glory which he had with the Father “before the world was” (John 17:5). As one late fourth-century ascetic author put it, with Christ “everything [i.e., all the company of heaven] is to be found within.” 55 It is indeed to the fourth-century emergence of monasticism and the latter’s earliest documents that I should like to turn in this section. If there are certain new emphases in what we have seen of Niketas, there is still virtually nothing in his writings that does not have precedents in fourth- and early fifth-century monastic literature. Let me begin with the last item menon the Mystical Life: The Ethical Discourses, vol. 3: Life, Times, Theology (Crestwood, N.Y., 1997), 81–105; H. Alfeyev, “The Patristic Background of St. Symeon the New Theologian’s Doctrine of the Divine Light,” StP 32 (1997): 229–38 (very good for the echoes of Evagrios, Macarius, and Isaac); and J. A. McGuckin, “The Luminous Vision in Eleventh-Century Byzantium: Interpreting the Biblical and Theological Paradigms of St. Symeon the New Theologian,” in Work and Worship at the Theotokos Evergetis 1050–1200, ed. M. Mullett and A. Kirby (Belfast, 1997), 90–123. For Niketas’ references to transforming glory, light, or, as in 3 Enoch 15 above, fire, see: C 1.9 (Filokali´a, 275; trans. Ware et al., p. 81); C 1.20 (277; p. 84); C 1.56 (286; p. 93); C 1.63 (288; pp. 95–96); C 1.90 (295; p. 103): “the divine realms [to´ poi] of glory”; C 1.94 (295–96; p. 104); C 2.5 (299; p. 108); C 2.43 (308; p. 118); C 2.45 (309; p. 119): “immaterial, primal light” (aju?lou prw´ tou fwto´ "); C 2.50 (310–11; pp. 120–21): the “descent” (kata´ basi") of God in light on the “throne” of the intellect; C 2.100 (325; pp. 137–38): the eschaton anticipated in the experience of “eternal light”; C 3.20–21 (331; p. 145); C 3.31 (333; p. 148); C 3.37–38 (334–35; pp. 149–50); C 3.48 (338; p. 153); C 3.82–83 (350; pp. 166–67); Vie, chaps. 5 (pp. 8–10), 9 (pp. 16–18), 19 (p. 28), 23 (p. 32), 29 (p. 40), 33 (p. 44), 90 (p. 124), 111 (p. 154), 133 (pp. 192–94), 143 (pp. 210–12); On Soul, 6.30 (SC, p. 92); 11.61 (SC, pp. 122–4); 13.70 (SC, p. 132); and 14.79 (SC, pp. 144–46). 54 See Niketas’ On the Soul, 27 (SC, pp. 88–90) and note 35 above. With the expression “interiorized apocalyptic,” I mirror in reverse part of Nicholas Constas’ concluding observations, on page 123 of this volume, in “‘To Sleep, Perchance to Dream’: The Middle State of Souls in Patristic and Byzantine Literature”: “In Byzantium, the afterlife was the inner life turned inside out and writ large upon the cosmos. The contours and dimensions of the inner world shaped the landscape of the outer world, producing an alternative world through the subjective transformation of self ”—apocalypse, in other words, as exteriorized mystical experience. We were both surprised to find our papers reflecting each other in this unexpected way. 55 Macarian Homilies, Collection III, Homily 8.1.5; text in ed. V. Desprez, SC (Paris, 1980), 275, p. 144, line 50. For the great frequency in “Macarius” of just those New Testament texts cited above, together with other and related passages (e.g., Eph. 4:13, Phil. 3:21, etc.), see the citations in A. Golitzin, “Temple and Throne of the Divine Glory: Pseudo-Macarius and Purity of Heart,” in Purity of Heart in Early Ascetic and Monastic Literature, ed. H. Luckman and L. Kulzer (Collegeville, Minn., 1999), 107–29, esp. 121–24, and in note 84 below.

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tioned above, the portrait of the transfigured elder, and then conclude with a brief sketch of four fourth-century writers in whom we can see the same process of interiorization at work as in Niketas. The Christian holy man of late antiquity has been in the scholarly spotlight ever since Peter Brown’s seminal article on the subject more than a generation ago. Brown’s focus was also precisely on the mediatorial capacity and function of the sainted ascetic, the latter as a meeting place between heaven and earth, and thus as a social force.56 More recent—and less sociologically driven—research into the leading figures, and their portraits, of early Egyptian monasticism (Brown had concentrated on 5th-century Syria, especially on the figure of Symeon Stylites57) in the fourth century has come up with similar pictures. I might point, for example, to the stress on the direct link with the prophets and apostles which the Pachomian Koinonia saw embodied in its founder, together with the portrayal of Pachomios as locus of the divine presence and even, in one text, as intercessor at the heavenly throne.58 At least according to the Bohairic Life, the great koinobiarch was also a visionary, and the content of three of the visions in the same source bears an unmistakable resemblance to accounts in the ancient apocalypses of the heavenly throne.59 One may turn for stories of actual ascents to heaven to the Historia monachorum in Aegypto, which is rife with them, as well as, and still more often, monastic 56 P. Brown, “The Rise and Function of the Holy Man in Late Antiquity,” JRS 61 (1971): 80–101, reprinted in expanded form in Brown, Society and the Holy in Late Antiquity (Berkeley, Calif., 1982), 103–52. 57 For an account of Simeon Stylites that is peculiarly sensitive to the themes of this essay—light and fire, transformation, converse with angels, identification with the prophets, and “new Moses” (recall Niketas’ nomoqe´ th" in note 42 above, and cf. note 58 below), etc.—see S. A. Harvey, “Sense of a Stylite: Perspectives on Symeon the Elder,” VChr 42 (1988): 376–94, esp. 381–86 on the Syriac vita. 58 For the insistence on continuities with the prophets and apostles, see, e.g., the opening two paragraphs of the Vita Prima, with its implicit comparison of Pachomios to Abraham, Moses, the martyrs, Elijah, Elisha, and John the Baptist, in The Pachomian Koinonia, ed. and trans. A. Veilleux, 3 vols. (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1980), 1:297–98; for commentary, see P. Rousseau, Ascetics, Authority, and the Church (Oxford, 1978), 18–67; idem, Pachomius: The Making of a Community in Fourth-Century Egypt (Berkeley, Calif., 1985), 77–148; and esp. M. S. Burrows, “On the Visibility of God in the Holy Man: A Reconsideration of the Role of the Apa in the Pachomian Vitae,” VChr 41 (1987): 11–33, for the themes of mediator, physician, lawgiver, and father—the imago Christi, in short—and 22–23 for Burrows’ offhand parallel of the apa with the rabbi as the latter appears in Talmudic literature. For Pachomios as intercessor, see The Tenth Sahidic Life, frag. 7, in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:457. Comparison with the apostles and prophets had become virtually formulaic by the time of Besa’s Life of Shenute; see The Life of Shenute by Besa (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1983), trans. D. N. Bell, e.g., pp. 41 and 48 ff. On the figure of the spiritual father in two other 4th-century ascetics, see G. Bunge, Geistliche Vaterschaft: Christliche Gnosis bei Evagrios Pontikos (Regensburg, 1988), esp. 33–36 (imitatio Christi), 40–44 (“true gnostic” and visio dei), 45–50 (physician and teacher), and 69–72 (the “mystagogue”); and ¨rries, Die Theologie des Makarios/Symeon (Go ¨ttingen, 1978), esp. 336–66 on “The Charismatic Teacher.” H. Do 59 See Bohairic Life, 73, 76, and 184, in Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, 1:95–96, 99–100, and 219–20. All three are classical throne visions, the seated Majesty (here Christ) accompanied by the angels of the Presence, and cf. Pachomios’ several ascents to Paradise in Bohairic Life, 114 (Veilleux, 1:166–68). A. Guillaumont, “Les visions mystiques dans le monachisme oriental chre´tien,” in idem, Aux origines du monachisme chre´tien (Bellefontaine, 1979), 139–42, perhaps put off by their “primitive” quality, thinks these visions late and not genuinely Pachomian. I am not so persuaded. Thus see also the Pachomian Paraleipomena, 18 (Veilleux, 2:40; Greek text in F. Halkin, S. Pachomii vitae graecae, SubsHag 19 [Brussels, 1932], 141–43, here 142, lines 13–14), and Pachomios’ vision of Christ, “the Lord of Glory,” as a “youth” (neani´sko") of “ineffable countenance” accompanied by angels, and cf. the introduction of Metatron as “youth,” na’ar (¯Ú), in 3 Enoch 2:2. For comment on the latter, see Alexander’s n. 3a, in Charlesworth, 1:257; Scholem, Jewish Gnosticism, 50–51; and, on its presence earlier in the Enochic tradition, A. A. Orlov, “Titles of Enoch-Metatron in 2 Enoch,” Journal of the Pseudepigrapha 18 (1998): 71–86, esp. 80–82.

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conversation and comparison with angels.60 The Apophthegmata Patrum present us with at least two examples of ascent to the throne of Glory in Abba Silvanus, while the latter, together with the Abbas Sisoes, Pambo, and Arsenios, also provide instances of transformation via heavenly light or fire.61 The lo´ go" or rJh'ma of the desert abbas, with its power to inform and shape the disciple for salvation, provided the latter take it to heart, should recall the u”dwr pisto´ n that Niketas ascribed to the ascetic visionary. It is a word of life, pregnant with the Holy Spirit and thus authoritative, backed by the elder’s experience.62 Regarding the phrase “earthly angel–heavenly man,” I can point in the Apophthegmata Pateron to the analogous and indeed even more extraordinary expression, qeo` " ejpi´geio", applied at least once to one of the abbas, Macarius the Great, because he “covered the sins of the brethren.” 63 In sum, virtually all the long list of titles for the spiritual father noted above in Niketas, together with their occasionally implicit and even explicit evoca60 In the Historia monachorum in Aegypto, critical text ed. A.-H. Festugie`re (Brussels, 1971), see Patermuthis 21–22 (Festugie`re, pp. 83–84), Sourous 5–7 (pp. 91–92), and Macarius 5–12 (pp. 125–26) for trips to Paradise and, in Sourous’ case, to the heavenly court. On converse with angels, see Apollo 5–6 (pp. 48–49), 16–17 (pp. 52–53), 38–41 (pp. 62–63), 44–47 (pp. 63–65); Helle 1–4 (pp. 92–93) and 14–15 (pp. 96–97); Sourous 8 (p. 92); and Paphnutius 23–24 (pp. 109–10). See also “Prologue,” 5 (Festugie`re, p. 7) on the “angelic life” of the monks, and John of Lycopolis 6 (p. 34) on the monk as “standing in the presence of God” and participating in the angelic choirs. Note at the same time a clear instance of polemic against visions of the merkabah type in Or 9 (Festugie`re, p. 38), and cf. Palladios, Lausiac History, 25.4–5 on the monk Valens, who is deceived by the devil posing as Christ atop a “fiery wheel” (tro´ co" pu´ rino"); Greek in Butler, 80, line 1; trans. Meyer, p. 85. Ananisho, Palladios’ 7th-century translator into Syriac, renders the “fiery wheel” as a , “chariot of fire” (ed. R. Draguet, CSCO [Louvain, 1978], 398, p. 213, lines 13–14). Related to the polemic, see my remarks on Evagrios and others, below, note 102, and at greater length in “Forma lui dumnezeu si Vederea Slavei: Reflectii asupra controversei anthropomorphite din annul 399 d. Hr.,” in A. Golitzin, Mistagogia: Experienta lui dumnezeu in Ortodoxie, trans. I. Ica, Jr. (Sibiu, 1998), 184–267, esp. 196–208 and 243 n. 81. On the theme of monasticism as the “angelic life,” though without reference to the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha and Jewish background, see the older studies of P. Suso Frank, Angelikos ¨hen Mo¨nchtum Bios: Begriffsanalytische und begriffsgeschichtliche Untersuchung zum “engelgleichen Leben” im fru (Mu ¨ nster, 1964), and P. Nagel, Die Motivierung der Askese in der alten Kirche und der Ursprung des Mo¨nchtums (Berlin, 1966), esp. 20–79. 61 Silvanus 2–3 (PG 65:409A). In Silvanus 3 the old man’s disciple asks him what he saw in a trance. After much insistence, the elder finally tells him: “I was caught up into heaven [eij" to` n oujrano` n hJrpa´ ghn] and saw the Glory of God [ei«don th` n do´ xan tou' qeou'], and there I was standing [iJsta´ mhn] until now, and now I have been sent away.” The rapture, aJrpagh´ , surely recalls 2 Cor. 12:2 ff; the visio dei gloriae is likewise out of apocalyptic throne visions, while the “standing” is itself a feature of angelic ministry before the throne in Jewish literature: “There is no sitting in heaven; the angels have no joints” [i.e., to bend in order to sit]; yBerakot, 2c, cited in Gruenwald, Apocalyptic and Merkabah Mysticism, 66. Cf. also Symeon the Pious in notes 43–44 above, parista´ meno", iJsta´ meno", and John of Lycopolis, in note 60. On monastic transformations into fire or light, see Arsenios 27 (PG 65:96BC), Joseph of Panephysis 7 (229CD), Pambo 12 (372A), Sisoes 14 (396BC), Silvanus 12 (412C), and, for brief comment, G. Gould, The Desert Fathers on Monastic Community (Oxford, 1993), 177–82. See also, if from a polemical perspective (anti-Palamite) and with no sense of the Jewish ¨nche des vierzehnten und des background, the still valuable article by H.-V. Beyer, “Die Lichtlehre der Mo ¨rtet am Beispiel des Gregorios Siniaites, des Evagrios Pontikos, und des Psvierten Jahrhunderts, ero ¨ B 31.1 (1981): 473–512, and, more recently on the phenomenon, C. Stewart, Cassian Makarios/Symeon,” JO the Monk (Oxford, 1998), 55–60 and 114–22. 62 “The abba . . . was the one who discerned reality and whose words, therefore, gave life . . . the word that was sought was not a theological explanation, nor was it ‘counseling’ . . . it was a word . . . that would give life to the disciple if it were received.” B. Ward, “Translator’s Foreword,” in The Desert Christian: The Sayings of the Fathers, the Alphabetical Collection (New York, 1980), xix–xx. 63 Macarius the Egyptian 32 (PG 65:273D). See also Burrows, “On the Visibility of God,” 16, applying the same expression to Pachomios. On the expression ejpi´geioi a“ggeloi as “the Jewish equivalent of the Hellenistic qei'oi a“ndre",” see Fletcher-Louis, Luke–Acts, 201.

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tion of the apocalyptic angelus interpres, appear in the words or certainly in the substance of the original literature of monasticism. Turning to the four writers of the fourth century, I have chosen these exemplars in order to provide a variety of backgrounds and locations and give examples of authors relatively contemporary with each other, thus illustrating the simultaneity across linguistic and national boundaries of a process involving ascetics in the interiorization of the apocalyptic motifs noted in Niketas, particularly of the visio dei in the heavenly temple. Two of these authors wrote exclusively in Syriac, Ephrem Syrus and the anonymous author of the Liber Graduum, the first from within Roman Syria and the latter from across the border in Sassanid Persia.64 Neither of them would have been known to Niketas, whose knowledge of Ephrem would certainly have been limited to the writings of “Ephrem Graecus,” which are not, in fact, the authentic products of the Syrian poet. The second pair, Evagrios Pontikos (d. 399) and the unknown author of the Macarian Homilies, Niketas would certainly have known of and likely read, at least in part. Evagrios was an accomplished Hellenist, learned and philosophically inclined.65 The Macarian Homilist was clearly fluent in Greek, much less interested in systematizing, and versed as well in local Syrian traditions.66 The two Syriac writers’ formal knowledge, in Ephrem’s phrase, For Ephrem’s Paradise Hymns, cited below, see E. Beck’s edition of the critical text in CSCO 174 and the trans. by S. Brock, Hymns on Paradise (Crestwood, N.Y., 1990). For the Liber Graduum, see M. Kmosko’s critical text in PS 3, and the trans. of Mimro 12 (⫽ PS 3:284–304) by S. Brock, The Syriac Fathers on Prayer and the ´d, Spiritual Life (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1987), 45–53. On Ephrem’s links with Jewish traditions, see esp. N. Se “Les Hymnes sur paradis de saint Ephrem et les traditions juives,” Le Muse´on (1968): 455–501—esp. 468 and 482 for echoes of the hekalot texts and the rabbinic shekinah—and, more briefly, in Brock, “Introduction,” Hymns on Paradise, 39–74. 65 The literature on Evagrios is large and growing. For the texts cited below, see W. Frankenberg, Evagrius Ponticus (Berlin, 1912); A. Guillaumont, Kephalaia Gnostica, PO 28:17–257; A. and C. Guillaumont, Traite´ pratique ou le moine, SC 170–71 (Paris, 1971); trans. J. E. Bamberger, The Praktikos and the Chapters on Prayer (Spencer, Mass., 1970); De oratione, under the name of Neilos of Sinai, PG 79:1165A–1290C, and Nikodemos Hagiorites, Filokali´a, 1:176–89; trans. Ware et al., 1:55–71. For secondary studies, see A. Guillaumont, Les ‘Kephalaia Gnostica’ d’Evagre le Pontique (Paris, 1962); idem, “Les visions mystiques” and “Un philosophe au de´sert: Evagre le Pontique,” in Aux origines, 136–48 and 185–212; idem, “La vision de l’intellect par luimeˆme dans la mystique ´evagrienne,” MUSJ 50.1–2 (1984): 255–62; N. Se´d, “La shekinta et ses amis ‘arame´ens’,” in Me´langes Antoine Guillaumont: Contribution `a l’e´tude des christianismes orientaux, ed. P. Cramer, Cahiers d’orientalisme 20 (1988): 233–42; G. Bunge, “On the Trinitarian Orthodoxy of Evagrius of Pontus,” Monastic Studies 17 (1987): 191–208; idem, “Nach dem Intellekt Leben? Zum sogenannten ‘Intellektualismus’ der evagria¨r Klaus Gamber, ed. W. Nyssen (Cologne, nischen Spiritualita¨t,” in Simandron, der Wachklopfer: Gedankenschrift fu 1989), 95–109; idem, “Palladiana I: Introduction aux fragments coptes de l’Histoire Lausiaque,” Studia monastica 33 (1991): 7–21; and J. Driscoll, The Mind’s Long Journey to the Holy Trinity: The Ad Monachos of Evagrius Ponticus (Collegeville, Minn., 1993). 66 “Macarius,” not the writer’s actual name which remains unknown, has come down to us in four medieval collections. The oldest, Collection IV, has not yet appeared in a critical text. The other three include ¨rries, E. Klostermann, and M. Kro ¨ger, V. Desprez’ edition of Collection III for SC, cited above, note 55; H. Do eds., Collection II, Die 50 geistlichen Homilien des Makarios (Berlin, 1964); H. Berthold’s edition of Collection I, Makarios/Symeon. Reden und Briefen: Die Sammlung I des Vaticanus Graecus 694 (B), 2 vols. (Berlin, 1973); and ¨ttingen, 1980). Secondary works of R. Staats’ edition of the Great Letter, Makarios-Symeon: Epistola Magna (Go ¨ berlieferung des messalianischen Makarios¨rries, Symeon von Mesopotamien. Die U particular note include: H. Do Schriften (Leipzig, 1941); idem, Die Theologie des Makarios/Symeon; G. Quispel, “Sein und Gestalt,” in Studies in Religion and Mysticism Presented to Gershom Scholem (Jerusalem, 1967); idem, Makarios, das Thomasevangelium, und das Lied von der Perle (Leiden, 1967) (very suggestive for Macarius’ background in both the Thomas tradition and Jewish thought); R. Staats, “Messalianerforschung und Ostkirchenkunde,” in Makarios Sympo¨ber das Bo¨se, ed. W. Strothmann (Go ¨ttingen, 1983), 47–71; V. Desprez, “Introduction,” SC 275, 13–70; sium u idem, “Le bapteˆme chez le Pseudo-Macaire,” Ecclesia Orans 5 (1988): 121–55; C. Stewart, “Working the Earth of the Heart”: The Messalian Controversy in History, Texts, and Language to A.D. 431 (Oxford, 1991); K. Fitschen, 64

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of “the poison of the Greeks” was modest at best. There is no evidence, finally, that any one of the four knew any of the others, though certainly Evagrios and probably “Macarius” had some acquaintance with the Cappadocians, and both were aware of and used the traditions of Alexandrian spiritual exegesis. Yet, in spite of this mutual ignorance, each writer is, in his own idiom, engaged in the same project of interiorization that I have sketched in Niketas. In Ephrem, to begin with possibly the earliest of the four, this engagement appears particularly in the cycle of the Hymns on Paradise.67 Woven throughout these fifteen songs, especially in the second and third, is a series of parallels: the mountain of paradise, with the Sinai of theophany, the temple of Jerusalem, and the human being who is body, soul, and spirit ( , ruho).68 In paradise Adam was the intended priest of the sanctuary of the Tree of Life: his “keeping of the commandments,” says Ephrem, “was to be his censer. Then he might enter before the Hidden One into the hidden Tabernacle.” 69 Christ has restored access to the hidden sanctuary and is himself both the Tree of Life and the Shekinto ( ) there enthroned. By implication, thus, it is the calling of the Christian to enter and worship before that same Presence (shekinto, equivalent to the rabbinic Shekinah) within the holy of holies of the human spirit.70 To ascend the mount of theophany with Moses is therefore to enter before the inner throne of the heart, there to discover paradise, heaven, within. At about the same time, or perhaps a little later, the Liber Graduum is struggling to hold together freelance ascetics, disdainful of institutions and clergy, and ecclesiastics suspicious of unruly, charismatic wanderers. The Liber wants to affirm both experience ¨ttingen, 1998); and see also Messalianismus und Antimessalianismus: Ein Beispiel ostkirchlicher Ketzergeschichte (Go Golitzin, “Hierarchy vs. Anarchy?” 157–62; Et introibo, 373–85; and “Temple and Throne of the Divine Glory.” As the bibliography indicates, much space has been devoted to Macarius’ place in the “Messalian” controversy of ca. 380–431, with a great deal of confessional polemic clouding the picture. Staats, Desprez, Stewart, and Fitschen have been instrumental for clearing Macarius of the heretical Messalian charge and revealing him as instead, in Desprez’ phrase, standing at the “confluence” (“Introduction,” SC 275, pp. 54–56) of several different currents of tradition—Greek Alexandrian, Cappadocian, and Syrian Christian, including the Thomas tradition and Manicheanism. Quispel’s suggestion of continuities with Jewish traditions has, unfortunately, not yet been taken up by scholars, save for some very preliminary efforts in my “Temple and Throne of the Divine Glory.” The subject awaits investigation and promises considerable results, up to and including the sources of “Messalianism” itself in apocalyptic ascent and vision traditions. On the antiquity of these currents in Christianity, especially in Christian Syria, see J. Fossum, The Image of the Invisible God: Essays ¨ttingen, 1995); Acerbi, L’Ascensione di Isaia, 83–98 and on the Influence of Jewish Mysticism on Early Christology (Go 210–53; and A. DeConick, Seek to See Him: Ascent and Vision Mysticism in the Gospel of Thomas (Leiden, 1996), 21–23, and 41–147 on ascent, Christ as Glory, and the visio dei luminis. On the Gospel of Thomas as our oldest source for the use of the word monaco´ " to signify a Christian ascetic, see esp. F. E. Morard, “Monachos, ¨r Philosophie und Theologie 20 (1973): 332– Moine. Histoire du terme grecque jusqu’au IVe sie`cle,” Zeitschrift fu 411, and esp. on Thomas, 362–77. 67 For an argument that the Liber Graduum is in fact older, see Fitschen, Messalianismus, 108–19, who reckons it as contemporary with Aphrahat, i.e., mid-4th century. 68 For a synoptic sketch of these parallels, see the chart in Brock, Hymns on Paradise, 53, and the brief discussion in Golitzin, Et introibo, 368–71. 69 De par. 3.16 (CSCO 174, p. 12; trans. Brock, p. 96). On Adam as priest and Eden as sanctuary in the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha—Jubilees in particular—and in rabbinic thought, see G. Anderson, “Celibacy or Consummation in the Garden? Reflections on Early Jewish and Christian Interpretations of the Garden of Eden,” HTR 82.2 (1989): 121–48, citing Ephrem (142–45). 70 De par. 2.12; 3.1, 6, and 12–13 (CSCO, pp. 7, 9, and 11; trans. Brock, pp. 88–89, 92, and 94–95). See also Se´d, “Les Hymnes sur Paradis,” 482, on shekinto in Ephrem and the rabbinic shekinah.

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and institution, vision and sacraments. It finds a solution in the declaration that “there are three churches, and [that each and together] their ministries possess life.” The three are the church “on high” ( , l’el, or “heavenly,” , shmayyono), that is, the heavenly temple, the church on earth with its sacraments and clergy, and the “little church” of the heart.71 Through God’s economy in Christ, the second is the necessary and mediating term which has been called into being in order to open up the first, the heavenly temple, to access for the third, the human heart. As the Liber puts it: “By starting from these visible things, and provided our bodies become temples and our hearts altars, we may find ourselves in their heavenly counterparts . . . migrating there and entering in while we are still in this visible church.” 72 In other words, the liturgy of heaven becomes an accessible experience—even “in this world,” bhon olmo ( ), as the Liber remarks elsewhere73 —through the visible church’s sacraments and a corresponding ascesis of heart and body. To disdain the visible church, on the other hand, means that our body “will not become a temple, nor our heart an altar . . . nor shall we have revealed to us that church on high with its altar, its light, and its priesthood.” 74 It is surely not difficult to discern in these passages themes dear to the apocalypses. In the fifty-second homily of the longer and less well known Collection I of the Macarian Homilies, the homilist presents us with a second ascetic writer who is concerned to affirm that the Holy Spirit is “present and takes part in all the liturgy of the holy church of God.” 75 The worship of the church carries a “real presence,” as it were, but, at the same time, in its outward and visible form it is also an “icon . . . [given] in order that . . . faithful souls may be made again and renewed, and having received transformation [metabolh´ ], be enabled to inherit life everlasting.” 76 Thus, the homilist continues, this “visible temple [is a type] of the temple of the heart, and the priest [a type] of the true priest of the grace of Christ . . . [and the whole] arrangement and manifestation of the church a pattern [uJpo´ deigma] for [what is] at work in the soul by grace.” 77 So far, then, we find the notes of inner church, temple, and priesthood expressed in terms that Niketas effectively would duplicate seven hundred years later. It also becomes clear, a little later in the same homily, that “Macarius”—to give this writer the name he has gone by for centuries—understands the inner shrine and its liturgy as a participation in the worship and priesthood of heaven. The “arrangement,” oijkonomi´a, of the church 71 PS 3:293, lines 23–24 and 296, lines 8–10 (trans. Brock, p. 49). On the Liber’s and Macarius’ coordination of the churches of heaven, earth, and the heart, its setting, background, and future in Syrian Christianity, see R. Murray, Symbols of Church and Kingdom: A Study in Early Syriac Tradition (Cambridge, 1975), 262–76; Desprez, “Le bapteˆme,” 125–30; S. Brock, “Fire from Heaven: From Abel’s Sacrifice to the Eucharist. A Theme in Syrian Christianity,” StP 25 (1993): 229–43; and Stewart, “Working the Earth of the Heart,” 218–21. On the presence and continuity of this coordination in later Byzantine theology, including Dionysios, Symeon, and Niketas, see Golitzin, “Anarchy vs. Hierarchy,” and, drawing instead chiefly on Maximos the Confessor and without mention of the Syrians (or of either Dionysios or Symeon), M. Van Parys, “La liturgie du coeur chez S. Gre´goire le Sinaı¨te,” Ire´nikon 51 (1978): 312–37. 72 PS 3, Mimro 12, vol. 288, line 23–289, line 1 (trans. Brock, p. 46). 73 Mimro 15, PS 3:373, lines 12–13. 74 Mimro 12, 289, lines 14–22 (trans. Brock, p. 46). 75 Berthold, Makarios/Symeon. Reden und Briefen, vol. 2:139, lines 7–9 (trans. Golitzin, “Anarchy vs. Hierarchy,” 177). 76 Berthold, Makarios/Symeon, 139, line 40–140, line 2. 77 Ibid., 140, lines 3–8 (trans. Golitzin, “Anarchy vs. Hierarchy,” 177–78).

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which he mentions above signifies the “geography,” as it were, of the assembled worshipers, with its progression from the narthex or porch to the laity in the nave, to the deacons (lit., ministers, leitourgoi´) serving before, and the presbyters (lit., pa´ redroi) standing beside, the bishop’s throne in the apse.78 Likewise, Macarius concludes, the soul that struggles and progresses in the virtues “is made worthy of promotion and of spiritual rank” in order to be included “with the blameless ministers and assistants [lit., leitourgoi` kai` pa´ redroi] of Christ,” which is to say, as I read this passage, with the angelic ministers (recall Ps. 103:4, LXX, the “ministers [leitourgoi´] of fire”) and the heavenly beings who stand beside the throne of glory (and cf. Wisd. 9:4 for wisdom as angelic pa´ redro" of the heavenly throne).79 Stronger still along the same lines is the first homily in the more familiar Collection II, the Fifty Spiritual Homilies, where Macarius begins with the chariot vision of the first chapter of Ezekiel. He cites the latter in full, and then goes on to state that “the prophet beheld the mystery of the soul that is going to receive its Lord and become His throne of glory.” 80 This deliberate interiorization of Ezekiel’s throne vision was noticed sixty years ago by Gershom Scholem, who rightly pointed out that the homilist was offering his readers “a mystical reinterpretation of the merkavah tradition.” 81 Neither is Macarius’ “mystery of the soul” confined to the eschaton, since he also means it to signify the experience of the same light, “shining within the heart, as will shine from the bodies of the blessed in the age to come.” 82 Indeed, Homily 8 of Collection II, just quoted, also expressly mentions a “robe of light not made with hands” as one of the modalities of the light that Macarius later admits he has seen within himself. The robe must surely remind us of the glorious robe given to the biblical forefather in the citation from 2 Enoch above with which I began.83 Heaven is therefore obtainable, be it only for a moment, even now—ajpo` tou' nu'n, as Macarius is fond of repeating (and recall the Liber above, bhon olmo).84 Christ and his angels, as the homilist writes elsewhere, make their throne within 78 Berthold, Makarios/Symeon, 141, lines 13–15 (trans. Golitzin, “Anarchy vs. Hierarchy,” pp. 178–79). I borrow the use and sense of the expression “geography” of the church from A. Louth, Denys the Areopagite (Wilton, Conn., 1989), 54–55. 79 Ibid., 142, lines 9–16 (trans. Golitzin, “Anarchy vs. Hierarchy,” p. 179). 80 ¨rries, Die 50 geistlichen Homilien, pp. 1–2; trans. G. Maloney, PseudoCollection II, Homily 1.1–2; Do Macarius: The Fifty Spiritual Homilies and the Great Letter (New York, 1992), 37–38. Cf. also Hom. 33.2 (ed. ¨rries, 258–59; trans. Maloney, 202) for Ezekiel’s chariot as a type of the soul. Do 81 Scholem, Major Trends, 79. I know of no one in Macarian studies who has picked up on Scholem’s observation here, even though it is so obviously right. 82 ¨rries, 78–79; trans. Maloney, 81–82). Homiliy 8.3 (ed. Do 83 ¨rries, 79; trans. Maloney, 82). On the notion of the luminous robe, or robe of light, see Ibid. (ed. Do S. Brock, “Clothing Metaphors as a Means of Theological Expression in Syriac Tradition,” Typus, Symbol, Allegorie bei den ¨ostlichen Va¨tern und ihren Parallelen im Mittelalter, ed. M. Schmidt and C. F. Geyer (Regensburg, 1982), 11–38, and relatedly, A. Goshen-Gottstein, “The Body as Image of God in Rabbinic Literature,” HTR 87.2 (1994): 171–95, esp. 178–83 and 190–95 on the “body of light.” Cf. also the clothing of Thomas with the robe of light which carries—or equates with—the imago dei, and therewith his ascent to the “gate of greeting” to worship Christ, the “Radiance [fe´ ggo"] of the Father,” in the Acta Thomae 112–13, ed. M. Bonnet, Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha, vol. 2.1 (1903; repr. Hildesheim, 1959), 223–24; New Testament Apocrypha, vol. 2, Writings Related to the Apostles, Apocalypses and Related Subjects, ed. W. Schneemelcher, trans. R. McL. Wilson, rev. ed. (Louisville, Ky., 1992), 384–85. Macarius’ robe and vision of light, via the Thomas literature, are clearly in the lineage of Jewish traditions, and, just as clearly, Niketas and his master are in continuity with Macarius. Thus see above, notes 36–37, 43–45, and 53, and below, note 84. 84 For the expression, ajpo` tou' nu'n, see, e.g., in Collection I: Homilies 33.3.6 (Berthold, Makarios/Symeon. Reden und Briefen, vol. 2:31, line 14); 34.1 (2:34, lines 4–5); 50.2.3 (2:127, line 1); 54.4.6 (2:157, line 12); and

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the heart,85 such that: “He ministers to her [the soul] in the city of her body, and she in turn ministers to Him in the heavenly city.” 86 Evagrios Pontikos, the last of the four, spent his final twelve years in the desert of the Cells, between Nitria and Scete, dying there in 399. While his name and many of his works were officially rejected in 553, he is nonetheless recognized today as one of the great architects of eastern Christian spirituality.87 Niketas would surely have known of Evagrios’ treatise, the Praktikos, which continued to circulate under the latter’s own name, as well as other materials, including the exceedingly influential De oratione, which were preserved in Greek under the respectable name of Neilos of Sinai, just as they continue to be today in Nikodemos Hagiorites’ Philokalia and in volume seventy-nine of Migne’s Patrologia graeca.88 In one of the latter works, Evagrios takes the eucharistic words of Christ and applies them to the intellect, nou'", in order to conclude, by way of an added reference to the throne vision of Isaiah 6, that the intellect is the “divine throne.” “For it is there,” he continues, “that God takes His seat and there that He is known.” 89 In two passages taken, respectively, from the Kephalaia Gnostica and the corpus of Evagrios’ letters, works presently extant only in Syriac translation, we hear echoes of the temple: “The intelligible temple is the pure intellect which now possesses in itself the ‘wisdom of 58.2.5 (2:184, line 25). Each of these citations occurs in a context clearly related to the current traced here, e.g., the heavenly “palaces” in the first example as now an interior reality, and in the remarkable catena of texts—2 Cor. 4:6, Ps. 12:4, Ps. 118:18, Ps. 42:3, Acts 26:13 ff (Paul’s conversion, the light on the Damascus road), 1 Cor. 15:48, John 3:6, John 1:13, 1 Cor. 14:49 (the “man from heaven”), Rom. 13:14, Phil. 3:21 (Christ’s “body of glory”), and 1 Cor. 2:9—that Macarius uses in Homily 58 to support his insistence that the heavenly light which comes to the blessed even in this life is not a no´ hma, a creation of the human intellect, but a be´ baion uJpostatiko` n fw'" (2:183, lines 14–15). 2 Cor. 4:6, 1 Cor. 15:48–49, and Phil. 3:21 are also particularly redolent of the Jewish background of the “luminous image” and “body of light.” See above, note 83, and A. Segal, Paul the Convert, 9–22, on the Lucan account of Paul’s conversion, and 58–64 on “Paul’s Mystical Vocabulary,” where several of the same texts that Macarius cites here turn up in Segal’s argument for the Apostle as a 1st-century “witness to merkabah mysticism” (Paul the Convert, 11). Along these same lines, see also J. Tabor, Things Unutterable: Paul’s Ascent to Heaven in Its Greco-Roman, Judaic, and Early Christian Contexts (Lanham, Md., 1986), esp. 11–21 and 83–97 on merkabah elements in Paul; and, more recently, C. R. A. Morray-Jones, “Paradise Revisited (2 Cor. 12:1–12): The Jewish Mystical Background of Paul’s Apostolate,” HTR 86 (1993): 177–217 and 265–92. See above, note 36, for Niketas on the ascent of 2 Cor. 12 as denoting entry into the “inner Paradise” and before the “throne of the Trinity.” Cf. Symeon on the same text and the light of the Trinity in Ethical Discourse, 3, Traite´s the´ologiques et ´ethique, ed. J. Davrouze`s, SC (Paris, 1966), 122, pp. 247–309, together with Alfeyev, “The Patristic Background,” on Symeon’s sources for the divine light, and Golitzin, Symeon the New Theologian: Life, Times, Theology, 182 and n. 27 on this interpretation of the Pauline text in Gregory Palamas, Triads, 1.3.5 and 21–22, together with E. Lanne, “L’interpre´tation palamite de la vision de Saint Benoıˆt,” in Le mille´naire de Mont Athos (Venice, 1963), 2:21–47. Taken all together, the outlines of a remarkable continuity seem to me to be unmistakable. Thus, and given especially his complete lack of acquaintance with eastern Christianity (as evident, e.g., in his remarks in Paul the Convert, 61), Segal’s merkabah-inspired account of Paul’s mysticism, Christology, and soteriology as amounting in sum to a sketch of the central eastern Christian doctrine of theosis—including what is effectively an early version of the 14thcentury hesychasts’ mysticism of the “uncreated light”—is almost eerie. 85 ¨rries, 146; trans. Maloney, 120–21). Collection II, Homily 15.33 (ed. Do 86 ¨rries, 303; trans. Maloney, 231). Collection II, 46.4 (ed. Do 87 For example: “Evagrius established the categories [of eastern Christian spirituality]; Macarius . . . provided the affective content”; Desprez, “Macaire,” DSp 10 (Paris, 1980), 39. 88 See above, note 65. For a handy (if slightly dated) sketch of the Evagrian inheritance, see Bamberger, The Praktikos and the Chapters on Prayer, xlviii–lix. 89 De malignis cogitationibus, 24 PG 79:1228C.

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God, full of variety’; [and] the temple of God is he who beholds the sacred unity, while the altar of God is the contemplation of the Holy Trinity.” 90 And, in the following from Epistle 39, there are echoes of the theophany at Sinai and the angelic liturgy: “If . . . by the grace of God the intellect both turns away from [the passions] and puts off the old man, then it will as well see its own constitution at the time of prayer like a sapphire or in the color of heaven, which also recalls what the scriptures call ‘the place [to´ po"] of God,’ seen by the elders on Mount Sinai. . . . For another heaven is imprinted upon the heart, the vision of which is both light and the spiritual place . . . within one beholds the meaning of beings and the holy angels.” 91 Here Evagrios takes up and interiorizes the theophany at Sinai in exactly the same way that Macarius dealt with Ezekiel’s chariot throne.92 For both, this interiorization of the throne of heaven includes the angelic liturgy. The ascent to heaven of the ancient apocalypses is thus identified with entry into the sanctuary of the purified intellect or heart. CONCLUSION Now I can offer a provisional answer to Himmelfarb’s question concerning the medieval interpretation of the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha and begin to glimpse something of the monastic Sitz im Leben for that tenth- through fifteenth-century “flood” of manuscripts transmitting it that Robert Kraft noted. For the Byzantinist, this increase of interest in ancient literature must obviously be connected with the mystical renaissance of later Byzantium, so often and not without justice linked to Symeon the New Theologian and his disciples, which has been widely noted and repeated in the standard accounts of the era.93 With the qualification of that quality of interiorization which I have stressed is so characteristic of both Niketas and his master, as well as of their common sources in the earliest monastic literature, I suggest that Niketas could easily have read these much older texts as testimonies to the same experience of the light and liturgy of heaven that both he and especially Symeon claimed as their own. Certainly Symeon had insisted that he did no more than preach the teaching of “the Master and the Apostles that some have perverted.” 94 Is it not therefore reasonable to suppose that, in the old apocalypses, both he and his disciples, together with legions of other monks throughout the empire and its “commonwealth,” could have welcomed the witness of the “grandfathers,” the saints of Israel, who had seen and known beforehand the coming of the MesKephalaia Gnostica, 5.84, PO 28:213. Ep. 39; Frankenberg, Evagrius Ponticus, 593; cf. also “Supplementary Chapters,” 2, 4, and 25 (Frankenberg, 425, 427, and 449). 92 Thus N. Se´d on these passages as “la premie`re inte´riorisation [of the Exodus theophany] dont nous ayons une attestation ´ecrite,” in “La shekinta et ses amis,” 242. See also Bunge, “Nach dem Intellekt Leben?” 101–4, on Evagrios’ related idea of the nou'" as “feeding on the bread of angels,” a notion that I take as akin to the rabbinic phrase for eschatological beatitude, “feeding on the splendor of the Shekinah,” which in turn is based, precisely, on an exegesis of Exod. 24:10–11. For the rabbis, see Chernus, Rabbinic Mysticism, 75–6, on bBerakot, 17a. 93 See, e.g., J. M. Hussey, Church and Learning in the Byzantine Empire: 867–1185 (Oxford, 1937; repr. 1960), esp. 201–25; and R. Browning, The Byzantine Empire, rev. ed. (Washington, D.C., 1992), 141–42. 94 See Cat. Discourse 34, SC 113, lines 248–63; trans. de Catanzaro, 354. 90 91

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siah and the light of the Trinity? This is almost exactly the view, for example, stated three hundred years later in the opening paragraphs of Gregory Palamas’ Tome of the Holy Mountain.95 As for the ancient patriarchs’ and prophets’ accounts of the ascent to heaven and personal transformation, these appear clearly to have been read as testimonies to the transfiguration which, in Christ, begins even now within the Christian. With Christ, to repeat my citation above from Macarius, “everything is within,” and, on occasion, this was taken as meaning the accessibility and even vision of the divine Presence and the heavenly court. It is not difficult thus for me to imagine how a cultivated man like Niketas, who believed that the eschatological liturgy of the Lamb and the priesthood of the angels were present, equally, in the ordered offices of the monastery katholikon and in the person of the hallowed elder, bright and fragrant already with the presence of the age to come, could and might well in fact have approved the copying and reading of the old apocalypses by the monks of Stoudios. We are obliged to acknowledge that other abbots were so disposed, simply in order to explain the manuscripts that have come down to us. So why not Niketas? Some years ago Archbishop Basil Krivocheine wrote an article demonstrating the presence of motifs, vocabulary, and occasional passages from the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles—whose years of manuscript efflorescence, by the way, almost precisely match those of the Old Testament Pseudepigrapha—in the writings of Symeon the New Theologian.96 The presence of the still older apocalypses is, I should think, also discernible in Symeon, though I know of no study that has pursued that line of inquiry. Given the manuscript traditions noted above and by Kraft, the renewed interest in the apocrypha of both the Old and New Testaments is clearly part of the same general phenomenon, the resurgence of interest in mystical texts and, more widely still, perhaps, in harmony with that overall renewal of enthusiasm for the recovery of Byzantium’s links with the distant past which appears in a more secular vein in such contemporaries of Niketas as, for example, the philosopher and courtier Michael Psellos.97 What were the sparks that set off the specifically religious side of that renaissance? How much did the translation 95 ´tiko" To´ mo", in, Filokali´a, 4:188–89; trans. Ware et al., 4:418–19. The passage is built See the Agiorei J on the explicit parallel between the prophets, who saw the Trinity then, and “those who have been purified through virtue” sufficiently in the present life to be vouchsafed the vision of the “mysteries” of the eschaton—the holy ascetic fathers, in other words, as the continuation of the prophetic line, i.e., of the “grandfathers.” On the “grandfathers” as also seers of the uncreated God in eastern asceticomystical literature, see J. S. Romanides, “Notes on the Palamite Controversy and Related Topics,” GOTR 6.2 (1960–61): 186–205, and 9.2 (1963–64): 225–70, esp. 194–205 and 257–62. 96 B. Krivocheine, “ JO ajnuperh´ fano" qeo´ ": St. Symeon the New Theologian and Early Christian Popular Piety,” StP 2 (1957): 485–94. On the manuscript tradition for the Greek of the Apocryphal Acts, see the accounting prior to the English translation of each of the Acts in Schneemelcher, 2:104–6 (AAndrew); 156–59 (AJohn); 216–17 (APaul); 277–79 (APeter); 322–24 (AThomas). The manuscripts tend to cluster between the 10th and 15th centuries. The same holds for the three manuscripts of the related and remarkable 4thcentury Acts of Philip, two of which are Athonite; see F. Amsler, F. Bovon, and B. Bouvier, Actes de l’apoˆtre Philippe (Tumhout, Belgium, 1996), 23–25. More generally on the widespread, medieval Byzantine regard for the apocryphal acts, see F. Bovon, “Byzantine Witness for the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles,” in The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, ed. F. Bovon, A. G. Brock, and C. R. Matthews (Cambridge, Mass., 1999), 87–98. I thank Prof. Bovon for kindly sending an offprint of his article. 97 See Hussey, Church and Learning, 37–50 and 73–88, and Browning, Byzantine Empire, 138–41. We in fact owe much, perhaps everything, to Psellos and to a number of his students and contemporaries, e.g., John Italos (Hussey, ibid., 89–102), for the preservation of the texts of the later Neoplatonists.

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and arrival of Isaac of Nineveh’s corpus in the capital sometime during the tenth century contribute to it?98 Were there other stimuli, besides of course the older body of ascetical literature which had never vanished and which drew on the same sources? How much else, besides Isaac, came up to “the city” from that still largely Christian Palestine of earlier Umayyad and later Abbasid rule which has just lately begun to attract scholarly attention? And were there, perhaps, some impulses generated through contact with the empire’s Jewish population, of which we may have caught at least one or two hints in Niketas? There are many questions, but so far, at least to my knowledge, there are not many answers. There is also the matter of all those materials that remain extant in Church Slavic which it is most reasonable to suppose were translated from Greek at or around the time of Niketas and immediately thereafter.99 Could their subsequent disappearance in Greek be connected with the near loss of the New Theologian’s own corpus and the complete loss of the service that Niketas wrote in his honor? Between the latter’s time and the rise of Byzantine hesychasm there was a long period when the authorities of church and state looked with a very dim eye on the charismatic ascetic. Was it, perhaps, through association with the always potentially difficult figure of the holy man, or else, relatedly, as part of the same emphasis on “law and order” within church and empire which we find reflected in, for example, the great twelfth-century canonists, that what had before been tolerated or ignored as simply extracanonical became, in the eyes of authority, uncanonical and, even, heretical?100 Here, too, we would have a fourth-century precedent. The same Athanasian epistle cited above, which set out the bounds of the biblical canon and forcibly denounced other writings claiming like authority, was written, as Athanasios tells us, in order to shut the mouths of certain uppity ascetics, the Meletians, who had been giving the archbishop problems and whose “boasting” over the apocalypses he wishes to silence.101 How many bishops felt the same way in later Byzantium? Throughout this essay I have discussed the interiorization of the ascent to heaven and other motifs from Second Temple and early Christian apocalypses. The fact, however, that one also finds warnings in monastic literature, and condemnations, directed against taking the notions of visions and ascents literally, in an exterior sense, condemnations that begin in the fourth century and continue into the fourteenth and beyond, strongly suggests that a number of the brethren persisted in doing just that.102 For the See D. Miller, “Introduction,” The Ascetical Homilies of St. Isaac the Syrian (Boston, 1984), lxxiv–vii and lxxxv–xciv on Isaac’s rapid dissemination and translation. So far as I know, however, there is as yet no significant monograph on Isaac’s thought and influence, one of the many glaring lacunae in the scholarship on eastern Christianity. 99 See above, notes 12–13 and 47. 100 On the frigid attitudes of the authorities toward the charismatic holy man which are frequent in late Macedonian and Komnenian times, see K. Holl, Enthusiasmus und Bussgewalt beim griechischen Mo¨nchtum (Leipzig, 1898), esp. 291–301 on the 12th-century canonists; J. M. Hussey, Ascetics and Humanists in XIth Century Byzantium (London, 1960); J. Gouillard, “Quatre proce`s de mystique `a Byzance (vers 960–1143),” REB 36 (1978) 5–81; and P. Magdalino, “The Byzantine Holy Man in the Twelfth Century,” in The Byzantine Saint: Studies Supplementary to Sobornost, ed. S. Hackel (London, 1981), 51–66. 101 Brakke, Athanasius and the Politics of Asceticism, 332. 102 Evagrios makes a special and repeated point of warning against the manifestation of “forms” in prayer in De oratione, e.g., esp. De orat. 73: ooJdai´mone" . . . uJpoti´qentai ga` r aujtv' (⫽ tv' nv') do´ xan qeou' kai` schmatismo´ n tina, in Filokali´a, 1:183; trans. Ware et al., 1:64, “The demons . . . suggest to it an illusion of the Glory of 98

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latter, whom I take to have been mostly monks, the old imagery was not merely the clothing of the visio dei in symbolic forms—as interpreted in, for example, Dionysios the Areopagite103 —but rather actual descriptions of the heavenly realities as well as of a possible experience of the same. Here I think of Abba Silvanos’ ascent to the throne and standing “before the Glory” in the Apophthegmata, of the several heavenly journeys in the Historia Monachorum, of the descriptions of Symeon Stylites’ encounters in his Syriac vita, or, closer to Niketas’ own era, of several of the stories in Paul of Monemvasia’s Edifying Tales.104 I am sure that such stories are legion and particularly frequent in hagiography. Apocalyptic imagery continued to nourish popular imagination and devotion at the same time as it served the more exalted and refined masters of spiritual discourse.105 I conclude with an anecdote from a collection of twentieth-century Athonite sayings, vignettes, and spiritual talks.106 While this anthology features a number of contributions God in a form” (emphasis mine, trans. slightly altered). The point continues to be repeated, e.g., in Diadochos of Photiki’s Gnostic Chapters, 36 and 40, Dialog de Photice: Oeuvres spirituelle, ed. E. des Places, SC (Paris, 1966), 5 bis, pp. 105 and 107; and Dionysios Areopagita, Mystical Theology, 4, PG 3:1040D (Heil and Ritter, p. 148). Cf. above, note 59, on Pachomios’ visions, and notes 60–61 on polemic vs. chariot visions and Silvanus on seeing “the Glory,” together with Golitzin, “Forma lui dumnezeu,” in Mistagogia, 197–223 and 241–45 nn. 77–83. In the 14th century, see, e.g., Gregory of Sinai, “On Prayer,” 7, Filokadi´a, 4:84–8; trans. Ware et al., 4:271–76; and, relatedly, Gregory Palamas against visionary journeys “out of the body” in “On those who practice stillness,” 4–8, Filokali´a, 4:126–28; trans. Ware et al., 4:335–38. 103 See, e.g., Celestial Hierarchy, 2.5, PG 3:145B (Heil and Ritter, p. 16, lines 7–13), where Dionysios cites the strange forms of the angels in (not stated, but evidently) Ezek. 1 ff as a spur for his own composition; also Celestial Hierarchy, 4.3, PG 3:180C (22); Divine Names, 1.8, PG 3:645C (Corpus Dionysiacum, vol. 1, De Divinibus Nominibus, ed. B. M. Suchla [Berlin, New York, 1990], 132); 9.5, PG 3:912B–13B (Corpus Dionysiacum, vol. 2, ed. Heil and Ritter, 209–10); and Ep. 9.1, PG 3:1105BC (Heil and Ritter, pp. 196–97). Cf. also Romanides, “Notes on the Palamite Controversy,” as above, note 95. 104 See above, note 60, and for Symeon Stylites, see the Syriac Vita, 3 and 98–99 on the manifestation of angels, 41 for the appearance of Christ atop the angelic ladder, and 42–43 for Elijah’s brilliant form in the heavenly chariot; in R. Doran, The Lives of Symeon Stylites (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1992), pp. 105, 171–72, 125–26, and 126–27, respectively. In The Spiritually Edifying Tales of Paul, Bishop of Monembasia, ed. and trans. J. Wortley (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1996), note the frequent appearances of angels with faces “bright as the sun” or robed with splendor and light, as in “The Man Called to Account” (70); “The Man Who Made His Confession” (73); “The Child Who Had a Vision at His Baptism” (93); the angel consecrator of the Eucharist in “The Drunken Priest” (128); and a tour of heaven in “The Woman Who Died and Came Back to Life” (108–10), which greatly resembles the ancient apocalyptic tours of heaven and hell. On the latter, see M. Himmelfarb, “From Prophecy to Apocalypse: The Book of the Watchers and Tours of Heaven,” in Jewish Spirituality, vol. 1, From the Bible to the Middle Ages, ed. A. Green (New York, 1988), 145–70, esp. 146–48. 105 This essay has not dealt with what J. Collins refers to as “historical apocalypses,” especially those with no “otherworldly journey”: “Morphology of a Genre,” 13–14. A. Y. Collins also notes that the first Christian apocalypses tend not to be interested in the precise, future unrolling of history: “The Early Christian Apocalypses,” Semeia 14 (1979): 63–67. This early difference between Jews, identifying with their own land and polity, and early Christians, who “have here below no city which abides” (Heb. 13:14), no longer applies once Christianity acquires its own earthly turf in the Roman Empire of the 4th century. See P. J. Alexander, The Byzantine Apocalyptic Tradition, ed. D. deF. Abrahamse (Berkeley, Calif., 1985), 13–60, with its account of the long line of Byzantine historical apocalypticism that begins late in the 4th century—about the right length of time, it seems, for the idea of the “Christian Empire” to sink into popular piety—and carries on to the end of the empire and beyond. This phenomenon, though, seems to derive more from piety specific to the Reichskirche (see, e.g., E. von Ivanka, Roma¨erreich und Gottesvolk [Freiburg-Munich, 1968] than from those earlier currents of faith and, indeed, mystical experience that I have been tracing. 106 The Living Witness of the Holy Mountain: Contemporary Voices from Mount Athos, trans with intro. and notes A. Golitzin (South Canaan, Pa., 1996).

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exactly along the lines of what we found in Niketas and his predecessors,107 there is also one story that rings so strongly and artlessly of the apocalyptic journey to heaven that I cannot help but believe it represents a genuine experience or at least the belief in such experiences. This story came from a famous contemporary ge´ rwn of the Holy Mountain, the late Father Paissios of Karyes (d. 1994), speaking about his own elder, Papa Tikhon the Russian of Kapsala (d. 1968). According to Father Paissios, the old man was a prodigious faster, prayed unceasingly, wept constantly, and engaged in frequent and numerous prostrations. All of these actions are not only traditional monastic practice, but also feature regularly in the ancient apocalypses as part of the preparation for visions.108 At the conclusion of Father Paissios’ narrative there is a little taste of “Christian merkavah” from the late twentieth century: “When Papa Tikhon celebrated the holy liturgy in the chapel of his hermitage, he would often interrupt himself at the moment of the Great Entrance during the Cherubimic Hymn . . . and, entering into ecstasy, would become a stranger to everything earthly. At the end of a half hour . . . he would take up the celebration again, very slowly. . . . When someone once asked him what had happened, he answered in his broken Greek: ‘Guardian angel take me up. Guardian angel take me back down.’ ‘And what did you see?’ the other persisted. ‘Angels, Archangels, Cherubim, Seraphim . . . heavenly choir . . . t’ousands, ten t’ousands.’” 109 Marquette University 107 See the talks and sermons of Archimandrite Aemilianos, ibid., 165–215, esp. “The Experience of the Transfiguration,” 194–215, and certain of the other fathers in the “Contemporary Athonite Paterikon,” 134– 57, esp. 148–57. 108 On fasting, at least temporary celibacy, prostrations, weeping, and constant prayer as features known in Second Temple Judaism and particularly associated with apocalyptic visionaries and continuing into the rabbinic-era merkavah texts, see S. P. Fraade, “Ascetical Aspects of Ancient Judaism,” in Jewish Spirituality, vol. 1, From the Bible to the Middle Ages, ed. A. Green (New York, 1988), pp. 253–88, esp. 261–69, 280 nn. 30–31, and 281 n. 33; M. D. Swartz, “‘Like the Ministering Angels’: Ritual and Purity in Early Jewish Mysticism,” Association for Jewish Studies Review 19 (1994): 135–67; and M. Himmelfarb, “Practices of Ascent in the Ancient Mediterranean World,” in Death, Ecstasy, and Otherworldly Journeys, 123–37. For earlier though related considerations on the Jewish roots of Christian asceticism, see A. Guillaumont, “A propos du ce´libat des Esse´niens” and “Monachisme et ´ethique Jude´o-Chre´tienne,” in Aux origines, 13–23 and 47–58, respectively. 109 Living Witness, 142. See also the story of “Father Augustine the Russian,” ibid., 140–41, with his daily experience of “the uncreated light” and deathbed scene reminiscent of Abba Sisoes (PG 65:396BC).

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Was There Life beyond the Life Beyond? Byzantine Ideas on Reincarnation and Final Restoration ALEXANDER ALEXAKIS

n this paper I discuss several views on reincarnation that were considered beyond the accepted boundaries of Orthodox belief and trace the possible historical trajectory of these non-Orthodox views before and through the period from the eighth to the fifteenth century. My extensive research of the existing bibliography has led me to conclude that the subject has remained unexplored until now, and I therefore ask the readers’ indulgence for a report that is more preliminary than conclusive.1 Byzantine—that is, Orthodox Christian—eschatology was clear on the subject of life after death, leaving virtually no ground for misunderstanding. As the Nicaean-

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ˇevcˇenko, Dr. V. Kountoumas, and Dr. S. Ramphos for their advice and help. I wish to thank Prof. I. S Thanks are also due to Dr. Susan Wessel for her constructive criticism and her editorial work on this paper. I also wish to thank the two anonymous readers whose numerous comments and corrections have contributed enormously to the final shape of the article. I am responsible for any inaccuracies, mistakes, or shortcomings. It is appropriate to add here a strong caveat. Readers will easily realize that the issue of reincarnation is difficult to handle in Byzantium. The reason for this lies mainly in the pattern of chronological distribution of the primary sources. As is apparent, the sources before the 8th century are numerous. This abundance, however, wanes in the period between the 8th and 15th centuries, whose sources provide only random references to reincarnation. Moreover, these references appear in heresiological works dealing with religious movements that were in most cases marginal to the mainstream of Byzantine religious beliefs and practices. The image these sources offer is a distant one, an image very difficult to verify. As a result, the distinction between the idea of reincarnation in Byzantium and the idea the Byzantines had about the religious movements to which they attributed the idea of reincarnation is at times lost. In view of all this I must warn the reader that the attribution of the idea of reincarnation to heretical groups, such as the Bogomils, Paulicians, and Phoundagiagites, remains always tenuous. In some cases I only hope to have offered additional arguments supporting this assumption. The article must be read with the constant awareness that the heresiological stereotypes introduced by Epiphanios of Salamis in his Panarion have influenced almost all subsequent Byzantine literature on the issue of reincarnation. 1 For general introductory information on the transmigration of souls or reincarnation, see among others the entries: “Me´tempsychose,” DTC 10.2:1574–95; “Transmigration of Souls,” New Catholic Encyclopedia, 14: 257; “Metemyu´ cwsi",” Qrhskeutikh` kai` hjqikh` ejgkuklopaidei´a 8:1073–75. For the same topic in Byzantium see also H. Beck, Vorsehung und Vorherbestimmung in der theologischen Literatur der Byzantiner, OCA 114 (Rome, 1937); G. Podskalsky, Byzantinische Reichseschatologie. Die Periodisierung der Weltgeschichte in den vier Grossreichen (Daniel 2 und 7) und dem tausendja¨hrigen Friedensreiche (Apok. 20). Eine motivgeschichtliche Untersuchung, Mu ¨ nchener Universita¨ts-Schriften, Reihe der Philosophischen Fakulta¨t 9 (Munich, 1972). For the concept of soul in Byzantium, see “Soul”, ODB 3:1931–32, with bibliography. Further bibliography on reincarnation is, unfortunately, of a popular nature.

156 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION Constantinopolitan Creed explicitly states in its last clause: “We look for the resurrection of the dead and the life of the ages to come.” 2 Furthermore, John of Damascus, in his Sacra Parallela (in fact, the Parallela Rupefucaldiana in Migne’s edition) at the end of chapter 24 entitled “On the Time of Death” (Peri` w”ra" qana´ tou), states: “This is what I may say concerning the Netherworld, in which the souls of all are hosted until the time that God has determined. Then He will resurrect all, not by reincarnating the souls, but by resurrecting the very bodies, [a fact] which, if you are incredulous, o Greeks, because you see the [bodies] dissolved, you have to believe.” (PG 96:544C–D).3 That this passage originally comes from Hippolytos’ treatise De Universo4 shows that mainstream Christian beliefs on the issue were already established by early Christian times. Almost four centuries after John of Damascus, Orthodox Christians reconsidered the finer points of the Christian afterlife and officially condemned the transmigration of souls in the third anathema against John Italos. John was put on trial for heresy in 1082, and the anathemas proclaimed against him at this trial were incorporated into the Synodikon of Orthodoxy: “Those who prefer the folly of the so-called wisdom of the profane philosophers and follow their teachers and accept the migrations of human souls or that they are destroyed like the souls of the animals and return to nothingness and on account of this deny the resurrection, judgement, and final retribution of the acts of their lives, anathema.” 5 Nevertheless, the official Christian eschatological approach to the question “What happens to the soul after death” was rejected among certain nonmainstream Christians. Apart from their belief in the transmigration of souls, those Christians, generally speaking, had several additional serious points of disagreement with the one Catholic and Apostolic Church. In the following I investigate the beliefs of those dissenters along with the ideas of a few theologians who lived more or less in accordance with the tenets of mainstream Christianity on the issue of metempsychosis. I begin with some basic definitions. Transmigration of souls (metenswma´ twsi", metemyu´ cwsi", metaggismo` " yucw'n, or even paliggenesi´a6 in Greek) is an idea that presupposes cosmological and soteriological beliefs different from those espoused by Christianity. We usually associate these beliefs with eastern religions such as Hinduism, Buddhism, Zoroastrianism, Mithraism, with quasiChristian sects such as Gnosticism or Manichaeism, and also with ancient Greek philosophy (Platonism-Pythagoreanism) and its descendants (e.g., Neoplatonism).7 2 Prosdokw'men ajna´ stasin nekrw'n kai` zwh` n touˆ me´ llonto" aijw'no" . See G. L. Dossetti, Il simbolo di Nicea e di Costantinopoli (Rome, 1967), 250. 3 See CPG 8056.2 (2.2). The Greek text reads as follows: Ou»to" oJ peri` a” dou lo´ go", ejn v» aiJ yucai` pa´ ntwn kate´ contai me´ cri kairou', o’n oJ Qeo` " w”risen, ajna´ stasin to´ te pa´ ntwn poihso´ meno", ouj yuca` " metenswmatw'n, ajll⬘ aujta` ta` sw´ mata ajnistw'n, a’ lelume´ na oJrw'nte", eij ajpistei'te, ”Ellhne", ma´ qete mh` ajpistei'n. 4 See CPG 1898 for other editions of the extant fragments from this work attributed to Hippolytos. For genuineness and other issues, see CPG 1870. 5 For the case of John Italos see below, 172. For the Greek text of the Synodikon, see J. Gouillard, “Le Synodicon de l’Orthodoxie,” TM 2 (1967): 57–61. See also idem, “Le proce`s officiel de Jean l’Italien. Les Actes et leurs sous-entendues,” TM 9 (1981): 133–74, esp. 147, lines 202 ff. The translation here is quoted from L. Clucas, The Trial of John Italos and the Crisis of Intellectual Values in Byzantium in the Eleventh Century (Munich, 1981), 142 (note that Clucas’ translation corresponds to the Greek text of the Synodikon found in Gouillard, “Le Synodicon,” 57, lines 193–97; see also ibid., 61, lines 234–36). 6 This word, though, means basically the periodic recurrence of events in Stoicism (see also below, 158, and n. 13). 7 For a collection of primary sources referring to reincarnation translated into English, see Reincarnation, The Phoenix Fire Mystery: An East-West Dialogue on Death and Rebirth from the Worlds of Religion, Science, Psychology, Philosophy, Art, and Literature, and from Great Thinkers of the Past and Present, ed. J. Head and S. L. Cranston (New

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One major presupposition of this doctrine is the belief in the preexistence of the soul usually combined with a dualistic view of the world.8 Within the premise of the preexistence of souls, their fall is seen as an entry into the circle of birth and death and of subsequent reincarnations into different bodies. Depending on the flavor of the heresy (for Christians) or of the philosophical system, this trip through the ages can direct the souls from one human body to another. However, among the more pessimistic heresies the worst-case scenarios do not rule out reincarnation into the body of an animal, an insect, a fish or—even worse—into a plant.9 This rather prolonged trip through the centuries, which can last more than the conventional time span of Christian chronology,10 has two purposes in most heretical systems. Its first purpose is to allow the soul to remember the series of previous incarnations, recall the sins/mistakes committed in these lives, and pay for them.11 Repayment for past sins fulfills the second purpose of the circle of incarnations. The human who had regained memory of all previous incarnations and of past sins could effectively repay the debts, purge the soul, and disentangle him- or herself from the circle of birth and death. Remembrance of lives past, though, was not as predominant in most Christian heresies that accepted the transmigration of souls as was the notion of atonement. The Manichaeans, for instance, believed that humans should not eat flesh. If they did so, they were bound to return in the body of an animal (e.g., a cow or a pig) in order to suffer the same fate and to pay for the act of destroying an animate creature.12 York, 1977). This book is the successor to two earlier collections by the same editors entitled Reincarnation: An East-West Anthology (New York, 1961) and Reincarnation in World Thought (New York, 1967). 8 Dualistic view of the world in the Platonic/Neoplatonic sense, i.e., a concept of a visible world alien to the supreme God and (usually) created by an evil (lesser) God. See S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth, eds., The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3d ed. (Oxford, 1996), s.v. Gnosticism. References in primary sources can be found in Proklos’ Theologia Platonica; see D. Saffrey and L. G. Westerink, eds., Proclus. The´ologie platonicienne, 5 vols. (Paris, 1968–87), 3:18–19 and passim and also in Proklos’ Institutio theologica, passim. 9 Plato (cf. Phaedrus, 81e, 248a–249d; Timaeus, 42c, etc.) and later Plotinos (Enneades 3,4,2) maintained that after death the souls of men return to earth and even enter into the bodies of animals. However, the Neoplatonists Porphyrios, Iamblichos, and also Hierokles spoke of human souls transmigrating only to other human bodies. For Hierokles’ work De providentia et fato see the criticism of Photios in Bibliotheca, ed. R. Henry, Photius. Bibliothe`que, vol. 3 (Paris, 1962), cod. 214 (oJ plei'sto" d⬘ aujtv' kai` me´ ga" ajgw` n hJ tw'n ajnqrwpi´nwn yucw'n ejsti probioth` kai` metenswma´ twsi", to` n me` n ejx ajlo´ gwn zv´ wn h“ eij" a“loga metaggismo` n oujk ajnadeco´ meno", th` n de` ejx ajnqrw´ pwn eij" ajnqrw´ pou" metabolh` n spoudaiologou´ meno"). For Iamblichos see the scholium in the De natura hominis by Nemesios of Emesa: B. Einarson, Nemesius of Emesa, De natura hominis (in press), sec. 2, lines 595– 600 ( jIa´ mblico" de` . . . kat’ei«do" zv´ wn yuch'" ei«do" ei«nai le´ gei, h“goun ei“dh dia´ fora. ge´ graptai gou'n aujtv' mono´ biblon ejpi´grafon o”ti oujk ajp’ajnqrw´ pwn eij" zv'a a“loga oujde` ajpo` zv´ wn ajlo´ gwn eij" ajnqrw´ tou" aiJ metenswmatw´ sei" gi´nontai, ajll’ajpo` zv´ wn eij" zv'a kai` ajpo` ajnqrw´ pwn eij" ajnqrw´ pou"). Finally, for Porphyrios we have the witness of Augustine (De civitate Dei, 10, 30). See also W. Stettner, Die Seelenwanderung bei Griechen und Ro¨mern, Tu ¨ binger Beitra¨ge zur Altertumwissenschaft 22 (Stuttgart-Berlin, 1934), 72–80. For Christian heretics and Manichaeans, see below. 10 For example, according to the calculations of the Neoplatonist Porphyrios, the soul lived for ten thousand years. See A. R. Sodano, ed., In Platonis Timaeum commentaria (fragmenta), Porphyrii in Platonis Timaeum commentariorum fragmenta (Naples, 1964), 1.16,8. 11 Repaying for past actions is the inherent idea in the Hindu theory of karma (i.e., the moral law of cause and effect). Proponents of the karma law tend to find this principle behind such biblical passages as Gal. 6:7 o’ ga` r eja` n spei´rh a“nqrwpo", tou'to kai` qeri´sei (“for whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap”) or Matt. 26:52: pa´ nte" ga` r oiJ labo´ nte" ma´ cairan ejn macai´rh ajpolou'ntai. See Head and Cranston, Reincarnation in World Thought, 16–17. I will not consider this topic here, since the Byzantine heretics who were concerned with this issue seem never to have developed any abstract theory on it. 12 See Epiphanios, Panarion (Adversus Haereses) (CPG 3745), ed. K. Holl. Epiphanius, Ancoratus und Panarion, 3 vols. GCS, 25, 31, 37 (Leipzig, 1915–33), 3:29: to` n ejsqi´onta sa´ rka" yuch´ n fasin (sc. Manicheans) ejsqi´ein

158 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION The final goal of the journey is for the soul to regain its pristine status of union with God. In this context, the “final restoration” has a somewhat different meaning from that assigned to it by mainstream Christianity. Final restoration is understood by these nonOrthodox Christians as the final event of the process of reincarnation and means something like the release of humans from the circle of successive incarnations. Viewed on a massive scale, the aggregate of these “individual escapes” from the circle of life and death eventually gives final restoration its broader meaning. This is the end of an era (that, depending on the philosophical/religious system, may have lasted tens of thousands of years) or, to put it in Stoic and Neopythagorean terms, the return of humanity to the Great Year or the Golden Age.13 But this final restoration is further understood in these systems as both an end of one era and a beginning of another. This process can continue ad infinitum and amounts to what the ancient Greek Orphics, Plato, or the Neoplatonists called the “eternal return” or the cyclical theory of the world’s history.14 To all these belief systems Christianity opposed and opposes the Incarnation of Christ, which was an hapax gegonos (a”pax gegono´ "). In Christ the union of humanity with deity is ineffably achieved once and forever.15 In the post-seventh-century Byzantine Empire, mainstream Orthodox Christians almost unanimously rejected all the tenets that I briefly presented above.16 Save for a few cases that I have been able to locate, the acceptance of the final clause of the NicaeanConstantinopolitan Creed was undisputed. Those who continued to profess the transmigration of souls and final restoration were either members of one of the few dualist heresies that persisted after the seventh century or were certain highly educated intellectuals whose interest in cultivating philosophy had led them to rediscover Platonism or Neoplato` n toiou'ton, kai` ei«nai aujto` n e“nocon tou' kai` aujto` n toiou'to´ ti gene´ sqai, wJ" eij e“fage coi'ron, coi'ron au«qi" gene´ sqai h‘ tau'ron h‘ o“rneon h“ ti tw'n ejdwdi´mwn ktisma´ twn. dio` ejmyu´ cwn ouj mete´ cousin oiJ toiou'toi. 13 See, for example, the statement of Sextus Empiricus in his Adversus mathematicos, ed. H. Mutschmann and J. Mau, Sexti Empirici opera, vol. 3, 2d ed., Teubner (Leipzig, 1961), 162 (ejpeidh` oJ aujto` " tw'n ajste´ rwn schmatismo` " dia` makrw'n, w”" fasi, cro´ nwn qewrei'tai, ajpokatasta´ sew" ginome´ nh" tou' mega´ lou ejniautou' di’ ejnneakiscili´wn ejnnakosi´wn kai` eJbdomh´ konta kai` eJpta` ejtw'n). As is evident for Sextus, the “Great Year” comes every 9,977 years. 14 On this topic see the standard work by M. Eliade, The Myth of the Eternal Return, or Cosmos and History, trans. W. R. Trask (New York, 1991), 87–88. For Plotinos’ view see the Enneads, trans. S. MacKenna, The Enneads: A New, Definitive Edition with Comparisons to Other Translations on Hundreds of Key Passages (New York, 1992), 5.7.1–3. Each Period is “a periodical renovation bounding the boundlessness by the return of a former series. . . . The entire soul-period conveys with it all the requisite Reason-Principles, and so too the same existents appear once more under their action. . . . May we not take it that there may be identical reproduction from one Period to another but not in the same Period? . . . Thus when the universe has reached its end, there will be a fresh beginning, since the entire Quantity which the Kosmos is to exhibit, every item that is to emerge in its course, all is laid up from the first in the Being that contains the Reason-Principles. . . . As in Soul so in Divine Mind there is this infinitude of recurring generative powers; the Beings there are unfailing.” 15 See, among others, J. Meyendorff, Byzantine Theology, 2d ed. (New York, 1983), 218–23. See also the modern Orthodox Christian position, based on the works of the Byzantine theologian Nicholas Kabasilas (d. 1361), by P. Nellas, Le vivant divinise´ (Greek title: Zw'on Qeou´ menon, Athens, 1981), trans. J.-L. Palierne (Paris, 1989), 88–91. 16 What unanimous means, though, is debatable; we do not know how many heretics existed at a given time, and I have not investigated the idea of metempsychosis on the level of popular beliefs. Unfortunately, there seems to be nothing on the subject in Ph. Koukoules’ monumental compilation Buzantinw'n Bi´o" kai` Politismo´ ", 6 vols. (Athens, 1948–57).

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tonism. To the average Byzantine, however, philosophers were simply another category of heretics,17 which brings us to the next issue. THE BACKGROUND TO AND EARLY BYZANTINE NOTIONS ABOUT REINCARNATION Philosophical (Hellenic) Origins It has already been noted that ideas of the transmigration of souls and the final restoration follow two rather distinct ideological lines.18 According to the classification of Epiphanios of Salamis, the first line runs through the Hellenic (ajpo` E J llh´ nwn) heresies, which 19 inherited the tenets of ancient Greek philosophy. The second line, which follows the path of Gnosticism, began farther east in India and Persia and goes back to Hinduism/ Buddhism and Zoroastrianism.20 I note in passing that even though both these lines claim to trace their origins to India, the actual route is somewhat complex and the sources that transmit this information are not completely reliable. To be more precise, some authors21 attribute Platonic or generally Greek ideas of the transmigration of souls to Egyptian influence.22 Plato was not the first to introduce this notion among the Greeks. 17 Certainly not all Byzantines shared this view. Since many Byzantine theologians and literati had also composed philosophical works, one has to keep in mind that Byzantine scholars at least did not entertain this simplistic approach. For a discussion of the problem along with a wider consideration of the relationship between philosophy and theology, see M. Cacouros’ entry in A. Jacob, gen. ed., Encyclope´die philosophique universelle, vol. 4, ed. J.-F. Mattei, Le discours philosophique (Paris, 1998), 1362–84, esp. 1368–69, “Le statut des gens qui ont ‘philosophe´’ `a Byzance.” 18 Note, however, that this distinction (adopted here for reasons of convenience) is a rather artificial one. In reality these two lines overlap. In fact, Gnosticism and the line of heresies that descend from it borrow much from Plato, especially his perception of this world as an inferior one in which the souls are caught on a wheel of ongoing rebirth. For a more thorough analysis of these relationships and ramifications, see Y. Stoyanov, The Hidden Tradition in Europe (London-New York, 1994). 19 See Epiphanios, Panarion, ed. Holl, 1:165, 183–86. 20 Intellectual affinities and lines of transmission of dogmas and religious ideas are complicated matters, and the suggestions submitted here are only hypotheses based on existing Byzantine sources. For an anthology of texts related to reincarnation in these religions (Hinduism, etc.), see Head and Cranston, Reincarnation in World Thought, 33–148. For a more refined classification of the heretical ramifications, based on the rather broad understanding of the term heresy by Epiphanios (which I more or less follow), see A. Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane de Salamine (Paris, 1992), 85–91 and 95–114. On the term heresy, see also E. Moutsoulas, “Der Begriff ‘Ha¨resie’ bei Epiphanios von Salamis,” in StP 8, TU 93 (Berlin, 1966), 86–107; C. Riggi, “Il termine ‘hairesis’ nell’accezione di Epifanio di Salamina (Panarion t. I; De Fide),” Salesianum 29 (1967): 3–27; and G. Valle´e, A Study in Anti-Gnostic Polemics, Irenaeus, Hippolytos and Epiphanios (Waterloo, Can., 1981), 75–79. 21 See Eusebios, Praeparatio Evangelica (CPG 3486), ed. K. Mras, Eusebius Werke VIII, Die Praeparatio evangelica, GCS 43.2 (Berlin, 1956), bk. 10, chap. 4, sec. 20, lines 1–3: Pla´ twn . . . le´ getai . . . ajpa'rai eij" Ai“gupton kai` th' tou´ twn filosofi´a plei'ston ajnaqei'nai cro´ non, combined with Clement of Alexandria, Stromata (CPG 1377), ed. O. Sta¨hlin and L. Fru ¨ chtel, Clemens Alexandrinus II, Stromata I–VI, GCS 52 (15) (Berlin, 1960), 6.4, 35.1: Eu”roimen d⬘ a‘n kai` a“llo martu´ rion eij" bebai´wsin tou' ta` ka´ llista tw'n dogma´ twn tou` " ajri´stou" tw'n filoso´ fwn par⬘ hJmw'n sfeterisame´ nou" wJ" i“dia aujcei'n to` kai` para` tw'n a“llwn barba´ rwn ajphnqi´sqai tw'n eij" eJka´ sthn ai”resin sunteino´ ntwn tina´ , ma´ lista de` Aijgupti´wn ta´ te a“lla kai` to` peri` th` n metenswma´ twsin th'" yuch'" do´ gma. The first to assign Egyptian origin to this idea was Herodotos (2.123) who speaks about the belief of the Egyptians that: Prw'toi de` kai` to´ nde to` n lo´ gon Aijgu´ ptioi´ eijsi oiJ eijpo´ nte", wJ" ajnqrw´ pou yuch` ajqa´ nato´ " ejsti, tou' sw´ mato" de` katafqi´nonto" ej" a“llo zv'on aijei` gino´ menon ejsdu´ etai. ejpea` n de` pa´ nta perie´ lqh ta` cersai'a kai` ta` qala´ ssia kai` ta` peteina´ , au«ti" ej" ajnqrw´ pou sw'ma gino´ menon ejsdu´ nei . . . then he adds that: tou´ tv tv' lo´ gv eijsi` oi’ JEllh´ nwn ejcrh´ santo, oiJ me` n pro´ teron oiJ de` u”steron, wJ" ijdi´v eJwutw'n ejo´ nti. 22 That this belief had no basis in reality is to most scholars an accepted fact. The Egyptians never had a doctrine of reincarnation. Cf. H. Bonnet, in Reallexikon des ¨agyptischen Religionsgeschichte (Berlin, 1952), 76ff.

160 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION Before him Pythagoras had already taught these ideas along with a number of related topics. Pythagoras’ sojourn in Egypt is attested by a number of authors including Clement of Alexandria, who in his Stromata states that Pythagoras was a student of Sonchis the Egyptian archprophet.23 In any case, the notion that the transmigration of souls originated in Egypt is a rather familiar idea among early Byzantine writers. Later authors like George the Monk and Nikephoros Gregoras simply reproduced the information concerning Plato’s and Pythagoras’ visits to Egypt but skipped the part about the transmigration of souls.24 The missing link between Egypt and India is found in Philostratos’ Life of Apollonios of Tyana. In the sixth book, Flavios Philostratos describes how Pythagoras decided to abstain from eating meat: “but these men . . . whet their knife against her (i.e., earth’s) children (i.e., animals) in order to get themselves dress and food. Here then is something which the Brahmans of India themselves did not approve of, and which they taught the naked sages of Egypt also not to approve; and from them Pythagoras took his rule of life and he was the first of Hellenes who had intercourse with the Egyptians. And it was his rule to give up and leave her animals to the earth.” 25 In another passage Philostratos presented Apollonios arguing with the Egyptian Gymnosophists on the superiority of the Indian wisdom over that of the Egyptians. His opinion was that the Egyptians had based their religious innovations on Indian philosophy.26 Certainly the Life of Apollonios of Tyana is not a reliable source, a problem shared, I am afraid, with many of the sources that bear witness to the ideas being examined here.27 Despite their unreliability, the availA plausible explanation of this issue is found in W. Burkert, Lore and Science in Ancient Pythagoreanism, trans. E. L. Minar, Jr. (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), 128: “Greeks in Egypt connected beliefs about the afterlife and religious customs with the name of Pythagoras in the same way as Greeks living in the area about the Hellespont and the Black Sea did with the beliefs of the Getae about immortality. . . . The difference is that in the latter case the Greeks’ feeling of superiority to the barbarians led them to make Zalmoxis the pupil of Pythagoras, while in Egypt their awe of the ancient foreign culture produced an opposite result, and Pythagoras became the pupil of the Egyptians.” 23 See Clement of Alexandria, Strom. 1.15, 69.1: JIstorei'tai de` Puqago´ ra" me` n Sw´ gcidi tv' Aijgupti´v ajrciprofh´ th maqhteu'sai (see, however, the previous note for the validity of this statement). 24 See George the Monk, Chronikon, ed. C. de Boor, Georgii monachi Chronicon, Teubner (Leipzig, 1904; repr. Stuttgart, 1978 [1st ed. corr. P. Wirth]), 76; Nikephoros Gregoras, Historia romana, ed. L. Schopen and I. Bekker, Nicephori Gregorae historiae Byzantinae, vol. 1, CSHB (Bonn, 1829), 323. 25 See F. C. Conybeare, Philostratus, The Life of Apollonius of Tyana (Cambridge, Mass.-London, 1989), 2:302–4: oiJ de´ . . . ma´ cairan ejp⬘ aujta` e“qhxan uJpe` r ejsqh'to´ " te kai` brw´ sew". jIndoi` toi´nun Bracma'ne" aujtoi´ te oujk ejph´ noun tau'ta kai` tou` " Gumnou` " Aijgupti´wn ejdi´daskon mh` ejpainei'n aujta´ ⭈ e“nqen Puqago´ ra" eJlw´ n, JEllh´ nwn de` prw'to" ejpe´ mixen Aijgupti´oi", ta` me` n e“myuca th' gh' ajnh'ken.” 26 Ibid., 44–50. 27 The nature of the topic itself, which more or less transcends empirical reality, poses a major problem to scholarly investigation. Furthermore, both heretics and their opponents were consciously striving to present in their writings an image that distorted existing reality either positively or negatively. See, for example, the remark of E. de Faye concerning Gnosticism, in Gnostiques et Gnosticisme, ´etude critique des documents du Gnosticisme chre´tien aux IIe et IIIe sie`cles (Paris, 1925), 496 “si le christianisme a vaincu le gnosticisme, il n’a pu le faire qu’en se chargeant des de´pouilles de son adversaire.” In this respect, it is not by accident that the same author has subtitled the fourth part of his book (ibid., 335–437) “Les Gnostiques des he´re´siologues.” Finally, for Epiphanios, his predecessors, and the development of heresiological polemics, see Pourkier, L’he´r´esiologie chez Epiphane, 485–97. For another instance of misrepresenting reality (in this case, Peter of Sicily’s writings about the Paulicians), see N. Garsoı¨an, “Byzantine Heresy: A Reinterpretation,” DOP 25 (1971): 87–113.

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able sources may lead one to believe that both the philosophical/Greek and the Gnostic (mostly Manichaean) notions of the transmigration of souls that we encounter in Byzantium can possibly be traced to India.28 That said, I now examine the two lines of reincarnational eschatology indicated so far. In order to trace the development of these ideas, I focus mainly on a period prior to the eighth century. Most of the reincarnational philosophies and sects were established and flourished during the first four centuries of the Christian era. As early as the second half of the fourth century, Epiphanios of Salamis included these heresies in his Panarion adversus Haereses, which he completed some time before 378.29 Part of what he described in this manual of heresiology was, nonetheless, facing extinction by the beginning of the fifth century. Still, the information culled and arranged in a systematic way by Epiphanios30 remains what one can find—mostly in abridged form—in later ecclesiastical authors, such as John of Damascus or Germanos of Constantinople. Even much later authors such as Photios or Euthymios Zigabenos based their work on those early writings of Epiphanios and other heresiologists of that period such as Theodoret of Cyrrhus and Irenaeus.31 Needless to say, however, Epiphanios is not the only primary source that is used in the present study. According to the Suda, the Syrian (i.e., from the island of Syra) Pherekydes of Babys (6th century B.C. fl. ca. 544) was the first to teach the idea of the transmigration of souls in Greece.32 Pythagoras, his contemporary and alleged student, was the one who expounded this doctrine in a more detailed fashion.33 In particular, Pythagoras put much emphasis on dietary restrictions, which helped the soul avoid further reincarnations, and 28 For the position of modern scholarship on the issue, which exactly traces the roots of reincarnation back to India, see Burkert, Lore and Science, 133 and n. 71 for further bibliography. 29 Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 51. 30 For the heresiological work of Epiphanios and his system, see ibid., 76–114. 31 Except for Epiphanios of Salamis, the list of early authors of lists of heresies or antiheretical treatises includes Hippolytos of Rome, Refutatio omnium haeresium (Philosophoumena) (CPG 1899), ed. M. Marcovich, Patristische Texte und Studien 25 (Berlin, 1986), 53–417; and Irenaeus of Lyon, Adversus Haereses (for editions of the preserved parts of this work, in Latin, see CPG 1306). For these and other predecessors, see Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 53–75. Later heresiologists include Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Graecarum affectionum curatio (CPG 6210), ed. P. Canivet, The´odoret de Cyr. The´rapeutique des maladies helle´niques, 2 vols., SC 57 (Paris, 1958); John of Damascus, De haeresibus (CPG 8044), ed. B. Kotter, Die Schriften des Johannes von Damaskos, vol. 4, Patristische Texte und Studien 22 (Berlin, 1981), 19–67. Germanos of Constantinople, De haeresibus et synodis (CPG 8020), PG 98:40–88. Many references to heresies and heretics are found in Photios’ Bibliotheca. For Euthymios Zigabenos’ Panoplia, see PG 130:20ff. For bibliography on Epiphanios’ predecessors, see Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 503–4. 32 See A. Adler, ed., Suidae Lexicon, Lexicographi Graeci, vol. 1.4 Teubner (Leipzig, 1935), 713. For more on Pherecydes, see M.-O. Goulet-Gaze´, ed., Dioge`ne Lae¨rce. Vies et Doctrines des philosophes illustres, trans. and comm. J.-F. Balaude´ et al. (Paris, 1999), 940 n. 9, with bibliography. 33 See, e.g., Diogenes Laertius, Vitae philosophorum, ed. H. S. Long, Diogenis Laertii vitae philosophorum, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1964; repr. 1966), 8.4–5. According to recent research, however, it was Plato and his school that shaped this understanding of Pythagorean philosophy. Much of the material concerning Pythagoras’ ideas on the transmigration of souls also comes from later authors. It seems that what is credited to Pythagoras is of Orphic origins, and, certainly, no association of Pythagoras with Egypt is recorded by any author before Hellenistic times. In any case, paternity or, at least, espousal of the belief in reincarnation by Pythagoras has not been disputed. On this issue see W. Rathmann, Quaestiones Pythagoreae Orphicae Empedocleae (Halis Saxonum [Germany], 1933), 3–10, 59–73, and Burkert, Lore and Science, 120.

162 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION stressed enormously the significance of memory of past lives.34 It is even said that he was able to recall a number of his previous incarnations.35 Another Pythagorean, Empedokles himself, seems to have retained memories from past lives.36 On the other hand, the idea that the souls should purify themselves and gradually rise to higher and higher levels of human existence is present in the writings of Empedokles and Pindar. In a passage preserved in Plato’s Menon (81b–c; also cf. Phaedrus 249a–c), Pindar states that “the souls of those, who have repaid for old sins, give life in their last incarnation to three kinds of “godly people”: kings, victorious athletes, and wise men.” After their death their noble souls will be honored as heroes.37 Empedokles’ and Pindar’s ideas remained rather unknown to the Byzantine heresiologists. Epiphanios of Salamis and his followers (John of Damascus, Suda, etc.) singled out for consideration the Pythagoreans, the Stoics, and the Platonists. Their belief in the transmigration of souls figures prominently among the rather short lists of major errors that Epiphanios provides in order to characterize their identity.38 That a few of these philosophical systems exerted some influence until the final demise of Greek paganism in sixth-century Byzantium is beyond doubt. The Pythagoreans and the Stoics had possibly ceased to exist by then, but the Neoplatonists were still active (without, however, calling themselves “neo”).39 One or two early Christian fathers were beguiled by the reincarnation theory and tried to integrate it into their theological treatment of human nature. Clement of Alexandria in his Hypotyposeis seems to have embraced the idea of reincarnation.40 The work has been lost, and we only know of its pro-incarnational tenor from a statement in codex 109 of the Bibliotheca of Photios.41 Given Clement’s contacts with and possible influSee J. P. Vernant, Mu´ qo" kai` ske´ yh sth` n ajrcai´a JElla´ da, trans. S. Georgoudi (Thessalonike, n.d.), 104–5, and also A. Cameron, “The Pythagorean Background of the Theory of Recollection” (Ph.D diss., Columbia University, 1938). 35 Burkert, Lore and Science, 138–41. 36 This is the understanding of a passage from his Katharmoi preserved by Diogenes Laertius, Vitae philosophorum, 8.77: h“dh ga´ r pot’ ejgw` geno´ mhn kou'ro´ " te ko´ rh te / qa´ mno" t∆ oijwno´ " te kai` e“xalo" e“mpuro" ijcqu´ " . For further discussion see Stettner, “Seelenwanderung,” 28–29, and Burkert, Lore and Science, 133. 37 Le´ gei de` kai` Pi´ndaro" kai` a“lloi polloi` tw'n poihtw'n o”soi qei'oi´ eijsin . . . fasi` ga` r th` n yuch` n tou' ajnqrw´ pou ei«nai ajqa´ naton, kai` tote` me` n teleuta'n —o’ dh` ajpoqnh´ skein kalou'si—tote` de` pa´ lin gi´gnesqai, ajpo´ llusqai d’ oujde´ pote⭈ dei'n dh` dia` tau'ta wJ" oJsiw´ tata diabiw'nai to` n bi´on⭈ oi»si ga` r a‘n—Fersefo´ na poina` n palaiou' pe´ nqeo" / de´ xetai, eij" to` n u”perqen a”lion kei´nwn ejna´ tv e“tei¨ / ajndidoi' yuca` " pa´ lin, / ejk ta'n basilh'e" ajgauoi` / kai` sqe´ nei kraipnoi` sofi´a te me´ gistoi / a“ndre" au“xont’, ej" de` to` n loipo` n cro´ non h”rwe" aJgnoi` / pro` " ajnqrw´ twn kaleu'ntai. For the transmigration of souls in Pindar, see Stettner, “Seelenwanderung,” 27–28. For this particular passage, which probably comes from Pindar’s Threnoi (ed. H. Maehler [post B. Snell], Pindari carmina cum fragmentis, pt. 2, 4th ed., Teubner [Leipzig, 1975], frag. 133) and is cited by Plato, see some related discussion in the context of Plato’s Phaedrus in Menon, trans. and comm. M. Canto-Sperber (Paris, 1991), 253–57. 38 See Epiphanios, Panarion, ed. Holl, 1:183, 185–86 and also the spurious Anacephalaeosis attributed to Epiphanios, ibid., 165. This Anacephalaeosis is repeated by John of Damascus in his De haeresibus, ed. Kotter, 4:21–22. 39 In fact, after the 3rd century A.D. Porphyry and Iamblichos incorporated much of the Pythagorean ideas and myths into their Neoplatonism: it is no accident that each one of these two Neoplatonists composed a Life of Pythagoras. 40 Only fragments exist from this work (CPG 1380), ed. O. Sta¨hlin, L. Fru ¨ chtel, and L. Treu, Clemens Alexandrinus, vol. 3, Stromata Buch VII und VIII. Excerpta ex Theodoto, Eclogae propheticae, Quis diues saluetur, Fragmente, GCS 17.2 (Berlin, 1970), 195–202. 41 R. Henry, ed., Photius. Bibliothe`que, vol. 2 (Paris, 1960), 79–80 (metemyucw´ sei" kai` pollou` " pro` tou Ada j `m ko´ smou" terateu´ etai). 34

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ences from Gnosticism and Neopythagoreanism, it is difficult to disprove Photios’ pronouncement.42 However, it was Origen who paid dearly for his belief in the preexistence of souls and for his failure to clearly reject reincarnation in one of his early works (De principiis).43 Although in other works (Against Celsus)44 he rejected metempsychosis both explicitly and implicitly, his assumptions on the preexistence of souls made him suspect in the eyes of Orthodox Christians. Later Christians presumed that belief in the preexistence of souls automatically implied belief in reincarnation (see below for Gregory of Nyssa), which was, of course, unacceptable to mainstream Christians. The Fifth Ecumenical Council in 553 condemned Origen on a number of charges related to those ideas.45 Later George the Monk in his Chronikon gave the following account: “And the Fifth Ecumenical Council convened . . . against Origen, and those who followed him in his impious dogmas, Didymos and Evagrios (who flourished in the days of old) and [against] their (his in the Greek text) writings, in which they frivolously said that the souls existed before the bodies, [and in which they] believed—taking their hint from Greek dogmas—in the transmigration of souls, and that hell would come to an end.” 46 Even Gregory of Nyssa, who admired the learning and allegorical skill of Origen, did not fail to object to the doctrine of the preexistence of souls. “This book,” Gregory said, writing about the De principiis, was not “clear of the influence of the theories of the Greeks, which they held on the subject of successive incorporations” of the soul. In fact, this remark of Gregory of Nyssa is part of a longer refutation that constitutes chapter 28 of his De opificio Dominis and is directed against “those who say the souls exist prior to the bodies.” 47 It must be stressed, however, that Origen’s anathematization was the final result For Clement’s relations to Gnosticism and Greek philosophy in general, see S. R. C. Lilla, Clement of Alexandria: A Study in Christian Platonism and Gnosticism (London, 1971), esp. 118ff. 43 For this work, see CPG 1482, where all editions are listed. The French edition of the existing fragments with detailed commentary is most useful. The first ambiguous passage (preserved only in Latin) is the concluding paragraph of bk. 1, chap. 8; see H. Crouzel and M. Simonetti, eds., Orige`ne. Traite´ des Principes, 3 vols., SC 252, 253, 268 (Paris, 1978–80), 1:223. For a detailed commentary on this passage, see ibid., 2:119– 25. Both the text and the commentary clearly show that Origen condemned reincarnation. However, another passage from the same work, (bk. 2, chap. 10.8; ibid., 1:393) was (wrongly) understood by Jerome as a defense of reincarnation. See also the commentary ibid., 2:240–41, with a discussion of the textual problems this passage presents. A third problematic passage is found in bk. 4, chap. 4.8 of the same work and was misunderstood by Jerome. Again Origen rejects reincarnation in it. For the text see ibid., 3:423, with com¨rgemanns and H. Karpp, mentary at 4:267. Also very useful is the edition and German translation by H. Go ¨cher von den Prinzipien (Darmstadt, 1976), 262–82, 436, 812. Origenes Vier Bu 44 Contra Celsum (CPG 1476), ed. H. Boret, Orige`ne. Contre Celse, vol. 1, SC 132 (Paris, 1967), 110 (1, 13, 18). 45 In fact, it was the Council of Constantinople in 532 that issued fifteen canons against Origen’s ideas. In 543 Justinian promulgated an edict against Origen, which concluded with nine anathemas. Anathema no. 1 was directed against the belief in the preexistence of souls. The Fifth Ecumenical Council reiterated many of the canons/anathemas of 532. See Canones xv contra Origenem (CPG 9352), ACO 4.1:248–49. 46 See George the Monk, Chronikon, ed. de Boor, 629: Pe´ mpth su´ nodo" ge´ gonen . . . kata` jWrige´ nou" kai` tw'n ta` ejkei´nou ajsebh' do´ gmata diadexame´ nwn Didu´ mou kai` Eujagri´ou tw'n pa´ lai ajkmasa´ ntwn kai` tw'n ejkteqe´ ntwn par’ aujtou' kefalai´wn, ejn oi»" ejlhrv´ doun prou¨ pa´ rcein ta` " yuca` " tw'n swma´ twn, ejx JEllhnikw'n oJrmw´ menoi dogma´ twn th` n metemyu´ cwsin doxa´ zonte", kai` te´ lo" ei«nai th'" kola´ sew", etc. 47 Gregory of Nyssa, De opificio hominis (CPG 3154), PG 44:229A: Pro` " tou` " le´ gonta" prou¨ festa´ nai ta` " yuca` " tw'n swma´ twn, h‘ to` e“mpalin pro` tw'n yucw'n diapepla'sqai ta` sw´ mata. jEn v» ti" kai` ajnatroph` th'" kata` ta` " metemyucw´ sei" muqopoii´a" . And ibid., 232A: OiJ . . . presbute´ ran th'" ejn sarki` zwh'" th` n politei´an tw'n yucw'n dogmati´zonte", ou“ moi dokou'si tw'n JEllhnikw'n kaqareu´ ein dogma´ twn, tw'n peri` th'" metenswmatw´ sew" aujtoi'" memuqologhme´ nwn. 42

164 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION of a biased and one-sided anti-Origenist campaign that lasted for more than two centuries. At a certain point, during the period 393–402, this campaign was reinvigorated and further promoted by Epiphanios of Salamis.48 In addition to those who specifically wrote against heresies (Epiphanios, Irenaeus, Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Eusebios, John of Damascus, etc.), the early fathers, in general, were openly hostile toward the transmigration of souls. When John Chrysostom, for example, compares Peter to Plato (in the Acts of the Apostles) the first critical remark he makes against Plato is “What benefit can I have from learning that the soul of a philosopher becomes a fly (sic)?” 49 Another example might be the account of Emperor Julian’s death in the Church History of Socrates. According to Socrates, Julian rejected the Persian king’s plea for peace on the grounds that he expected his campaign against Persia in 361 to be thoroughly victorious. It seems that Julian expected this victory because he was convinced that he was a reincarnation of Alexander the Great. As a result, Julian proceeded with his plans and was eventually killed before even coming into contact with the enemy. Socrates held that this “silly” belief in reincarnation had disastrous consequences not only for the emperor but also for the empire.50 In addition to these incidental criticisms against reincarnation, a full-fledged refutation of the ideas of the transmigration of souls appeared in Egypt (between 485 and 512/ 13 just a few years before Justinian’s antipagan legislation).51 The dialogue “Theophrastos, or on the Immortality of Souls and the Resurrection of Bodies” penned by Aeneas of Gaza summarizes all the Hellenic/Neoplatonic ideas about the transmigration of souls and defends the Christian positions.52 Axitheos, the Syrian Christian who responds to the major objections of his discussant, the philosopher Philotheos, presents a number of elaborate Christian responses to questions such as the following: “If we deny the preexistence of souls, how is it possible for the wicked to prosper and for the righteous ones to live in dire circumstances”? “How can one accept the fact that people are born blind or that some die immediately after they are born, while others reach a very old age”?

48 See J. F. Dechow, Dogma and Mysticism in Early Christianity: Epiphanios of Cyprus and the Legacy of Origen (Macon, Ga., 1988); and P. Heiman, Erwa¨ltes Schicksal, Pra¨existenz der Seele und christlicher Glaube im Denkmodel des Origenes (Tu ¨ bingen, 1988), 262ff. As late as the beginning of the 8th century, people thought they should still inveigh against Origen’s dogmas on final restoration; see F. Diekamp, Doctrina Patrum de Incarnatione Verbi. Ein griechisches Florilegium aus der Wende des 7. und 8. Jahrhunderts, 2d ed. corr. B. Phanourgakis, ed. E. Chrysos (Mu ¨ nster, 1981), 179–88. 49 See John Chrysostom, In Acta apostolorum homiliae 1–55 (CPG 4426), PG 60:48.8: Ti´ ga` r o“felo" ejk tou' maqei'n, o”ti mui'a hJ yuch` tou' filoso´ fou gi´netai; which is a possible (distorted?) allusion to Plato’s Phaedrus, 248e–249e. 50 See Socrates Scholastikos, Historia ecclesiastica (CPG 6028), ed. G. Ch. Hansen, Sokrates Kirchengeschichte, GCS, N.F. 1 (Berlin, 1995), 217. 51 ´ ne´e de Gaza: Proble`mes de chronologie,” For the date of this work see N. Aujoulat, “Le The´ophraste d’E KOINWNIA 10 (1986): 67–80. 52 See Aeneas Gazaeus, Theophrastus, sive de animarum immortalitate et corporum resurrectione dialogus (CPG 7450), PG 85:872–1005, and the more recent edition by M. E. Colonna, Theophrastus sive de immortalitate animae (Naples, 1958). For Aeneas’ relation to Neoplatonism (he was a student of the Neoplatonic philosopher Hierokles in Alexandria) and his attempt to formulate a Christian response to the Neoplatonic teaching of his era, see M. Wacht, Aeneas von Gaza als Apologet (Bonn, 1969).

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“If we believe that each new body comes with a new soul, then the souls are innumerable,” 53 and so on.

This dialogue was followed a few years later by the dialogue Ammonius by Zacharias of Mytilene, a far-reaching refutation of Neoplatonism in which the transmigration of souls is also rejected in passing.54 If this survey of the early pagan/Greek ideas of the transmigration of souls is close to complete, we should be correct in assuming that the post-sixth-century Byzantines had inherited very little from the pagan/Hellenic past on the issue of the transmigration of souls. The works of Aeneas of Gaza and Zacharias of Mytilene stand as witnesses to some latent attempts at survival on the part of Neoplatonism. And it was in some Eastern centers of the Byzantine Empire, such as Gaza, Beirut, and Alexandria, that the last Neoplatonist intellectuals were still debating with Christians about the transmigration of souls and other issues. Christians, however, aided a little later by the antipagan legislation of Justinian, brought about the demise of Neoplatonism. It is only in the works of Christian fathers such as Dionysios the Areopagite that major Neoplatonic tenets were incorporated into a Christian doctrine. The transmigration of souls, being a rather secondary issue, was simply lost as incompatible with the major Christian belief in the resurrection of the body. Few remnants of the proble´matique of Theophrastus and Ammonius seem to have surfaced in the seventh-century Quaestiones et responsiones of Anastasios of Sinai, showing that at least the questions that puzzled both Christians and pagans were, almost a century and a half later, still in the air. However, for the reasons I stated, reincarnation as a possible answer to these questions was by then not an option.55 Heretical Origins Epiphanios classifies a succession of heresies that are Christian by name but not Christian in their beliefs. The root of this line goes back to Simon Magus and forms the cluster of heresies known today under the imprecise term gnostic. Epiphanios arranges these heresies chronologically. The Gnostics in Epiphanios’ account figure in sixth place, while number seven is occupied by the Carpocratians. Number 22 (and 42 in the general list) in the same list corresponds to the Markionites, and the Manichaeans occupy the 46th (66th in the general list) place right after the followers of Paul of Samosata.56 53 The text presented here is a rather loose rendering of the meaning of the sentences found in Colonna, Theophrastus, 19: Qeo´ frasto"⭈ . . . All’ j eij pantelw'" to` n pro´ teron th'" yuch'" bi´on ajne´ loimen, ajtaxi´a dokei' to` gigno´ menon, eij kakoi` me` n eu« pra´ ttousin, ajtucou'sin d⬘ ajgaqoi´. 27–28: Qeo´ frasto"⭈ . . . All’ j ejkei'no" me´ n, hjdi´kei ga´ r, tw'n ojfqalmw'n ajfh´ rhtai, to` de` paidi´on a“rti tecqe´ n, eij mh` probebi´wken, oujde` proh´ marte, pw'" ga´ r; Po´ qen ou«n, eijpe´ moi, tw'n ojfqalmw'n hJ no´ so"; 40: Qeo´ frasto"⭈ . . . ’En de` hJma'" pare´ dramen, o”ti ta` " me` n a“lla" noera` " kai` logika` " oujsi´a" me´ trv diwri´sqai le´ gomen, ta` " de` ajnqrwpi´na" eij" ajmetri´an ejxa´ gesqai, eij mh` th` n aujth` n yuch` n ejpi` polla´ sw´ mata metabai´nein sunecw´ rhsen oJ lo´ go" . 54 Zacharias Rhetor (Scholastikos), Ammonius sive de mundi opificio disputatio (CPG 6996), ed. M. M. Colonna, Zacaria Scolastico. Ammonio. Introduzione, testo critico, traduzione, commentario (Naples, 1973), 109–10, also PG 85: 1072B–D. The edition by Colonna is preceded by a detailed introduction on the life and works of Zacharias of Mytilene. According to her, the work possibly dates after 518 (ibid., 44–45). See also ODB 3:2218 for further bibliography. 55 See CPG 7746, PG 89:313BC (question 10) and 321A–C (questions 89–96). 56 See Epiphanios, Panarion, ed. Holl, 1:238–45 (Simon), 275–313 (Gnostics and Carpocratians), 2:93–186 (Markion), 3:13–132 (Manichaeans).

166 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION Of all these heresies, I single out only the Carpocratians,57 the Markionites,58 and the Manichaeans,59 because Epiphanios explicitly associated them with the notion of the transmigration of souls. We know from other sources that the Gnostics themselves (who in Epiphanios’ list appear under nine different names) believed in the transmigration of souls.60 We have also seen that Epiphanios placed the Origenists in the same category (at least with regard to the transmigration of souls). At any rate, it should be safe to assume that metempsychosis was part of the heretical lore of the Ophites,61 the Colorbasians, or the Nicholaites,62 for example,63 or, to put it simply, of “all Gnostics and Manichaeans.” 64 It still remains a matter of speculation whether a number of these communities/sects even existed by the time Epiphanios was writing the Adversus haereses and, if so, how large these communities were.65 Christian criticism of the heresies of Simonian extraction is extremely harsh and exaggerated. The Theodosian code and later legislation provide the most severe penalties for the heretics of this brand (deprivation of the right to draw up wills and testaments, exile, and even death, by sword or fire).66 The reasons for this harsh treatment are not 57 For the Carpocratians see H. Liboron, Die Karpokratianische Gnosis (Leipzig, 1938); for further bibliography see Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 505–6. 58 For Markion see D. W. Deakle, The Fathers against Marcionism: A Study of the Methods and Motives in the Developing Patristic Anti-Marcionite Polemic (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1991). 59 For Mani and the Manichaeans see R. Merkelbach, Mani und sein Religionssystem (Opladen, 1986). 60 For Gnosticism see B. Layton, ed., The Rediscovery of Gnosticism: Proceedings of the International Conference on Gnosticism at Yale, New Haven, Connecticut, March 28–31, 1978, 2 vols. (Leiden, 1980), and R. T. Wallis and J. Bregman, eds., Neoplatonism and Gnosticism (Albany, 1992). 61 For the Ophites see B. Witte, Das Ophiten-diagramm nach Origenes’ Contra Celsum VI 22–38 (Altenberge, 1993), and de Faye, Gnostiques et Gnosticisme, 349–54. 62 For the Nicholaites see Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 291–96, and further bibliography, ibid., 506. 63 It seems that John of Damascus uses the expression “[heretics] deny the resurrection of the dead” as an alternative indication of the Gnostics’ belief in reincarnation (which, one must admit, was not uniformly shared by all Gnostics (see below, note 64)). See John of Damascus De haeresibus, ed. Kotter, 4:28: to´ n te no´ mon su` n th' tw'n nekrw'n ajnasta´ sei ajphgo´ reusen, wJ" aiJ ajpo` Si´mwno" kai` deu'ro aiJre´ sei". This is a statement about Carpocrates, who elsewhere, in Epiphanios’ Panarion, is described as a proponent of reincarnation (see below). The same statement is applied by John of Damascus (who, as already mentioned, follows Epiphanios) to the Simonians, Valentinians, Secundinians, Marcosians, Colorbasians, Caianites, Archontics, Kerdonians, Markionites, and Severians, to name a few. Most of the remaining sects are referred to as followers of notions similar to those espoused by the Gnostic proponents of reincarnation (ibid., 4:27–35). However, this expression may sometimes indicate simply the (Jewish in origin) rejection of the belief in the resurrection of the body without clearly indicating belief in reincarnation. This is the case, for example, of Epiphanios’ Panarion, ed. Holl, 2:510, although the same expression used elsewhere even by Epiphanios (ibid., 2:100) agrees in meaning with John of Damascus’ usage (ajna´ stasin de` wJ" ei«pon ou»to" [i.e., Markion] le´ gei oujci` swma´ twn, ajlla` yucw'n kai` swthri´an tau´ tai" oJri´zetai, oujci` toi'" sw´ masin. kai` metaggismou` " oJmoi´w" tw'n yucw'n kai` metenswmatw´ sei" ajpo` swma´ twn eij" sw´ mata.). 64 For Gnostic eschatology and the various “destinies” that await the souls after death, according to the particular Gnostic denominations, see A. H. B. Logan, Gnostic Truth and Christian Heresy: A Study in the History of Gnosticism (Edinburg, 1996), 259–319, esp. 308 and 313. 65 If early Byzantine legislation is a valid indicator, it seems that a number of heretics, especially of the Gnostic type, attracted the attention of emperors to the point of their introducing frequent antiheretic laws. See CTh 1.2, 855–906. As late as May 430 a law of Theodosios and Valentinian reiterated earlier prescriptions against Manichaeans (ibid., 878, 16.5, 65). The Carpocratians, though, seem to have disappeared by the 3rd century (see Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 257). 66 See, for example, the numerous provisions in CTh and the 8th-century Ekloga of Leo III and Constantine V, 17.52: OiJ manicai'oi kai` montanoi` xi´fei teleiou´ sqwsan. L. Burgmann, ed., Ecloga. Das Gesetzbuch Leons’ III. und Konstantinos’ V. (Frankfurt am Main, 1983), 242.

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relevant to this study. I would like to stress, however, that the Gnostic sects, and especially the Taskodrougoi and the Manichaeans, were treated severely. Given the level of Christian hostility toward dualism in general, Epiphanios’ writings are not extremely harsh. Still, the case of the Carpocratians is the most interesting in this respect because—according to Epiphanios, who expands on Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses— 67 what was most hideous about them was not their belief in reincarnation, but the particular conduct that they thought guaranteed deliverance from successive incarnations. For having fearlessly allowed their minds to work in a frenzied fashion, the [Carpocratians] have surrendered themselves to the passions of a myriad of lustful acts. For they claim that whatever is considered evil by the people is not evil, but good by nature (for nothing is evil by nature), and people [only] imagine that it is evil. If one experiences all these [evils] in the course of a particular [incarnation], his soul is no longer going to be reincarnated in order to repay [old sins], but, having done everything [wicked] in one life, it is bound to be set free [from the circle of reincarnations] released from and owing nothing to the . . . world. As for what these [evil] deeds are I am afraid to say . . . however, I will force myself to speak with decency without straying away from the truth. And what else do they do apart from countless unspeakable and unlawful acts, which I am not permitted to even mention? They perform . . . homosexual acts and have lustful intercourse . . . with women. They also practice sorcery, witchcraft, and idolatry, saying that this is the way to repay the debts of their bodies so that they owe nothing and for that reason their souls are not going to turn back after death and proceed to a new reincarnation.68

As Epiphanios adds, the Carpocratians believe that individuals who do not manage to accomplish all these things in one life should not be concerned. In their next reincarnation there will be more opportunities to improve their record.69 This, of course, contrasts greatly with the practices of other similar sects like the Manichaeans or later the Bogomils who preached abstinence from sex.70 Next to the Carpocratians, the Markionites were See Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 257–61. Epiphanios, Panarion, ed. Holl, 1:305–6: ajdew'" ga` r to` n nou'n aujtw'n eij" oi«stron ejkdedwko´ te" pa´ qesin hJdonw'n muri´wn eJautou` " paradedw´ kasi. fasi` ga` r o”ti o”sa nomi´zetai para` ajnqrw´ poi" kaka` ei«nai ouj kaka` uJpa´ rcei, ajlla` fu´ sei kala´ ⭈ (oujde` n ga´ r ejsti fu´ sei kako´ n), toi'" de` ajnqrw´ poi" nomi´zetai ei«nai fau'la. kai` tau'ta pa´ nta eja´ n ti" pra´ xh ejn th' mia' tau´ th parousi´a, oujke´ ti metenswmatou'tai aujtou' hJ yuch` eij" to` pa´ lin ajntikatablhqh'nai, ajlla` uJpo` e’n poih´ sasa pa'san pra'xin ajpallagh´ setai, ejleuqerwqei'sa kai` mhke´ ti crewstou'sa´ ti tw'n pro` " pra'xin ejn tv' ko´ smv. poi´an de` pra'xin de´ dia pa´ lin eijpei'n, mh` borbo´ rou di´khn kekalumme´ nou ojceto` n ajpokalu´ yw kai´ tisi do´ xw loimw´ dou" dusodmi´a" ejrga´ zesqai th` n ejmfo´ rhsin. ajll’ o”mw" ejpeidh´ per ejx ajlhqei´a" suneco´ meqa ta` para` toi'" hjpathme´ noi" ajpokalu´ yai, semno´ teron eijpei'n te kai` th'" ajlhqei´a" mh` e“xw bai´nein ejmauto` n katanagka´ sw. ti´ de` ajll’ o”ti pa'san ajrrhtourgi´an kai` ajqe´ miton pra'xin, h’n ouj qemito` n ejpi` sto´ mato" fe´ rein, ou»toi pra´ ttousin kai` pa'n ei«do" ajndrobasiw'n kai` lagniste´ rwn oJmiliw'n pro` " gunai'ka" ejn eJka´ stv me´ lei sw´ mato"⭈ magei´a" te kai` farmakei´a" kai` eijdwlolatrei´a" ejktelou'nte" tou'to ei«nai´ fasin ejrgasi´an ajpodo´ sew" tw'n ejn tv' sw´ mati ojflhma´ twn eij" to` mhke´ ti ejgkalei'sqai h‘ me´ llein ti pra´ xew" e“rgon ajpaitei'sqai, kai` tou´ tou e”neka mh` ajpostre´ fesqai th` n yuch` n meta` th` n ejnteu'qen ajpallagh` n kai` pa´ lin eij" metenswma´ twsin kai` metaggismo` n cwrei'n. 69 Ibid., 1:307–8. 70 The problem of licentiousness is generally related to Gnosticism. A number of sects, such as the Carpocratians, the Nicholaites, and the followers of Basilides, were associated with licentious practices. See de Faye, Gnostiques et Gnosticisme, 413–28, and Pourkier, L’he´re´siologie chez Epiphane, 270–72. However, Gnosticism in general was marked by a tendency toward continence and celibacy. See H. Chadwick, “The Domestication of Gnosis,” in Layton, The Rediscovery of Gnosticism (as above, note 60), 3–16, esp. 4–11. Chadwick stresses that “there were occasional Gnostic groups which mingled erotic elements in their cult, but they were neither typical nor representative” (ibid., 11). 67 68

168 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION followers of a widespread heresy, according to Epiphanios, another dualist sect whose members believed in metempsychosis.71 The last reincarnational heresy of the pre- and early Byzantine period is the system of Mani. Much better known than any other heresy of these times, its intellectual connections with India and Persian Zoroastianism and its presence even in China are well attested.72 The early heresiologists give ample information concerning the reincarnation doctrines espoused by the followers of Mani, and it is possible to place Manichaeanism among the pessimistic dualist heresies. In general, Mani divides humankind into three lots (Elect, Hearers, and Sinners). After death the souls of Sinners receive severe (if not eternal) punishments, while the souls of the Hearers return and are reincarnated on earth. The souls of the Elect sail to the “Land of Light.” 73 Mani assures his followers that a sinner’s soul may return in an animal’s or even a plant’s body.74 An example of the elaborate incarnational beliefs of Mani is the following. He taught that the souls of those who harvested the crops would be reincarnated in the bodies of mute persons.75 Other interesting pieces of information are also available in the works of Cyril of Jerusalem,76 Theodoret of Cyrrhus,77 and Zacharias of Mytilene,78 as well as in the history of Peter of Sicily.79 The influence of Manichaeanism’s memory in later Byzantium is so strong that all the dualist heresies of the later Byzantine period are usually described as Manichaean. Later Byzantine authors stress the affinity of these heresies—Paulicianism and Bogomilism—with that of the Manichaeans and consider them as mutations of Manichaeanism.80 Epiphanios, Panarion, ed. Holl, 2:94, 100. See ibid., 3:13–132. For Mani and Manichaeism, see ODB 2:1283–84, with further bibliography. For Manichaeisms in Asia, see H.-J. Klimkeit, Gnosis on the Silk Road: Gnostic Texts from Central Asia (San Francisco, 1993); and Geng Shimin, “Recent Studies on Manichaeism in China,” in Studia Manichaica II. Internationalen Kongress zum Manicha¨ismus (6–10. August 1989, St. Augustin/Bonn), ed. G. Wiessner and H. J. Klimkeit (Wiesbaden, 1992), 98–104. 73 Information provided by Augustine in his Contra Faustum, 20.21. See A. V. Williams Jackson, “A Sketch of the Manichean Doctrine concerning the Future Life,” JAOS 50.3 (1930): 177–98, esp. 178–79, and idem, “The Doctrine of Metempsychosis in Manichaeism,” JAOS 45 (1925): 246–68. 74 For a collection of many Greek, Latin, Syriac, and Chinese sources on Manichaean beliefs in reincarnation, see G. Casadio, “The Manichean Metempsychosis: Typology and Historical Roots,” in Wiessner and Klimkeit, Studia Manichaica II, 106–30 (texts, 113–26). 75 See Epiphanios, Panarion, ed. Holl, 3:62 (hJ yuch´ . . . eja` n qeri´sasa euJreqh' eij" moggila´ lou" metafe´ retai). Note that Epiphanios in this part preserves Hegemonios’ Acta Archelai; see CPG 3570. 76 See Cyril of Jerusalem, Catechesis ad illuminandos, 1–18 (cat. VI, 31) (CPG 3585.2), ed. W. K. Reischl, Cyrilli Hierosolymorum archiepiscopi opera quae supersunt omnia, vol. 1 (Munich, 1848), 200. 77 See Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Graecarum affectionum curatio (CPG 6210), PG 83:380CD. 78 See Zacharias of Mytilene, Capita VII contra Manichaeos (CPG 6997), in S. N. C. Lieu, “An Early Byzantine Formula for the Renunciation of Manichaeism,” JbAC 26 (1983): 184. 79 See Peter of Sicily, Pe´ trou Sikeliw´ tou, iJstori´a creiw´ dh" e“legco´ " te kai` ajnatroph` th'" kenh'" kai` matai´a" aiJre´ sew" tw'n Manicai´wn, tw'n kai` Paulikianw'n legome´ nwn, proswpopoihqei'sa wJ" pro` " to` n ajrciepi´skopon Boulgari´a", in C. Astruc et al. “Les sources grecques pour l’histoire des Pauliciens d’Asie Mineure,” TM 4 (1970): 33. 80 Concerning Paulicians as a Manichaean variation, see, for example, the statement in Zonaras’ history, ed. T. Bu ¨ ttner-Wobst, Ioannis Zonarae epitomae historiarum libri xviii, vol. 3, CSHB (Bonn, 1897), 389: Kata` de` th` n eJv´ an to` tw'n Manicai´wn ge´ no" h«n pamplhqe´ ", oi’ kai` Paulikia´ noi ajgroiko´ teron pro` " tou' dhmw´ dou" o“clou kalou'ntai, ejk Pau´ lou kai` jIwa´ nnou th'" klh´ sew" sugkeime´ nh" aujtoi'". For the Bogomils, see Anna Comne`ne. Alexiade, ed. B. Leib, vol. 3 (Paris, 1945), 218–19 (15.8.1.2–9): me´ giston ejpegei´retai ne´ fo" aiJretikw'n, kai` to` th'" aiJre´ sew" ei«do" kaino´ n, mh´ pw pro´ teron ejgnwsme´ non th' ejkklhsi´a. Du´ o ga` r do´ gmata sunelqe´ thn ka´ kista kai` faulo´ tata ejgnwsme´ na toi'" pa´ lai cro´ noi", Manicai´wn te, wJ" a“n ti" ei“poi, dusse´ beia, h’n kai` Paulikianw'n ai”resin ei“pomen, kai` Massalianw'n bdeluri´a. Toiou'ton de´ ejsti to` tw'n Bogomi´lwn do´ gma, ejk Massalianw'n kai` Manicai´wn sugkei´menon. For the accuracy of these statements, however, see below. 71 72

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John of Damascus wrote against the Manichaeans in the first half of the eight century,81 but it is difficult to ascertain whether his Dialogus contra Manichaeos is a response to existing needs of Christian polemics. Based on this work, one may suppose that the Manichaeans were active even at a time when the Paulicians had appeared on the scene. However, one should take into account that John of Damascus was writing in Muslim territory, in which Manichaeanism survived longer than it did in Byzantium. To sum up, during the early Byzantine period the ideas of the transmigration of souls and of final restoration were much stronger and more widespread among the members of dualist heresies than among the followers of the ancient pagan philosophers. This is to be expected: few could afford studies in ancient philosophy, which would have brought them into contact with Platonic and other philosophical ideas about souls. This situation intensified after the closing of the pagan schools by Justinian in 529. Social class, secular education (or the lack of it), and state prescriptions, therefore, were factors that conspired to produce the suppression of reincarnational philosophies such as Neoplatonism or Neopythagoreanism after the seventh century. It is impossible, however, to say whether persecution of paganism led (pro-pagan) people to join the ranks of dualist heresies. MIDDLE AND LATE BYZANTINE NOTIONS ABOUT REINCARNATION Among Heretics Despite numerous attempts at assessing the dependence of Paulicianism on Manichaeanism, we still have no definite answer to part of this problem. Byzantine sources, as already pointed out, are marked by a predilection toward finding in Paulicianism the continuation of Manichaeanism. Previous scholarship maintained that the majority of Paulicians were not related to or descendents of Mani.82 According to N. Garsoı¨an, Paulician doctrine adheres to two distinct traditions. The older one that persisted in Armenia throughout the history of the sect was “an Adoptionist doctrine with an emphasis on the importance of baptism and a rejection of extreme asceticism.” The second line appeared in Byzantium, “probably in the middle of the ninth century. This secondary branch of Paulicianism was characterized by a docetic Christology and a mitigated dualism.” 83 The sources for their history are silent on their beliefs concerning life after death.84 In addition, it is difficult to reconcile the detailed Manichaean beliefs in successive lives and future retributions owed, for example, by those who harvested plants with the fact that Paulicians excelled as warriors.85 See John of Damascus, Dialogus contra Manichaeos (CPG 8084), ed. Kotter, 4:351–98. See N. Garsoı¨an, The Paulician Heresy, A Study of the Origin and Development of Paulicianism in Armenia and the Eastern Provinces of the Byzantine Empire (The Hague-Paris, 1967), 186–230. 83 Ibid., 232. 84 For example, the impressive dossier put together by Astruc et al., “Les sources grecques” (above n. 79), does not include any reference to the eschatological beliefs of Paulicians and Bogomils. Only the History of Peter of Sicily repeats the same criticism found in earlier heresiologists about the reincarnation beliefs of the Manichaeans and assigns them to Paulicians as well (see ibid., 33). 85 This difficulty could have been corroborated by the contents of the so-called Key of the Truth, which was discovered in the 19th century and was written in 1782. That document implies that “There is but one last judgement for all, for which the quick and the dead (including saints) wait.” See F. C. Conybeare, The Key of the Truth: A Manual of the Paulician Church of Armenia (Oxford, 1898), xxxvi, 121–22, 175–76. Both Conybeare and Garsoı¨an have placed much importance on this document that supports the Adoptionist nature of Paulicianism, but recent scholarship has seriously criticized the attempts of both scholars. This criticism has 81 82

170 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION Nevertheless, the Byzantines did not make any distinction between Paulicianism and Manichaeanism.86 In addition to the reference found in the treatise by John of Damascus mentioned above, one might find an indirect connection of Paulicianism with the reincarnation doctrine in a Byzantine Formula for the Renunciation of the Manichaeans. In chapter six of this formula those who believe in reincarnation are expressly condemned. This formula was later, probably after the tenth century, augmented with additional anathemas against the Paulicians. These anathemas were introduced as follows: “and furthermore I anathematize those who presided over the heresy (of Mani) in recent times: Paul and John the sons of Kallinike, . . . Genesios-Timothy . . . SergiosTychikos.” 87 These anathemas had to be signed by the heretics once they converted from Manichaeanism or Paulicianism to Orthodoxy. Since the names related above are all names of Paulician leaders, it becomes evident that the Byzantine (basically Constantinopolitan) churchmen who drafted these documents saw in Paulicianism the continuation of the doctrine of reincarnation among other Manichaean tenets. Since, in addition, recent scholarship has criticized the excessive preference given to the Adoptionist strain of Paulicianism and views the Byzantine Paulicians as another predominantly dualist heresy,88 it is reasonable to conclude that belief in reincarnation may have been part of the doctrines of the Byzantine Paulicians. Concerning Bogomils and reincarnation, the Greek sources are as silent as in the case of the Paulicians. H.-C. Puech hypothesized that eschatology was an underdeveloped branch of Bogomil doctrines,89 and he is probably right. Indeed, very few bits and pieces pertaining to Bogomil eschatology are transmitted by the sources. Euthymios Zigabenos in his Panoplia refers to the Bogomil belief in the resurrection of the dead body along with the demons that occupy the bones,90 a belief that is incompatible with the idea of reincarnation. Zigabenos, however, states that the Bogomils believe that their elect ones “do not die, but ‘transmigrate’, as if in their sleep, painlessly divesting themselves of this clay vestment of flesh and dressing themselves with the indestructible and divine stole of Christ.” 91 Finally, as Euthymios of Peribleptos states, the Bogomils rejected the dogmas of the resurrection of the dead,92 the Second Coming, and the Last Judgment. Furtherchallenged—on rather convincing terms—the antiquity and authenticity of this document and has shifted the focus onto the dualistic characteristics of Paulicianism. See J. and B. Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies (Manchester-New York, 1998), 295–97. 86 See P. Lemerle, “L’histoire des Pauliciens d’Asie Mineure d’apre`s les sources grecques,” TM 5 (1973): 124–26, 132–35. Certainly there is no evidence for the direct connection of Paulicianism to the Manichaeans, but for the Byzantines this was an easy way to come to terms with a new heresy. See also Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies, 8. 87 See Lieu, “Early Byzantine Formula,” 213. 88 See Lemerle, “L’histoire,” 12–14, and Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies, 292–97. 89 See H.-C. Puech and A. Vaillant, Le traite´ contre les Bogomiles de Cosmas le preˆtre (Paris, 1945), 211–13. 90 See Euthymios Zigabenos, Panoplia dogmatica, PG 130:1310C: Le´ gousin . . . eJka´ stv . . . tw'n a“llwn aJpa´ ntwn ejnoikei'n dai´mona . . . kai` ajpoqnh´ skonto" ejnoikei'n au«qi" toi'" leiya´ noi" aujtou', kai` parame´ nein tv' ta´ fv kai` ajname´ nein th` n ajna´ stasin, i”na su` n aujtv' kolasqei´h kai` mhd’ ejn th' kola´ sei tou´ tou diacwri´zoito. 91 Ibid., PG 130:1317C: Le´ gousi tou` " toiou´ tou" mh` ajpoqnh´ skein, ajlla` meqi´stasqai, kaqa´ per ejn u”pnv, to` ph´ linon touti` kai` sa´ rkinon peribo´ laion ajpo´ nw" ejkduome´ nou", kai` th` n a“fqarton kai` qei´an tou' Cristou' stolh` n ejnduome´ nou" . . . to` d’ ajpoduqe` n sw'ma tou´ twn eij" te´ fran kai` ko´ nin dialu´ esqai, mhke´ ti mhdamw'" ajnista´ menon. See D. Obolensky, The Bogomils: A study in Balkan Neo-Manichaeism (Cambridge, 1948), 215. 92 See G. Ficker, Die Phundagiagiten: Ein Beitrag zur Ketzergeschichte des byzantinischen Mittelalters (Leipzig, 1908), 38: Dida´ skousi de` oiJ pammi´aroi, wJ" e“fhmen, nekrw'n ajna´ stasin mh` prosdoka'n mhde` deute´ ran parousi´an, mhde` kri´sin qeou', ajll’ o”ti pa'sa hJ ejxousi´a tw'n ejpigei´wn, ei“te ko´ lasi", kai` oJ para´ deiso" eij" ejxousi´an eijsi`n tou'

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more, they claimed that the devil rules over this world and sends his friends to paradise and his enemies to hell. The combination of these three rejections may be an indication of transmigrational notions among the Bogomils.93 However, their perception of a paradise and a hell ruled by the devil renders any conclusion difficult for the moment.94 It is also regrettable that the confession of Basil, the Bogomil priest who was put on trial by Alexios Komnenos around 1098, is only partly preserved by Zigabenos in his Panoplia95 and by Anna Komnene in the Alexiad.96 Bogomilism became quite popular in the eleventh–twelfth century, attracting even affluent members of Constantinopolitan society.97 Moreover, Bogomilism spread to major monasteries, and several Bogomils were uncovered around the 1340s on Mount Athos. The synod in Constantinople subjected some of them to penance and expelled others from Mount Athos on charges related to Bogomilism.98 One of these charges was that they denied the resurrection of the dead, which may be part of a reincarnational belief system.99 We do not know much about these heretics after the establishment of the Ottoman Empire in southeastern Europe. In the western sources, however, Bogomils appear to adhere to the reincarnation doctrine. The western Bogomils, also called Cathars,100 were split into two different sects, the Absolute (radical) Cathars and the Mitigated (moderate) ones.101 Both, however, believed in reincarnation, their only difference being that the Absolute Cathars accepted the possibility of a soul entering an animal body, while the Mitigated allowed for reincarnation into successive human bodies only. Concerning Cathars,102 it is interesting to note a“rconto" tou' ko´ smou tou´ tou, h“toi tou' diabo´ lou, kai` o”ti tou` " fi´lou" aujtou' ba´ llei eij" to` n para´ deison, tou` " de` ejcqrou` " eij" th` n ko´ lasin. Translation in Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies, 153. 93 An additional feature of both Paulicians and Bogomils was that they abstained from eating meat. (For Paulicians see the abjuration formulas in Astruc et al., “Les sources grecques,” TM 4 [1970]: 201, and for the Bogomils see J. Gouillard, “Quatre proce`s de mystiques `a Byzance [vers 960–1143],” REB 36 [1978]). This practice may be connected with beliefs in reincarnation. See M. Loos, Dualist Heresy in the Middle Ages (Prague, 1974), 251: “An even more secret Cathar doctrine came to the knowledge of Peter of Verona, connecting the prohibition of meat with the mystery of metempsychosis. On its long pilgrimage towards salvation the soul passes through many bodies, not only those of human beings, but animals as well, those ‘with blood.’ It is therefore forbidden to eat animals and birds, but there is no objection to eating fish for they ‘are born of water’.” 94 For a different interpretation of the notion that there is no resurrection of the dead, see Obolensky, The Bogomils, 241, who sees in this belief a Jewish influence. 95 For Zigabenos’ omissions see PG 130:1332: Aijscu´ nomai, pisteu´ sate, kai` ajboulh´ tw" toiau'ta (i.e., Bogomil doctrines expounded by Basil) fqe´ ggomai. Dia` tou'to kai` ta` polla` pare´ dramon ejpi´thde" kai` spora´ dhn ta` rJhqe´ nta sunegraya´ mhn. 96 See Bu ¨ ttner-Wobst, ed., Ioannis Zonarae Epitomae historiarum libri, 3:743, and Anna Komnene, Alexiad, ed. Leib, 219–28; translation in Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies, 175–80. 97 For a discussion of the primary sources (Anna Komnene and Zigabenos) reporting on this reality, see Obolensky, The Bogomils, 197–205, esp. 201. 98 See A. Rigo, Monaci esicasti e monaci Bogomili. Le accuse di messalianismo e bogomilismo rivolte agli esicasti ed il problema dei rapporti tra esicasmo e bogomilismo (Florence, 1989), 135ff. 99 Ibid., 201. 100 For the relationship of Bulgarian Bogomils to the western Cathars, see D. Angelov, “L’influence de ´ tudes histoBogomilisme sur les Cathares d’Italie et de France,” Acade´mie bulgare des sciences. Institut d’histoire, E riques 4 (Sofia, n.d.), 175–90, and Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies, 43–52. 101 See D. Angelov, The Bogomil Movement (Sofia, 1987), 14ff. 102 How these heretics viewed the world in which their souls “did time,” entering one human body after another, is a mystery to us. In a recent nonacademic publication, an American-British art historian, Linda Harris, attempts an interesting, to say the least, interpretation of the paintings of the 16th-century Dutch

172 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION that these sectarians combined belief in reincarnation with the notions imputed to Bogomils by Euthymios of Peribleptos (i.e., rejection of the resurrection of the dead, the Second Coming, and the Last Judgment).103 The Inquisition records in this respect seem to be more complete than the accounts of the Bogomils by Zigabenos and Anna Komnene. Among Byzantine Philosophers It has already been stated that pagan/Hellenic notions about metempsychosis are directly connected to pagan education or simply education. It is not a surprise, therefore, that discussion of reincarnation is rather nonexistent at times of general cultural decline such as the eighth century.104 As education picks up pace in Byzantium, the frequency of references to metempsychosis increases. Yet within the broader Byzantine philosophical context, interest in metempsychosis was minimal. Photios in his Bibliotheca rejects the idea of Hierokles of Alexandria that the transmigration of souls is proof of divine providence.105 Michael Psellos is also highly critical of the Greek dogma that the soul descends (from the heavens) assuming material garments, that is, bodies.106 John Italos, the student and successor of Psellos, was rather unlucky when his philosophical interests crossed with the idea of metempsychosis. I have already cited the anathema of the Constantinopolitan synod in 1082 which anathematized Italos for holding both the Platonic theory of metempsychosis and the Aristotelian theory on the destruction of souls at death.107 Since these two theories cancel each other out,108 it is likely that those who condemned him either did not understand what Italos had written or that they simply wanted to condemn en bloc both views for the simple reason that they had originally been introduced by pagan authors.109 It seems that people in the time of Alexios Komnenos were sensitive to these non-Orthodox notions. The rapid expanmaster Hieronymus Bosch. According to Harris, paintings such as The Garden of Earthly Delights or the Last Judgment are filled with Bogomil-Cathar symbols, and a number of scenes are understood by the author as depicting human souls waiting for a new reincarnation. See L. Harris, The Secret Heresy of Hieronymus Bosch (Edinburg, 1995), 215–38. 103 On this issue, evidence pertaining to the Cathars of southern France in the 14th century is found scattered among the depositions that make up the Inquisition Register of Jacques Fournier, bishop of Pamiers in Arie`ge in the Comte´ de Foix, from 1318 to 1325. The text has been published in its entirety by J. Duvernoy, Le Registre d’Inquisition de Jacques Fournier, ´eveˆque de Pamiers (1318–1325), 3 vols. (Toulouse, 1965). These records are extensively quoted by E. Le Roy Ladurie, Montaillou, village occitan de 1294 `a 1324 (Paris, 1975). For the rejection of the resurrection of the dead, etc. among the Cathar peasants of Montaillou, see Duvernoy, Le Registre, 1:151–53, 206, 258–65, 309, etc.; for their belief in reincarnation, see ibid., 2:33–34, 107, 199, 407, 411, 489–90, 3:130, and 3:219. On Cathars and reincarnation, see also Loos, Dualist Heresy, 140–42, 244–45. 104 For Byzantine education and its development, see, among others, P. Lemerle, Le premier humanisme byzantin. Notes et remarques sur enseignement et culture `a Byzance des origines au Xe sie`cle (Paris, 1971). 105 See above, note 9. 106 See D. J. O’Meara, ed., Michaelis Pselli Philosophica minora, vol. 2, Teubner (Leipzig, 1989), 22–23, the very short essay Peri` Yuch'" . 107 See above, note 5. 108 Transmigration is predicated on the assumption that the soul preexists the body and continues to live after its death, whereas according to Aristotle the souls disappear along with the body after death. Cf. Nemesios’ understanding of Aristotle’s mortality of the soul in his De natura hominis (see Einarson, Nemesius [as above, note 9], sec. 2, lines 462–63). 109 For a discussion of this anathema, see Clucas, Trial of John Italos, 142–43. For Italos’ serious arguments ´ai kai` Lu´ sei"), (Ettal, against reincarnation, see P. Joannou, ed., Ioannes Italos, Quaestiones quodlibetales ( Apori j 1956), 63–69. See also J. Gouillard, “La religion des philosophes,” TM 6 (1976): 306–15.

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sion of Bogomilism on the one hand and pagan philosophy along with pagan learning on the other conspired to create a set of rather wary reactions on the part of the political and ecclesiastical authorities of Byzantium. It is no accident that the additions to the Synodikon of Orthodoxy related to John Italos provide for the anathematization of “those who study the Greek disciplines . . . not only for the sake of educational training.” 110 It is no accident either that George Tornikes in his funerary oration on Anna Komnene does not fail to remind his audience, when he speaks about her education, that Anna admired Plato, Aristotle, and the ancient philosophers, but she disagreed with their ideas on reincarnation.111 There seems to be not much more on the transmigration of souls during the late Byzantine period. A reference to reincarnation in Patriarch Kallistos I’s sermon Against Gregoras does not enrich the overall picture. Given by the former Constantinopolitan patriarch sometime between 1357 and 1359, the sermon complains about the introduction into a text of Nikephoros Gregoras112 of a particular formulation that opens the door to the idea of the transmigration of souls.113 In later Byzantium it is likely that learned people were not very interested in philosophical ideas on the transmigration of souls. Niketas Stethatos, for example, in his work On the Soul never felt obliged even to mention any other alternative of the soul’s fate after death apart from the standard Orthodox view. Only once does he state that wicked souls go to Hades, but get some solace when the living give charity or celebrate a liturgy in their memory.114 However, during the last years of the Byzantine Empire metempsychosis returns in the work of George Gemistos Plethon and in his discussions with a circle of friends that included, among other famous people, Cardinal Bessarion. Plethon was a Neoplatonist 110 See Clucas, Trial of John Italos, 154ff; Greek text in Gouillard, “Le Synodicon,” 59. For the implications of these anathemas concerning education and the study of philosophy, see H. Hunger, Die hochsprachliche profane Literatur der Byzantiner, vol. 1 (Munich, 1978), 43–44. See also R. Browning, “Enlightenment and Repression in Byzantium in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries,” Past and Present 69 (1975): 3–23, esp. 11–15. 111 See J. Darrouze`s, Georges et De´me´trios Tornike`s, Lettres et Discours (Paris, 1970), 289: Kai` to` noero` n tw'n ajndrw'n kateplh´ tteto, oujk ejde´ ceto o”mw" aujtw'n to` ajpi´qanon th'" metemyucw´ sew". Ouj ga` r ejdedi´ei h‘ mh` ejpilei´poi Qev' ta` dhmiourghme´ na, oujk ejx u”lh" ajgenh´ tou dhmiourgou'nti, ajlla` ejk mh` o“ntwn ta` pa´ nta kti´zonti kai` para´ gonti h‘ mh` tou´ tv stenocwrhqei´h fu´ si" au“lo" kai` ajsw´ mato" . I wish to thank M. Patedakis for this reference. 112 See D. B. Gones, To` suggrafiko` n e“rgon tou' Oijkoumenikou' Patria´ rcou Kalli´stou A⬘ (Ph.D. diss., Athens, 1980), 189–90. The contested Greek text of Gregoras reads as follows: Mete´ cetai me` n oJ Qeo` " uJf⬘ aJpa´ ntwn, ajsce´ tw" de` kai` ajmerw'" kata` th` n eijko´ na th'" hJmete´ ra" yuch'" aJplh'" oi»on oujsi´a" ou“sh" kai` aujth'". Kai` ga` r kai` au”th pantach' tou' sw´ mato" ou«sa o”lh oJlikw'" mete´ cetai me` n uJf ’ eJka´ stou tw'n tou' sw´ mato" merw'n, ajmeqe´ ktw" de´ , ouj ga` r tou´ twn oujde` n tw'n aJpa´ ntwn gi´netai yuch´ ⭈ oujde` ga` r pe´ fuken. (God is partaken by all, but in a nonpossessional and indivisible fashion, in accordance with the paradigm of our soul which is a somehow simple essence. For [the soul] itself, being connected to all parts/molecules of the body, is wholly partaken by each part of the body on the one hand, but, on the other, with no commingling [between the two], for no part of the body becomes soul, nor has the soul been created as such by nature). 113 Three more references—the first in a hagiographic work of John of Damascus (Passio s. Artemii), the second found in a small phrase transmitted by two inferior codices of the Life of St. Andrew the Fool, and the last (in fact the earliest one, dating from the 7th century) found in the Miracles of St. Artemios—are only useful for statistical purposes. One may suggest that hagiography does not seem to have bothered much about reincarnation. See John of Damascus, Passio s. Artemii (CPG 8082), PG 96:1280A; The Life of St. Andrew the Fool, ed. L. Ryden, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Byzantina Upsaliensia 4, (Uppsala, 1995), 218; and V. S. Crisafulli and J. W. Nesbitt, The Miracles of Saint Artemius (Leiden-New York, 1997), 172 (Greek text) and 278 (comm.). 114 See S. Sakkos and G. Mantzarides, Nikh´ ta Sthqa´ tou, Mustika` suggra´ mmata (Thessalonike, 1957), 123–26.

174 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION whose contribution to the Italian Renaissance remains to be assessed.115 The transmigration of souls is part of a wider philosophical-political system, which he tried to establish by emulating the Republic of Plato.116 Unfortunately, George Scholarios, the first patriarch of Constantinople under Ottoman rule, destroyed Plethon’s magnum opus The Laws after he had compiled an anthology of extracts from it.117 Plethon’s ideas on the transmigration of souls are found in the concluding paragraph of The Laws, the Epinomis that is preserved, and in a brief note entitled “Recapitulation of Zoroastrian and PythagoreanPlatonic Dogmas.” 118 In the Epinomis Plethon also gives a brief history of the dissemination of these “dogmas” similar to that presented at the beginning of this study. Interestingly enough, Plethon and Apollonios of Tyana entertain the same contempt for Egyptian philosophy.119 The death of Plethon, less than a year before the fall of Constantinople to the Turks, marks the end of the philosophical eschatological tradition in Byzantium. The church allowed Plethon a funeral in accordance with the Orthodox rite and turned a blind eye to his heretical views. Nevertheless, Plethon’s friends continued the Neoplatonic tradition in the West. Bessarion, who became a Roman cardinal and was considered twice for the papacy, wrote the following words to Plethon’s sons: “I have learned that our common father and master has shed every earthly element and departed to heaven, to the place of purity, joining the mystical chorus of Iacchus with the Olympian Gods. . . . if one were to accept the doctrines of the Pythagoreans and Plato about the infinite ascent and descent of souls, I should not hesitate even to add that the soul of Plato, having to obey the irrefragable decrees of Adrasteia and to discharge the obligatory cycle, had come down to earth and assumed the frame and life of Plethon.” 120 Bessarion’s wording is careful, but the idea of reincarnation was employed for eulogistic purposes, and one may assume that Plethon’s soul, whether in the Christian afterworld or in his Neoplatonic intelligible world, would have enjoyed this reference. CONCLUSION This rather cursory review of the notion of reincarnation among the Byzantines has made apparent a reality that mostly ignores this eschatological possibility, which is so common among other peoples and religions. In fact, there have been only two instances See, e.g., F. Masai, Ple´thon et le Platonisme de Mistra (Paris, 1956), 315–83, esp. 344. See C. M. Woodhouse, George Gemistos Plethon: The Last of the Hellenes (Oxford, 1986), 320–21. 117 Hunger, Die hochsprachliche profane Literatur, 24 n. 72a; for the detailed story of the manuscript’s fate, see Woodhouse, Plethon, 356–61. For the remaining fragments of the book by Plethon that was destroyed by Scholarios, see C. Alexandre, ed. and trans., Ple´thon, Traite´ des Lois (Paris, 1958; repr. 1966). For the dispute between Plethon and Scholarios, see B. Lagarde, “Le De differentiis de Ple´thon d’apre`s l’autographe de la Marcienne,” Byzantion 43 (1973): 312–43; idem, Des diffe´rences entre Platon et Aristote (Ph.D. diss., Paris, 1976); idem, “Contre les objections de Scholarios en faveur d’Aristote (Re´plique),” Byzantion 59 (1989): 354–507 [⫽ E. V. Maltese, Georgius Gemistos Plethon Contra Scholarii pro Aristotelis Obiectiones, Teubner (Leipzig, 1988)] (for bibliography see Cacouros [as above, note 17], 1379). 118 PG 160:973B–974D, Plh´ qwno" Zwroastrei´wn te kai Platwnikw'n dogma´ twn sugkefalai´wsi" . For the sources of Plethon’s ideas, see Woodhouse, Plethon, 62–78. For a new edition see Br. Tambrun-Krasker, ed., Magika` lo´ gia tw'n ajpo` Zwroa´ strou ma´ gwn: Gewrgi´ou Gemistou' Plh´ qwno" jExh´ ghsi" eij" ta` aujta` lo´ gia. Oracles chaldaı¨ques recension de Georges Ge´miste Ple´thon. La recension arabe des Magika` lo´ gia par Michel Tardieu, Corpus philosophorum Medii Aevi, Byzantinoi philosophoi ⫽ Philosophi Byzantini 7 (Athens-Paris-Brussels, 1995). 119 See Plethon, jEpinomi´", PG 160:971AB. 120 Greek text in PG 161:695–98; see also Masai, Ple´thon, 307. 115 116

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in which the Byzantines seriously addressed the issue. The first was in the dialogue Theophrastus by Aeneas of Gaza121 and the second in the work of Plethon, in which reincarnation was seriously considered. What is strange is that we see no later references to Theophrastus in Byzantium (with the exception of the Nachleben of a few questions in Anastasios of Sinai which still were disconnected from reincarnation). There are only occasional references to reincarnation made by a very few individuals (such as Photios or Psellos). These references were always premised in a wider context of antipagan or antiheretic polemics. Therefore, it seems as though the subject of the transmigration of souls had been resolved once and for all after the turn of the fifth century. Theophrastos, on the one hand, and the anathemas against Origen, and the Origenists issued by the Fifth Ecumenical Council on the other might have put the whole problem to rest. Still one does not know even today whether the Gnostic infiltration of the early monastic communities in fourth-century Egypt and the spread of Origenism in the Palestinian monasteries in the fifth and sixth centuries were accompanied by dissemination of the particular belief in reincarnation. As Chadwick suggests, the Nag Hammadi Gnostic documents “must have been regarded by their monkish readers (i.e., the Christian monks of the Pachomian monasteries) as edifying stuff, perhaps too esoteric . . . but certainly not abhorrent.” 122 Whether this “edifying stuff ” included reincarnation is a matter of speculation, but cannot be completely rejected. In an entirely different premise, though, a more careful reading of a number of the sources cited in this paper shows that reincarnation is usually condemned along with the idea of the final restoration. This combined condemnation is aptly summarized in the passage of George the Monk referring to the anathemas of the Fifth Ecumenical Council (cited above, p. 163 n. 46): “against Origen and those who followed him in his impious dogmas, Didymos and Evagrios . . . and their . . . writings, in which they . . . said that the souls existed before the bodies, [and in which they] believed in the transmigration of souls . . . and that hell would come to an end.” The last notion that is condemned in this passage, the notion of hell coming to an end, bears greater significance than that of reincarnation itself. As already pointed out, Origen had rejected the notion of reincarnation but not the idea of the final restoration.123 Viewed under the prism of the final restoration, reincarnation becomes an insignificant technicality or detail. The question Christianity was interested in was whether evil (therefore hell) would persist eternally. And as Christianity follows a trajectory toward more and more philanthropic/humanitarian ways of living and believing, the final restoration might be one of the major topics of theological reconsideration. Highly relevant to this topic is a passage from the Quaestiones et dubia of Maximos the Confessor, in which he responds to an inquiry related to Gregory of Nyssa’s beliefs on the final restoration: The church recognizes three kinds of restoration . . . the third [kind], which Gregory of Nyssa mostly employs in his own sermons, is this one: the restoration of the soul’s powers, which have fallen into sin, to the state in which they were created long ago. For, just as See above, pp. 164–65. See Chadwick, “The Domestication of Gnosis,” in Layton, Rediscovery of Gnosticism, 16. 123 For more about the notion of ajpokata´ stasi" and further bibliography, see B. E. Daley, “Apokatastasis ¨nborn, and ‘Honorable Silence’ in the Eschatology of Maximos the Confessor,” in F. Heinzer and C. Scho Maximus Confessor, Actes de Symposium sur Maxime le Confesseur, Fribourg, 2–5 septembre 1980 (Fribourg, 1982), 309–39. 121 122

176 BYZANTINE IDEAS ON REINCARNATION AND FINAL RESTORATION all nature has to regain the incorruptibility of the flesh in the resurrection in the time that is awaited, so it is necessary that the fallen powers of the soul by the[ir] extension through the ages reject the memories of evil, which have been instilled [in the soul], and that the soul, passing through all the eons and finding no obstacle, come to God, who has no end, and thus, through the full understanding of—not [simply] by the partaking of—that which is good, regain its powers and be restored to its ancient [status] and the Creator be revealed as not responsible for sin.124

Maximos’ position on the final restoration may still be sub judice,125 but the possibility of his adherence to this doctrine remains open. One might even ponder the meaning of the sentence “the fallen powers of the soul by the[ir] extension through the ages reject the memories of evil.” If nothing else, Maximos presents his statement as part of the established beliefs of the Christian church (trei'" ajpokatasta´ sei" oi«den hJ ejkklhsi´a). To conclude, reincarnation and the final restoration may have been outside the immediate interests of the majority of Byzantine Christians (as long as they were not dualist heretics). It is also likely that the Byzantines never considered reincarnation as a serious eschatological possibility, despite the prima facie advantages presented by Aeneas of Gaza in Theophrastus.126 The Byzantines had at least one more appealing alternative, presented to pious people in short stories embedded in hagiography, in the Apophthegmata patrum, and in the genre of Erotapokriseis such as the Quaestiones et responsiones of Anastasios of Sinai.127 If, according to N. Berdyaev, “the doctrine of reincarnation, which has obvious advantages, involves . . . another nightmare—the nightmare of endless incarnations, of infinite wanderings along dark passages,” and if the same doctrine “finds a solution of man’s destiny in the cosmos and not in God,” 128 these stories spoke of simple Christians who obtained salvation beyond the cosmos through a single act. That single act of piety or human compassion was enough to redeem a lifetime of sin. For example, there is a story in which a robber who committed all sorts of crimes (even murders) was finally saved thanks to his handkerchief that was wet with the tears he had shed in repentance Note that this passage does not seem to have attracted the attention of scholars who have written on Maximos and his ideas on restoration. For instance, Daley, “Apokatastasis,” does not examine this fragment. The full Greek text reads as follows: jEpeidh` Grhgo´ rio" oJ Nu´ sh" ejn toi'" eJautou' suggra´ mmasin fai´netai toi'" mh` to` ba´ qo" ejpistame´ noi" th'" uJyhlh'" aujtou' qewri´a" pollacou' ajpokata´ stasin uJpemfai´nein, parakalw' o”per ejpi´stasai peri` tou´ tou eijpei'n. Trei'" ajpokatasta´ sei" oi«den hJ ejkklhsi´a⭈ mi´an me` n th` n eJka´ stou kata` th'" ajrethˆ " lo´ gon, ejn h» ajpokaqi´statai to` n ejp’ aujtv' lo´ gon th'" ajreth'" ejkplhrw´ sa"⭈ deute´ ran de´ th` n th'" o”lh" fu´ sew" ejn th' ajnasta´ sei, th` n eij" ajfqarsi´an kai` ajqanasi´an ajpokata´ stasin⭈ tri´th de´ , h» kai` ma´ lista katake´ crhtai ejn toi'" eJautou' lo´ goi" oJ Nu´ sh" Grhgo´ rio", ejsti`n au”th⭈ hJ tw'n yucikw'n duna´ mewn th' aJmarti´a uJpopesousw'n eij" o”per ejkti´sqhsan pa´ lin ajpokata´ stasi". Dei' ga` r w”sper th` n o”lhn fu´ sin ejn th' ajnasta´ sei th` n th'" sarko` " ajfqarsi´an cro´ nv ejlpizome´ nv ajpolabei'n, ou”tw" kai` ta` " paratrapei´sa" th'" yuch'" duna´ mei" th' parata´ sei tw'n aijw´ nwn ajpobalei'n ta` " ejnteqei´sa" aujth' th'" kaki´a" mnh´ ma" kai` pera´ sasan tou` " pa´ nta" aijw'na" kai` mh` euJri´skousan sta´ sin eij" to` n qeo` n ejlqei'n, to` n mh` e“conta pe´ ra", kai` ou”tw", th' ejpignw´ sei ouj th' meqe´ xei tw'n ajgaqw'n, ajpolabei'n ta` " duna´ mei" kai` eij" to` ajrcai'on ajpokatasth'nai kai` deicqh'nai to` n dhmiourgo` n ajnai´tion th'" aJmarti´a" . J. H. Declerck, ed., Maximi confessoris quaestiones et dubia (CCSG 10) (Turnhout, 1982), 19. I wish to thank D. Sullivan for his help with the translation. 125 See Daley, “Apokatastasis,” 314–18 and his conclusion, 337–39. Daley opts for a Maximos noncommitted to the Origenist view of final restoration. 126 Cf. the statement of Berdyaev: “There is more justice in the doctrine of Karma and reincarnation, according to which deeds done in time are expiated in time and not in eternity and that man has other and wider experience than that between birth and death in this one life.” N. Berdyaev, The Destiny of Man, trans. N. Duddington (New York, 1966), 274–75. 127 PG 89:312–824, esp. 706C. 128 Berdyaev, The Destiny of Man, 279. 124

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for his past actions.129 To the Byzantines, who listened to these stories, God’s love and philanthropy was much stronger and appealing than the logical exactness of the retributions for human actions provided in the detailed scheme of reincarnations taught by Mani. The Richard Stockton College of New Jersey 129 See Anastasius Sinaita, Oratio in sextum Psalmum (CPG 7751), PG 89:1112B–1113C. For more on the popular theology that underlies this kind of narrative, see V. De´roche, Etudes sur Le´ontios de Ne´apolis, Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis, Studia Byzantina Upsaliensia 3 (Uppsala, 1995), 270–96.

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The Normans between Byzantium and the Islamic World LUCIA TRAVAINI

hen dealing with the subject of monetary transactions and exchanges involving the Normans of Italy, Byzantium, and the Islamic world, scholars have been cautioned to use care when discussing terms such as influence (was there a donor culture?), borrowing (was it residual, recent, or antiquarian?), and propaganda which certainly played a role in Norman thinking and practice.1 What do we mean by “the Normans in Italy”? There were at least three or four Norman Italies: Byzantine, Lombard, Muslim, and FrenchNorman, each having its own monetary tradition, different from each other and well documented in charters and finds. The many frontiers of medieval Italy are particularly mobile and certainly existed in the period under examination, the eleventh and twelfth centuries.2

W

Ce´cile Morrisson read a first draft of this paper; Vera von Falkenhausen and Jonathan Shepard helped me with precious references; Philip Grierson revised my English in the final version. I am very grateful to all of them for comments and discussion. 1 M. McCormick, “Byzantium and the Early Medieval West: Problems and Opportunities,” in Europa medievale e mondo bizantino. Contatti effettivi e possibilita` degli studi comparati, Tavola rotonda del XVIII Congresso del CISH-Montre´al, 29 agosto 1995, ed. G. Arnaldi and G. Cavallo, Nuovi Studi Storici 40, Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo (Rome, 1997), 1–17. 2 G. Arnaldi, “Italia,” in Enciclopedia dell’ arte medievale, vol. 7 (Rome, 1996), 451–56; J.-M. Martin, “Les proble`mes de la frontie`re en Italie me´ridionale (VIe–XIIe sie`cles): L’approche historique,” in Castrum 4, Frontie`re et peuplement dans le monde me´diterrane´en au moyen age, Actes du colloque d’Erice-Trapani, 18–25 septembre 1988, ed. J.-M. Poisson, Collection de la Casa de Velasquez-Collection de l’Ecole Franc¸aise de Rome 105 (Rome-Madrid, 1992), 259–76, and J.-M. Martin, Italies Normandes (Paris, 1994). The different monetary traditions of Norman Italy have long determined the slow development of numismatic research in this field: Arab coins of Sicily were studied separately from, e.g., the copper follari of Salerno or other series. The first comprehensive study including Sicily as well as southern Italy was by G. Sambon, Repertorio generale delle monete coniate in Italia e da Italiani all’estero dal secolo V al XX. Periodo dal 476 al 1266 (Paris, 1912; repr. Modena, 1975); see now L. Travaini, La monetazione nell’Italia normanna, Nuovi Studi Storici 28, Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo (Rome, 1995), and P. Grierson and L. Travaini, Medieval European Coinage with a Catalogue of the Coins in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge, vol. 14, Italy (iii) (South Italy, Sicily, Sardinia) (Cambridge, 1998), (hereafter MEC 14). A clear and comprehensive overview of the economic relations of the Normans with their different counterparts is not easy when one considers the tendency of historical scholarship to increased specialization: see comments in P. Magdalino, The Byzantine Background to the First Crusade, Canadian Institute of Balkan Studies (Toronto, 1996), 5.

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MONETARY TRANSACTIONS AND EXCHANGE IN NORMAN ITALY I begin with a brief summary of the monetary areas in southern Italy in the eleventh century and how these changed in the twelfth. At the time of the Norman conquest of south Italy and Sicily there were essentially three different areas: Apulia, Campania, and Calabria. In Apulia, Byzantine coins were used more consistently than anywhere else, though their use was challenged by Lombard coins of Salerno and by silver denari of the north. By the mid-eleventh century, Lombard coinage was used in northern Apulia; a hoard from Ordona contained only one histamenon of Basil II and Constantine VIII as against 147 taris of either Amalfi or Salerno, the early types of which cannot be easily distinguished from each other.3 Denari of Pavia appear in charters from the 1060s onward as well as in finds, although finds cannot be precisely dated since immobilized types such as these papienses remained long in circulation. Far more numerous in finds are Byzantine folles, as we shall see later. One may note in passing the need to differentiate between the two gold coins in circulation, the heavy histamenon, weighing ca. 4.5 g, and the lighter tari, or quarter dinar, weighing initially just over a gram, but later dropping to 0.89 g. In Campania the local mints of Amalfi and Salerno had been minting taris from the late tenth century, but Byzantine folles were in general use and were only gradually replaced by the Salernitan follari, which were issued from the mid-eleventh century, as Philip Grierson showed more than forty years ago on the evidence of overstriking, a practice borrowed from Byzantium.4 Finally, in the Byzantine theme of Calabria, Byzantine folles were widely used until at least the end of the eleventh century, but by the end of the tenth century Sicilian gold taris with Arabic legends had become the favorite gold coin. This appears from the written evidence, which shows taris being hoarded in the treasures of Calabrian monasteries and the value of landed property being expressed in them.5 Taxes and penalties were expressed in nomismata, but this does not mean that such coins were used in actual payments.6 For the hoard, see R. Gurnet, “Le tre´sor d’Ordona,” in Ordona II. Les campagnes de 1964 et 1965, ed. J. Mertens, Etudes de Philologie, d’Arche´ologie et d’Histoire anciennes, Institut Historique Belge de Rome 9 (Brussels-Rome, 1967), 155–71, and comments below. 4 For an updated discussion of this practice at Salerno and a full bibliography, see MEC 14:61–67; also Travaini, La monetazione, 15ff. Before Philip Grierson’s first study of the overstrikings, the first Salernitan follari had been dated to the 10th century. 5 V. von Falkenhausen, “La circolazione monetaria nell’Italia meridionale e nella Sicilia in epoca normanna secondo la documentazione di archivio,” Bollettino di numismatica 6/7 (1986): 55–79, esp. 57; J.-M. Martin, “Economia naturale, economia monetaria nell’Italia meridionale longobarda e bizantina (secoli VI–XI),” Storia d’Italia. Annali 6: Economia naturale, economia monetaria (Turin, 1983), 181–219. This is a detailed overview of the monetary situation of southern Italy, but now in need of some revision; for example, Martin’s insistence (pp. 208, 219) on the absence of local coinage and on the foreign character of coins used in south Italy should be more nuanced, as suggested in L. Travaini, “Romesinas, provesini, turonenses . . . : Monete straniere in Italia meridionale ed in Sicilia (XI–XV secolo),” in Moneta locale, moneta straniera: Italia ed Europa XI–XV secolo. The Second Cambridge Numismatic Symposium. Local Coins, Foreign Coins: Italy and Europe, 11th–15th Centuries, ed. L. Travaini, Societa` numismatica Italiana. Collana di Numismatica e Scienze Affini 2 (Milan, 1999), 113–34. Also the presence of silver denari from the north in 11th-century Benevento and Avellino attributed by Martin to the scarcity of gold coins (p. 208) may be read as a preference for a medium-value denomination added to a system based on gold and copper. 6 Von Falkenhausen, “La circolazione monetaria,” 75–76, and 57 n. 15 for the Calabrian monastery. For solidi in Calabria, see below and note 43. 3

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A study of the distribution of Byzantine coinage in these areas brings to light some surprising facts. Byzantine gold coins are virtually nonexistent in finds despite the many references to them in written records, especially from Apulia. There are few gold nomismata in finds or collections, in contrast to the many finds of anonymous folles that have been recorded. The last type of nomisma to be represented in Italian hoards is a histamenon of Basil II and Constantine, and even it has so far occurred in only three hoards, each time as a single specimen, and in two cases obviously an outlier, possibly treasured not for “monetary” reasons but for “religious” ones, as discussed below.7 This paucity of material evidence contrasts with the many Byzantine gold coins described, often in full details, in south Italian charters. Ce´cile Morrisson wrote an excellent essay on the michaelaton and related coins,8 and there is a useful compendium of similar names in volume 3 of the Dumbarton Oaks Catalogue.9 One explanation is that progressive debasement would not encourage hoarding, for we know how Byzantine gold was debased in this period.10 Owners would want to get rid of debased coins in their possession, though one would expect some hoarding in anticipation of worse to come, despite a novel of Leo VI (886–912) having laid down that all official coins issued by an emperor, whether ancient or recent, should be accepted as legal tender.11 Another reason for not finding more Byzantine gold coins in eleventh-century Italy would have been that the tari, of lower value and more flexible use, had become the most acceptable higher-value currency in the area, though for Apulia taris seem to appear mainly in the northern part (Capitanata); even Byzantine Calabria was consistently using Sicilian taris well before the Norman conquest.12 A smaller gold denomination such as the tari was indeed a more suitable coin for a flourishing economy, evidence for which is provided by monuments such as the Romanesque churches and sculptures of the time.13 Travaini, La monetazione, 11 n. 4. C. Morrisson, “Le michae´laton et les noms des monnaies `a la fin du XIe sie`cle,” TM 3 (1968): 369–74. 9 P. Grierson, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection, vol. 3, Leo III to Nicephorus III, 717–1081 (Washington, D.C., 1973), pt. 1, 44–62 (hereafter DOC 3). 10 C. Morrisson et al., L’or monnaye´, I. Purification et alte´rations de Rome `a Byzance, Cahiers Ernest-Babelon 2 (Paris, 1985), 127–53. 11 C. Morrisson, “De´couverte de tre´sors `a l’e´poque byzantine et monnaies inconnues: Le pantalaimia,” Bulletin de la Socie´te´ Franc¸aise de Numismatique 37 (1989): 150–52, esp. 152 (repr. in C. Morrisson, Monnaie et finances `a Byzance: Analyses, techniques [Aldershot, 1994], VIII). 12 For the treasures of Calabrian monasteries see above, note 6. According to J.-M. Martin, La Pouille du VIe au XIIe sie`cle, Collection de l’Ecole Franc¸aise de Rome (Rome, 1993), 453, in ca. 1050 African-Sicilian taris disappeared from Tyrrhenian southern Italy and “l’or ne circule presque plus en Italie me´ridionale,” but 11th-century Sicilian taris, pre-Norman and Norman, were even found on the shore of Salerno and payments in taris de lu cunte (i.e., of Count Roger I of Calabria and Sicily) are mentioned in Salernitan documents of 1125–49: see Travaini, La monetazione, 107 n. 24, 173 n. 62, 208 (the latter possibly a false quarter-dinar of al-Mustansir from Salerno). Phases of introduction, circulation, and withdrawal of coinage in southern Italy in the 11th century until 1140 are still to be clarified. 13 The economic level of Norman Italy has been the subject of much discussion recently. For a view of an economic backwardness in south Italy reflected by the coins used, see Martin, “Economia naturale, economia monetaria,” 210, and Martin, Italies Normandes, 331 ff. Other scholars, however, insist on the high economic standard of south Italy and Sicily in the 11th and 12th centuries. For example, G. A. Loud, “Coinage, Wealth and Plunder in the Age of Robert Guiscard,” English Historical Review 114, no. 458 (September, 1999): 815– 43, concludes by saying that “for churches to raise ready cash, a world of markets and exchange was necessary, and this was the context within which the Norman conquest of southern Italy took place.” For a discussion of coins and the economy in Norman Italy, see Travaini, La monetazione, 88–97, with bibliography. A positive view of the economy of Byzantine Calabria, particularly for the production of wine and silk, was given by A. Guillou, “Production and Profits in the Byzantine Province of Italy (Tenth to Eleventh Centuries): 7 8

182 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD Charitable payments in gold could be very large. Vast sums of Byzantine gold coins were offered by Robert Guiscard to the abbey of Montecassino, up to a total of 149 pounds of gold.14 In contrast, the Byzantine emperor Constantine IX used to give annually to Montecassino only two pounds of gold. In 1076 Michael VII Ducas increased the donation to 24 gold pounds annually, but unfortunately for the abbey he was deposed two years later.15 In the sums paid by Robert Guiscard to Montecassino, Byzantine coins still take pride of place. It is likely that Robert was able to put together large amounts of Byzantine gold, at least after his plunder of many rich monasteries in south Italy.16 But the gold coins actually circulating in the lands he had conquered were taris, and he did not try to restore a larger gold coin in his mints, but went on issuing taris after he took Amalfi in 1073 and Salerno in 1076, as he had done in Palermo in 1071.17 Much later, in the twelfth century, King Roger II undertook to pay the sum of 600 squifatos to the pope as his feudal lord, but presumably he paid the sum in his own Sicilian taris, counting them 4 to 1 scyphatus.18 Sicilian taris had by then become a well-established currency in the Mediterranean and were also being used by north Italians trading with Sicily.19 Byzantine copper coins, in contrast to gold ones, have come to light in substantial numbers, with clear regional differences. Folles of Romanus I (920–944) are most numerous in Campania, anonymous folles of Class C (ca. 1034–41) in Calabria, and folles of the period 1057–71 in Apulia. These regional differences seem to correspond to different phases in the political and military history of Byzantine Italy. Romanus I’s folles found in Campania must have remained in circulation for a long time, although they were eventually replaced by the local follari issued by Gisulf II. Those of Class C in Calabria, reflecting the military operations of George Maniakes in the late 1030s, likewise remained in circulation until the introduction of the issues of Roger I in ca. 1085–87, his first type of follaro being an imitation of the Byzantine type. Nor is it surprising that the latest An Expanding Society,” DOP 28 (1974): 89–109, repr. in Guillou, Culture et socie´te´ en Italie byzantine (VIe–XIe s.) (London, 1978), XIII. 14 Loud, “Coinage, Wealth and Plunder,” 823 ff; V. von Falkenhausen, “Aspetti storico-economici dell’eta` di Roberto il Guiscardo,” in Roberto il Guiscardo e il suo tempo, Relazioni e comunicazioni nelle Prime Giornate normanno-sveve (Bari, maggio 1973) (Rome, 1975), 115–34, esp. 132 n. 56; Leonis Marsicani et Petri Diaconi Chronica monasterii Casinensis, MGH, SS, vol. 7 (Hannover, 1846; repr. Stuttgart-New York, 1963), 743 (by Petrus Diaconus). For more details see below. 15 H. Houben, “Roberto il Guiscardo e il monachesimo,” in Roberto il Guiscardo tra Europa, Oriente e Mezzogiorno, Atti del Convegno internazionale, Potenza-Melfi-Venosa, 19–23 ottobre 1985, ed. C. D. Fonseca (Galatina, 1990), 223–42, esp. 233. 16 Loud, “Coinage, Wealth and Plunder”; von Falkenhausen, “Aspetti storico-economici,” 132; Houben, “Roberto il Guiscardo.” 17 For the coinage of Robert Guiscard, see MEC 14:81–87. A look at the penalties in Norman diplomas can be interesting. At the time of Robert Guiscard in the 1070s there are still many spiritual penalties (anathema), but gradually monetary penalties became the rule, expressed in libras auri, usually 50 in Robert’s time, later 100: H. Enzensberger, “Roberto il Guiscardo: Documenti e cancelleria,” in Roberto il Guiscardo e il suo tempo (as above, note 14), 61–81, esp. 73–77. Penalties cannot always be used as evidence for coins in actual use but are often a mirror of past uses. 18 Le Liber Censuum de l’Eglise Romaine, ed. P. Fabre and L. Duchesne, vol. 1 (Paris, 1910), 16. The tari was a quarter-dinar, and considering 1 dinar ⫽ 1 scyphatus (i.e., solidus) we arrive at 4 taris ⫽ 1 scyphatus, as it became in Roger II’s monetary system of 1140 with 4 Sicilian taris ⫽ 1 solidus regalis (Travaini, La monetazione, 59). 19 See the still fundamental study by D. Abulafia, The Two Italies: Economic Relations between the Norman Kingdom of Sicily and the Northern Communes (Cambridge, 1977), 217 ff; Travaini, La monetazione, 88, 101.

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folles are those found in Apulia, where the final Byzantine resistance took place.20 These data require updating (which I have not been able to do systematically), but new material for Calabria, put together by Ermanno Arslan, seems to confirm the pattern for the eleventh century while incorporating a larger number of finds of Norman copper coins,21 though the figures for these remain much below those of Byzantine folles. Presumably a change in the stock of coins in circulation was taking place, for as they consolidated their power and control over their territories, the Normans would have been able to introduce their own new coins and gradually demonetize old currency. They also introduced copper coins into Sicily, which under the Arabs had used only gold and silver coins. The Normans in varying ways tried to control the internal circulation of gold coins. The evidence from hoards in Sicily and south Italy shows successive demonetizations. First the use of Islamic quarter-dinars was abolished, leaving only Norman coins, either ones with Arabic legends only or those with a tau as their main type; later only taris with a cross were left in circulation.22 It is important to note that these are never found mixed with foreign gold coins. We know that Arab merchants in Palermo in the 1140s were supposed to change their Almoravid dinars or dinars of Tripoli at the local mint.23 Palermo and Messina were the only mints producing Sicilian taris, which were used all over the kingdom up to its northern borders, as a hoard from Montecassino shows.24 Foreign merchants landing in other ports of Sicily or southern Italy must have changed their coins locally. It is likely that each major trade center had facilities for money changing and weight control, and these centers may have been controlled by the crown.25 The See the graph in Travaini, La monetazione, 389–91; MEC 14:401. E. A. Arslan, “Ancora sulla circolazione della moneta in rame nella Calabria di X–XII secolo,” Me´l Rome Moyen ˆage 110.1 (1998): 359–78: in Calabria, Classes D, E, and F remain rare (D, only 3 specimens from excavations; E, 2 in a hoard and 1 in a museum collection; F, no specimen recorded); see also F. Barello, “Riflessioni sulle monete dagli scavi di Gerace e Tropea,” ibid., 425–30, describing Anonymous A2 and C as “protagonisti assoluti” in find records; Anonymous folles were found here in later contexts, as well as at Otranto, until after the 13th century, but this can be a case of residuality: see for this A. Travaglini, “Le monete,” in Excavations at Otranto, vol. 2, The Finds, ed. F. D’Andria and D. Whitehouse (Galatina, 1992), 241–78. 22 For the different types of crosses on Norman Sicilian coins, see Travaini, La monetazione, 39–40, 104; L. Travaini, “La croce sulle monete da Costantino alla fine del medioevo,” in La Croce: Iconografia e interpretazione, ed. B. Ulianich, Atti del Convegno internazionale Napoli, 6–11 dicembre 1999 (Naples, in press). 23 A group of African merchants agreed to buy Sicilian grain, sending dinars that were of pure gold; once at Palermo, the dinars would have been sent to the mint to be transformed into local taris by alloying the gold with one-quarter of its weight in silver. H. R. Idris, La Berbe´rie orientale sous les Zirides, Xe–XIIe sie`cles (Paris-Algiers, 1962), 2:666–67: reference from D. Abulafia, “Maometto e Carlo Magno: Le due aree monetarie dell’oro e dell’argento,” in Storia d’Italia. Annali 6 (as above, note 5), 223–70, esp. 242 n. 21. These data correspond exactly with what we know of the tari alloy, which remained stable for more than two hundred years. The alloy is described in various documents from the 13th century: it was 161⁄3 carats gold, i.e., ca. 68 percent gold, with silver and copper in proportion of 3 to 1: 24 percent silver and 8 percent copper (i.e., roughly 1⁄4 silver of its weight, as in the document quoted above). Analyses by touchstone, specific gravity, and gamma rays have confirmed a gold content of ca. 68–70 percent, although the proportion of the minor elements remained variable: see MEC 14:449–51, and L. Travaini, “The Fineness of Sicilian Taris, and of Those of Amalfi and Salerno (11th to 13th Centuries),” Metallurgy in Numismatics 4 (London, 1998): 504–17. Hoard evidence shows that the weight standard of the Norman Sicilian taris down to the reigns of Roger II and William I was still the Fatimid standard of ca. 1.05g, while the continental taris of Salerno and Amalfi had shifted to a lighter standard of 0.89g: Travaini, La monetazione, 103–7. 24 For a list of hoards of Sicilian taris, see Travaini, La monetazione, 364–67. 25 D. Abulafia, “The Crown and the Economy under Roger II and His Successors,” DOP 37 (1983): 1–14. 20 21

184 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD taris were spent by weight. The hoard from Montecassino, for example, shows how different in size and weight the taris were,26 and it was crucial for good trade practices that measures and weights could be trusted and controlled. Sicilian charters often express sums of taris with such formulas as ad pondus Panormi, or ad pondus Messane. We know that there was a slight difference between the ounce of Palermo and that of Messina, but references to particular weights may also refer to the fact that the weights had to be guaranteed and protected by official control and certified balances.27 In 1140 Roger II took steps to unify the different monetary traditions of his kingdom and established a new monetary system, as follows, with monies of account in italics. solidus regalis 1

Sicilian tari 4 1

ducalis 12 3 1

tercia ducalis 36 9 3 1

grain 72 18 6 2

follaro 288 72 24 8

The new monetary system was a mixture of Byzantine and Islamic elements. The new silver ducalis created in 1140 was one-twelfth of the solidus regalis of account, exactly the relationship of the Byzantine miliaresion to the nomisma.28 Sicilian taris were the highest effective coin throughout the kingdom. The unit of account was the ounce of taris, worth 30 taris, and next was the solidus regalis, worth 4 taris.29 While imposing throughout the kingdom a system based on the Sicilian tari, Roger retained local traditions, such as the base gold taris of Amalfi and Salerno circulating in Campania, worth about half the Sicilian tari. Amalfitan taris were slightly more valuable than Salernitan ones, but both functioned in Campania as coins of medium value, like the silver ducalis in Apulia.30 The introduction of the silver ducalis fortunately provoked the fierce opposition of the historian Falco of Benevento, since his account is the only written source we have on the reform itself.31 He gives us some of the valuations before and after the reform, mak26 See the color photograph of the entire hoard, but without the brooch, in Bollettino di numismatica 6/7 (1986): 4, pl. 1, and L. Travaini, “Il ripostiglio di Montecassino e la monetazione aurea dei Normanni in Sicilia,” ibid., 167–98. 27 See also below and note 83. 28 In 12th-century Byzantium the miliaresion was a money of account and was later replaced by the keration (⫽ 1/24th of the nomisma, but originally a weight): M. Hendy, Coinage and Money in the Byzantine Empire, 1081–1261, DOS, 12 (Washington, D.C., 1969), 26, and M. Hendy, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection, vol. 4, Alexius I to Michael VIII 1081–1261 (Washington, `me mone´taire du D.C., 1999), pt. 1:58 (hereafter DOC 4). See L. Travaini, “Entre Byzance et l’Islam: Le syste Royaume Normand de Sicile en 1140,” Bulletin de la Socie´te´ Franc¸aise de Numismatique 46.9 (1991): 200–204. 29 At the same time, Roger fixed the standards for the alloy of the local taris of Salerno and Amalfi, which had previously been in some confusion. Recent analyses have shown that Roger established for the Salernitan ones an alloy of gold, silver, and copper in equal parts, and for the Amalfitan ones an alloy of 41.6 percent gold, 41.6 percent silver, and 16.8 percent copper: Travaini, “The Fineness of Sicilian Taris,” 509; MEC 14:451. 30 For the silver ducalis created for Apulia, see J.-M. Martin, “Le monete d’argento nell’Italia meridionale del secolo XII secondo i documenti d’archivio,” Bollettino di numismatica 6/7 (1986): 85–96, and Travaini, La monetazione, 216–17. 31 Travaini, La monetazione, 295–99; MEC 14:117–18; Falco’s chronicle is edited by G. Del Re, Cronisti e scrittori sincroni della dominazione normanna, vol. 1 (Naples, 1845).

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ing it possible to understand what was done. The new coin had been imposed at the value of 8 romesinae, which were then withdrawn from circulation. Roger also introduced a small copper coin valued 3 to 1 romesina.32 The romesinae thus abolished were formerly thought to be old Byzantine copper folles, assumed to be still circulating by 1140, but this interpretation is no longer acceptable. The Normans had introduced new coins and standards, and the weight of the copper coins had been greatly reduced in south Italy, as had happened in the Byzantine Empire with the reform of Alexios I in 1092. The “romesinae” were probably billon deniers of Rouen, as was first suggested by Grierson, and I have now accepted this view,33 since in fact deniers of Rouen have been found in hoards and single finds in many parts of south Italy.34 As for the ducalis, the new royal coin 60 percent silver fine, this was intended to replace foreign billon coins in the most rebellious province of his kingdom, Apulia, and the new coin was Byzantine in many ways. Like many Byzantine coins, it was concave; on the convex side it had a bust of Christ Pantocrator, and on the concave side King Roger attired as a Byzantine emperor and his son Duke Roger in military dress holding a long cross on steps. Michael Hendy was the first to compare the types of the ducalis to those of the debased concave histamenon of Alexios I, bearing a similar bust of Christ and showing St. Demetrios handing a cross on steps to the emperor.35 This type was struck at Thessalonike ca. 1082–85, during the period of the Norman war led by Robert Guiscard.36 Hendy suggested that the ducalis was a direct copy, supposing that the Normans might have obtained large amounts of these coins and kept them in quantity in some Norman treasury until they were copied in 1140.37 The hypothesis of a direct copy, however, may not be correct, and cultural and image borrowing may be nearer the mark: by 1140 the Normans of Sicily would have been capable of creating their own images, borrowing elements from different cultures. Even before becoming king in 1130, Roger II had displayed his image in the costume of a Falco’s values are as follows, accepting tres follares as 3 follari worth one old romesina: 1 ducalis ⫽ 8 romesinae ⫽ 24 new follari. 33 For some of the arguments in favor of the old interpretation, see L. Travaini, “La riforma monetaria di Ruggero II e la circolazione minuta in Italia meridionale tra X e XII secolo,” RIN 83 (1981): 133–53, though I have now abandoned this view, as explained in Travaini, La monetazione, 295–99. Martin (Italies Normandes, 323 ff) still adheres to the interpretation of romesinae as old Byzantine folles, but in his book review of Travaini, La monetazione he accepted both the identification of Falco’s romesina with the denier of Rouen and the need to differentiate between the abolished romesinae and the ramesinae of many Apulian documents (see J.-M. Martin in RN 151 [1996]: 361–66); many points still remain to be clarified, and more research needs to be done. See also MEC 14:118. 34 See lists of such hoards and finds in Travaini, La monetazione, 370, 387, and MEC 14:415, 424. Martin (Italies Normandes, 328, and La Pouille du VIe au XIIe sie`cle, 457) refers to “miliaresia of good deniers of Rouen” in a document of Gravina (1139), implying a real use of such coins, which indeed Roger II intended to stop, together with the use of other foreign coins (see Travaini, “Romesinas, provesini, turonenses,” 113–33). 35 Hendy, Coinage and Money, 41–42 and DOC 4:189 and no. 5a; for the Norman ducalis, see Travaini, La monetazione, no. 241 and MEC 14:120–21. 36 Before the Norman campaign, Alexios sent money to Emperor Henry IV to encourage an invasion of southern Italy: a sum of 144,000 nomismata in worked silver and romanata (Hendy, Coinage and Money, 47 and DOC 4:188). References to diplomatic payments and booties are important: cf. M. Hendy, Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy c. 300–1450 (Cambridge, 1985), 264–75, 314. 37 In Studies, 314, Hendy suggested that a large amount of such coins might have been seized by the Normans when they plundered Alexios I’s baggage train outside Durazzo in 1081; however, in DOC 4, the type of coin that is supposed to be a model of the ducalis is dated ca. 1082–85. 32

186 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD Byzantine emperor, though avoiding contentious titles and describing himself simply as R/II.38 An example of borrowing from classical literature is the use of the title ANAX (anax), never used before on coins, on a copper follaro of Messina of Roger II, issued soon after 1130, a time when it was necessary to find new titles for the new king.39 A case of borrowing from an ancient coin of Rhegium, but with oriental borrowing as well, can be seen in the copper follari of Messina of William II, second coinage, bearing a lion’s head.40 Grierson suggested that the new concave ducalis created by Roger II in 1140 might have been produced by Byzantine workmen, but Roger had already issued a concave coin as count (ca. 1112–20?), and concave coins might well have been produced by local workmen inspired by Byzantine coins.41 Thus Norman Italy created through “borrowing” a complex and mature form of expression.42 MONETARY TRANSACTIONS AND EXCHANGE OF NORMAN ITALY WITH BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD Monetary transactions have often involved plunder and dowries, as well as gifts and donations, and on these we have probably more evidence than on trade. Robert Guiscard had earned a reputation as a bandit and kidnapper before he became a great and highly respected public figure.43 Soon after the Byzantine defeat in Apulia in 1071, Emperor Romanos IV asked Robert to marry his son to one of his daughters, but nothing came of this; the same request was made by Michael VII more than once, with various diplomatic missions from Constantinople, all unsuccessful; only in 1074 did the emperor obtain a wedding contract from Robert including a treaty of alliance. Robert’s daughter was sent to Constantinople in 1076 where she took the name Helena. These transactions involved large sums of money, with 1,200 pounds of gold being given by Michael VII to the Normans, a sum largely in the form of pensions for imperial offices of different values granted to the Normans.44 This was an honorable way for the emperor to pay an annual tribute to Robert, as was clear to the Norman Amato of Montecassino: “Et ensi li empeor, liquel devoit recevoir tribut de tout le monde, rendi tribut a cestui duc. Car li empeor lui For these images, see MEC 14:109, cat. nos. 162–69, and Travaini, La monetazione, 281–82. Travaini, La monetazione, 51. 40 Travaini, La monetazione, 319, and L. Travaini, “Aspects of the Sicilian Norman Copper Coinage in the Twelfth Century,” NC 151 (1991): 159–74, esp. 166. 41 Travaini, La monetazione, 233; P. Grierson, “Pegged Venetian Coin-Dies: Their place in the History of Die Adjustment,” NC (1952): 99–105. 42 W. Tronzo, “Byzantine Court Culture from the Point of View of Norman Sicily: The Case of the Cappella Palatina in Palermo,” in Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204, ed. H. Maguire (Washington, D.C., 1997), 101–14, stressing the creation of something completely new using both Byzantine and Islamic elements, this time imported into Sicily. Tronzo concludes that “these expenditures represented a truly extraordinary effort, and that Roger’s interests more than usually ran to the visual” (p. 113). 43 E.g., for the kidnapping of the governor of Bisignano in Calabria he received, according to Amato of Montecassino, 20,000 gold solidi: cited by Loud, “Coinage, Wealth and Plunder,” 827. 44 H. Bibicou, “Une page d’histoire diplomatique de Byzance au XIe sie`cle: Michel VII Doukas, Robert Guiscard et la pension des dignitaires,” Byzantion 29/30 (1959–60): 43–75; V. von Falkenhausen, “Olympias, eine normannische Prinzessin in Konstantinopel,” in Bisanzio e l’Italia. Raccolta di studi in memoria di Agostino Pertusi (Milan, 1982), 56–72; W. B. McQueen, “Relations between the Normans and Byzantium 1071–1112,” Byzantion 56 (1986): 428–37; Magdalino, “The Byzantine Background,” 11. 38 39

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mandoit par se messages mille et dui cent de livre de or avec preciosissime pailles de or et autres dompz.” 45 This makes it easier to understand how Robert was able to present the following gifts to Montecassino on different occasions between the early 1070s and 1085:46 600 bizantei, 5 pallia, and 1 navicula aurea 1 pallium and precious stones worth 700 skiphati 600 bizantei plus 2,000 tareni africani, 13 mules, 13 saracens, 1 carpet 1000 skiphati from Gallipoli in 1076, 300 bizantei and 2,000 tareni visiting Montecassino, 100 bizantei, and on the altar of St. Benedict 300 skiphati, 3 pallia, and other sums for the building, including 12 pounds of denari for the hospital and 100 michalati for painting the chapterhouse at Aquino in 1073, 500 bizantei on his second visit to the abbey, 12 pounds of gold, with 100 skiphati and one large pallium deposited on the altar on his third visit in 1084, he gave 1,000 solidi amalfitani (⫽ 4,000 taris of Amalfi) and 100 bizantei 1,000 tareni, one ship worth 1,000 solidi, and 400 solidi amalfitani from Romania, 1,000 michalati when ill, his wife sent 45 pounds of silver and 1 pallium after his death, she gave 300 skiphati The diversification of sums is sometimes difficult to explain, but it certainly reflects the variety of coins that were offered, together with possibly ingots (12 pounds of gold) and nonmonetary items such as pallia, mules, and slaves.47 Byzantine gold coins are referred to as bizantei or skiphati, while the term solidus is used as money of account; on two occasions michalati are mentioned, being either the still good solidi of Michael IV (1034–41) or more likely the debased ones of Michael VII (1071–78).48 Given the correspondence of 4 taris to 1 solidus ⫽ bezant ⫽ scyphatus, Robert offered almost the same quantity of Byzantine and Sicilian-African gold. Solidi amalfitani are also mentioned twice, being almost certainly taris of Amalfi. As G. A. Loud suggests, they may also indicate full dinars, of African provenance via Amalfitan traders; in Loud’s words, “one would not wish to be too dogmatic about this interpretation, but it does raise a most important question: how did Robert Guiscard obtain such substantial amounts of wealth?” 49 The answer lies primarily in plunder and conquest, although trade must have existed in spite of the military instability, for Norman Italy remained a flourishing state.50 Aime´ du Mont-Cassin, Ystorie de li Normant, ed. O. Delars (Rouen, 1892), bk. 7, 26, 298, as quoted by Bibicou, “Une page,” 74. 46 See above, note 14. 47 Loud, “Coinage, Wealth and Plunder,” 830. 48 Loud, “Coinage, Wealth and Plunder,” 824; see also Morrisson, “Le michae´laton,” Martin, “Economia naturale, economia monetaria,” 196, and Travaini, La monetazione, 151–52. 49 Loud, “Coinage, Wealth and Plunder,” 825. 50 See the surprised remarks in von Falkenhausen, “Aspetti storico-economici,” 134, and, for the discussion on the economic backwardness or splendor of Norman Italy, see above, note 13. 45

188 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD The role of Amalfitan trade has been briefly mentioned;51 that of Pisa and Genoa is also relevant for the economic history of Norman Italy and Sicily,52 though I cannot discuss them here with their imports/exports via Sicily and to and from the eastern Mediterranean, and with their competing ambitions.53 The Crusades were the decisive development that gave the Italian maritime republics great economic power, and Venice played a prominent role in events.54 In the twelfth century there are many references to Italians trading in Constantinople, mainly Venetians, Pisans, and Genoese. Amalfitans still held prominent positions but were acting in a private capacity, while the other Italians had the backing of their cities and formal treaties to help them. So, although the Amalfitans are described by Niketas Choniates as the best educated in Byzantine customs, the northern Italians took over.55 Amalfitans remained in the East, but had to accept a minor role.56 The northern Italians were also becoming more and more important in the kingdom of Sicily at this time. Coins of Genoa were brought to Sicily, and Sicilian taris were used by the Genoese. Although this is not apparent in finds, a trace of it may be seen in the gold coinage issued by Genoa.57 Between the Normans and Byzantium lay the Adriatic. Oddly its existence seems to have been little known to Roger II’s geographer Idrisi, though it bordered on his master’s kingdom. Abruzzo and Molise do not appear in his mid-twelfth century map, which jumps from the Gargano to the Tronto and the Marches.58 Adriatic relations were important: Ragusans had many contacts with ports in Apulia such as Molfetta, Monopoli, and Termoli, as well as in the north. In 1171 Ragusa seems even to have placed itself under the protection of King William I of Sicily instead of that of Byzantium, to prevent attacks from Venice.59 For Amalfitan trade, see Magdalino, “The Byzantine Background,” 14; H. Bresc, I fattori della distribuzione, in Storia dell’economia italiana, I. Il medioevo: Dal crollo al trionfo, ed. R. Romano (Turin, 1990), 171–91, esp. 174; and below, pp. 189–90. 52 See Abulafia, The Two Italies, 217 ff. 53 M. Tangheroni, Commercio e navigazione nel medioevo (Rome-Bari, 1996), 139. Pisa began the construction of its cathedral in 1064, making good use of the booty taken by sacking the port of Palermo, still in Arab hands. 54 Magdalino, The Byzantine Background, 13, notes that the success of the crusading movement could not have been sustained without regular sea communications between Europe and Syria. 55 V. von Falkenhausen, “Il Ducato di Amalfi e gli Amalfitani fra Bizantini e Normanni,” in Istituzioni civili e organizzazione ecclesiastica nello stato medievale amalfitano, Atti del Congresso Internazionale di Studi Amalfitani, Amalfi, 3–5 luglio 1981 (Amalfi, 1986), 9–31, esp. 30–31, and eadem, “Il commercio di Amalfi con Constantinopoli e il Levante nel secolo XII,” in Amalfi, Genova, Pisa e Venezia. Il commercio con Constantinopoli e il vicino Oriente nel secolo XII, ed. O. Banti (Pisa, 1998), 19–38. 56 V. D’Alessandro, “Amalfi in eta` normanna,” in Istituzioni civili e organizzazione ecclesiastica (as above, note 55), 33–52. 57 But the chronology of the first Genoese gold is still debated: cf. L. Travaini, “Genova e i tarı` di Sicilia,” RIN 93 (1991): 187–94; for the use of taris in Genoa, together with bezants of Syria and hyperpera of Constantinople, see Abulafia, The Two Italies, 225. 58 For Idrisi’s map and treatise, see F. Gabrieli, “Storia, cultura e civilta` degli Arabi in Italia,” in Gli Arabi in Italia, ed. F. Gabrieli and U. Scerrato (Milan, 1979), 15–269, esp. 188–203. 59 D. Abulafia, “Dalmatian Ragusa and the Norman Kingdom of Sicily,” SlEERev 54 (1976): 412–28, repr. in Abulafia, Italy, Sicily and the Mediterranean, 1100–1400 (London, 1987), X. On Adriatic relations in Norman times, see also idem, “Ancona, Byzantium and the Adriatic, 1155–1173,” PBSR 52 (1984): 192–216, repr. in Abulafia, Italy, Sicily and the Mediterranean, IX; idem, “East and West: Comments on the Commerce of the City of Ancona in the Middle Ages,” in Citta` e sistema adriatico alla fine del medioevo. Bilancio degli studi e prospettive ` dalmata di ricerca, ed. M. P. Ghezzo, Convegno di Studi, Padua, 4–5 aprile 1997, Atti e Memorie della Societa 51

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The variety of coins that could be carried across the Adriatic in 1177 is known in one case from the fact that some pirates from Dalmatia attacked a ship sailing north from the kingdom of Sicily to papal territory and robbed the papal legate on board, Raymundus de Capella. A clerk drew up a list of the missing goods, among which were various kinds of coins: Sicilian taris (tarrenorum regis Siciliae), marboti, masmutini, all of them gold coins, and four marks of silver pennies, which included English sterlingos and other coins such as megulienses (deniers and obols of Melgueil), provinos (deniers of Champagne), puglios (silver apulienses of King William II), and igeunos.60 As to the igeunos, their identification is not certain, but most likely they were French feudal coins, possibly of Dijon, such as the twenty-three specimens found in a hoard from Samos (buried ca. 1182).61 These do not necessarily represent the circulating medium in the southern Adriatic provinces, but they give an idea of the kind of coins that were used and carried across for trade or taxes, and that could have been exchanged anywhere, at least for their bullion value, against locally accepted coins.62 Most of the silver currencies listed in 1177 were in fact currently circulating in southern Italy, especially deniers of Melgueil and Champagne, and show that the crown, while controlling the gold circulation and enforcing the use of Sicilian taris, was not able to ensure that foreign billon coins were always melted in the royal mints. Coins of Melgueil were found in excavations at Otranto and Castelfiorentino.63 Deniers of Champagne are extremely common throughout southern Italy.64 Even a few Norman copper coins crossed the Adriatic, for follari of all twelfth-century Norman rulers, mainly from the mint of Messina, have been found in excavations at Corinth and Athens, and even one from Salerno of William I. Whether these had fallen out of the pockets of soldiers, merchants, or pilgrims is impossible to say.65 The same is true of Byzantine coins of the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries found in southern Apulia, notably at Otranto.66 Important examples of cultural and economic exchanges can be seen in works of art in Norman Italy: the Amalfitan Pantaleone Mauro, in the 1070s, was able to finance from di Storia Patria 26 (Venice, 1997), 47–66. See also J.-M. Martin, “Recherche sur les relations politiques entre l’Italie me´ridionale et les Balkans pendant le haut moyen ˆage (VIe–XIIe sie`cles),” in I rapporti politici e diplomatici, Centro di Studi sulla Storia e la Civilta` adriatica, Congressi sulle relazioni tra le due Sponde adriatiche 5 (Rome, 1988), 49–72. 60 The document is quoted by D. M. Metcalf, Coinage in South-Eastern Europe 820–1396 (London, 1979), 180; it is published in Monumenta Ungariae Historica, ser. Diplomataria, vol. 11: Codex Diplomaticus Arpadianus Continuatus, ed. G. Wenzel, vol. 6 (890–1235) (Budapest, 1867), nos. 77–78. Further study of this interesting document is needed. 61 See D. M. Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades and the Latin East in the Ashmolean Museum Oxford (London, 1983), 94, no. 78; I am grateful to Michael Metcalf for suggesting this identification. More difficult would be an identification with deniers of Genoa, although a document of Molfetta of 1138 referring to “octo solidi boni Ian[uinorum]” has been quoted by Martin, La Pouille, 457 as a possible sign of the presence of Genoese deniers in Apulia before the official opening of the mint in 1139. 62 Foreign coins may have been used in current circulation but often were accepted on only a limited basis, e.g., for paying taxes or other marginal roles; see the essays in Travaini, Moneta locale, moneta straniera (as above, note 5). 63 MEC 14:426, 429. 64 L. Travaini, “Provisini di Champagne nel regno di Sicilia: Problemi di datazione,” RN 154 (1999): 211–29. 65 Travaini, La monetazione, 384. 66 Travaini, La monetazione, 381; Travaglini, “Le monete,” 261, nos. 213–18.

190 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD Constantinople the manufacture and shipment of “bronze doors produced by Syrian craftsmen in a workshop in the Byzantine imperial palace for churches throughout central and southern Italy,” at Montecassino, Amalfi, St. Paul’s in Rome, and probably at St. Michael’s on the Gargano.67 One should not forget the role of pilgrims, since many crossed the Mediterranean using the same military and trade routes; St. Marina of Scanio, for example, went from Sicily to Jerusalem at least three times.68 Very frequent in Campania is “the saint coming from the sea” (or his/her relics)69 or brought by sailors or soldiers, for example St. Nicholas, brought to Bari in 1087 from Myra in Anatolia.70 In addition to trade, diplomatic exchanges, and wars, which promoted the circulation of money, there is also the phenomenon of gift exchange, by which a number of objects moved from one cultural area to another, often in a situation of “shared culture of objects.” 71 An exchange of gifts that took place in Sicily in November 1190 between the English king Richard Coeur-de-Lion and the Norman Tancred is particularly relevant. Richard, together with Philip II Augustus of France, had stopped in Sicily en route to the Holy Land at the invitation of King William II, who had promised money as well as food and a hundred armed galleys. But by then William was dead, and his successor, King Tancred, was reluctant to fulfill the engagement and to pay the dowry of William II’s widow, Joanna, who was Richard’s sister. Only after Richard attacked Messina did Tancred agree to pay the sum of 20,000 ounces of gold twice over, once as Joanna’s dowry and a second time as a contribution to the crusade. Since one Sicilian ounce was equal to 30 taris, twice the sum of 20,000 ounces would mean that 1,200,000 taris were given by Tancred and sent across the Mediterranean. The agreement was accompanied by an exchange of gifts. Tancred offered many personal gifts, such as gold, clothes, horses, and silks, but Richard accepted only a small ring “in signum mutuae dilectionis” and in return gave him nothing less than Excalibur, “the finest of swords which the British call Excalibur and which was that of Arthur, once a noble king of England” (“gladium illum optimum quem Brittones Caliburne vocant qui fuerat gladius Arturi quondam nobilis regis Angliae”).72 Many sources refer to the exchange of gifts (Richard of San Germano, Pietro da Eboli, the Annales Morbacenses73), but only Roger of Hoveden mentions Excalibur. Magdalino, “The Byzantine Background,” 15; M. E. Frazer, “Church Doors and the Gates of Paradise: Byzantine Bronze Doors in Italy,” DOP 27 (1973): 147–62; von Falkenhausen, “Il commercio di Amalfi,” 20–21; M. V. Marini Clarelli, “Pantaleone d’Amalfi e le porte bizantine in Italia meridionale,” in Arte profana e arte sacra a Bisanzio, ed. A. Iacobini and E. Zanini (Rome, 1995), 643–50; see also essays in Le porte di bronzo dall’antichita` al secolo XIII, ed. S. Salomi (Rome, 1990), 310–13. But not all commissioned works of art remained at their intended destination; looting clearly played an important role in wars, and thus art objects as well as coins and jewels often changed hands and countries. See A. Cutler, “From Loot to Scholarship: Changing Modes in the Italian Response to Byzantine Artefacts, ca. 1200–1750,” DOP 49 (1995): 237–67. 68 ¨ B 48 (1998): M. Stelladoro, “Agiografia e agiologia nel BIO⌺ di S. Marina di Scanio (BHG 1170),” JO 57–66. 69 A. Vuolo, “La nave dei santi,” in Pellegrinaggi e itinerari dei santi nel Mezzogiorno medievale, ed. G. Vitolo (Naples, 1999), 57–66. 70 See P. Geary, Furta sacra. Thefts of Relics in the Central Middle Ages (Princeton, N.J., 1978). 71 O. Grabar, “The Shared Culture of Objects,” in Maguire, Byzantine Court Culture (as above, note 42), 115–29. 72 Roger of Hoveden: Ex Rogeri de Hoveden Chronica, ed. F. Liebermann and R. Pauli, MGH, SS, vol. 26 (Hannover, 1885), 133–83, esp. 153. 73 Riccardo di San Germano, Chronica, ed. C. A. Garufi, RIS, n.s., 7 (Bologna, 1937–38), 10; Petri Ansolini de Ebulo, De rebus siculis carmen, ed. E. Rota, RIS, n.s., 31, pt. 1 (Citta` di Castello, 1904), XXXIV, verses 67

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The presumed bones of King Arthur had just been discovered at Glastonbury in about 1190. But if the mythical sword then recovered was in Richard’s hands on his way to the Holy Land, it was indeed a most extraordinary gift, unless of course Richard was palming off on Tancred another sword of the same name.74 Swords were important to medieval kings, but two more Sicilian examples point to a possible Sicilian peculiarity. According to Gervase of Tilbury, Roger II inscribed his sword with triumphal words: “rex Rogerius in gladio suo inscribi iussit istud triumphale ac apoforeticum: Appulus et Calaber, Siculus michi servit et affer.” 75 In 1398 the Aragonese king Martin the Humane wrote secretly from Avignon asking his son in Sicily to send him the sword of Emperor Constantine, kept in the royal palace at Palermo;76 we do not know whether the sword was sent or not, but future research on sword exchanges will be welcome. Monetary exchanges with the Islamic world are largely known thanks to the Geniza documents. We have already seen how African merchants coming to Sicily had to change their gold coins into local taris. Sicilian taris have only occasionally been found in the Latin East, but we know that they were commonly used by the Geniza merchants.77 The Normans held Ifriqiya for some years in the mid-twelfth century and issued full dinars there, but these, though of better gold, seem to have had only a limited circulation and possibly were only ceremonial.78 The taris on the other hand were well-established coins, and some Geniza documents specify their type, such as “Rum quarters, arranged in three lines, good ones, weighing 100 mithqals of full weight and worth 58 Egyptian dinars.” 79 A sale of pepper in al-Mahdiyya was paid half in Sicilian taris and half in Pisan currency, with an agio paid for the exchange.80 The variety of actors in the Mediterranean economic world can be indicated by a few examples of sea-loans written in Judeo-Arabic 1061–64, p. 142; Annales Morbacenses, ed. R. Wilmans, MGH, SS, vol. 17 (Hannover, 1861), 142–80, esp. 164 (“Tancradus . . . plurima dona auri et argenti, frumenti et vini sibi misit, ne aliam partem Sycilie destrueret”). 74 I first found a reference to the gift of Excalibur in the essay by S. Tramontana, “La monarchia normanna e sveva,” in Storia d’Italia, vol. 3, Il Mezzogiorno dai bizantini a Federico II (Turin, 1983), 437–810, esp. 651. No other historian so far, to my knowledge, has written about this extraordinary gift. I am grateful to Donald Matthew for discussing some of the aspects of the story and for references on Richard Coeur-de-Lion. 75 E Gervasii Tillberiensis Otiis Imperialibus, MGH, SS, vol. 27 (Hannover, 1885), 359–94, esp. 381. 76 S. Fodale, “Le reliquie di Re Martino,” in Aspetti e momenti di storia della Sicilia (secc. XI–XIX). Studi in memoria di Alberto Boscolo (Palermo, 1989), 121–35; I am most grateful to Salvatore Fodale for this reference. 77 “During most of the 11th century, the Italian city-states, with the exception of Venice, Lucca, Salerno and Amalfi, were still beyond the horizon of the Geniza papers. . . . The struggle for Sicily and Southern Italy, in which Byzantines, Muslims, local Italians, and Normans took part, as well as the successful attacks of the two latter on various points of the North African coast, is copiously reflected in the Geniza”: S. Goitein, A Mediterranean Society: The Jewish Community as Portrayed in the Documents of the Cairo Geniza, vol. 1, Economic Foundations (Berkeley-Los Angeles, 1967), 40. 78 Travaini, La monetazione, 66–67; J. Johns, “Malik Ifriqiya: The Norman Kingdom of Africa and the Fatimids,” Libyan Studies 18 (1987): 89–101; idem, “The Norman Kings of Sicily and the Fatimid Caliphate,” Anglo-Norman Studies 15, Proceedings of 15th Battle Conference and of the XI Colloquio Medievale of the Officina di Studi Medievali, ed. M. Chibnall (Woodbridge, 1992), 133–59; D. Abulafia, “The Norman Kingdom of Africa and the Norman Expeditions to Majorca and and the Muslim Mediterranean,” Anglo-Norman Studies 7, Proceedings of the Battle Conference 1984 (Woodbridge, 1985), 26–49: a Norman trace in Majorca `, can be seen in the find of a billon kharruba (dirham fraction): Travaini, La monetazione, 191, and M. Barcelo “El fals normand de Sicilia trobat al castell de Santueri (Felinitx-Mallorca),” in Symposium Numismatico de Barcelona, 2, Societat Catalana d’Estudis Numismatics-Associacion Numismatica Espanola (Barcelona, 1979), 356–37. 79 Goitein, A Mediterranean Society, 237. 80 Ibid., 44.

192 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD involving Jewish and Muslim merchants as well as Latin operators in Sicily and throughout the Arabic-speaking Mediterranean.81 A newly published document from Cefalu mentions a Latin investor named Ser William lending various sums to Sicilian Muslims, in three different contracts: the sums of money involved are mostly taris, but also 13 new mu
mini dinars (i.e., dinars struck in the name of the Almohad sultan Abd al-Mu
min, 1130–63).82 In spite of the gold coins involved, the loans are reckoned in pounds of silver with repayment fixed in Sicilian taris at extremely high interest: taris are specified to be “of the weight of Sicily,” “of Cefalu,” or “of Messina,” formulas commonly found in Norman Sicily. These formulas probably referred to the need to have the final sums verified by official authorities with official weights and balances.83 Ser William, who was probably a Genoese, is another clear example of the economic interconnections of Norman Sicily. Not many finds of Sicilian coins are recorded in the Islamic world or the Latin East, but a few copper coins of William I and William II have been found in Aleppo, Caesarea Maritima, and Tyre. These finds may demonstrate a link between Norman Sicily and the Seljuk Turks.84 During the reign of William II local billon coins had been debased and scarce, and silver deniers from the north, particularly provisini of Champagne, which we have seen in 1177 among the coins stolen from Raymundus de Capella by Adriatic pirates, became increasingly common. At the same time copper coins, possibly more in south Italy than Sicily, became almost worthless because of inflation, and their production was reduced.85 In the 1180s, however, William II introduced in Sicily a large copper coin without a legend and showing a lion’s head and palm tree.86 The new large copper denomination was probably introduced as an attempt to cope with inflation and the silver shortage. A remote predecessor was the Augustan monetary reform, when the small silver sestertius was replaced by the large sestertius of base metal. But William II’s copper coin has a much closer link with the large copper dirhams of contemporary Turkoman states of Syria, for the name of dirham inscribed on some of them reflects their silver origin. Some of William’s large follari have been found in the East, and a few specimens of the Turkoman copper dirhams were found in Sicily; these may be traces of a link that should be investigated.87 The introduction of large copper coins was, however, an ephemeral phenomenon, and copper coins were eventually to disappear, with billon coins taking their place. The Sicilian taris, on the contrary, remained very popular, and increasingly so in the north of Italy. In 1231 Frederick II issued the augustalis, but taris remained in Ibid., 256; Abulafia, The Two Italies, 247–48. J. Johns, “Arabic Contracts of Sea-Exchange from Norman Sicily,” in Karissime Gotifride. Historical Essays Presented to Gotfrey Wettinger on His Seventieth Birthday, ed. P. Xuereb (Malta, 1999), 55–78. 83 Johns, “Arabic Contracts,” 61; Travaini, La monetazione, 63. 84 Travaini, La monetazione, 383–84; L. Travaini, “The Monetary Reforms of King William II (1166–1189): Oriental and Western Patterns in Norman Sicilian Coinage,” SM 46 (1996): 109–23. 85 For the coinage of William II, see MEC 14:132–36. 86 Since Roger II had introduced small follari in the kingdom, the coin has sometimes been attributed to Roger II before 1140, because such a large copper coin seemed incompatible with the coins of a later period. But now it is better regarded as a multiple of the smaller coin, its sixth, which bears the same lion’s head but also the Arabic legend, “King William the Second.” For previous attribution to Roger II, see bibliography in Travaini, La monetazione, 319. 87 MEC 14:135, with bibliography. 81 82

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use, as they continued to be issued in Sicily under the Hohenstaufen and by Charles of Anjou until 1278, mixing deformed Arabic signs with the Greek legend IC XC NI KA.88 The fame of the Byzantine and Islamic gold coins remained alive, but in Italy it was fame more than real use. In the 1240s a Sicilian lady might still pretend, in verse, to be worth “perperi” and “massamutini,” but her hand is won by a young man who owns real augustales, as recorded in Cielo (Michele?) of Alcamo’s Contrasto, written in Sicily, between 1232 and 1250:89 Woman . . . if my father and other relations find you . . . Man

If your father finds me, what can he do against me? I will pay a deposit to the emperor of two thousand agostari; your father will not touch me for all the riches of Bari. Long live the emperor, thanks be to God, do you understand, my beauty, what I am saying to you?

Woman You pester me from morning to night: I am a woman worth perperi and auro massamutino; if you’d give me all the riches of Saladin, and moreover those of the Sultan, you still could not touch my hand. Man

Many are the women who are obstinate . . .

“Perperi” and “massamutini” might have been used as international currency, but they are not found in Sicilian hoards. Until the end of Charles I’s reign, Sicilian gold is the only kind hoarded in the kingdom; florins are to be found only later.90 TRACES OF BYZANTINE COINS IN ITALY IN THE TRECENTO In general terms the major legacy of Byzantium and the Islamic world in Italy was the continued existence of a complex monetary system, with the use of gold never being abandoned in south Italy and Sicily. There was also a legacy in mint organization and technology, though it is difficult to say anything precise about it. A certain connection to MEC 14:152 ff. For the role of taris in the second half of the 13th century, see L. Travaini, “Federico II mutator monetae: Continuita` e innovazione nella politica monetaria (1220–1250),” in Friedrich II. Tagung des Deutschen Historischen Instituts in Rom im Gedenkjahr 1994, ed. A. Esch and N. Kamp, Bibliothek des Deutschen Historischen Instituts in Rom 85 (Tu ¨ bingen, 1996), 339–62. 89 Donna: . . . se ti ci trova pa`remo cogli altri miei parenti . . . Uomo: Se i tuoi parenti trovanmi, e che mi pozon fari? Una difensa mettoci di dumilia agostari; non mi tocca`ra patreto per quanto avere `a ‘m Bari. Viva lo ‘mperadore, grazi’ a Deo! Intendi, bella, quel che ti dico eo? Donna: Tu me no’ llasci viveri ne´ sera ne´ maitino: donna mi son di perperi, d’auro massamotino; se tanto aver donassemi, quant’a` lo Saladino, e per ajunta quant’a` lo Soldano, tocca`reme non potteri la mano. Uomo: Molte sono le femine c’a`nno dura la testa . . . 90 Travaini, “Romesinas, provesini, turonenses,” 113–33. 88

194 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD the Islamic world is the origin of the Italian word zecca for mint, from the Arabic sikka, a term that entered the Italian language from the high quality of mint organization in the Regno, mediated from Arabic Sicily to central and north Italy via the Norman and Hohenstaufen tradition.91 In conclusion, I would like to discuss the traces of some mysterious Byzantine coins in thirteenth-century Italy, the santalene of gold or silver mentioned in a number of coin lists of ca. 1300, and also by Dante Alighieri in the Convivio written in 1304–7 (IV, 11.8):92 “buried riches, which are discovered or rediscovered, present themselves more frequently to the bad than to the good, and this is so obvious that it does not need proof. Indeed, I have seen the spot, in the side of a mountain in Tuscany named Falterona, where the meanest peasant of all the countryside, when digging, found more than a bushel of Santalenas of the finest silver, which had been waiting for him perhaps over two thousand years.” These coins have generally been regarded as old Byzantine coins, with the name “Sante elene” referring to St. Helena,93 though she lived much less than two thousand years from Dante’s time. Some coin lists mention santelene of gold and of silver, and give their fineness, but so far no serious numismatic effort has been made to identify them. Coin lists of around 1300 refer to them as “vecchie” (“old”) and list them separately from the contemporary Byzantine perperi: (a) gold sante Alene vechie “at 24 carats less 1⁄3” and also silver santa lena dagiento “at 12 ounces less 1⁄3” (Columbia University, ms. X511 Al 13);94 (b) “sant’ Alene d’oro vecchie XXIIII meno 1⁄4” (Venice, Biblioteca Marciana, codex ital. Cl.XI, no. 98, fol. 22r, 1305);95 (c) “sant
alene d
oro col taglo grosso a ka. XXIII e 1⁄4’” (Florence, Biblioteca Nazionale, Racc. Tordi no. 139, codex Acciajoli, ca. 1311–15). They are not mentioned in later lists. Their design must have had some connection with St. Helena, implying a female holding a cross, and possibly some connection with Constantine. The coin must also have been present in Italian finds, possibly until the thirteenth century given their presence 91 L. Travaini, “Zecca,” in Enciclopedia dell’arte medievale, Istituto dell’Enciclopedia Italiana 11 (Rome, 2000), 844–47; eadem, “Mint Organisation in Italy between the Twelfth and the Fourteenth Centuries: A Survey,” in Later Medieval Mints: Organisation, Administration and Techniques. The Eighth Oxford Symposium on Coinage and Monetary History, ed. N. J. Mayhew and P. Spufford, BAR International Series 389 (Oxford, 1988), 39–60; L. Travaini, “Zecche, monete e tesori per la storia della Sicilia araba e normanna,”AStSic, 4th ser., 24.1 (1998): 35–60. The diffusion of the term zecca outside the Regno is still to be investigated, but such studies can bear interesting fruits. See the example of H. and R. Kahane, “The Western Impact on Byzantium: The Linguistic Evidence,” DOP 36 (1982): 127–53: most of the Italianisms are to be dated not earlier than the 13th century. 92 ` vile “Veramente io vidi lo luogo, ne le coste d’un monte che si chiama Falterona, in Toscana, dove lo piu `, che forse ` d’uno staio di santalene d’argento finissimo vi trovo villano di tutta la contrada, zappando, piu ` di dumilia anni l’avevano aspettato.” For the English translation, see Dante’s Convivio, trans. W. Waldrondpiu ` di dumilia anni” as “a thousand years or more.” Jackson (Oxford, 1909), 230–31, who translated Dante’s “piu For the reference to the English translation I am grateful to Nora Berend. 93 Most recently F. Melis, “Santalena,” in Enciclopedia Dantesca, vol. 5 (Rome, 1976), 10. Not directly concerned with our topic, but of general interest is A. Carile, “Dante e Bisanzio,” StMed, 3d ser., 40 (1999): 535–58. 94 This mathematical book was edited without any numismatic comment: Ein Italienisches Rechenbuch aus ¨ffentlichungen des Forschungsinstituts des Deutschen Museums fu dem 14. Jahrhundert, ed. K. Vogel, Vero ¨r ¨ bersetzungen 33 die Geschichte der Naturwissenschaften und der Technik, Reihe C, Quellentexte und U (Munich, 1977); I am currently studying the section related to the coin list and hope to publish it soon. 95 This manuscript and the following one are still unpublished, but are being studied by R.-H. Bautier, who kindly gave references from them to Philip Grierson via Ce´cile Morrisson; to all of them I am most grateful.

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in the merchants’ lists and in Dante. The latest Byzantine gold coins recorded in Italian finds so far are ones of Basil II and Constantine VIII, from three hoards: (1) the Ordona hoard, from northern Apulia: one histamenon of Basil II and Constantine VIII with 147 taris of Amalfi and Salerno, deposited ca. 1025;96 (2) the Rome (Torre delle Milizie) hoard, one histamenon of Basil II and Constantine VIII with 1,370 billon denari of Lucca, Pavia, and Provins in Champagne, deposited ca. 1185;97 (3) the Pisa (Logge dei Banchi) hoard, one histamenon of Basil II and Constantine VIII with 119 Hohenstaufen taris, 16 augustali, and 1 half-augustale of Frederick II, 91 gold florins, and 1 gold “grosso” of Lucca, deposited ca. 1266.98 I previously suggested that the presence of single specimens of the histamenon of Basil II and Constantine VIII in these hoards was due to debasement of later issues; they were thus probably the last good ones to be hoarded. I no longer favor this view, and I am inclined to accept that these coins had an added religious/magical value. The Pisa hoard is the nearest to Dante, who was born in 1265. The specimen in the Pisa hoard99 belongs to type 6 of the classification in DOC 3, as does the specimen in the Ordona hoard.100 I have not been able to check the one in the Rome hoard. The coins have on the obverse a bust of Christ, with two crescents in the upper quarters of the nimbus cross, and the legend ; on the reverse there are two busts holding a simple cross, with a suspended cross above Basil’s head, and the legend . The reverse may well have been taken as a reference to Constantine the Great and his mother St. Helena, given that the junior bust might have been taken as a female bust by thirteenth-century Italians. We know that “histamena of this class are extremely common, and their issue forms a landmark in the history of Byzantine gold coinage” (DOC 3.2: 607–8). Grierson has also pointed out that the two crescents in the nimbus cross were “popularly supposed to represent the sun and the moon, thus giving rise to the name helioselenata” for coins of this class, a term known from two references in documents from Mount Athos, one of 1030 and the other of 1034, and from a bronze weight bearing the inscription “This is a helioselenaton: a lighter than this is not valid” (DOC 3.1: 57). Although no Italian document of the eleventh century refers to helioselenata, the Italians may have used the term, and in the course of time something like selenata might have been attached to St. Helena, thus becoming santalena. We cannot prove that the term santalene derives from helioselenata, but the link between this class of histamena and St. Helena is very likely. Thus the gold santalene would be the class 6 histamena of Basil II and Constantine and the silver santalene possibly coins of Basil II and Constantine as well, although for these we have no find evidence. According to the analyses carried out at the Centre Babelon, the gold content of the class 6 histamena is ca. 23 carats, while the lists give gold santalene as 24 carats less 1⁄3 or 1⁄4,101 higher, but not impossible; even Gurnet, “Le tre´sor d’Ordona,” 155–71. E. Dupre´-Theseider, “Il tesoretto medievale della Torre delle Milizie,” BullComm 60 (1933): 249–52. 98 L. Lenzi, Il ripostiglio di monete auree scoperto in Pisa sotto le logge dei Banchi (Pisa, 1978). 99 Ibid., no.1, weighing 4.40 g. 100 Gurnet, “Le tre´sor d’Ordona,” no. 1, weighing 4.38 g, but worn. 101 Morrisson et al., L’or monnaye´, 216–17. 96 97

196 THE NORMANS BETWEEN BYZANTIUM AND THE ISLAMIC WORLD the Sicilian tari, known from our records to be 16 carats and 1⁄3 fine, is given as 16 and 2⁄3 carats in later lists.102 We should also note that the Florence manuscript describes “sant’alene d’oro col taglo grosso” (“large cut”), which most likely refers to the large diameter of these coins. The identity of the silver santalena is more debatable since we have no Italian finds at all. The fineness of 12 ounces less 1⁄3 given by the lists corresponds to 95 percent silver, and the silver content of Basil II and Constantine’s miliaresia bearing two busts is between 90 percent and 97 percent.103 But the two figures holding a cross, and the name of basileus Constantinus, even if he was not “the Great,” to be read on the coin—assuming it was read at all—must have resulted in the identification. Whether such coins could have been still around because of the good quality of their gold or silver or because they were very early associated with the cult of the Cross and St. Helena is, of course, debatable. But the fact that the three gold specimens so far known from Italian hoards are each present in a single specimen suggests a reason other than a monetary one for their survival. V. Laurent, T. Bertele´, and most recently H. Maguire, have noted the letter written by Michael Italikos in the mid-twelfth century celebrating the prophylactic virtues of a gold coin bearing images of Christ and Constantine and Helena.104 Michael Italikos was a literate and cultivated member of Byzantine society but was not able to read the Latin coin legend around the image of Christ; he thus confused the images of two emperors holding a cross with those of Constantine and Helena, given the fact that no gold coins had been issued with the joint images of the latter.105 The need of prophylactic icons was strong, and if Italikos was capable of such an interpretation, the more so for medieval Italians. We should remember how important the cult of the Cross was in medieval Italy as well as in Europe, with a strong revival in the eleventh and twelfth centuries in connection with the crusades and increased pilgrimages.106 Coins were thus also icons and magical objects, a field of research in need of more collaboration among numismatists and historians in various fields.107 Universita` degli Studi di Milano T. Bertele´, Numismatique byzantine, ed. C. Morrisson (Wetteren, 1978), 64–65, corresponding to types 17, 18, and 20 of DOC 3 (2:628–32). 104 V. Laurent, “Numismatique et folklore dans la tradition byzantine,” CNA 119/20 (1940): 3–16; T. Bertele´, “Costantino il Grande e S. Elena su alcune monete bizantine,” Numismatica 14 (1948): 106; H. Maguire, “Magic and Money in the Early Middle Ages,” Speculum 72 (1997): 1037–54, esp. 1044 for the letter by Michael Italikos, which was also commented on by the two previous authors. See also A. Linder, “The Myth of Constantine the Great in the West: Sources and Hagiographic Commemoration,” StMed, 3d ser., 16 (1975): 43–95. 105 Bertele´, “Costantino il Grande e S. Elena,” 92, with transcription of the letter. For coins bearing an image of Constantine, with or without Helena, see DOC 5.1:78; all such coins are later than Italikos’ letter, and therefore the coin he referred to must have been an older Byzantine coin. 106 G. Vitolo, “Santita`, culti e strutture socio-politiche,” in idem, Pellegrinaggi e itinerari dei santi, 23–38. 107 I presented some of these topics in a lecture, “Moneta e riti nel medioevo,” during a seminar for the Dottorato in Agiografia of the Universita` degli Studi di Roma “Tor Vergata.” I am most grateful to Sofia Boesch, Francesco Scorza Barcellona, and Vera von Falkenhausen for their comments and suggestions. 103

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L. Travaini, “The Fineness of Sicilian Taris.”

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Coinage and Money in the Latin Empire of Constantinople ALAN M. STAHL

ue n’a-t-on pas ´ecrit sur la monnaie des empereurs latins de Constantinople?” Already in 1878, as expressed in the frustration of Gustave Schlumberger in his Numismatique de l’Orient Latin, the coinage of the Latin Empire of Constantinople from 1204 to 1261 had established itself as the great conundrum of Byzantine and Crusade numismatics.1 Schlumberger spelled out the main lines of the paradox: though documentary evidence indicated that the Latins did mint coins in Constantinople, there are no surviving coins that bear the names of their emperors. The solution offered by earlier scholars had been to adduce what are now called the anonymous folles as the coins of the Latin emperors, but Schlumberger regarded this attribution as speculative and cited overstrike evidence which pointed to an earlier date for those issues. He conceded the possibility that some copper coins were indeed minted by the Latin Empire, but argued that the important coinages of silver and gold were lacking because Venice had imposed its coinage on the new empire and had kept the Frankish rulers from issuing their own. A century and a quarter after Schlumberger, we are still at about the same place in our understanding of the coinage of the Latin Empire. No coins have turned up with the names of the emperors, and the documentary evidence is unchanged. The anonymous folles have been attributed back to the tenth and eleventh centuries, and in the new volume four of the Dumbarton Oaks Catalogue it is imitations of twelfth-century billon and copper coins that are adduced as issues of the Latin emperors.2 The existence of Latin electrum hyperpyra, implied by a document that Schlumberger knew but did not discuss in this context, remains a question mark.3 The basic questions remain: What was used for money in the Latin Empire, and why did its rulers not issue coins in their own names? Can we answer both questions with the single word “Venice” as Schlumberger thought, or must we look elsewhere? The monetary system in effect in Byzantium in 1204 was basically that established in the late eleventh century with the reform coinage of Alexios I: a hyperpyron of good but

“Q

1 G. Schlumberger, Numismatique de l’Orient latin (Paris, 1878; repr. Graz, 1954), 274. I am grateful to Julian Baker and D. M. Metcalf for their advice on issues treated in this paper. Archival research in Venice was made possible by a series of grants from the Gladys K. Delmas Foundation. 2 DOC 3.2:634–706; DOC 4.1:53–55, 80–95, 653–97. 3 DOC 4.1:52–53. Schlumberger, Numismatique, 176, quotes the information on the coinage of Cyprus from Pegolotti’s list of gold coins but does not discuss the “perperi latini d’oro” of the same list.

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not pure gold, an electrum aspron trachy of baser gold alloy worth one-third of the hyperpyron, a billon aspron trachy or histamenon of a low silver-copper alloy, and copper coins of two modules referred to as the tetarteron and the half tetarteron.4 There is some numismatic evidence that old preconquest hyperpyra would have been available within the Latin Empire; a hoard from Agrinion in Epiros, containing 242 hyperpyra of John III of Nicaea and probably buried around the end of his reign in 1254, also had 53 preconquest hyperpyra.5 For the most part, however, the continued circulation of genuine, old hyperpyra has to be inferred from documents. Most of the documents that refer to money in the territories of the Latin Empire do so in terms of the hyperpyron. The term must usually be taken as a measure of value and not a literal description of the coins involved in the transaction. Venice had the most developed trade with Byzantium in the twelfth century, and commercial documents drawn up by its notaries at home and overseas present the fullest series of records of transactions within the Byzantine Empire. As these documents were enforceable legal contracts, the wording used to describe monetary terms was crucial to ensuring that payments were made as expected. Venetian documents from about 1129 on regularly represent sums of Byzantine money in terms of “bisantios auri perperos bonos veteres,” and this specification of payment in “old” hyperpyra appears in most documents up to the capture of the empire in 1204.6 The specification of “old” hyperpyra disappears within a year of the capture of Constantinople; it is last found in a letter of credit given to the new counts of Gallipoli in Venice in April 1205, authorizing repayment in Constantinople in “perperos auri bonos veteres pensantes.” After this time, hyperpyra are often still characterized as “pensantes” (heavy) in Venetian commercial contracts up to 1234, but never as old.7 The term “recti ponderis” is used in its place in Venetian official (as opposed to private commercial) documents beginning in 1206 and appears in documents until 1241.8 The dropping of the specification M. Hendy, Coinage and Money in the Byzantine Empire, 1081–1261, DOS 12 (Washington, D.C., 1969), 3–38; DOC 4.1:41–50. 5 D. M. Metcalf, “The Agrinion Hoard: Gold Hyperpyra of John III Vatatzes,” NC, ser. 7, 20 (1980): 113–31. 6 R. Morozzo della Rocca and A. Lombardo, eds., Documenti del commercio veneziano nei secoli XI–XIII, Documenti e studi per la storia del commercio e del diritto commerciale italiano 19–20, 2 vols. (Turin, 1940) (hereafter Documenti), nos. 53, 56, 78, 91, 108, 110, 129, 146, 167, 182, 183, 189, 190, 195–98, 199, 201, 214–17, 223, 278, 332, 345, 380, 381, 383, 395, 452, 456, 459; L. Lanfranchi, ed., Famiglia Zusto (Venice, 1955), no. 27; A. Lombardo and R. Morozzo della Rocca, eds., Nuovi documenti del commercio veneto dei secoli XI–XIII, Monumenti storici, n.s., 7 (Venice, 1953) (hereafter Nuovi documenti), nos. 40, 43. Documents from Genoese and Pisan sources of the period refer simply to hyperpyra, with no distinctions as to new or old: A. Sanguinetti and G. Bertolotto, eds., “Nuova serie di documenti sulle relazioni di Genova coll’impero bizantino,” Atti della Societa` Ligure di Storia Patria 28 (1896–98): 339–573, no. 5; C. di Imperiale di Sant’Angelo, ed., Codice diplomatico della Repubblica di Genova, 3 vols., Fonti per la storia d’Italia 89 (Rome, 1936–42), 3: nos. 25, 77; J. Mu ¨ ller, ed., Documenti sulle relazioni delle citta` toscane coll’Oriente cristiano e coi turchi fino all’anno 1531 (Florence, 1879), nos. 38, 47. The specification in certain other Venetian contracts of “new” hyperpyra, “bisancios auri perperos novos,” appears first in 1135 and is last seen in 1176: Documenti, nos. 67, 202, 273, 369 (from 1188 but referring to a contract drawn up in 1170); Nuovi Documenti, no. 10; L. Lanfranchi, ed., San Giorgio Maggiore, 4 vols. (Venice, 1967–86), no. 231. 7 Documenti, nos. 478, 490, 517, 518, 530, 541, 566, 568, 572, 592, 691; Nuovi documenti, no. 67. 8 G. L. F. Tafel and G. M. Thomas, eds., Urkunden zur ¨alteren Handels- und Staatsgeschichte der Republik Venedig, 3 vols., Fontes Rerum Austrasiacarum, Abt. 2, 12–14 (1856–57; repr. Amsterdam, 1967), nos. 177, 183, 205, 241, 296; Documenti, no. 485. 4

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of “old” hyperpyra within a year of the capture of Constantinople in favor of characterizations only of their weight suggests that the monetary basis of the Latin Empire was not primarily the continued circulation of the preconquest coinage. There are no coins known today with the names of the Latin emperors of Constantinople, and there is little likelihood that any such will ever be found.9 Two documentary sources, however, suggest that coins were indeed minted by the Latin rulers, copper coinage immediately following the conquest and debased hyperpyra at a later time. The inference of an early striking of base coins derives from the writing of Niketas Choniates, a Byzantine official present in Constantinople at the time of the conquest of 1204. His account of this activity is not in the chronological part of his history, which goes up to 1207, but in a text sometimes refered to as the “De Statuis,” which exists in one manuscript as a separate text and in others is appended to the end of his history.10 Though most of this text is a polemic against the Latins for the destruction of ancient pagan statues, it begins with a brief account of the installation of the Latin patriarch of Constantinople, which took place at the end of 1204 but is omitted from the events of that year in his history proper.11 Choniates had left the city in April 1204 and returned only in 1206, so if the melting of statues took place soon after the arrival of the patriarch, the historian would not have been an eyewitness to it, as he had been for many of the events in the chronological section.12 Three times in this short text Choniates uses the trope of large statues of great artistic value melted to make coins of little value; he twice calls these coins stath'ra" and once ke´ rmata, classical terms which were not apparently used in the twelfth century for specific denominations.13 Modern numismatists have identified the coins struck according to this account with imitations of twelfth-century billon issues, and while there is not full agreement on exactly which coins are to be assigned to the Latin Empire or their chronology, the identification has met with general acceptance.14 Whether such base coins would have been the sole currency used for the large payments that appear in documents in terms of “perperos auri pensantes” is much more doubtful. Another source that implies the minting of coins by the Latin emperors is the coin list appended to the end of Pegolotti’s merchant manual, probably composed around the end of the thirteenth century.15 In the listing of the alloys of various gold coins the merchant might encounter there is an entry for “perperi latini d’oro a carati 161⁄2,” accompanied by a drawing of the decoration of the obverse throne to distinguish them from 9 Pace T. Bertele`, Moneta veneziana e moneta bizantina (Florence, 1972), extracted from Venezia e il Levante fino al secolo XV (Venice, 1968), 88, where hope is still held out for such a discovery. 10 J.-L. van Dieten, ed., Nicetae Choniatae Historia, CFHB 11.1 (Berlin, 1975) (hereafter Choniates), xxiii– lviii. For the composition of this text, see V. Grecu, “Autour du De Signis de Nice´tas Choniate,” REB 6 (1948): 58–66; and A. Cutler, “The De Signis of Nicetas Choniates. A Reappraisal,” AJA 72 (1968): 113–18. 11 Choniates, 647. 12 Choniates, 589, 635. 13 Choniates, 648, 649, 650; Hendy, Coinage, 26–38; DOC 4.1:55–58. 14 Hendy, Coinage, 191–217; D. M. Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades and the Latin East in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, 2d ed., Royal Numismatic Society Special Publication 28 (London, 1995), 230–35; DOC 4.1:59–95. 15 Francesco Balducci Pegolotti, La practica della mercatura, ed. A. Evans, Medieval Academy of America Publication 24 (Cambridge, Mass., 1936), 287–89; P. Grierson, “The Coin List of Pegolotti,” in Studi in Onore di Armando Sapori (Milan, 1957), 485–92, repr. in his Later Medieval Numismatics (11th–16th Centuries) (London, 1979), XI.

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somewhat finer coins with very similar appearance. The finer coins have been identified as the second issue of hyperpyra of John III minted in Nicaea issued between 1221 and 1254 and the “perperi Latini” as imitations of them.16 One might associate these “Latin” hyperpyra with five citations of payments from the years between 1231 and 1251 characterized as being in hyperpyra “at the weight of Constantinople,” but it must be noted that there is also one such reference from 1211, before the Nicaean gold coinage is believed to have gotten under way.17 Another document of the period refers to hyperpyra as actual gold coins that might have been minted by the Latin Empire. In 1250, gold and silver coins and bullion were purchased and sent to Alphonse of Poitiers, brother of St. Louis, who was in captivity in Egypt.18 Along with gold maravedi of Castile and augustales of southern Italy, the French treasury bought 31⁄2 marks (about one kilogram) of hyperpyra, amounting to about onetwentieth of the gold sent. These hyperpyra were purchased at a price that would put their fineness at about 171⁄4 carats by comparison with the cost and fineness of the augustales, appropriate for coins of Nicaea at this time or Latin versions of them. There are no documents that describe the circulation within the Latin Empire of coins of the exile empires of Nicaea, Thessalonike, or Trebizond. A hoard found in the excavations of Corinth in 1934 dating to the last decade of the Latin Empire contained a single hyperpyron of John Vatatzes, emperor of Nicaea from 1222 to 1254, among 387 European coins, and other hyperpyra of Nicaea have been found there and elsewhere in the Peloponnese.19 Billon and copper coins of Nicaea show up in rather small quantities in excavations in the Peloponnese and Attica, especially by comparison with the plentiful twelfth-century issues and the imitations of them.20 In general, there is no evidence that the issues of rival emperors in exile played a significant role in the monetary life of the Latin Empire. The participants in the Fourth Crusade were used to a simple monetary regime in their homelands, based entirely on coinages of silver alloyed to a greater or lesser extent with copper. While certain of the European coinages had a degree of recognition beyond their immediate area of circulation, the most convenient way to express sums that might be paid in a variety of coinages or in bullion was in terms of weight of refined metal. Thus monetary sums in documents relating to the Fourth Crusade and the first years of the Latin Empire are frequently given in terms of marks of silver, regardless of what medium may actually have been used. The original contract of 1201 between the organizers of the Fourth Crusade and the Hendy, Coinage, 250–54. Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, nos. 277, 286; Nuovi documenti, no. 92; Layettes du Tre´sor des Chartes, ed. A. Teulet and L. de Laborde, 3 vols. (Paris, 1863–75), no. 3727; M. Balard, La Romanie ge´noise (XIIe–de´but du ´ coles FranXVe sie`cle), 2 vols., Atti della Societa` Ligure di Storia Patria, n.s., 18.1–2, and Bibliothe`que des E ¸caises d’Athe`nes et de Rome 235.1–2 (Rome, 1978), 484; Documenti, no. 537. 18 Layettes, no. 3911. 19 K. M. Edwards, “Report on the Coins Found in the Excavations at Corinth during the Years 1930–1935,” Hesp 6 (1937): 250; A. R. Bellinger, Catalogue of the Coins Found at Corinth, 1925 (New Haven, Conn., 1930), 72; D. M. Metcalf, Coinage in South-Eastern Europe, 820–1396, Royal Numismatic Society Special Publication 11 (London, 1979), 130–31. 20 Edwards, “Corinth,” 255; M. Thompson, The Athenian Agora, vol. 2, Coins from the Roman through the Venetian Period (Princeton, N.J., 1954), 74–75; Metcalf, Coinage in Southeastern Europe, 237–43. 16 17

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state of Venice set the payment for the transport in terms of quantities of pure silver weighed to the mark of Cologne, specified as that in use in Venice.21 The mark of silver is also the unit of value used by European chroniclers of the crusade to describe debts, payments, and booty; the German Gunther of Pairis explains that the hyperpyron was referred to among crusaders as a “vierdung” as it was worth one-quarter of a mark.22 The mark was the unit of value used in the agreements whereby Venice gained the island of Corfu in 1203 and Crete in 1204.23 Like the hyperpyron, the mark of silver might appear in a document as a unit of value or as a record of the actual medium of exchange. A few documents suggest that at least a certain amount of the monetary exchange of the Fourth Crusade and the period immediately after was carried out in weighed ingots of silver, though no such ingots are reported in hoards or site finds. A letter of Innocent III to Genoa in late 1204 complains of the capture of a ship in which Baldwin was sending him jewels and icons from churches in Constantinople; among descriptions of these objects he lists 50 marks of silver.24 In 1207, two Lombard brothers returning from Constantinople deposited 241⁄2 marks of pure silver with Venetian bankers there, to be repaid in Venice in Lombard coinage.25 After the first few years of the Latin Empire, the references to payments in terms of marks of silver cease, but silver ingots continued to be sent east; the accounts of coins sent to Alphonse of Poitiers in Egypt in 1250 include 400 marks of silver in plate (but no such ingots of gold) accounting for about 5 percent of the total value of the shipment.26 By the beginning of the Fourth Crusade a coinage had begun to establish itself among northern Europeans as a convenient medium for payments in terms of the mark of Cologne: the English sterling.27 When Baldwin of Flanders was trying to raise the money to pay off his debt to the Venetian state in 1202 while waiting for other crusaders to assemble, he borrowed money from four Venetian noblemen in the form of sterling coins, specified as 160 coins per mark.28 Several references to payments in sterlings for support of foreign armies come from late in the period of the Latin Empire. In 1246, Emperor Baldwin II promised the Master of the Order of Santiago 40,000 marks of sterlings in exchange for the services of three hundred of his knights for two years.29 Among the coins and bullion sent to Alphonse of Poitiers in 1250, sterlings bought by count and by 21 Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, no. 92; this is in contrast with a similar transport contract between crusaders and Genoese of 1190, which specified payment according to the heavier mark of Troyes (at about half the rate for the transport!): M. Chiaudano and R. Morozzo della Rocca, eds., Oberto scriba de mercato, 2 vols., Notai liguri dei secoli XII e XIII 1 and 4, Documenti e studi 11 and 16 (Genoa, 1938–40), 1: no. 599. 22 Geoffroi de Villehardouin, La Conqueˆte de Constantinople, ed. and trans. E. Faral, 2 vols., Les classiques de l’histoire de France au Moyen Age 18–19 (Paris, 1938–39), chaps. 22, 61, 188, 254; Gunther of Pairis, “Historia Constantinopolitana,” ed. P. Riant, in Exuviae sacrae constantinopolitanae, 2 vols. (Geneva, 1878), 1:78. 23 Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, nos. 88, 123. 24 Riant, Exuviae, 2:56–57. 25 Documenti, no. 487. 26 Layettes, no. 3911. 27 P. Spufford, Money and Its Use in Medieval Europe (Cambridge, 1988), 160–61; J. Yvon, “Esterlins `a la croix courte dans les tre´sors franc¸ais de la fin du XIIe et de la premie`re moitie´ du XIIIe sie`cle,” British Numismatic Journal 39 (1970): 19–60. 28 Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, no. 95, and Documenti, no. 462. 29 E. B. Ruano, “Balduino II de Constantinople y la Orden de Santiago,” Hispania 12 (1952): 30–34, no. 3.

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weight made up 43 percent of the total value.30 In 1255, Latin residents of Thebes loaned the captain of the Venetian army in Greece 2,740 “hyperpyra of sterlings,” to be paid back by the Venetian state at the rate of one mark of new sterlings by the weight of Cologne for each seven hyperpyra.31 The circulation of actual sterling coins in the region is attested by hoards of them from the islands of Naxos and Crete and from excavations on the Greek mainland.32 Coins of the homelands of the crusaders, who came mainly from northern France and the Low Countries, play a surprisingly small role in the accounts of the money of the Latin Empire. An exception is found in the chronicle of Robert of Clari, a participant in the crusade. While he follows other sources in describing the division of the booty in terms of marks of silver, he gives examples of the high price of food during the siege in sous and deniers of unspecified origin.33 More significantly, he describes the system of the division of the empire in terms of the revenues of the various fiefs expressed in terms of the coinage of Anjou.34 This cannot be a result of his personal background, as he was from Picardy, nor can it reflect the home coinage of any of the leading knights; Anjou was embroiled in fighting between France and England at the time of the organization of the Fourth Crusade, and few if any men from that region participated. The only other indication of the importance of this coinage in the Latin Empire is the presence of 113 Angevin coins, more than one-quarter of the total, in a hoard from Samos which may have been deposited around the time of the Fourth Crusade.35 The French coin that eventually established itself as a currency in the lands of the Latin Empire was the denier tournois. At the time of the capture of Constantinople, however, this was the coinage of the abbey of St. Martin of Tours, in the lands contested between England and France; it would become one of the two main coinages of the French kings only in 1205.36 The only mentions of deniers tournois in the documentation of the Latin Empire concern payments by Louis IX and his wife to cover the debts of the Latin emperors; these payments were not necessarily made in the East, so they are not evidence for transport of the coinage there.37 French deniers tournois are, however, plenLayettes, no. 3911. Documenti, no. 833; this hyperpyron of account would then have been valued at about half of the real Byzantine coin cited in 1204 as worth one-quarter of a mark of silver: above, note 22. 32 Lord Stewartby, “The ‘Naxos’ Hoard of Thirteenth-Century Sterlings,” NC 154 (1994): 147–46; Metcalf, Coinage in Southeastern Europe, 263–65. 33 Robert of Clari, La Conqueˆte de Constantinople, ed. P. Lauer, Les classiques franc¸ais du Moyen Age 40 (Paris, 1924), chaps. 56, 60. 34 Ibid., chap. 107. 35 ¨nzbla¨tter, n.s., 9 (1934–35): W. Schwabacher, “Zwei Danarfunde von ostgriechischen Inseln,” Deutsche Mu 454–57; J. Duplessy and D. M. Metcalf, “Le tre´sor de Samos et la circulation mone´taire en Orient Latin aux XIIe et XIIIe sie`cles,” RBN 108 (1962): 173–95. Angevin coins are represented among finds in crusader contexts in the Levant more than any other mint of the central French heartland: A. M. Stahl, “The Circulation of European Coinage in the Crusader States,” in The Meeting of Two Worlds: Cultural Exchange between East and West during the Period of the Crusades, ed. V. P. Goss, Medieval Institute Publications, Studies in Medieval Culture 21 (Kalamazoo, Mich., 1986), 85–102 and figs. 1 and 2. 36 A. Blanchet and A. Dieudonne´, Manuel de numismatique franc¸aise, 4 vols. (Paris, 1912–36), 2:113–15. 37 Layettes, no. 3737; R. L. Wolff, “Mortgage and Redemption of an Emperor’s Son: Castile and the Latin Empire of Constantinople,” Speculum 29 (1954): 48–49. The list of coins and bullion sent to Alphonse of Poitiers makes no mention of deniers tournois, but since these would not have had to be purchased, they may have been omitted from the account. 30 31

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tiful in Greek finds and appear to have begun arriving well before the end of the Latin Empire in 1261.38 Eventually, coinage began to be issued by the Frankish princes of Greece who were vassals of the Latin emperors. Some time in the 1240s or 1250s, feudal rulers began minting bronze coinages in Thebes and Corinth.39 Though a fourteenth-century chronicle assigns the inception of the coinage of billon Frankish deniers tournois in Greece to a minting grant by Louis IX of France around 1249, modern numismatic scholarship generally places the beginning of such issues to the years just after the fall of the Latin Empire.40 In his contention that Venice supplied the coinage for the Latin Empire, Schlumberger hypothesized a lost treaty between the two parties which reserved the rights of precious metal coinage to Venice. He was able to cite an extant treaty of 1219 between the Venetian podesta` of Constantinople and Theodore Laskaris, emperor in exile in Nicaea, in which each party agreed not to make hyperpyra, manuelatos (electrum aspron trachea), or stamena (billon trachea) in imitation of that of the other.41 Schlumberger inferred from the lack of mention of the Latin emperor in this document that Venice controlled the minting of the empire and that the coinage clause was the consequence of the attempt by at least one of the parties to imitate the issues of the other.42 In trying to understand this clause, however, we should note the context of the agreement as a whole and of a similar one made the next year between the same Venetian representative and the sultan of Rum.43 Both treaties are mainly concerned with the protection of Venetian merchants traveling in the states neighboring the Latin Empire. The inclusion of the clause about imitative coinage in the Nicaean pact and not in the Turkish one may have been a concession that Venice made to get such protection from Theodore, who had probably already been issuing the two lower denominations and may also have minted hyperpyra.44 The treaties as a whole reflect Venice’s main interest in the region—commerce—and do not involve the Latin Empire at all; if anything they illustrate how independent the two entities were of each other. In fact, contrary to Schlumberger’s belief that the Venetian representatives were the real masters of the Latin Empire, it seems that Venice played almost no role in its government and concentrated on trade and on the development of its own colonies.45 The main context in which Venetians and Venetian coinage play a significant role in the sources concerning the government of the Latin Empire are various loans to the emperors, most notably that secured by the “crown of thorns” in 1238.46 As surety for 38 Metcalf, Coinage of Southeastern Europe, 247–48. Metcalf ’s early dating of those with the TVRONVS CIVIS legend is supported by J. Duplessy, “La datation des deniers tournois de saint Louis,” in Proceedings of the 9th International Congress of Numismatics, Berne, September 1979, International Association of Professional Numismatists Publication 7 (Louvain-la-Nueve, 1982), 2:885–90. 39 Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades, 242–51. 40 Marin Sanudo Torsello, Istoria del Regno di Romania, ed. C. Hopf in Chroniques gre´co-romanes (Berlin, 1873), 102; Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades, 252–57. 41 Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, no. 252. 42 Schlumberger, Numismatique, 275–76. 43 Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, no. 258. 44 Hendy, Coinage, 224–36. 45 B. Hendrickx, “Les institutions de l’Empire Latin de Constantinople (1204–1261): La cour et les dignitaires,” Byzantina 9 (1977): 187–217, esp. 212. 46 Layettes, no. 2744.

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COINAGE AND MONEY IN THE LATIN EMPIRE

the loan given by a Venetian merchant of 13,134 hyperpyra “of correct weight,” the representatives of the absent emperor Baldwin II placed this most holy of relics in the keeping of the Venetian podesta`. In order to redeem it, they agreed to pay back as much Venetian money as lead would be worth on the Venetian market at the rate of 81⁄4 hyperpyra per thousandweight of lead. This document suggests that the basic unit of value in Constantinople by this time was weighed ingots of lead, possibly derived from the stripping of the roofs of palaces.47 It certainly demonstrates that Venetian coinage was not the basis for the currency of the Latin Empire. Soon after the division of the empire among the participants of the Fourth Crusade, Venice consolidated its holdings to the islands of Crete and Corfu, part of Negroponte (Euboea), and the outposts of Coron and Modon on the southwest tip of the Peloponnese. Even in these colonies, Venetians continued to account state and private expenditures in hyperpyra. In 1222, when the doge sent soldiers to Crete, he advanced them sums in Venice in terms of Venetian money, but set their annual tributes in hyperpyra once they were established there as feudatories.48 Various quotes of the hyperpyron against Venetian coinage in the following few years show that the two systems were based on different coins.49 By 1229 a contract speaks of hyperpyra “at the weight of Crete,” which suggests that the hyperpyron of account there had become different from that of other regions.50 A document of 1255 puts the hyperpyron of Crete at 13 Venetian grossi, while it is quoted at 133⁄4 grossi in 1271, again implying different base coins for the two systems.51 While some payments in Crete in 1271 are put in terms of hyperpyra and grossi, such as a cow sold for 12 hyperpyra 7 grossi, others give prices in hyperpyra and sterlings, and one specifically calls for payment in sterlings of just weight.52 So, ten years after the fall of the Latin Empire, Venetian coinage does not seem to have become dominant even in its own colony of Crete. Numismatic evidence suggests that Venetian coinage began circulating in the other regions of the Latin Empire in the mid-thirteenth century, but not as the dominant coinage.53 A handful of Venetian grossi of this period have turned up in excavations in Greece, but only two examples of its copper quartarolo and none of the billon bianco.54 There are no Greek hoards of grossi buried before 1253; the four hoards that close with 47 “Fragmentum Marini Sanuti Torselli” in Hopf, Chroniques, 171; on this text see R. L. Wolff, “Hopf ’s Socalled ‘Fragmentum’ of Marin Sanudo Torsello,” in The Joshua Starr Memorial Volume (New York, 1953), 149–59. 48 Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, no. 263. 49 R. Cessi, ed., Deliberazioni del Maggior Consiglio di Venezia, R. Accademia dei Lincei, Commissione per gli Atti delle Assemblee Costituzionali Italiane, ser. 3, sect. 1, 3 vols. (Bologna, 1931–50), 1:98–99 (1226, hyperpyron ⫽ solidi 34 denarii 8 venetiani); 1:188 (1227, hyperpyron ⫽ s35 ven.); 1:195–96 (1228, hyperpyron paid at s35 ven. in Crete and s38 ven. in Venice); these are all reimbursement rates which are not likely to reflect interest as might be the case for exchange contracts). 50 Documenti, nos. 646, 795. 51 Documenti, no. 827; A. Lombardo, ed., Imbreviature di Pietro Scardon (1271), Documenti e studi 21 (Turin, 1942), no. 243; these appear to be exchange equivalents, unlike the rate of 13 grossi (s28 d3 ad grossos) in a cambio contract of 1271 (Lombardo, Scardon, no. 50). 52 Lombardo, Scardon, nos. 70, 205, 29, 280, 94. 53 Metcalf, Coinage of Southeastern Europe, 265–66. 54 Thompson, Agora, 80; K. M. Edwards, Corinth, vol. 6. Coins 1896–1929 (Cambridge, Mass., 1933), 158–59.

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grossi of the doge who reigned from 1253 to 1268 mark the beginning of the circulation of Venetian coinage in the southern Balkans in the decades after, not during, the period of the Latin Empire.55 There is then no evidence that Venice imposed its coinage on the Latin Empire at the expense of its Frankish rulers. Rather, the lack of any coinage from the Latin emperors seems to have created a vacuum of circulating medium which Venetian coinage gradually filled in, along with older Byzantine issues and their imitations, issues of the rival rulers in exile, imports of coins from England and France, and uncoined ingots of silver and possibly even lead. Why, then, did the Latin emperors not issue their own coinage? They certainly presented themselves with many of the other trappings of imperial power. The coronation of Baldwin I as emperor in 1204 was modeled on Byzantine protocol, and he and his successors issued documents using a full imperial titulature and sealed with gold bullae.56 As count of Flanders, a title he kept along with emperor, Baldwin had minting rights in his own name and could easily have cited the precedent of the crusader kings of Jerusalem, who put their names on their coinage. Nor can lack of funds have been the original reason for not minting; the booty Baldwin acquired from the sack of the city amounted to 100,000 marks of silver, which could have been reminted into coinage in his name before being distributed among his men.57 It was probably not political or strictly economic considerations that kept the Latin emperors from initiating coin issues immediately after the conquest, but the contrast between Byzantine and European coinage. Byzantine coinage comprised a number of denominations in alloys of three metals bearing a complex system of control markings.58 The money of western Europe, on the other hand, consisted almost exclusively of coinages in silver-copper alloy of a single denomination for each issuer. The implementation and maintenance of even such a simple system as the crusaders had known at home was often a challenge. The small, immobilized denier of the counts of Flanders barely held its own at home against the circulation of imported English sterlings and German pfennigs.59 The English sterling, which was to play such an important role in the monetary life of the Latin Empire, had been introduced only in 1180, following the failed experiment of Henry II’s cross-and-crosslet coinage.60 Soon after the intro55 A. M. Stahl, “The Circulation of Medieval Venetian Coinages,” in Moneta locale, moneta straniera: Italia ed Europa XI–XV secolo. The Second Cambridge Numismatic Symposium. Local Coins, Foreign Coins: Italy and Europe 11th to 15th Centuries, ed. L. Travaini (Milan, 1999), 87–111; Metcalf, Coinage of Southeastern Europe, 221; M. GalaniKrikou, “Sumbolh´ sth´ n e´ reuna th´ " kuklofori´a" mesaiwnikw´ n nomisma´ twn sto´ despota´ to th´ " jHpei´rou (1204– 1449),” in Praktika´ Dieqnou´ " Sumposi´ou gia´ to´ Despota´ to th´ " jHpei´rou (Arta, 1990), 141–42, nos. 2–3; A. M. Stahl, Zecca: The Mint of Venice in the Middle Ages (Baltimore, 2000), 201–12, 441–56. 56 See Robert of Clari, Conqueˆte, 93–95 for the coronation; Tafel and Thomas, Urkunden, nos. 122, 176; G. Schlumberger, Sigillographie de l’Orient Latin (Paris, 1943), 165–74. 57 Villehardouin, Conqueˆte, chap. 254. 58 DOC 4:102–11. 59 Spufford, Money, 160–61, 195–96. 60 It is indicative of the challenge facing a new ruler taking over an existing coinage that Henry had issued no coins at all in the first four years of his rule of England: D. F. Allen, A Catalogue of English Coins in the British Museum: The Cross-and-Crosslets (“Tealby”) Type of Henry II (London, 1951), xi–xv; N. J. Mayhew, “From Regional to Central Minting, 1158–1464,” in A New History of the Royal Mint, ed. C. E. Challis (Cambridge, 1992), 83–97.

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duction of its fine silver grosso in the 1190s, Venice abandoned the production of its penny, which had been the basis of its coinage for more than three centuries.61 The precedent of the Latin kings of Jerusalem is, in fact, telling; issues bearing the names of the kings are mainly European-style deniers, begun almost half a century after the capture of Jerusalem; the coins they minted that were of international economic importance were anonymous gold imitations of Islamic dinars.62 Had the Latin emperors of Constantinople enjoyed the opportunity to establish a stable government and at least a reasonably solid economic base, they would probably eventually have issued coins in their own names on the model of those of the empire they took over, supplemented perhaps by deniers of a type familiar to their followers. That they never achieved this is probably to be laid to the incessant demands of defensive warfare and a constantly eroding economic base. In the absence of an indigenous coinage, transactions in the Latin Empire had to be carried out with a variety of monetary media, including old Byzantine coins and imitations of them, coins imported from near and far, and weighed ingots of silver and even lead. In its money, as in other aspects of its governance, the regime set up by the participants in the Fourth Crusade was an empire in name only. Rice University The grosso may have been introduced in 1202, but the preponderance of evidence suggests the earlier date: A. M. Stahl, “The Coinage of Venice in the Age of Enrico Dandolo,” in Medieval and Renaissance Venice, ed. E. E. Kittell and T. F. Madden (Urbana-Chicago, 1999), 124–40. A die study of the issue of grossi in the name of Dandolo indicates a rather small initial issue: A. M. Stahl, “The Grosso of Enrico Dandolo,” RBN 145 (1999): 261–68. 62 Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades, 43–74. 61

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Use and Circulation of Coins in the Despotate of Epiros ANGELIKI E. LAIOU

he circulation of coins is a topic in the examination of which archaeological evidence and written sources can be used together to provide certain answers. Sometimes the answers they provide seem to differ. The best example is the problem of coin circulation during the so-called great gap (660s–820s), where the written evidence argues for continuing circulation of coins and their use in everyday transactions, whereas the archaeological evidence yields virtually no bronze coins in provincial settings. I mention this problem partly in order to stress the fact that the question of coin circulation in the provinces of the Byzantine Empire is of paramount importance for the economic history of that state. Whereas global estimates for coin circulation exist and are very useful, regional studies are needed to establish conclusions capable of being compared with one another; and the sources are not always tractable. Undoubtedly, such studies would show differences between various provinces, but also similarities, attributable to the fiscal system and to the exigencies of a largely agricultural society. Differences also existed between Constantinople and the provinces. As for the sources, sometimes we have archaeological sources in abundance, with very little evidence of other kinds; an example would be Corinth in the twelfth century. Generally speaking, narrative sources provide limited evidence; saints’ lives perhaps more, and the documentary sources, which we have in comfortable quantities for Macedonia from Mount Athos, and for Asia Minor from the archives of the Lembiotissa, quite a lot more. In this paper I concentrate on western Macedonia and Epiros, that is, parts of the despotate of Epiros, at a specific time, roughly the reigns of Michael I (1205–15) and his half-brother Theodore Doukas (1215–30; emperor from 1226, crowned in 1227). The documentation sometimes dates back to the years shortly before 1204. The geographic extent of the despotate of Epiros (Fig. 1) during this period varied, but with the conquests of Theodore Doukas the state came to include all of Epiros, Aitolia, and Akarnania, much of Thessaly, western and eastern Macedonia, and Thrace with Adrianople as the eastern limit, and Prilep, Pelagonia, Prosek, Serres, and Drama delimiting the northern frontier, while the islands of Corfu and Leukas also belonged to it.1 This area and this period are interesting in a number of ways. First, it is an area that

T

1 D. M. Nicol, The Despotate of Epiros (Oxford, 1957), esp. pp. 38, 58–59, 103–4. Although the focus of this paper is on western Macedonia and Epiros, evidence from other parts of the despotate will also be used occasionally.

208 USE AND CIRCULATION OF COINS IN THE DESPOTATE OF EPIROS is little known and one whose economy was probably not as highly differentiated as that of other parts of the Byzantine Empire; therefore, the information we glean illuminates the use of coin in an area of moderate development, as one might put it. Second, this is a time for which we possess both archaeological evidence and written sources. The archaeological evidence consists of coins, both single coins and hoards. The written evidence includes the judicial decisions and opinions of Demetrios Chomatianos, archbishop of Ohrid (d. ca. 1236), and John Apokaukos, metropolitan of Naupaktos (from ca. 1199/1200 until his death in 1232). The written evidence is fragmentary, because it mentions coins only when their quantity, quality, and the use to which they were put are pertinent to the case discussed—and that applies to only a small number of cases. I have argued elsewhere that one must be very careful in the use of these sources, since they are atypical. Pierre Bourdieu has shown that the use of contractual documents and court records for the study of social history is risky, since, by the time people have drawn up written contracts, and certainly when a case reaches the court, normal arrangements have broken down, and therefore we are dealing with outliers.2 Byzantium was a litigious society, certainly in the middle period, when all kinds of cases reached the courts of judges such as Eustathios Rhomaios, Demetrios Chomatianos, and John Apokaukos. Still, caution is justified with regard to such records, since their representativeness is open to question, at least insofar as social history is concerned. I think that court records do permit some conclusions about economics, as long as one is very careful in establishing the questions to be asked, the limitations of the use of evidence, and the methodology he or she applies. As for methodology, any attempt to use quantification or statistics is doomed to fail. These are chance documents, in a way. Even if the number of references to coins were larger than it is, the evidence would still be skewed by the fact that the reason the litigants went to court and the purpose of the compilers of the files was not to deal with coins at all, but to discuss cases within the competence of the court, for example, among others, cases of divorce, adultery, consanguineous marriages, where one would hardly expect coins to show up, and indeed they do not. Hence the negative methodological point. We fall back on the simple method of collecting what information we can about coin circulation and use, checking to see how it compares with the archaeological evidence, and then trying to interpret the totality of the documentation. COINS IN THE WRITTEN AND ARCHAEOLOGICAL EVIDENCE In the various acts, we find mention of nomismata trikephala, nomismata trikephala prattomena,3 trikephala protimomena4 (both of these are designations that can also be found in the twelfth century), nomismata trikephala angelata,5 or nomismata in general. Nomisma, when 2 On this, see Angeliki E. Laiou, “On Individuals, Aggregates and Mute Social Groups: Some Questions of Methodology,” SUMMEIKTA 9, Mnh´ mh D. A. Zakuqhnou´ , Part 1 (Athens, 1994): 378 ff. 3 J. B. Pitra, Analecta sacra et classica spicilegio Solesmense parata, vol. 6 (Paris-Rome, 1891) (hereafter Chomatianos) nos. 19 and 82. 4 ´ cou Mhtropoli´tou Naupa´ ktou ejpistolai´, pra´ xei" sunodiA. P. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, “ jIwa´ nnou Apokau j kai´ kai´ e“mmetra,” Noctes Petropolitanae (St. Petersburg, 1913), no. 3, 254–59. 5 Chomatianos, no. 82. The term nomisma trikephalon angelaton is unknown to numismatic literature. According to an anonymous reader, whom I should like to thank here, it could refer to electron coins of Isaac II which show the emperor with St. Michael (DOC 4.2: pl. XX, El 2.1–2.C.9), but also to Manuel KomnenosDoukas (DOC 4.2: pl. XL, El 2.1–2.2). The reader wonders whether the term might refer to any trikephalon issued by Theodore or Manuel, although “Angelos” does not appear in Theodore’s titulature.

1

Leukas

Arta

von tso

AITOLIA

AKARNANIA

Servia

Naupaktos

Agrinion

Me

Little Prespa

Pelagonia (Monastir)

Plakote Aitoloakarnanias

EPIROS

Ioannina

Ohrid

Prilep

THESSALY

Verroia

Prosek

Thessalonike

MACEDONIA

Strumitsa

Serres

Melnik

0

Mount Athos

Drama

10

40

60

ENGLISH MILES 80

100

Indicates find spots or hoards Desporate of Epiros, ca. 1214 Acquisitions of Theodore Kommenos Doukas

20

EPIROS, THESSALY, & MACEDONIA

THRACE

Epiros, Thessaly, and Macedonia in the 13th century (after D.M. Nicol, The Despotate of Epiros [Oxford, 1957], with modifications)

Corfu

Durazzo

Dibra

Adrianople

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used without further qualification, seems to refer to gold coins.6 The trikephala or trikephala prattomena could, in theory, designate both electron or silver coins and gold coins.7 In our texts, they are coins of relatively low purchasing value: in one act the price of a woolen garment (tzocha) is estimated at 50 nomismata trikephala prattomena, while a piece of yellow silk cloth, of unknown length, but of good quality (kathexamiton), is valued at more than 20 nomismata trikephala.8 In another act,9 20 nomismata trikephala prattomena were destined to be spent toward the transformation of a piece of land into a vineyard, an investment that would result in higher income from the land. A distinction is clearly made in the sources between the nomismata trikephala and the gold hyperpyron, as will be seen below. These nomismata trikephala must be either the electron trachea of the late twelfth century or the electron trachea/silver trachea of Michael I (1204–15) or Theodore Doukas.10 The value of the electron trachy had declined in the course of the twelfth century, from one-third of a hyperpyron at the time of the Nea Logarike to possibly one-tenth or one-eleventh in the last years of the century.11 The value of the nomismata trikephala mentioned in our sources, relative to the gold coin, would depend on the date of issue of the former, since at the time of Manuel I the trikephalon still contained 21 percent gold. The accumulation of money, payment for services, and very occasionally the payment of taxes (in the case of Leukas)12 were all made in trikephala nomismata. By comparison, the gold coin, appearing in the sources as hyperpyron, hexagion, nomisma, or chrysinoi,13 seems to have been rare. This conclusion arises not so much from the fact that gold coins are rarely mentioned, but rather because of the context in which they appear: either they form a small component of the whole property in a document, or they belong to well-off people. The cash component of the betrothal gift of Basil Drougouvilos, a man of modest means, to his fiance´e was composed of 150 trikephala and one hyperpyron.14 The inheritance of a young man from Verroia, whose family seems to have been moderately well off, included 30 chrysiou hexagia, while the cash involved in his sister’s dowry was expressed in hexagia, and the rest of her dowry was evaluated in nomismata.15 On the other hand, the dowry of the wife of a member of the aristocracy (kyr Georgios Evripiotes) from Verroia included a considerable number of hyperpyra. The man 6 M. F. Hendy, Coinage and Money in the Byzantine Empire, 1081–1261, DOS 12 (Washington, D.C., 1969), 225–26. 7 Hendy, Coinage, 33. 8 Chomatianos, no. 19; cf. A. E. Laiou, “O qesmo´ " th" mnhstei´a" sto de´ kato tri´to aiw´ na.” Aphieroma ston Niko Svorono, vol. 1 (Rethymno, 1986), 288–93. This seems too expensive if the coins are gold ones (cf. comparable prices in C. Morrisson and J.-C. Cheynet, “Prices and Wages in the Byzantine World,” in The Economic History of Byzantium, ed. A. Laiou, in press). 9 Chomatianos, no. 82. 10 Hendy, Coinage, 3, 18–19, 268–69. Cf. idem in DOC 4.2: 543–631, and P. Protonotarios, “ JH nomisma ` Cronika´ (1982): 136–38. This article tokopi´a tou' Buzantinou' kra´ tou" th'" jHpei´rou (1204–1268),” Hpeirwtika j was also published under the title “Le monnayage du ‘Despotat’ d’Epire,” in RN, 6th ser., 25 (1983): 83–99. 11 Hendy, Coinage, 18 ff; cf. C. Morrisson, “Byzantine Money: Its Production and Circulation,” in Laiou, Economic History of Byzantium (as above, note 8). 12 N. A. Bees, “Unedierte Schriftstu ¨ cke aus der Kanzlei des Johannes Apokaukos des Metropoliten von Naupaktos (in Aetolien),” BNJ 21 (1971–74): no. 25. 13 Chomatianos, no. 92. 14 Chomatianos, no. 19. 15 Chomatianos, no. 84; cf. A. E. Laiou, Mariage, amour et parente´ `a Byzance aux XIe–XIIIe sie`cles (Paris, 1992), 181 ff.

210 USE AND CIRCULATION OF COINS IN THE DESPOTATE OF EPIROS had also received money gifts from the wife’s father and grandfather (a total of 80 hyperpyra) and had gotten from her sister, by way of inheritance, another 121 hyperpyra.16 All of this represented savings on the part of the lady’s family, and all was spent by Evripiotes on investments in vineyards and on other expenses; thus it was put into circulation. Gold was the coin of choice for those who collected taxes and dues, though not for those who paid them. In Drama, the governor imposed on the inhabitants collective fines, for fictitious misdeeds, in the sum of more than 20 gold coins (chrysa nomismata). He also “bought” a vineyard from one unhappy person for 20 hyperpyra, though he never actually paid the sum.17 John Apokaukos complains that the logariastes kyr Georgios Dishypatos raised the taxes of some property that belonged to the see of Naupaktos (or that was exploited by the see), adding to the praktikon the sum of 7 chrysinoi.18 Another complaint, by the same prelate, shows both the scarcity of gold coins and the insistence of the government to collect the taxes in gold. Constantine Doukas, on behalf of Theodore, had demanded from the “penetes” of the church, that is, the paroikoi,19 the sum of 1,000 gold coins (chiliada chrysou). Apokaukos wrote two letters of complaint, one to Despot Theodore Doukas and one to Nikephoros Gorianites, panoikeiotatos of Theodore Doukas.20 He had never seen, he said, one thousand gold coins in a single place, neither at a banker’s nor at the house of extremely rich men. The church, he added, was supposed to pay a tax of 180 hyperpyra (still gold coins). It had already paid, in gold and cloth, 343 chrysous, plus the price of horses, which brought the sum to 500 coins. The poor taxpayers, he complains, cannot possibly pay 1,000 gold coins. He offers, instead, one thousand trikephala protimomena (the equivalent of perhaps 100 gold coins), which is all he claims that he and the paroikoi can produce. This is a clear indication not only of the unhappiness (far from unusual) of taxpayers and their masters with increased taxation, but also of the nonavailability of gold. It is noteworthy that Apokaukos offered to pay a sum much smaller than the thousand coins that had been sought by the authorities, and he wanted to make the payment in trikephala nomismata, not in gold. The information of the written sources concerning coins in circulation can be compared with what we know from the numismatic evidence, which is fragmentary, and comes from Arta, Ioannina, the islet of St. Achilleios in Little Prespa, Agrinion, Metsovon, Plakote Aitoloakarnanias, Servia, and Ohrid.21 To summarize, most of the coins found Chomatianos, no. 25. Chomatianos, no. 96. 18 Bees, “Unedierte Schriftstu ¨ cke,” no 53. 19 S. Petride`s, “Jean Apokaukos, lettres et autres documents ine´dits,” IRAIK 14 (Sofia, 1909): 15: tou` " uJpo` th` n ejkklhsi´an ajpo´ rou"; ibid., 16, pe´ nhte" pa´ roikoi. 20 ´ cou ejpistolai´,” no.3, 254–59 ⫽ Petride`s, “Jean Apokaukos,” Papadopoulos-Kerameus, “ jIwa´ nnou Apokau j nos. 9 and 10. On Nikephoros Gorianites, see Bees, “Unedierte Schriftstu ¨ cke,” 188–89. The letter was written before the end of 1226, since Apokaukos does not address Theodore Doukas as basileus: see Bees, ibid., 190. Nicol, Despotate, 54, dates this affair to 1216 and says it was Theodore Doukas who had ordered the tax. A chrysobull of Theodore Doukas, exempting the church of taxes after much had been collected, is subsequent to this complaint (date: 1228): V. Vasilievskii, “Epirotica saeculi XIII,” VizVrem 3 (1896): no. 29 ⫽ ´ cou ejpistolai´,” no. 2. Papadopoulos Kerameus, “ jIwa´ nnou Apokau j 21 What follows is based primarily on the article by M. Oikonomidou, G. Touratsoglou, and I. Tsourti, “Sumbolh´ sthn e´ reuna th" kuklofori´a" twn buzantinw´ n nomisma´ twn sthn jHpeiro (1204–1332),” in Praktika´ Dieqnou´ " Sumposi´ou gia to Despota´ to th" Hpei´rou , ed. Ev. Chrysos (Arta, 1990), 101–24, and to a lesser extent on M. Galani-Krikou, “Sumbolh´ sth´ n e´ reuna th´ " kuklofori´a" mesaiwnikw´ n nomisma´ twn sto´ Despota´ to th´ " ´ tou th" Hpei´jHpei´rou (1204–1449),” and M. Oikonomidou, “Anasko´ phsh th" nomismatokopi´a" tou Despota J 16 17

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are billon trachea, with gold hyperpyra of the late twelfth century in a smaller proportion and only in one hoard. Billon trachea of the period of the Komnenoi and the Angeloi, and copies thereof, were in use in the early thirteenth century. Theodore Doukas had also struck coins in Epiros before the conquest of Thessalonike, which occurred in 1224.22 After 1224, there are coins issued in Thessalonike, in the names of Theodore Doukas, his brother Manuel Komnenos Doukas, and, eventually, John Vatatzes. Latin copies of Byzantine coins also appear in the numismatic evidence. Gold hyperpyra appear in small numbers; they are found in a single hoard, the “Agrinion” hoard, which consists solely of gold coins. They were issued either by twelfth-century emperors or by John III Vatatzes (1246–54). Indeed, Vatatzes’ reign accounts for the largest number of coins: 191 pieces, as opposed to 52 hyperpyra for the emperors between John II and Alexios III Angelos, with 23 coins attributed to Alexios III, 18 to Isaac II, 7 to Manuel Komnenos, and one to John II.23 The appearance of gold coins in hoards is normal, but also agrees well with the role of gold as a coin of accumulation and savings. This is the hoard of a rich man. The greatest difference between the numismatic finds and the written sources lies in the weak presence of electron trachea in the archaeological evidence. I can find only one electron trachy, issued in Thessalonike by Manuel Komnenos Doukas (1230–37), and found in Arta.24 Of course, there are known electron/silver trachea of Theodore Doukas in museum collections.25 The virtual absence of electron trachea in the archaological finds is, I think, incidental to some extent: the gold coins are from a single hoard, and the largest number of coins are billon trachea coming from incidental finds. Nevertheless, there are also hoards of billon trachea, which means that chance cannot be the only explanation. The low incidence of electron trachea must also be due to the low thesaurization of the coin compared to gold and the low frequency of loss compared to billon trachea. This explanation, I think, solves the puzzle. If any questions remain, they cannot be answered either by the proposition that the electron trachea were a money of account or by the suggestion that the trikephala mentioned in the written sources were billon coins, since the documentation presented above renders such theories implausible. It should be noted briefly that our written sources do not mention any western coins, which appear, in small numbers, in the archaeological finds (hoards), which include a total of 66 Venetian grossi from Arta and 126 grossi from Ioannina from the dogates of Pietro Ziani (1205–29) and Jacopo Tiepolo (1229–49).26 The absence of such coins from the written sources is easily explained by the low penetration of Venetian coins and the concentration of their use in commercial transactions, details of which are virtually absent from the documentation used here. In any case, the circulation of the grosso in Greece was extremely low in this period, and even in Italy it became common only in rou,∆” in the same volume, 125–62 and 95–100 respectively. The finds at Arta were originally published by H. Mattingly, “A Find of Thirteenth-Century Coins at Arta in Epirus,” NC, ser. 5, 3 (1923): 31–46, and those at Agrinion by D. M. Metcalf, “The Agrinion Hoard: Gold Hyperpyra of John III Vatatzes,” NC, ser. 7, 20 (1980): 113–31. 22 Protonotarios, “ JH nomismatokopi´a,” 135 ff. 23 Oikonomidou et al., “Sumbolh´ ,” table, pp. 117–19. The most recent coins in the hoard are those of John III. 24 Oikonomidou et al., “Sumbolh´ ,” 111. 25 Hendy, Coinage, has both silver trachea and billon trachea issued by Theodore Doukas after 1224. 26 Galani-Krikou. “Sumbolh´ ,” 127–28, 141–42. Both hoards were buried in the second half of the 13th century (last coins: Ranier Zeno, 1253–68).

212 USE AND CIRCULATION OF COINS IN THE DESPOTATE OF EPIROS the second half of the thirteenth century.27 This brings me to the second topic that our documentation allows us to examine. THE USE AND CIRCULATION OF COINS Coins in the nobler denominations (electron trachea and hyperpyra) functioned as a store of value, that is, as accumulated savings. They could form part of the dowry both of people of moderate means and of richer people, although never alone; land, houses, and other movable and immovable goods also normally formed part of a dowry. We also see these coins appearing as part of one’s inheritance.28 Michael Apergios, a member of a family associated with the church, left to his son, as his inheritance, a sum of trikephala angelata, another 20 trikephala prattomena, a piece of land, and a gold ring.29 I have already mentioned the case of kyr Georgios Evripiotes, who received cash, in the form of gold hyperpyra, as part of his wife’s dowry, and also as gifts and inheritance from her family.30 Before 1213, Horaia, a woman from Thessalonike who seems to have come from a family with some money, received as dowry vineyards, houses, and some nomismata (presumably gold coins).31 These must be coins of the Komnenian period or the time of the Angeloi, and as such they represent an accumulation over time, with particular hoarding of gold coins. Not only the dowry but the theoretron (a wedding gift of a husband to his wife) also could be paid in coin; indeed I have the impression that it was normally paid in coin. Constantine tou Kourtzoulou, when he married a woman called Kale, agreed to give the sum of 70 trikephala nomismata as theoretron and as advance payment in case he died without children and without a testament.32 Money was also used as a measure of value, that is, the value of houses, movable goods, and land was estimated in terms of money, gold coins in the cases for which we have evidence.33 The availability and circulation of coins seems to follow certain patterns, whose characteristics include two types of lumpiness, at least at first glance. There is, first, the lumpy availability and circulation of coin that one can expect in an agricultural society and that is better attested in other areas and at different times. It is seasonal and associated with the seasonality of the harvest and the payment of taxes. At harvest time, as also at the time of harvesting grapes and making wine, that is, in late summer and fall, the population is coin-rich, relatively speaking, and so is the countryside. The payment of taxes, at approximately the same time, relieves the population of some or much of the coin, depending I thank the anonymous referee for this comment. On the grosso, see A. Stahl, “Coinage and Money in the Latin Empire of Constantinople,” in this volume, and idem, “The Circulation of Medieval Venetian Coinages,” in Moneta locale, moneta straniera: Italia ed Europa XI–XV secolo. The Second Cambridge Numismatic Symposium. Local Coins, Foreign Coins: Italy and Europe, 11th to 15th Centuries, ed. L. Travaini (Milan, 1999), 87–111. 28 Chomatianos, nos. 82, 16. 29 Chomatianos, no. 82. 30 Chomatianos, no. 25. 31 Chomatianos, no. 106, and D. Simon, “Witwe Sachlikina gegen Witwe Horaia,” Fontes Minores 6 (1984): 325–75; for the date, see 328. 32 Chomatianos, no. 53. 33 Chomatianos, nos. 106, 84. 27

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on the economic and social position of the people in question.34 Apokaukos’ complaints to Dishypatos and Gorianites35 illustrate not so much seasonality itself but the quick disappearance of the coined money into the hands of the tax collector, and the difficulty of finding gold with which to pay the taxes. Similarly, we find that the vineyard of a man from the vicinity of Ohrid was sold to a bricklayer so that taxes could be paid; the bricklayer, one would assume, had more ready and more steady access to cash.36 The man from Verroia who bought a vineyard and handed over only part of its price, the rest to be paid “in a moderately short time” (dia` metri´ou kairou'), may have been waiting for the proceeds from his lands to come in.37 A curious case reported by Chomatianos bears witness to the seasonality of the availability of coin.38 It is the case of a priest from Verroia named Constantine Kalovelones, who, being in dire need of cash, borrowed, in March or April, two gold coins (chrysinous) from a man called Kostomires, on very onerous terms. Kalovelones promised to give at harvest time, that is, in three months, 10 modioi of wheat, mortgaging the produce of his vineyard, or perhaps the vineyard itself.39 At harvest time, he claimed that he had had a bad crop and was therefore unable to give the grain promised; paradoxically, he offered instead six gold coins, which were not accepted. The case that ensued is less than crystal clear, unlike the seasonal pattern that emerges without difficulty. There is also another pattern, which again shows lumpy circulation. However, this is connected less to the seasonality of the agricultural cycle and more to the family cycle. The pattern, well attested in our documentation, runs as follows. A family saves assets over a certain period of time. These savings are accumulated in the form of cash. The money is then given out, in lump sums, as dowry or inheritance, or it is kept within the original family. In any case, we have money taken out of circulation and functioning as a store of value. At some point, it is used to buy land40 or to improve land.41 The use of money that had been given as part of a dowry, to improve land, or to buy vineyards, is quite impressive.42 What we observe very clearly in our documentation is the use of this accumulated cash to turn land into vineyards or to replant and improve existing vineyards. That is, savings are turned into investment in a high-yield market crop. When the money is used to buy land or vineyards, we may be observing a simple transfer of cash, which results in nothing more than a change of ownership of coins that remain, essentially, out of circulation. When it is used to improve the land, however, that is, essentially, to plant it with grapevines or to build a mill, then there is a trickle-down effect. The money is spent primarily on labor, possibly on a few tools and wooden stakes, since nothing else is needed to plant a vineyard. It thus circulates among a number of people and On the seasonal cycle of coin circulation, see P. Lemerle, Cinq ´etudes sur le onzie`me sie`cle byzantin (Paris, 1977), 143, with reference to the typikon of Gregory Pakourianos. 35 See above, 210. 36 Chomatianos, no. 73. 37 Chomatianos, no. 68. 38 Chomatianos, no. 92. 39 This must be the modios of Thessalonike, 4.6 times the capacity of the thalassios modios; so the man was selling at something like three times less than the normal price. 40 Chomatianos, nos. 51, 53, 24, 68, 98. 41 Chomatianos, nos. 37, 47, 82, 89, 36, 64, 81. 42 Chomatianos, nos. 47, 24, 98, 25, 53. 34

214 USE AND CIRCULATION OF COINS IN THE DESPOTATE OF EPIROS becomes diffused. To the degree that it is used for the daily needs of the labor force, it enters the general circulation. Some of it undoubtedly is saved, hoarded, taken out of circulation, to be used again as a lump sum (albeit a smaller one) in order to buy land or animals or to be given as dowry. For example, we have the case of a poor Vlach woman who, with the fruits of her labor, was able to buy a few animals and some articles of clothing.43 Thus there is a rhythm of coin circulation that is slower, more viscous than the seasonal one. Money is taken out of circulation in the form of accumulation or savings. Subsequently this money changes hands at two important points in the family cycle: the moment of marriage of a girl, with the concomitant payment of the dowry, and the moment of death of the parents, when the accumulated money is inherited. At these points, the money is used by the new household to create new assets and thus is put back in circulation. Some of it is accumulated by the recipients, those who sell the assets, or who are hired to improve them. The new household, in turn, begins to save money, and thus the cycle starts again, following the family cycle. Depending on how prevalent this pattern was, it constituted a factor that lowered the velocity of circulation. This is what the sources show. We can, perhaps, go somewhat further. The second, family-connected pattern just described is cyclical, but the cycle is different for every household. Thus in terms of the individual household there is lumpy circulation, but overall it evens out, and this, in tandem with the trickle-down effect that I have mentioned, would tend to restore evenness and regularity to the global circulation of coin. It would serve to attenuate the unevenness of the first, seasonal pattern of circulation as well. There was undoubtedly some seasonality in the second pattern of circulation, since both the cash component of the dowry and the component in kind (in grain, or wine— the second is not attested but seems likely) would follow the seasonality of production. The full effect of this seasonality is hard to determine, for it very much depends on the proportion of the dowry (or other assets) that was given in these two forms, and on the wealth of each household. I mention it for the sake of completeness. But the main point I wish to make is that the actual circulation of coin, seen globally, was less lumpy, and of a different kind, than one would imagine if one were to take into account only the effects of fiscality. Finally, there is the question of money as a medium of exchange. In this role, it is not in evidence in this documentation, except indirectly. Money was clearly used to buy services and land. But since our documentation does not at all include commercial transactions, we cannot follow the monetary circulation attendant upon that. I might add that we do not know very much about the commercial economy of the despotate of Epiros in this early period, in contrast to later periods which have been studied, though not exhaustively.44 We do know, however, that there was paid labor: builders, cooks, unidentifed workers, tailors, weavers, shoemakers, a painter.45 The lack of information regarding commerce is an important gap in our documentation. Since commercial transactions Chomatianos, no. 68. E. Zachariadou, “Paragwgh´ kai empo´ rio sto´ Despota´ to th´ " Hpei´rou,” Praktika´ Dieqnou´ " Sumposi´ou gia to Despota´ to th" Hpei´rou (Arta, 1992), 87–93. 45 Chomatianos, nos. 85, 24, 90; Vasilievskij, “Epirotica,” no. 29 ⫽ Papadopoulos Kerameus, “ jIwa´ nnou ´ cou ejpistolai´,” no. 2; Bees, “Unedierte Schriftstu Apokau j ¨ cke,” no. 58. 43 44

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involve a faster rhythm of coin circulation, had we possessed the relevant information, we would probably be seeing a more even pattern of circulation with, however, also some seasonality, since cash would have been more generally available during certain seasons of the year. I have tried to show what we can glean about the coins used in Epiros and western Macedonia in the early thirteenth century and also what interpretations might be proposed. The question of cycles, patterns, or rhythms in the circulation of coin is an important one and certainly needs more investigation. Further examination can, indeed, be attempted, though not in the area and the period on which I have concentrated. Where we have more detailed documentation that provides the dates or seasons of the transfer of property and resources, we can hope to test the patterns I have proposed here. It would be a worthwhile exercise. Harvard University and Academy of Athens

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Coin Usage and Exchange Rates in Badoer’s Libro dei Conti CE´CILE MORRISSON

he Venetian merchant-banker Giacomo Badoer lived in Constantinople from 2 September 1436 to 26 February 1440. Like all Italian merchant-bankers of his time he must have kept several account books, or at least a journal, which he mentions several times in his Libro dei Conti (e.g., c. (carta) 17, p. 34, lines 2, 7, 19; c. 40, p. 80, line 33; c. 41, p. 82, line 9, etc.), and a ledger (the Libro). The latter is kept in the Archivio di Stato in Venice (Cinque Savi alla Mercanzia, ser. 1, Diversorum, busta 958). The Libro dei Conti is one of the earliest completely preserved examples—or nearly completely preserved, since the last fifteen pages are missing but can be partly reconstructed from references to them in other accounts—of double-entry bookkeeping, though the practice can be traced to the early fourteenth century (1340 or earlier1). Whereas other Venetian account books of the early fifteenth century still use Roman numerals, Badoer makes systematic use of Arabic ones. The Libro had been known for more than a century and was commented upon in an accounting perspective as early as 1880 in a prolusione (inaugural lecture) by Fabio Besta in Venice.2 Its publication had been recommended to the Reale Commissione per la

T

For valuable help on many points, I am grateful to several friends and colleagues: Jacques Lefort, Michael Bates, Miguel Crusafont i Sabater, Philip Grierson, Peter Spufford, Lucia Travaini, as well as to an anonymous reader of the manuscript to whom I am indebted for an informative and extensive critical review. Giovanni Bertele` also pointed out several inaccuracies and provided valuable information on older literature on Badoer’s Libro. See G. Bertele`, ed., Il Libro dei Conti di Giacomo Badoer . . . Complemento (Padua, 2001), 3–8. 1 See R. de Roover, “The Development of Accounting prior to Luca Pacioli according to the Account Books of Medieval Merchants,” in Business, Banking, and Economic Thought in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Selected Studies of Raymond de Roover, ed. J. Kirshner (Chicago, 1974), 119–80, esp. 131–43, on the various account books of merchant-bankers that have come down to us, mentioning (1) the ledger, called libro dei debitori e creditori by Florentines, quaderno by Venetians; (2) the register of purchases and sales; and (3) the cash book. De Roover (ibid., 164) considers Badoer’s book as an “illustration of venture accounting,” “kept in perfect double-entry,” a document of “exceptional interest.” F. C. Lane, Andrea Barbarigo, Merchant of Venice, 1418–1449 (Baltimore, Md., 1944), 153–58, concludes from the ledgers of the Soranzo fraterna (1406–36), Andrea Barbarigo (1430–40), and Badoer that “double entry was well known and commonly used at Venice at the beginning of the fifteenth century.” 2 F. Besta, Prolusione letta nella solenne apertura degli studi per l’anno scolastico 1880–81 alla Reale Scuola superiore di Commercio in Venezia (Venice, 1880), 41 n. (facsimile reprint, Bari, 1987). See also V. Alfieri, La partita doppia applicata alle scritture delle antiche aziende mercantili veneziane (Turin, 1891), 28, 29, 45, 56, 82–101, 147; H. Sieveking, “Aus venetianischen Handlungsbu ¨ chern,” Schmallers Jahrbuch 25 (1901) and 26 (1902); F. Besta, Corso di ragioneria (Venice, 1891) and idem., La ragioneria, I, vol. 3, Ragioneria generale (1916), 310–16. See

218 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI Pubblicazione dei Documenti Finanziari della Repubblica di Venezia, created in August 1897, by the same Fabio Besta, professor in the Regia Scuola superiore di Commercio in Venice, vice president and relatore of the Commission.3 In the late 1940s Tommaso Bertele` learned of the historical interest of the document in the course of his studies of late Byzantine monetary history and had it transcribed for his personal use by the then retired former director of the Archivio di Stato of Florence and superintendent of the Tuscan archives, Umberto Dorini. Bertele` soon realized the extreme importance of the text and managed to have it published in 1956 under the joint signatures of Dorini and Bertele`, in that order, although the latter was responsible for the greater part of the work.4 The exhaustive edition of the text followed a near facsimile format, reproducing the pages of debit and credit of each carta facing each other and keeping the columnar T. Zerbi, Le origini della partita doppia. Gestioni aziendali e situazioni di mercato nei secoli XIV e XV (Milan, 1952), 396–412 and Lane, “Barbarigo,” 146–47. 3 In a lithographed report dated 25 June 1898 which did not appear in the Archivio Veneto. I owe a copy to the kindness of Giovanni Bertele`. This report was written “adempiendo all’obbligo fattomi dalla deliberazione . . . nell’adunanza del 24 ottobre prossimo passato.” Note that Besta recommends publishing, as a “valuable complement” to financial documents, the ledgers of Giacomo Badoer and Andrea Barbarigo: “varrebbe non solamente a illustrare la storia del commercio in quel periodo di splendore ma anche a chiarir nel modo migliore quali dazi et quali gravezze e in quale misura i negozianti realmente pagassero.” 4 Il Libro dei Conti di Giacomo Badoer, ed. U. Dorini and T. Bertele` (Rome, 1956), one vol., 22.5 ⫻ 29 cm, xvi–864 pp., five plates; price 10,000 lire. The book was still available for sale in the mid-1980s, a fact worth underlining in a period when many publishers, including state-owned institutions, often destroy valuable source publications. Oral communications to the author on the origin and development of the enterprise by Tommaso Bertele`, and later by his son, Giovanni Bertele`, are confirmed by the following paragraphs from a letter sent by T. Bertele` to Howard L. Adelson, 21 January 1965: “L’edizione e commento del Badoer `e ` lungo, faticoso e—credo—utile della mia vita [on its complediventato, senza che lo prevedessi, il lavoro piu tion, he was sixty-four years old]. Avendolo apprezzato al suo valore dopo secoli di incomprensione, ne promossi la trascrizione a cura di un vecchio paleografo amico: non si pensava allora alla pubblicazione e il documento doveva servire in primo luogo per i miei studi. Poiche` vidı` poi che l’importanza—che ritenevo gia` grande—era veramente grandissima perche` ci dava un quadro, vasto ed unico, di tutta la vita economica bizantina nel sec. XV, degli amici, con cui ne parlai, raccomandarono ed ottenero facilmente la pubblicazione. ` che egli fece ma, convinto che la trascrizione “Pregai allora il trascrittore di rileggere il suo manoscritto, cio ` specialmente a ritoccare la punteggiatura. Quando mi giunsero le bozze, dovetti constafosse esatta, si limito tare con vero terrore che le somme laterali di certi conti non erano esatte perche´ il trascrittore aveva saltato qualche riga; che molte parole non corrispondevano nella forma a quella del codice perche´ il trascrittore le aveva inconsciamente modernizzate, ecc. Errori di tal genere, alcuni gravi, altri di forma, ricorrevano nella media di circa 15 per pagina. Che fare? Tutto considerato, mi assunsi io stesso l’onere di collazionare ogni ` un anno e mezzo e le correzioni furono circa parola e cifra su una copia fotografica del codice: il lavoro duro 15.000. Se l’opera fosse stata composta con ‘linotype’, le bozze sarebbero state buttate nel cestino e mai ` che permise di correggere senza dover ristampare rifatte. Invece erano state composte colla ‘monotype’ cio ` a lungo e fu molto costosa, ma posso dire che (ad eccezione di un centinaio tutta la pagina: la correzione duro di piccoli errori che mi sono sfuggiti) l’edizione fornisce accuratamente il testo del opera. [These small errors are listed by Giovanni Bertele` in his Complemento, 17–18.] “Il trascrittore fu il primo a riconoscere i suoi errori, che dipendevano da varie cause: anzitutto egli era abituato a documenti toscani, che gli stavano a cuore; non comprendeva bene il dialetto veneziano e poco `’s ne sentiva l’interesse.” This throws further light on a process described in more diplomatic terms in Bertele presentation in “Il Libro dei Conti di Giacomo Badoer ed il problema dell’iperpero bizantino nella prima meta` del Quattrocento,” Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, XII Convegno “Volta.” Oriente e Occidente nel Medioevo (Rome, 1956 [1957]), 242–63, esp. 243–44. F. Besta, Prolusione letta nella solenneapertura degli studi per l’anno scolastico 1880–81 alla R. Scuola superiore di commercio in Venezia (Venice, Tipografia dell’Istituto Coletti, 1880, 41 (facsimile reprint, Bari, Caducci editore, 1987).

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placement of the figures in the right margin (see the Appendix). For the sake of clarity, all references to the Libro in this article include the carta, page, and line number of the printed edition (c. 00, p. 00, line 00). This may seem cumbersome or confusing; I have, however, kept the carta number for two reasons: it is used to refer to the text in articles or books published before the 1956 edition, and it is the cross-reference between the various accounts used by Badoer himself. In 1976 Philip Grierson5 wrote that “the immense account book of the Venetian Giacomo Badoer . . . is of great value to the economic historian through its recording of the prices of goods and commodities, but it tells the numismatist little that he did not already know.” This at first sight surprising statement was justified on the ground that “this immense volume . . . is difficult to use, since a projected second volume of notes, explanatory matter, and index has never appeared.” For the same reason, Anthony Cutler called the source “a mixed blessing or rather a blessing in disguise.” 6 Tommaso Bertele` in fact had assembled some of the planned explanatory articles. A few were published,7 but some remained unpublished in his files.8 Other invited authors, such as Paul Lemerle, never wrote their promised essays in view of the slow progress of the work. However, Bertele` had accomplished a substantial amount of work on the index, leaving aside only weights and measures. Mr. Giovanni Bertele` has now completed and revised this index which has just been published in Padua (Il Libro dei Conti di Giacomo Badoer. Costantinopoli (1436–1440. Complemento). The analytical index is in fact divided into several parts (General index, Commodities, People, Place names, Accounts’ headings [Titolo dei Conti]) and accompanied by a concordance between these various indexes. A few years ago, Mr. Giovanni Bertele` very generously entrusted me with these indexes and the rest of his father’s file. Jacques Lefort and myself are preparing a publication of the planned book on revised lines in the series Re´alite´s byzantines, with contributions of other scholars. A volume of instructions on how to use the document including a unified index, and introductions to its codicology, accounting methods, metrology, legal, numismatic, and monetary matters, as well as finance and banking; volume two will contain a reprint of Bertele`’s “Il giro d’affari” and studies on Badoer and the Badoer family, Badoer’s household in Constantinople and his commercial activities, maritime life, prices, and wages in Constantinople, and Byzantines, Turks, and Italians in the document. Those who have already used the Libro for their research are familiar with its sophisticated technicalities as well as the size and breadth of its documentation and will readily understand that the present article can offer only a preliminary outline of what the docu5 P. Grierson, “Medieval Numismatics,” in Medieval Studies: An Introduction, ed. J. Powell (Syracuse, N.Y., 1976), 103–36, repr. in Grierson, Later Medieval Numismatics (11th–16th Centuries) (London, 1979), I, 118 and n. 23. 6 A. Cutler, “The Stavraton: Evidence for an Elusive Byzantine Type,” ANSMN 11 (1964): 237–44, esp. 237. 7 Including Bertele`’s two articles: “L’iperpero bizantino dal 1261 al 1453,” RIN, 5th ser., 59 (1957): 70–89 (which reproduces, adding a plate of illustrations, the final part, pp. 251–63, of “Il Libro dei Conti di Giacomo Badoer ed il problema dell’iperpero bizantino”) and “Il giro d’affari di Giacomo Badoer,” in Akten des XI. ¨nchen 1958 (Munich, 1960), 48–57, as well as G. Astuti, “Le forme Internationalen Byzantinistenkongresses, Mu giuridiche della attivita` mercantile nel Libro dei Conti di Giacomo Badoer,” Annali della storia del diritto (1968– 69): 65–130. 8 F. Babinger’s “I Turchi nel libro dei conti di G. Badoer”; R. de Roover’s “Ope´rations financie`res. Lettres ˆts”; and R. Morozzo’s “Notizie sui Badoer da Santa Giustina, Giacomo de change. Virements en banque. De´po Badoer, Patrizio veneziano del ’400.”

220 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI ment can tell about coin usage and exchange in Constantinople. This is only the first step of a larger inquiry into Badoer’s monetary and nonmonetary affairs, one that would assess the respective parts played by barter on the one hand and monetary transactions on the other and their respective contexts, or the proportion of cash versus bank payments, and analyze Badoer’s trading in bills of exchange, a very important aspect of his business as a merchant-banker in Constantinople. Thus the aim of this short study is simply to gather and put some order into the data of the Libro concerning the coins used by Badoer and his agents or correspondents, as well as their relative valuation and exchange rates in Constantinople or in the various Mediterranean or Black Sea centers at which they called. Badoer never left Constantinople, where he was the correspondent or agent of some Venetian firms and especially of his brother Girolamo. He traded with many countries using a variety of moneys of account and currencies. But his ledger is not a merchandise handbook or manual like Pegolotti’s, and monetary systems, coin lists, and exchange rates have to be reconstructed from his entries and checked against contemporary information or surviving coins, as will be attempted in what follows. MONEYS OF ACCOUNT Byzantine Perperi and Carati Giacomo Badoer keeps all his accounts in perperi and carats (1⁄24 hyperpyron),9 but many of his first entries add a quarta. This is not a measure, but simply a fraction, a quarter carat, which he also uses in rare instances for other currencies.10 On 20 February 1437, for instance, he shares with Antonio Chontarini half of the net profit (“trato neto”) of their common venture on “pani loesti” (woolens of Alost in Flanders) and ascribes each of them (“per la mita`”) 700 hyperpyra, 5 carats, qa 2.11 He must soon have realized that such a tiny division (1⁄96 hyperpyron and therefore ⫾ 1⁄288 ducat) was of little use. He last mentioned it on 11 May 1437 (c. 36, p. 72, line 24) and from 26 July 1437 on replaced it, when necessary, with mentions of 1⁄2 carat only (c. 57, p. 115, line 13). The Venetian Ducat In 1342 the Venetian ducat was divided into 24 grossi (of account), each of them divided into 32 piccoli.12 Ducat 1

Grossi 24 1

Piccoli 768 32

9 For the origins of this system of account, see T. Bertele`, “L’iperpero”; M. Hendy, Studies in the Byzantine Economy (Cambridge, 1985), 539–41; P. Grierson, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection, vol. 5 (Washington, D.C., 1999), 42 (hereafter DOC 5); and F. C. Lane and R. Mueller, Money and Banking in Medieval and Renaissance Venice (Baltimore, Md., 1985), 417. 10 C. 56, p. 113, lines 11–13 and 16. 11 C. 11, p. 22, lines 14–16. 12 Lane and Mueller, Money, 352–53; J. Day, “Naissance et mort des monnaies de compte (XIIIe–XVIIIe sie`cle),” RN 153 (1998): 335–43, esp. 336; P. Grierson, “La moneta di conto nel Medioevo,” RIN 95 (1993): 603–14. See also P. Grierson, DOC 5:35.

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Compare c. 398, p. 798, line 31, where a bill of exchange of 107 ducats, 20 grossi, and 22 piccoli is to be received at the rate of 2 perperi and 22 carats to the ducat. When another division is found, as sometimes happens (see below), it is another ducat. Cretan Perperi (de Chandia) The same pattern of grossi and piccoli applies to another Venetian money of account, the perperi de Chandia, which other sources call yperpera in Creta currentia,13 which were also divided into grossi et piccoli14 and then valued at 11⁄2 to the Constantinople perpero, that is, 2⁄9 of a gold ducat. On 21 May 1438, for instance, the account of Marco Filomati is credited for the expenses incurred concerning ingots of lead “which he says amounted to 64 perperi, 2 grossi, and 8 piccoli of Chandia at one and a half perpero of Chandia to one Constantinopolitan perpero” (“a perparo 11⁄2 de Chandia per perparo jo de Costantinopoli”).15 Morean Perperi Morean perperi appear in the accounts concerning the oil of Coron as perperi (implying of Coron)16 and are reckoned in soldi, referring to their division into 20 soldi di piccoli and 240 piccoli.17 The Morean perpero was thus equivalent to one pound of account. It was valued at 21⁄4 to the Constantinople perpero and thus worth two-thirds of the Cretan one. The Tornexe When the tornexe is reckoned as 1⁄12 of a Turkish asper (1⁄144 hyperpyron), as is the case in the account of the venture to Gallipoli (“viazo de Garipoi”) and in many other quotations of the Turkish asper, the actual Byzantine coin worth 1⁄12 of the hyperpyron becomes a money of account.18 13 See T. Bertele`, “Moneta veneziana e moneta bizantina (secoli XII–XV),” in Venezia e il Levante fino al secolo XV, ed. A. Pertusi, vol. 1 (Florence, 1973), 109. 14 A. M. Stahl, The Venetian Tornesello: A Medieval Colonial Coinage (New York, 1985), 53–55; Lane and Mueller, Money, 425–27. 15 C. 83, p. 168, line 18. 16 See Bertele`, “Moneta veneziana,” 109, quoting Venetian notarial documents dated 1289–93 about the “yperpera currentia in Corona,” valued in Venice at 10 grossi. See Stahl, Tornesello; Lane and Mueller, Money, 426 n. 32 and 432; and L. Travaini, “Un sistema di conto poco conosciuto: La ‘mano da quattro,’” RN 153 (1998): 327–34. 17 See c. 188, p. 378, lines 19–20: in April and May 1438 a total of “2,228 perperi, 8 soldi, and 3 tornesi” (“perp. 2228 s. 8 to 3”) [corresponding to various oil purchases in Coron] is converted into Constantinopolitan perperi at the rate of 45 soldi to one perpero (“che val a soldi 45 [Bertele` notes: “152 corretto in 45”] el perparo de Chostantinopoli . . . perp. 990 car. 10”). See also Stahl, Tornesello, and Lane and Mueller, Money, 432, quoting this entry of Badoer. On the perpero of Morea, see Lane and Mueller, Money, 426 n. 42 and 432. 18 See c. 125, p. 252, line 13: “Viazo de Garipoi a dı` 31 mazo [1437] per cassa per l’amontar de asp. 3000 che i mandı` per Dimitri Argiti de Chandia, montano a aspro 11, mancho tornexi 5, a perparo c. 186 perp 280 car. 13.”

222 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI The Bezant of Tana The bezant of Tana appears in various accounts related to Badoer’s transactions with Tana, notably with Francesco Corner, a Venetian merchant residing there.19 The bezant is rated at 13 (and 2 tangi) to the ducat and 4 to the perpero (c. 219, p. 441, lines 24 and 26), which makes it impossible to consider it a real coin (1⁄13 of a ducat being some 0.27 g gold). It is a multiple of the local asper, 6 of which made up a bezant.20 The Sicilian Ounce Another money of account in the Libro is the Sicilian ounce, which appears only once in the account of the “venture to Messina and Saragoxa” (Syracuse), where copper had been sold for “456 florins, 2 tarı`, and 3 grains” ⫽ “91 ounces, 7 tarı`, and 3 grains” valued at “5 florins to the ounce” and reckoned a few lines later at 13 perperi to the ounce.21 This moneta di conto, instead of being, like those previously mentioned, derived from former real denominations (like the grosso for Venice), was a purely abstract one based on the theoretical weight of a gold ounce (of 26.73 g) divided into 30 tarı` (tari-weights22) or tareni of 20 grains each.23 Ounce 1

[Florin] 5 1

Tarı` 30 6 1

Grain 600 120 20

C. 74, p. 151, lines 8–9. See below, p. 232. 21 C. 40, p. 81, lines 6–14, credit, 22 August 1437: “a di 22 avosto 1437 per Nofrio da Chalzi per l’amontar del trato neto de hi 2⁄3 de hi chontrascriti chant. 49 ro 16 de rame, el qual rame per so chonto el me asigna eser pexa` neto in Saragoxa e Mesina chant. 27 ro 24, vendudo a fiorini 163⁄4 e a fiorini 17, e a 151⁄2 el chanter, asigna montar in tuto fiorini 456 tarı` 2 grane 3, che val a fiorini 5 l’onza . . . onze 91 tarı` 7 e grane 3, bate per spexe, e prima, per nolo onze 2 tarı` 10, e per spexe de pexar, ostelazo e mandar da Saragoxa a Mesina e altre manzarie onze 3 tarı` 12 grane 5, e per sansarla tarı` 14, e per doana de Saragoxa a 2 per co., tarı` 25, e per doana de Mesina a 3 per co. de quel vendudo a Mesina onza ja tarı` 12 grane 4, e per provixion de tuto a 2 per co., onza ja tarı` 23 grane 8, suma queste spexe onze 10 tarı` 6 grane 17, resta neto onze 81 tarı` 0 grane 3, val a perp. 13 l’onza, monta i mie 2⁄3 a c 94 perp. 702 car. 2.” Translation: “on 22 August 1437 from Nofrio da Chalzi for the amount of the net profit of the 2⁄3 of the 49 cantars and 16 rotoli of copper opposite, which he reported having been weighed net in Syracuse and Messina as 27 cantars and 24 rotoli sold either at 163⁄4 or 17 or 151⁄2 florins a cantar. He reported it for a total amount of 456 florins, 2 taris, 2 grains, equaling, at 5 florins the ounce, 91 ounces, 7 taris, 3 grains, once expenses are deduced first for nolis, 2 ounces, 10 taris, and for the cost of weighing, storing, and shipping from Syracuse to Messina, and for other gratuities 3 ounces, 12 taris, 5 grains, and for brokerage 14 taris, and for customs in Syracuse at 2%, 25 taris, and for customs in Messina at 3% on what was sold in Messina, 1 ounce, 12 taris, 4 grains and for (his) commission on all that at 2%, 1 ounce, 23 taris, 8 grains, these expenses totaling 10 ounces, 6 taris, 17 grains, leaves net 81 ounces, 0 tari, 3 grains, valued at 13 perperi to the ounce, which make my 2⁄3 at c. 94, 702 perperi, 2 carats.” 22 The tari had been of course, as is well known, an actual coin of 1.06 g and 161⁄3 carats fine. After “it ceased to be struck as a definite weight unit . . . the word was used in two senses, as a tari weight in 161⁄3 carat gold or as a money of account of corresponding value”: P. Grierson and L. Travaini, Medieval European Coinage, vol. 14, South Italy (Cambridge, 1998), 473 (hereafter MEC). According to P. Spufford (personal communication, 10 July 1999), “the fifteenth-century florin of account in Sicily possibly derived from a fourteenth-century state of affairs when the gold florin/ducat of the north Italian cities had for long actually hovered around 6 tari (12 pierreali or carlini).” 23 Grierson and Travaini, MEC 14:435, 463. 19 20

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The florin mentioned here is a florin of account worth 1⁄5 of the ounce and hence 6 tarı`, which is also known from other sources.24 Pounds and Shillings of Majorca In 1438 Badoer participated in a “venture to Majorca,” 25 sometimes also called in the final account “viazo de Chatelogna.” 26 Among the sums owed to him by Marcho Balanzan (probably the captain or the merchant to whom the venture was entrusted) were: “60 pounds equaling 47 ducats, at 26 [i.e., soldi] the ducat; of which 7 ducats are due to me for the 3 carats of mine invested in the company, that is, at 3 perperi and 3 carats a ducat, 22 perperi and 1 carat” (“livre 60 che val a 26 [soldi] el duchato, duc. 47, tochamene per i mie charati 3 che partizipo in la chonpagnia duc. 7, che val a perp. 3 car. 3 el duchato perp. 22 car. 1”).27 These soldi cannot be considered shillings of Barcelona for two reasons: first, the text mentions 88 “livre de Maioricha,” owed to Badoer by Balanzan; second, the rate of 26 soldi (s.) to the ducat is much higher than those collected from other sources in Peter Spufford’s Handbook of Medieval Exchange for that period (ca. 15) and is even higher than anything quoted in his table on p. 145. Peter Spufford and Miguel Crusafont have been kind enough to inform me that, although Majorca belonged with Catalonia and Aragon to the same kingdom, it had its own coinage and its own money of account. “Unfortunately,” writes Spufford: I gathered no rates for the money of Majorca in the fifteenth century at all, either for the Handbook (p. 153) or since. I am, however, quite happy to believe in a rate of around 26 soldi of Majorca to the ducat in 1438. In the mid-fourteenth century it was already a much weaker currency than that of Barcelona (1 pound of Barcelona ⫽ 30 soldi of Majorca). I do not think that either Barcelona or Majorca suffered major changes to their coinage between Pedro IV (1336–87) and Alfonso V (1396–1458), so that I would expect the money of account in Majorca to be still much weaker than that in Barcelona, for which I collected the references in my Handbook, p. 145. There is also some confusion or inconsistency in the rates I collected for Florentine florins and Venetian ducats in money of Barcelona, which I have not resolved. Why rates like 17 soldi–18 soldi and rates like 14 soldi–15 soldi? The ducat at 26 soldi of Majorca would fit with 17 to 18 soldi of Barcelona if the 1 pound of Barcelona ⫽ 30 soldi of Majorca relationship was still even approximately true.

The lower value of the Majorcan sous is confirmed on numismatic grounds by Crusafont who points out that ever since its inception in 1300 the Majorcan denier (d.) had a lower intrinsic value than the Barcelonan one: 22 sous at 2.75 deniers fine in a mark in Majorca in contrast to 18 sous at 3 d. fine in Barcelona. Moreover, this value was decreased in 1400 to 24 sous at 11⁄2 d. fine, a situation that still obtained in Badoer’s time. There remains, however, a small problem concerning Badoer’s calculation since his equaSee C. Trasselli, Note per la storia dei banchi in Sicilia del sec. XI. I. Zecche e monete (Palermo, 1959), 34, quoted by P. Spufford, Handbook of Medieval Exchange (London, 1986), 66. 25 July 1438, c. 220, p. 442, line 10; c. 373, p. 749, passim; c. 374, p. 750, passim. 26 C. 374, p. 751, line 21; see also c. 218, p. 519, lines 9–10 (1439): “per el viazo de Maioricha, per l’amontar de 3⁄30 che son partizipo in una chonpagnia che avemo al viazo dito chon.” Badoer’s participation amounted to 6,103 hyperpyra. “Viazo de Chatelogna”: c. 374, p. 750, line 11. 27 C. 374, p. 750, lines 20–23. 24

224 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI tion of “47 ducats at 27 soldi [i.e., 1222 soldi] ⫽ 60 pounds” gives a pound of a little more than 20 soldi (⫾20 s. 1⁄3 but not exactly 20 s. 4 d.), which may point to the need for inquiring into and checking Badoer’s accounting on the abacus, since, on checking the manuscript, there is apparently no mistake in Bertele`’s reading.28 ACTUAL COINS USED BY BADOER OR HIS CORRESPONDENTS AND THEIR RATES OF EXCHANGE In the cash accounts (cassa)29 kept in Badoer’s ledger the various currencies he dealt with in cash (chontadi) appear frequently. Actual perperi contanti/chontadi are unsurprisingly the most frequent, but on 30 October 1436, for example, we also note 5 Venetian ducats (chontadi) loaned by Badoer to a merchant (Alexander Zen) going on business to Bursa or 1,300 Turkish aspers drawn by Badoer on his bank for the same Bursa venture and, on another occasion, 3 Turkish ducats loaned to Antonio da Negroponte, a merchant from Trebizond, associated with Badoer in the venture to Simisso and Trebizond.30 In what follows I begin with these three main currencies—Byzantine, Venetian, and Turkish—and consider the remaining ones in more or less decreasing order of importance. Byzantine It should be remembered that it is due to Badoer that Bertele` was able to establish the relative values of the existing Byzantine coins of the time,31 previously unknown.32 As volume 5 of the Dumbarton Oaks coin catalogue provides the state of the art, the following brief outline will suffice here. The perpero (a money of account since the disappearance of gold issues after 1353) was equated to 2 big silver coins of ca. 7.2 g.33 The accounts show in fact that they were some 7.1 g heavy, according to a 317 g pound (e.g., c. 88, p. 179, line 3, where 616 perperi grievi “weigh 27 pounds and 9 ounces”). This weight for heavier perperi agrees with the modal weight of 7.09 g of the 149 John VIII specimens preserved at Dumbarton Oaks.34 This big silver coin was named stavraton (see fig. p. 245), as Cutler already discovered in 1964 from his reading of the Libro.35 However, even when Badoer mentions a number of perperi chontadi or stavrati, it does not necessarily mean the same number of coins but the 28 Or, as P. Spufford puts it: “47 ducati at 25 s. 6 d. would give something like 60 pounds (59 li. 18 s. 6 d.), or at 26 s. would, as you point out, give 61 li. 2 s. I cannot believe, any more than you can, in a livre of circa 20 s. 4 d.” 29 See Lane and Mueller, Money, 423–24. 30 For details see c. 16, p. 33, lines 9, 20–23 and c. 44, p. 88, lines 27–28, c. 48, pp. 96–97. 31 Bertele`, “L’iperpero,” 70–89. 32 See W. Wroth, Catalogue of the Imperial Byzantine Coins in the British Museum, vol. 1 (London, 1908) where coins are only classified according to the metal of their alloy. The silver issues of Manuel II are said (p. lxxii) to have consisted of “three or four denominations, . . . the highest of which was intended to weigh about 136 grains [8.8 grams].” 33 “8.8 g,” diminishing to “7.20 g” under John VIII (Bertele`, “L’iperpero,” 79, 84). 34 Grierson, DOC 5.1:230. 35 Cutler, “Stavraton,” 239–40. Commenting on Cutler’s article, in the letter to Adelson quoted above (note 4), Bertele` wrote: “Cutler (che ritengo sia un giovane) ha apprezzato al suo giusto valore il Libro . . . , e ` mi fa molto piacere mentre fa onore a lui. Con molto acume, ha trovato il nome ‘staurato’ di cui ha cio compreso l’interesse.”

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corresponding value represented by actual silver coins of the series, whether the biggest ones, the intermediate ones (half-stavraton, see fig., p. 00), or the smaller ones.36 Different entries, notably in the cash account, show the latter to have been definitely called duc(h)atelli and to have been reckoned at 1 carat and a half, that is, 1⁄16 hyperpyron (eighth-stavraton, see fig., p. 00). Duchatelli are mentioned only in transactions involving fees paid to porters carrying or transporting goods to and from the dockyards and Badoer’s merchant house,37 for example, one duchatello to carry a bundle ( faso) of tin bars, 5 duchatelli for a bale of Flemish cloth carried on a cart (chareta).38 Finally, Badoer mentions a small copper denomination called tornexe, which he reckons at 1⁄8 carat, that is, 192 of them to the hyperpyron. Tornesi (copper coins of ca. 2–3 g) (fig., p. 00) also appear as fees paid for transporting goods, whether bundles of steel (“azali fasi”) or tin (“stagni fasi”), and Lefort’s calculations show the same tariff to have applied to every parcel (colo) whatever its type, whether fascio (bundle), barile (barrel), cassa (chest, coffer), involto (wrapping), or sacco (bag).39 The smallest coin of the time (ca. 0.8 g), which was probably called follaro in Badoer’s time, is not even worth enough to be mentioned as a tip, and Badoer uses it only as an equivalent of similar minute copper coins from Wallachia being exported to Alexandria as bullion (see below, p. 227). The perperi per cassa chontadi vary from a handful of coins for settling an account,40 paying the salary of an assistant (e.g., “6 perperi 10 al mexe”),41 and making small purchases (e.g., 16 perperi of wax bought from an Armenian) to more important ones (233 perperi for tin bundles).42 The entries also mention perperi or stavrati grievi, heavy perperi. The phrase does not refer to the older heavy perperi of John V, Andronikos IV, or the early coins of Manuel II of some 8.2 g before the 1394/95 decrease of the weight of the silver higher denomination to ca. 7.1 g. Since their overvaluation is in the range of 1.25 percent to 2.6 percent (instead of the 15 percent difference between pre- and post1395 coins), they are more likely to be, as Hendy and Lane and Mueller assume, specimens culled out and valued as metal at 22 perperi 15 carats the pound. Badoer usually deposited them into his bank with the order to sell them to the mint (to Critopulo de la zeca).43 This means that bullion must have been scarce and that the mint was “overbuying” it—a well-known practice in medieval and modern monetary history.44 Exchange Rate of the Hyperpyron in Venetian Ducats Leaving aside the bills of exchange, used either as a means of payment or simply traded for themselves, which played a great Lane and Mueller, Money, 423. C. 8, p. 16, line 5; “Veli crespi. cassa la . . . e per bastaxi per mandar a caxa duchateli 4 val car. 6.” See ˆ t des transports `a Constantinople, portefaix et bateliers au XVe sie`cle,” the detailed study by J. Lefort, “Le cou in Eupsychia, Me´langes offerts `a H. Ahrweiler, vol. 2 (Paris, 1998), 413–25. 38 C. 9, p. 18, line 21. 39 C. 8, p. 16, line 17 (October 1436): “Stagni fasi. 12 . . . e per mandar da caxa al pexo a tornexi 6 per cholo (val) car. 9.” If 6 ⫻ 12 tornese ⫽ 9 carats, 1 tornese ⫽ 1/8 carat ⫽ 1/192 hyperpyron. 40 E.g., “per resto de un conto”; c. 16, p. 32, lines 20, 27. 41 Salary of Zorzi Morexini, Badoer’s servant (fameio) in 1437: c. 40, p. 81, line 26; wax: c. 16, p. 32, line 20. 42 C. 16, passim. 43 C. 101, p. 204, line 25; c. 180, p. 362, line 30; c. 186, p. 375, line 19, etc. See Hendy, Studies, 538; Lane and Mueller, Money, 423. 44 E.g., in 18th-century France; see Ch. Morrisson et al., Or du Bre´sil, monnaie et croissance en France au XVIIIe sie`cle (Paris, 1999), 66–67. 36 37

226 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI role in Badoer’s activities (i.e., merchant’s exchange), I will focus on the rate at which Badoer valued or exchanged one currency for the other in Constantinople in manual exchange. Several entries regarding “ducati d’oro dusi chontadi” (“gold ducats carried in cash”) or “in chassa chontadi,” or simply chontadi make it clear that the usual rate varied around 3 perperi (p.) 6 carats (car.) to a ducat. In 1436 on Badoer’s arrival in Constantinople with the galleys in September, it is 3 p. 6 car.,45 while when settling his accounts with his brother Jeronimo in Venice, the ducat is always reckoned at par at 3 perperi. This is a classic example of the cambisti rule and confirms R. de Roover’s statement about the exchange rate being higher on the market place “quoting certain” (Venice) to the other (Constantinople).46 The range of rates assembled by Bertele` from Badoer’s entries spreads from 2 perperi 22 carats to 3 perperi 10 carats,47 and the variation is mostly explained by the context of the transaction involved, whether implying credit or not. Venetian Ducats The gold ducat (fig., p. 245) weighed slightly more than the florin (3.56 g as against 3.536 g) until the latter was aligned on its standard in 1422. Its fineness was intended to be “tam bona et fina . . . vel melior ut est florenus,” as indeed measurements of the ducats in the Grierson collection at ⫾ 99 percent have proved.48 It dominated the circulation of the eastern Mediterranean, and it is no surprise that we find it on many occasions in the Libro, used not only for transactions with Venice but also—like dollars nowadays in Eastern Europe—as cash for travel. It is the only actual Venetian coin appearing in Badoer’s accounts except for the mention of the few soldi found in the purse of his zovene Antonio Bragadin, who died a few months after he had arrived in Constantinople with Badoer. The scrupulous bookkeeper noted that there “were found in his purse two gold ducats and two (Constantinople) perperi and 8 soldi of Venice” that he evaluated altogether at 8 hyperpyra and 15 carats” (“trovado in la so borssa duc. 2 d’oro e perp. 2 e soldi 8 da Veniexia mete valer in tuto c. 16 perp. 8 car. 15.” 49 Turkish (Ducats and Aspers) The ducati turchi, first mentioned in Uzzano in 1425, also appear in other midfifteenth century texts: in 1428 their circulation is forbidden in Genoa and its district, and they are known to have been used later in Moldavia, from 1449 to 1465 under the name of zlotul turcesc.50 A document from Arezzo from the 1430s mentions “florins or E.g., c. 6, p. 13, line 5; c. 3, p. 6, line 10; c. 14, p. 28, lines 5–7. R. C. Mueller, The Venetian Money Market: Banks, Panics and the Public Debt, 1200–1500 (Baltimore, Md., 1997), 301, 316–17. A place “giving certain” rates the local unit (here the ducat) in terms of foreign currency (here the hyperpyron), see R. De Roover, “Le marche´ mone´taire au Moyen Age et au de´but des temps modernes,” Revue historique 495 (1970): 17. 47 Bertele`, “Moneta veneziana,” 28–29, 54–58. 48 P. Grierson, “The Weight of the Gold Florin in the Fifteenth Century,” Quaderni ticinesi: Numismatica e Antichita` classiche 10 (1981): 421–31. 49 C. 26, p. 53, lines 1–2. 50 ¨r F. Babinger, “Su ¨ dosteuropa¨ische Handelsmu ¨ nzen am Ausgang des Mittelalters,” Vierteljahrschrift fu Sozial- und Wirtschaftsgeschichte 44 (1957): 352–58, repr. in idem, Aufsa¨tze und Abhandlungen zur Geschichte ¨dosteuropas und der Levant, vol. 2 (Munich, 1966), 190–95. Su 45 46

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ducats from Turkey or other places (or from Altoluogo/Ephesos?) and mentioned along with “those struck in Spain (?) with the Venetian type” (“fiorini turchi o ducati turchi (e altro luogo) [Altoluogo?], e quali si batterono in Spagnia [che] anno stampa di Vinesgia”). They are difficult to distinguish according to the same sources: “experience or a good eye is needed to recognize them, and each of them is less by one soldo a fiorino” (“bisogna praticha [o bisogna buono occhio] a conoscerli; sono peggio l’uno soldi uno a fiorino”).51 The Ottomans struck gold coins with their own imprint only in 1477/78, when an altun of the same value as the Venetian ducat bears a proud Arabic inscription celebrating Mehmed II’s victories: “Striker of the Radiant [i.e., gold coins], Master of Glory and Victory / on Land and Sea.” 52 The previous imitative Turkish ducats remain to be identified on the basis of coins with reliable provenance coupled with numismatic and metallurgical analyses. But the later evidence of the Genoese Iacopo de Promontorio about the farming out in 1475 of the minting of “ducati d’oro in stampa veneziana,” for 3,000 ducats a year 53 apparently indicates that the sultan himself (and not counterfeiters) may have been responsible for the minting of these imitations.54 Badoer first mentions them in January 1437 when dealing in Constantinople with a changer called Todaro Franchopulo. They are rated at 2 perperi 11⁄2 car. to the ducat, or 2 perperi 1 car. and 2 tornesi or 2 perperi 10 tornesi, that is, reckoning with the perpero value of ca. 3 to a ducat,55 one and a half Turkish ducats to the Venetian one ⫽ 2/3 of it. These slightly varying valuations probably depended on prior testing of the pieces; and Badoer apparently on prior testing of the pieces; and Badoer apparently sent part of the 251 coins assembled56 as bullion in the The document from Arezzo was published by U. Pasqui, “Monete d’oro e d’argento correnti in Firenze nel sec. XV,” RIN 30 (1917): 79 and is quoted by F. Babinger, “Zur Frage der osmanischen Goldpra¨gungen ¨dost-Forschungen 15 (1956): 550–53, repr. in idem, im 15. Jahrhundert unter Muraˆd II. und Mehmed II.,” Su Aufsa¨tze, 2:110–12, esp. 112. Cf. Grierson, Later Medieval Numismatics, XII, 92. 52 F. Babinger, “Contraffazioni ottomane dello zecchino veneziano nel XV secolo,” AnnIstNum 3 (1956): 83–99, repr in idem, Aufsa¨tze, 2:113–26, esp. 121ff and 123ff). The translation of the legend is that of M. Bates in Islamic Coins, American Numismatic Society (New York, 1963), no. 31, with an illustration of the coin. Michael Bates has been kind enough to comment on this legend and the differences between his and Babinger’s translation (“il coniatore dell’auro/possessore della potenza e della vittoria / per terra e per mare”) in a letter, 26 May 1999: “it is pretty much the same as the Italian, except that the word ‘gold’ is not used. The word nadir for radiant or glorious is used, I believe, strictly for the ‘visual rhyme’ with nasr ⫽ victory. It is not just another word for gold—it’s the word ‘striker’ that gives away the intention.” 53 Babinger, “Contraffazioni,” 125. 54 M. Bates comments on this point in the letter cited above: “The ‘responsibility’ is of course diffuse. I had understood that some of the other ‘Frankish’ coins of the ‘Turks’ (not the Ottomans but the Beyliks) were in fact struck by Franks, presumably Italians, who had come to the ruler to propose the operation against a share of the profits for the ruler (see my introduction to the Islamic coins in T. Buttrey et al., Greek, Roman and Islamic Coins from Sardis [Cambridge, Mass., 1981], 228). So I’m not surprised, but very interested, to learn that the Ottoman sultan also profited from such an operation. Whether he actively arranged it, or merely profited from the activities of others, would be an unanswerable question, I suppose.” L. Travaini recalls an earlier example of Venetian ducats copied by Alfonso I the Magnanimous for his expedition to Naples in 1442, the production of which took place in a private house in Messina and not in the mint, L. Travaini, “Sedi di zecca nell’ Italia medievale” in I Luoghi della Moneta. Le Sedi delle Zecche dall’ Antichita` all’ eta` moderne (Milan, 2001), 69–85, p. 79. 55 Account of Chaloiani Sufiano banchier, credit (c. 3, p. 7, lines 12–17) various exchange rates on 16 September 1436 for different sums of “duc. turchi per cassa ch’el de` chontadi per mi a Todaro Franchopulo a . . . bancharoto” (money changer). 56 This parcel of 251 ducats included: 111 duc (c. 3, p. 7, lines 12–15) and 140 duc (ibid., line 20) previously given by the banchier Chaloiani to Badoer. 51

228 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI shipment to Trebizond (March to December 1437). The Libro details the process of their consignment in its account of the Trebizond venture: “200 Turkish ducats in weight boarded on the ship of captain Jannis Tepeftos of Constantinople in a purse marked and sealed with my imprint, which I entrusted to the aforesaid captain in my house, in presence of (the names of the witnesses follow)” (“duc. 200 turchi de pexo chargadi su la nave patron Jani Tepefto de Costantinopoli in gropo uno signado e bolato de mio segno, el qual gropo chonsigni al dito patron in caxa mia presenti . . . ”).57 They cost 414 perperi and were sold in Trebizond for 433 perperi 20 carats, that is, at 19 perperi 20 carats or 4.8 percent profit.58 That Turkish ducats were current in Simisso (Amisos/Samsun)59 is clear from the fact that Badoer lent three of them to his Trebizond agent Antonio da Negroponte on this occasion,60 whereas, surprisingly, the account of the Bursa venture includes only proper Venetian ducats, five coins being loaned to the merchant going there, although one would expect Turkish ducats to have been current in the Ottoman capital. Turkish aspers or akcˇes were struck for the first time in Bursa in 1327, and then in other Ottoman mints (Amasya, Edirne, Ayasoluk, Serres, etc.), at ca. 1.06 g and some 90 percent to 95 percent fineness (fig., p. 245).61 They appear as the most current and widely used denomination in the pepper venture of Bursa (for a total of 19,000 asperi: c. 33, p. 66, line 17, in October–November 1436) and in subsequent affairs carried over by Badoer together with his Italian correspondent, Christofal Bonifatio, in Bursa (between 1437 and May–August 1438) where, for instance, 12 casete of veli were sold for 7,355 aspers.62 They also appear in the Edirne venture. Obviously they are used to carry on all kinds of transactions including important ones. They are valued at different rates varying around 11 to the perpero, of which a few examples are given below: 1436, 5 December: “a asp. 11 to4 a perparo” (c. 29, p. 59, line 19) 1437, 13 February: “a asp. 11 to2 a perparo” (c. 29, p. 59, line 23) 1437, 24 July: asp. 5100 “achatadi a asp. 11 a perparo” (c. 92, p. 186, line 2) 1437, 30 April: “a asp. 11 to11⁄2 a perparo” (c. 55, p. 110, lines 8–10)63 1437, 30 April and 20 September: in the account of the venture to Adrianople different entries reckon the asper at “perperi 9 el co” or “el zentener di asperi,” that is, ca. 11 asp 11⁄2 tornese (c. 43, p. 87, lines 20–21, 25–26) 1438, 20 October: “a asp. 101⁄2 e tornexi 2 a perparo” (c. 285, p. 573, line 2: for the venture to Rodosto) C. 51, p. 102, lines 8–12. C. 51, p. 103, lines 8–12. 59 Simisso/Samsun had been in Turkish hands since the early 15th century, the Genoese Simisso having been conquered by Mehmed I in 1418 and the part of the city that belonged to the Djandarid dynasty in 1421; see N. Vatin, in Histoire de l’empire ottoman, ed. R. Mantran (Paris, 1989), 60. 60 C. 44, p. 88, line 28. 61 DOC 5.1:38 with ref.: T. Bertele` and C. Morrisson, Numismatique byzantine (Wetteren, 1978), 89 (fineness). 62 C. 21, p. 123, lines 3–4. 63 For a bill of 1,200 aspers drawn from Gallipoli on Badoer and entered in the account of the venture to this city: “a di 30 april per ser Charlo Chapelo dal bancho per asp. 1200 turchi ch’el de` per mio nome a ser ` a pagar Bortolamio da Modena da Garipoli Franzesco di Drapieri per una letera de chanbio che me mando per altratanti asperi ch’el rezeve` in Garipoi da Jeronimo da . . . , fator del dito ser Franzesco, val a asp. 11 t.o 11⁄2. a perparo.” 57 58

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1438, 28 December: “a asp. 101⁄2 a perparo” (c. 301, p. 604, line 15: 60 aspers spent for a horse cover bought in Bursa) 1439, 22 January: “a asp. 101⁄2 e tornexi 2 a perparo” (c. 289, p. 580, line 27) 1439, 1 June: “a raxon de asp. 102⁄3 a perparo” (c. 315 p. 632, line 37: for the freight charges of goods transported from Thessalonike) Badoer provides 15 Turkish aspers in Constantinople on 30 January 1439 to one of his correspondents from Bursa “per cassa chontadi” valued at 4 perperi, a rate of 111⁄4 aspers, that is, 11 aspers 3 tornesi to the perpero, which cannot have applied to the small Byzantine asper.64 There is also one instance of asperi grievi,65 to which I will return later (below, p. 236). Trebizond Aspers The Trapezuntine aspers (fig., p. 245) were first struck after the Mongol incursions in 1240 by Manuel I Komnenos (1238–63) at a weight corresponding to that of the dirham and of a high purity. They were much debased in the fifteenth century when they weighed ca. 1 g at 51 percent silver.66 They appear in the different ventures to Trebizond at rates varying between 331⁄3 and 40 aspers to the perpero, of which a few examples follow: 1436: “a asp. 331⁄3 a perparo” (c. 7, p. 15, lines 14 and 38: (in settling account with his brother Jeronimo Badoer) 1437, 18 December: “a asp. 40 a perp.” (c. 51, p. 102, line 32: (bill of exchange drawn in Trebizond by Griguol Contarini) 1437, 5 December to 1438, 19 April: “a asp. 36 a perparo” (c. 153, p. 308, lines 4–13: in the account of Griguol Contarini) 1438, 22 January: “a asp. 36 a perparo” (c. 166, p. 334, line 22) 1438, 24 January: “asp. de Trabexonda che valiano a assp. 40 a perparo” (c. 173, p. 348, line 7)67 1438: “perp 75 raxondo [sic] asp. 36 a perparo” (c. 173, p. 348, line 13)68 1438, 8 December: “val. a asp. 36 a perparo” (c. 288, p. 578, line 9) Reckoning with the actual weight of the perpero at 14.2 g, the exchange rates give to the Trapezuntine asper a 0.39–0.42 g fine weight inferior to the ca. 0.51 g measured in real coins. Based on the earlier weight of the perpero in the fourteenth century at 16.40 g, it is 0.49 g, not far from par.69 C. 227, p. 456, line 22. C. 88, p. 179, lines 19–20, unnoticed by previous commentators except for A. M. de Guadan, “Las equivalencias monetarias de Mediterra´neo Oriental en el periodo 1436–1440,” Acta Numismatica 3 (1973): 149–61, esp. 156. 66 A. A. Gordus and D. M. Metcalf, “Non-Destructive Chemical Analysis of the Byzantine Silver Coinage ´ nt. 33 (1975–76): 28–35. These give 51.4% silver on average in the six coins of Alexios of Trebizond,” Arc.Po j IV (1419–29) analyzed. 67 Amount due for the amount of 13,762 aspers paid in Trebizond by Antonio de Negroponte (“che abita in Trebizonda”; c. 166, p. 334, line 20) to Badoer’s correspondent, Griguol Contarini. 68 Settlement on 2 January 1439 of the contract/association “per resto de raxon fata d’accordo” with Antonio de Negroponte registered in the books of the local bailo on 2 January 1437. 69 Guadan (“las equivalencias,” 156) reckons from the 17.60 g of Bertele` (8.8 g ⫻ 2) and gets an asper of 0.52 g. He overlooked the fact that the 40 aspers rate was an exceptional one. 64 65

230 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI Genoese and Related Currencies (Pera; Sommo and Aspers in Caffa, Bezants of Tana, Aspers of Simisso) Ducats of Pera Among the 200 “Turkish ducats” mentioned earlier as being put into a sealed purse in front of witnesses, and which presumably had been previously tested or checked, seven were found defective when sold in Trebizond by Badoer’s correspondent. These appeared to be “duchati de Pera e duchati scarsi.” 70 Due to this deficiency, they were rated at 71 [Trebizond] aspers to the ducat instead of 80 for the Turkish ones, that is, 11 percent less. This would result in a Genoese ducat from Pera worth a little less than two-thirds of the Venetian one. Their current use in Pera is shown by two other entries referring to Badoer’s paying “per cassa” 4 ducats worth only 2 perperi each to a carpenter (marangon) residing in Pera.71 Ducats with a letter P in the field were attributed by Sp. Lambros to Pera and were clearly identified as imitative issues by the legends in the name of Filippo-Maria Visconti (duke of Milan and lord of Genoa, 1421–36) or Tommaso di Campofregoso (doge of Genoa, 1436–43, fig., p. 245), the latter being half the weight of a normal ducat.72 They cannot have been the imitations that led Badoer astray. An updated and enlarged version of the Ives-Grierson introduction on the imitations of the ducat is clearly a desideratum. A hoard of some thousand of them deposited ca. 1457 appeared on the market in 1989: alongside numerous “Levantine” imitations of the first half of the fifteenth century, including ones of the Genoese in Chios, the Gattilusi and the Hospitallers in Rhodes, and a handful of authentic Venetian ones, it contained three hitherto unknown coins of Filippo-Maria Visconti with DUX MEDIOLANI–DN.IANUE and GENUIT.ME.IANUA.CAFFAM on the reverse dating to 1421–36.73 Caffa Sommo and Aspers Badoer maintained frequent relations with Caffa, and his entries give the exchange rate of the sommo. The sommo was a silver ingot of ca. 200–205 g Cf. “eschars” in Old French indicating a defect in the weight or fineness of the coin. C. 51, p. 103, lines 9–12: “The . . . [Trebizond] venture [of 1437] will receive on 5 December from Messer Gregorio Contarini, according to the account received through the galleys commanded by Messer Alvise Contarini he assigns me, for the net profit on the 200 Turkish ducats he declares to have sold at 80 aspers each, 197 ducats and 7 ducats at 71 aspers because they were ducats of Pera and underweight ducats, which makes a total of 15,936 aspers, minus his commission at 1% and the Commune tax at 1% [which is] 318 aspers, leaves 15,618 aspers, which I enter valued at 36 aspers a perpero, 433 perperi, 20 carats” (“Viazo a l’inchontro die` aver a di 5 dizenbre per ser Griguol Chontarini segondo che per un chonto rezevudo per la galia patron ser Aluvixe Chontarini el me asigna per il trato neto de duc. 200 turchi ch’el mete aver vendudo, a asp. 80 l’uno duc. 197 [invece di 193] e duc. 7 a asp. 71, perche` ne fo duchati de Pera e duchati scarsi, monta in tuto asp. 15936, bate per sua provixion a j per co. e per dreto de Chomun, a 1 per co., asp. 318, resta asp. 15618, che meto valia a asp. 36 a perparo—c. 153 perp. 433 car. 20”). 71 C. 76, p. 154, line 7 and p. 155, line 9; c. 186, p. 374, line 14. Cf. Babinger, “Contraffazioni,” 123. 72 P. Lambros, Anekdota nomismata kopenta en Peran, (Athens, 1872) (I have not seen this rare book, which is not owned by the Bibliothe`que Nationale or the Dumbarton Oaks library); quoted by G. Schlumberger, Numismatique de l’Orient Latin (Paris, 1878), 453, pl. XVII, 21–22; H. E. Ives, The Venetian Gold Ducat and Its Imitations, ed. P. Grierson (New York, 1954), 24; G. Lunardi, Le monete delle colonie genovesi (Genoa, 1980), 23–28: 3.51 g for Filippo Maria Visconti, 1.80 g and 1.86 g for those of Campofregoso. 73 G. Giacosa, “Il ducato d’oro di Caffa,” Annotazioni numismatiche 29 (1998): 659–63: 3 specimens are known: Finarte, May 1986, no. 786, and two others wrongly identified: one, similar to the preceding, in Classical Numismatic Group auction, May 1995, no. 425, and a variety in Auctiones 11, 30.9–1.10.1980, no. 755. 70

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and secondarily a money of account.74 Badoer uses it to rate the bills he sent to his correspondent in Caffa on his own account or for the account of others for the purchase of slaves, wax, furs, or other staples.75 The rate varies between 9 perperi 6 carats and 10 perperi 9 carats to the sommo, slightly less than in the early fifteenth century (14–11 perperi76). In spite of its relatively stable metal content, the hyperpyron is still then declining. There is apparently no correlation between the rate and the “direction” of the bill, whether drawn on Constantinople or on Caffa, nor the means of its transportation (“per la nave,” “per via de Monchastro,” etc.). In Caffa the sommo is reckoned at 2021⁄2 aspers,77 the asper being the actual coin in use there. From the mid-thirteenth century Caffa had been using the Tatar asper (aspri baricati) then valued at 112 to the sommo, and only 200 or 237 in 1409–10.78 The Genoese finally resorted to striking bilingual aspers of their own weighing ca. 0.56–1.00 g with the gate of Genoa (ianua) on one side and the Tatar tamga on the other (fig., p. 245).79 In settling his accounts with his local correspondent, Andrea da Chale, Badoer reckons 20 aspers to the perpero,80 which makes ca. 207 aspers to the sommo. Reckoning with the actual weight of the perpero at 14.2 g and its fineness of some 90 percent under John VIII, the exchange rates give a 0.64 g fine weight, or 0.73 g when based on the earlier weight of the perpero in the fourteenth century at 16.40 g. This remains to be compared with preserved aspers, for which I am aware of no metrological study. Aspers of Simisso In the account of the venture to Simissos and Trebizond (“de Simiso e Trabexondo”) appear “1165 asperi de Simixo” rated at 19 to the perparo and 36 to the Turkish ducat.81 Their rate of exchange is close to that of the Caffa asper (⫾ 20). Could they be previous local Genoese aspers going back to the time of Genoese establishment there and still current,82 although such aspers have not yet been identified by numisma74 Hendy, Studies, 547–51 (detailed analysis of Italian texts giving various standards “which seem to fall”). Lane and Mueller, Money, 164 n. 10, mention a possible weight of 316.75 g without indicating the source. 75 See the bill of 622 perperi and 15 carats plus Badoer’s commission (provixion) at 1%, totaling 628 perperi, 17 carats on c. 74 and c. 75, pp. 150 and 152. See also pp. 354–55 (“Viazo de Chafa”) and pp. 422–23 (account of ser Andrea da Chale), as well as pp. 493, 494 (for letters drawn on Badoer from Caffa). 76 14 perperi in 1401, 13 perperi, 6 carats in 1409–10 (M. Balard, La Romanie ge´noise [Rome, 1978], 663); 11 perperi, 18 carats in 1426 (N. Iorga, “Notes et extraits pour servir a` l’histoire des Croisades au XVe sie`cle: Comptes des colonies ge´noises de Caffa, de Pe´ra et de Famagouste,” ROL 4 [1896]: 59). 77 C. 210, p. 422, line 6. 78 Balard, Romanie, 659–62. 79 According to the weights of specimens in the Rome Museum given by Lunardi, Monete, 103–7. However, Lunardi (p. 35) considers that the Genoese must have been striking imitations of the Tatar asper prior to 1433. 80 See c. 65, p. 131, lines 6–7, account utel e danno “per eror fato in so chonto,” etc. The same exchange rate applies in the Ternaria document of ca. 1268, published and commented on by Lane and Mueller, Money, 627. 81 “val a asp. 19 a perparo” (c. 44, p. 88, line 30) and “asp. 36 el duchato turcho” (c. 44, p. 89, line 8). 82 Balard, Romanie, 668 mentions—without quoting any source—documents pointing to “petites monnaies d’argent frappe´es sans doute par des ateliers locaux et dont la valeur n’est gue`re brillante,” an asper of Simisso containing only 0.80 g fine silver in 1386. This rate would make the asper in Badoer’s entry 0.68 g fine for a 14.2 g and 90% fine perpero. A. M. de Guadan, “Alcunos casos de monedas medievales del Mediter´lo conocidas por fuentes literarias,” Acta Numismatica 14 (1984): 169–89, esp. 170, assumes ra´neo Oriental, so that the text indicates that the Genoese were holding this fortress or comptoir at least between 1437 and 1440, a hypothesis that he bases on T. Bertele`, “Il libro dei conti di Giacomo Badoer (Constantinopoli, 1436–1440),” Byzantion 21 (1951): 123–26, esp. 126: “Basta la menzione del cambio vigente per gli aspri di

232 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI tists? Another possible solution would be to assume that in the time of Genoese settlement the aspers of Caffa had provided the circulating medium and were still current some sixteen years or more after the fall of the city, at a rate slightly less than that prevailing in Caffa itself. Aspers of Tana Called tangi (sing. tango), these aspers were rated at one-sixth of the local bezant of account as appears from the account of the venture to Tana and then to Venice recommended to Francesco Corner in 1438.83 They were called tangi from the Tatar tanga or tamga (manual sign) they bore. They were worth less than the aspers of Caffa (1 tango ⫽ ca. 5⁄6 asper) and must have been a different coinage in spite of their similar iconographical type.84 Rhodes (Ducats and Aspers) (fig., p. 245) For the shipment to Rhodes and Beirut (13 September 1438–18 May 1439) (c. 243, p. 489), the accounts are kept in ducats and aspers. In the local system described by Pegolotti, 30 aspers went to the “florin”; this ratio apparently still prevailed, since the figures here for aspers and denarii do not exceed 28 and 14 respectively. Florin 1

Besant 62⁄3 1

Gigliato 10 11⁄2 1

Asper85 30 3 2 1

Carat 160 24 16 8 1

Denier* 720 48 256 16 2

*called by Pegolotti denaro picciolo Note: Boldface type indicates values given by F. Balducci Pegolotti, La Pratica della Mercatura, ed. A. Evans (Cambridge, Mass., 1936), 103 (hereafter “Pegolotti”).

Simisso, diverso da quello applicato agli aspri delle vicine regioni turche, per dedurre che cola` doveva esistere un regime politico particolare.” This assertion, however, is not confirmed by what is known about the fate of the city in the 15th century (see above, note 59). 83 C. 283, p. 568, line 1 and p. 569, line 28, and c. 307, p. 616, line 13, where the ducat is rated at 13 bezants and 2 tangi and the various equations (1,280 bezants ⫽ 96 ducats) or conversions (6,194 aspers of Caffa rated at 66 to a ducat—thus implicitly equated to 935⁄6 ducat—are valued at 1,251 bezants of Tana, which also result in the same rate and justify the [13] restored in the text by T. Bertele`, p. 616, line 13. There are other occurrences of tangi in the Libro which Giovanni Bertele` kindly pointed out to me. In one case, also at Tana, tango is clearly a weight or a package unit: on c. 219, p. 441, line 19, it is a fraction of the batiman (100 modioi of millet weighing 2,087 batimani and 3 tangi). The other examples are related to the acquisition of sheepskins (montonine) in the Bursa venture (p. 452, lines 7, 9, 13, 15, 18, 25 and p. 457, line 9): the cost of the transport of skins refers to the number of “tangi de montonine.” Tango is apparently a weight or a container (load). 84 On the coinage of the Crimean khans, see O. Retowski, “Die Mu ¨ nzen der Gireı¨,” Trudy Moskovskogo ¨nNumizmaticheskogo Obshchestva 2 (1899–1901): 241–308; 3 (1903–5), 10–107, 187–330 ⫽ O. Retowski, Die Mu zen der Gireı¨ (Moscow, 1905; repr. London, 1982). But it seems likely to M. Bates that the earlier Genoese Tatar coinage (see O. Retowski, “Genuezko-Tatarskiia moneti goroda Kaffi,” Izvestiia Imperatorskii Arkheolgicheskii Kommissii 18 [1914]: 1–16) might relate more precisely to this entry. 85 Aspers were struck in the 14th century (cf. D. M. Metcalf, Coinage of the Crusades and the Latin East in the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford [London, 1995], nos. 1187–190) and again by Jean de Lastic (1437–54) as silver coins weighing ⫾ 2.00 g. According to Schlumberger, they were relatively common. They are in fact equal to half a gillat of ⫾. 4.00 g. Possibly the deniers are identical with the anonymous copper coins inscribed ⫹OSPITALIS/CONUE RODI (0.36–0.76 g), although these are dated by Metcalf (ibid., nos. 1196–1205) to 1319–60.

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The final settling of the account (c. 243, p. 489, lines 1–11) states that Badoer will receive for his 50 percent participation 160 ducats, 28 aspers, and 1 denaro,86 which he reckons in ducats of Venice with a 16 percent tare (tara).87 This is apparently much more important than the difference in fine weight (some 5%) would justify, since according to Grierson and Oddy’s analyses most of the ducats struck in Rhodes from Antonio Fluviano (1420–37) on (Schlumberger, Numismatique de l’Orient Latin, pl. X, 15) are 23 carats fine.88 Florentine The gold florin (fig., p. 245) appears only twice in the Libro. The first mention is in the account of the shipment to Messina and Syracuse on 22 August 1437, noted earlier regarding the florin of account in the Sicilian monetary system. In this entry the sale of copper (charged on the boat of Todaro Vatatzi of Candia, “signado de mio segno”; c. 40, p. 80, line 5) is shown to have been carried out in real florins.89 Florentine florins were thus still preferred in this area where they had been predominating over Venetian ducats since ca. 1350, although, according to Grierson and Travaini, citing a hoard from Syracuse deposited ca. 1415 and consisting of 8 ducats and 83 florins, “by 1400 Venetian ducats had become more common in the Regno.” 90 The second entry mentioning the gold florin (c. 317, p. 637, lines 17–19) concerns a chanbio de firini or fiorini, that is a bill of exchange of 300 florins sent to the Venetian bailo in Constantinople (beneficiary/payee): “Miser Zorzi Zorzi bailo de Chostantinopoli die` aver a di 20 marzo 1439 per Miser Piero Michiel e ser Marin Barbo per un chanbio de firini (sic) 300 a perp. 3 car. 7 el fiorin, che azeti de pagar al dito c. 317 perp. 987 car. 12.” The rate is the same as that of the ducat for bills remitted to Constantinople (this is obvious since the two currencies were of the same intrinsic value). Various (Egyptian, North African, Wallachian) We find Badoer investing in 1437 in a shipment to Alexandria whose accounts he keeps in ducats reckoned at 2 perperi 10 carats, which are clearly coins of lower metal content than the Venetian. This ducat is presumably to be identified with the local dinar of lower weight (ca. 3.45 g) and fineness (91.3% ⫾ 22 carats) (fig., p. 00).91 Copper and other items are sold in dirhams valued at 9592 to the perpero and current in Egypt at 230 (or once as 285) to a ducat (“de duchati 86 C. 243, p. 489, lines 1–11: “resta neti duchati 321 asp. 24 dr. 2, tocha per la mia mita` duc. 160 asp. 28 d. j, che mete valier de1 veniziani, a 16 per co. de tara, duc. 137 asp. 28 c. 328 perp. 4132 car. 18.” 1 “a perp. 3 el duchato cancellato” (T. Bertele`’s note) [this is, however, the rate of exchange applied here by Badoer, who probably cancelled it in order to simplify the wording of the entry]. 2 “482 corretto in 413” (T. Bertele`’s note). 87 Tara here cannot be tare in the usual meaning, but must indicate a discount applied for deficient quality. 88 P. Grierson, “The Fineness of the Venetian Ducat and Its Imitations,” in Metallurgy in Numismatics, vol. 3 (London, 1988), 99. 89 C. 40, p. 81, lines 6–14, credit. See above, p. 222. 90 Grierson and Travaini, MEC 14:409. 91 C. 299, p. 600, line 26, although the difference in metal content (ca. 12%) is lower than the difference between rates (1 perp. ⫽ 3 Venetian ducats vs. 2 p. 10 car. makes 14 car., i.e., ca. 20%). On the dinar ashrafi issued from 1425 on with a weight and fineness inferior to that of the Venetian ducat (3.45 g vs. 3.56 g), see Grierson, “The Fineness of the Venetian Ducat,” 95, recalling the eighteen analyses by Bacharach of imitative ducats from Egypt in the names of doges Antonio Venier and Michele Steno (1382–1413) with an average fineness of 91.3% (87–96% extreme values). 92 C. 56, p. 113, line 6, 1439 (?) August (“Venture to Alexandria” account): “deremi 615 val a deremi 95 a perparo perp 6 car 11.”

234 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI chorenti da deremi 230 el duco”).93 This cannot be the actual silver dirham, although its issue was resumed from 1415 onward after the silver famine and debasement in the fourteenth century; it is the copper dirham (fig., p. 245) which we know from Egyptian sources to have varied between 240 to a dinar in 1434 and 285 in 1440.94 “Double dinars” (dobla/doble d’oro) (fig., p. 245) are found in a few entries pertaining to the Sicilian venture mentioned above. These entries are also unique in giving the weight and fineness of the coins. 72 doble were bought in Syracuse for 16 carlini (i.e., 32 taris worth) and one grain each,95 then brought to Constantinople to Badoer’s house, sold to the banker Nicola Sardino only to be resold, through Badoer, to two Venetian correspondents.96 Double dinars bought in Syracuse are more likely to be dupli di Barbaria from Tripoli, Tunis, or Tlemcen rather than Merinid or Nasrid ones from further west, since the former are known to have circulated in Sicily in the fourteenth century.97 It is the only mention in the whole book giving the weight and fineness of a coin (72 doubles ⫽ 80 sazi and 17 carats at 211⁄2 fine, making a double ca. 4.4 g).98 The reason for giving such detailed information probably lies in the fact that they were rare in Constantinople and not as well rated as other currencies. The last foreign coins in this group of Mediterranean and Black Sea currencies are tornesi vlachesci (Wallachian tornesi), which are probably to be identified with Moldavian copper half-groats of 1400–1437, minute coins weighing some 0.4 g.99 They were acquired from Jorgi Foti (vlacho) on 26 september 1437 at 17 perperi a cantar and formed part of the copper sent to Egypt in 1438.100 Badoer’s phrase “per rame in torC. 56, p. 113, lines 7–9. E. Ashtor, Histoire des prix et des salaires dans l’Orient me´die´val (Paris, 1968), 276–79. 95 C. 375, p. 752, lines 25–28 (“Doble” account’s debit to Paolo Quirini for the cost of the 72 doble (“Le qual el mete averli costa` in Saragoxa charlini 16 e grana una la dobla, montano onze 19 tari 7 che val a perp. 13 l’onza”). 96 See the comments in T. Bertele`, “Moneta veneziana,” 116–17. 97 Dupli di Barbaria, which reached the country in quantity through the export of grain: MEC 14:307, citing Trasselli 1959 (as above n. 24) and a document there dated 28.6.1438; see also ibid., 266 and 328. 98 C. 375 (“Doble” account, p. 753, lines 22–23): “Le doble pexono sazi 80 car 17 e sono de fineza de charati 21 e grane 2, sotosora, a perp. 3 car. 13 el sazo de horo fin de car. 24.” Michael Bates has referred me to H. W. Hazard, The Numismatic History of North Africa (New York, 1952), who “found the original dobla [really one mithqal or dinar, but the Spaniards and other Europeans seem to have rated it as the double of the half-dinar] to be 4.68 grams. At least that is the weight standard usually quoted.” “No one to my knowledge,” adds Bates, “has actually done a metrological study of the 14th-century west Maghribi gold coinage to see if the standard was the same.” 99 These coins were first identified by Iliescu with bani (anepigraphic obols of Vlad Dracul (O. Iliescu, “Ducatii T ¸ ˘arii Roma˘nes¸ti cu numele Basarab voievod” [Wallachian ducats in the name of voivod Bessarab], SCN 6 (1975): 139–52, esp. 145–46). This is doubted by E. Oberla¨nder-Ta˘rnoveanu, “Moldavian Merchants and Commerce in Constantinople in the 15th Century in the ‘Book of Accounts’ of Giacomo Badoer,” Etudes byzantines et post-byzantines 2 (Bucarest, 1991): 165–80. According to Oberla¨nder (175), the initial transaction of copper coins had occurred before 18 December 1436 and thus predate Vlad Dracul’s accession in 1436 (but the entries concerning rame there do not surely refer to the tornexi vlacheschi). A more convincing argument lies in the fact that these Wallachian issues were all of silver or billon; the only copper issues of the time (hence Badoer’s tornesi di rame) in the area being the Moldavian half-groats of Alexander the Good (1400– 1432), Elias (1432–37), and those from the first years of the joint reign of Elias and his brother Stephen II (after August 1435), with an average weight of 0.44–0.32 g. 100 See T. Bertele`, “Appunto sulle monete del Rechenbuch edito da Hunger-Vogel,” BZ 56 (1963): 321–27, esp. 325 and n. 10 quoting Badoer’s Libro: p. 645, lines 13–14; p. 124, lines 25–27; p. 242, line 7; p. 438, lines 8–9. 8 July 1438, c. 218, p. 438, line 8, “Rame” account (giving details of all transportation and packing costs): “per rame in tornexi per l’amontar de chant. 2 ro (rotoli) 80 de rame de tornexi vlachesci, a perp. 17.1⁄1 el chanter monta c. 120 perp 49 car. 0.” 93 94

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nexi” 101 is revealing of the process: Wallachian tornesi were being traded for their metal value (at 17.5 perperi the cantar).102 COINS AS BULLION OR COINABLE METAL The Libro contains a few instances in which Badoer traded coins this way, and information on the relative prices of metals can be derived from these operations. Metals, however precious or base and in all possible form, whether in coins, plate, or ingots, were important items in the business of Venetian merchants. In the survey below, as far as possible all the occurrences of metal prices encountered in the document have been collected. But, given the perspective of this study, only “monetary” metals have been considered, iron and tin for instance being left aside. In the Libro, precious metals are measured in pounds and baser ones in cantars. This agrees to a great extent with Pegolotti’s information, according to which, in Constantinople and Pera, “argento in pezzi . . . si vende a libbre, oro in verghe etc., si vendono a saggio,” while rame is sold a centinaia, and iron, tin, or lead at the cantar.103 The cantar of Constantinople or Pera was divided into 100 rotoli104 according to the Genoese system followed in both places, according to Pegolotti.105 It was equal to 156 light Venetian pounds (libri sottile)106 or 1381⁄3 Florentine pounds. I have here converted when necessary all measures into pounds, assuming that Badoer was using the pound of Constantinople or that of Pera, which was identical with it. Gold The doble example (“a perp. 3 car. 13 el sazo de horo fin de car. 24”; see c. 375, note 98 above) gives 1 pound of 72 sazi of 3 perperi 13 carats each, valued at 254 perperi 21 carats. Silver Silver appears in different forms, and its value depends on the fineness of its alloy considered below in decreasing order. Worked Silver Silver plate such as spoons, jam-pots (confetiere), cups, and the like are mentioned at 30 or 29 perperi the pound.107 101 And elsewhere (c. 62, p. 124, lines 25–26), mentioning the same lot, he feels it necessary to add tornexi de rame probably in order to avoid confusion with silver or silver alloyed tornesi. 102 C. 218, p. 438, line 6. 103 Pegolotti, 35, 33, 40–41. 104 E. Schilbach, Byzantinische Metrologie (Munich, 1970), 189. 105 Pegolotti, 48: “Il cantare, la libbra, il saggio di Gostantinopoli e di Pera si e` tutt’uno co’ detti pesi de’ genovesi.” See also another 14th-century source, the Tarifa zoe` noticia dy pexi e mexure di luogi e tere che s’adovra marcadantia per el mondo (Venice, 1925), on the basis of which Schilbach (Metrologie,) 178, assumes that a pound of 316.748 g was used in Constantinople for weighing silver. 106 Pegolotti, 50. G. di Antonio da Uzzano, La Pratica della Mercatura in G. F. Paganini, Della decima e di varie altre gravezze . . . della moneta e della mercatura de’ Florentini fino al secolo XVI, IV (Lisbon-Lucca, 1776; repr. Bologna, 1966), 88, gives the figure of 150 Venetian libri sottile to the cantar of Pera. 107 On 9 October 1436, Badoer sold to the Jew Samaria eight silver spoons weighing 6 oz., 5 s. at 30 perperi a pound for 17 perperi, 2 car. (c. 6, p. 13, lines 20–21). Other instances involving silver plate show on 5 November 1439 three chonfetiere and two taze weighing a total of 3 pounds and 6 ounces being reserved by the banker Nichola Sardino at 29 perperi the pound (c. 254, p. 511, lines 24–25), [probably ? the three chonfetiere and two taze weighing 5 marks, 5 ounces, and 2 quarte at 5 ducats, 15 grossi to 6 ducats, 8 grossi, sent by his brother from Venice (c. 254, p. 510, lines 20–23)].

236 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI Silver in aspers In July 1437, 9 ounces of arzento d’asperi had been bought at 25 perperi. On 19 September 1437, 7 pounds of the same are bought in Constantinople from the Jew Leonin at “perperi 26 carats 6 la livra.” 108 That these asperi are Turkish aspers is shown by the offsetting entry of the account “Cassa/aver de raxon de ser Griguol Contarini” (c. 88, p. 179, lines 19–20), where “200 asperi grievi” weighing 1 pound 1 ounce and 5 s. (i.e., some 367.30 g) imply an asper at ca. 1.83 g (reckoning with a pound of 318.7 g). This identification is confirmed by the valuation of the same asperi grievi at 18 perperi 18 carats, implying 1 perpero ⫽ 102⁄3 aspers, that is, the average rating of the akcˇe (see above, pp. 228–29). Silver plate (in piatine) These aspers are exported to Trebizond together with silver plate (Arzento de piatine) at 24 perperi 21 carats, on which Badoer takes a discount of 1 percent as his commission for buying and weighing (“per provixion de me de l’achatar e pexador”). 109 The piatine must have been silver plaques which could either be melted on arriving at their destination or circulate along with the silver sommo or the related, more or less standardized ingots popular around the Black Sea.110 The piatine are valued at 24 perperi 21 carats the pound. Badoer’s piatine are of different weights: the first two are 14 pounds, 9 oz., 51⁄2 d., that is, 4.7 kg each (at a 317 g pound); the other, 10 pounds, 5 oz., 21⁄2 d., that is, 3.31 kilos.111 The former could be a multiple of the Genoese mark (237.58 g), but, as Spufford rightly points out, “the fact that two of the plates weighed around twenty marks between them does not mean that they each weighed around ten marks.” 112 Copper Badoer’s trade in copper deserves a more detailed study since many entries in fact pertain to his affairs in this very desirable metal. He shipped copper in all directions, westward or eastward alike, to Venice, Sicily, Modon or Candia, Alexandria, Rhodes, Beirut on its way to Damascus, as well as to Tana. But coins exported for their metal value play a minor part in this active business. Only one type of coins was treated this way and exported in the 1438 consignment to Alexandria together with 11 cofe (baskets)

See respectively c. 66, p. 132, lines 36–37 and c. 106, p. 215, line 26. C. 66, p. 132, line 35 and c. 77, p. 157, line 24 110 On the increasing use of these ingots in the 14th–15th century after the disappearance of Byzantine gold, see P. Spufford, Money and Its Use in Medieval Europe (Cambridge, 1988), 220–22, mentioning, among other things, the 92 sommi in the Romanian find of Uzun Bair with weights ranging from 172 g to 219 g. 111 The following calculations assume Badoer is using the Constantinople/Pera pound, divided into 12 ounces and 72 soldi: c. 66, p. 132, line 31: “piatine 2 pexa livre 14 once 9 s. 51⁄2“ [2 piat. ⫽ 14.82 1. hence, 1 piatina ⫽ 7.41 1. ⫾ 2,349 g] ` livre 10 once 5 s. 21⁄2” [1 piat. ⫽ 10.452 1. ⫾ 3,313 g]. c. 66, p. 132, lines 33–34: “una piatina . . . pexo 112 Western medieval silver ingots, whether “marks” or other weights, are known from textual and archaeological evidence (Spufford, Money and Its Use, 209–24). A. von Loehr, “Probleme der Silberbarren,” NZ, N.F. 24 (1931): 101–9 publishes a series of Germanic ingots of the 13th–15th century, giving their fineness and weight. Because of the high variation of the latter, Loehr avoided proposing any correspondence with a known mark. Let me, however, remark that some of them are grouped in the 200–230 g bracket. Note also that silver ingots weighing “ten marks” (about 2.45 or 2.25 kg) called iascot (Turkish yasˇticˇ) were used in Karakorum in the mid-13th century (William of Rubruck, Itinerarium, trans. W. W. Rockhill [London, 1900] 156, and other secondary references given by Hendy, Studies, 550). Spufford points to “much heavier plates of silver being cast in the thirteenth century at Lucca” (oral communication). 108 109

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TABLE 1. RELATIVE PRICES OF METALS IN BADOER’S LIBRO Price of a pound in perperi Resulting ratio

Gold

Silver

Copper

Lead

254 perperi, 21 carats

30 perperi 1 26.25 perperi 2

0.166 perpero

0.0362 perpero

1

8.5

1,535 1

7,040 4.5

1

Worked silver For less fine arzento d’asperi Note: This table sums up data arrived at from the various entries discussed in the text, pp. 235–37 and continued on p. 240. 2

of noncoined metal: tornexi, the Wallachian coins mentioned earlier, probably also called folari,113 assembled in a baril also called charatelo (cask). Grierson was right in finding it difficult to admit that these folari could be the small coins of some 0.80–0.60 g, issued from John V to Constantine XI:114 “since token coin is always worth more at home than abroad it seems unlikely that he [Badoer] would have been exporting something current at Constantinople. More probably the follari were miscellaneous copper coins of varied origin which had been allowed to accumulate and for which Badoer had no use.” 115 It should be noted that the Mamluks of that time were striking such enormous quantities of copper coins, the then dominant currency in Egypt, that they were sending middlemen to Europe to provide them with the much-needed material.116 Badoer may have found it necessary to form his consignment of copper with whatever metal, even coined, he could lay his hands on. He thus bought, at 17 perperi the cantar, 2 cantars and 80 rotoli (ca. 140 kg) of copper in tornexi,117 which were valued at 171⁄2 perperi in July 1438.118 The price of copper in coins is similar to that of copper in ingots ( piatine), also

113 Badoer, c. 321, p. 645, line 14 (16 October 1439): “per el viazo d’Alexandria rechomandado a ser Lunardo Grimani, per nolo e spexe ch’el me asigna aver fate per cofe 11 de rame e baril uno de folari perp. 13 go (grosssi) O pi (pizoli) 24, che val . . . perp 8 car. 17.” This entry unfortunately refers to the price of the freight charges and other expenses but not to the acquisition price of the folari. Analysis of the many entries regarding the trading of copper in the 1438 venture to Alexandria shows this baril de folari to be in fact identical with the charatelo uno de tornexi [vlachesci] weighing 2 cantars and 80 rotoli bought from the Vlach Jorgi Foti in September 1437. 114 John V (S. Bendall, A Private Collection of Palaeologan Coins [Wolverhampton, 1988], 331): see DOC 5.1:203; Constantine XI: Paris, Bibliothe`que nationale de France, unpublished. 115 Grierson, DOC 5.1:27. 116 See Ashtor, Histoire des prix, 279–80, with references. More recently, B. Shoshan, “From Silver to Copper: Monetary Changes in Fifteenth-Century Egypt,” Studia Islamica 56 (1982): 97–118, analyzed the emergence of copper as currency in 15th-century Egypt following the dependence of the country on western supply of precious metals and the growing general shortage of silver in Europe in the 14th century. In turn, the abundant monetization of copper created a copper shortage during a large part of the 15th century, particularly acute during the 1420s and 1430s, precisely when Badoer was shipping a significant amount of metal to Alexandria. 117 C. 119, p. 241, lines 2–3: “per rame de tornexi per l’amontar de chant. 2 rot. 80 di rame neto, a perp. 17 el chanter monta a 47 perp. 14 car.” gives 1 cantar at 17 perperi [100 pounds ⫽ 17 perperi; 1 pound ⫽ 0.17 perpero, i.e., ca. 1⁄6 perpero, making 1 pound ⫽ 4 carats]. 118 C. 218, p. 438, lines 8–9.

238 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI

TABLE 2. RATES OF EXCHANGE IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI * 1. Moneys of Account Genoese ducats (ducats of Pera) (weight and gold content unknown) ⫽ “2 perperi” ⫽ “71 Trebizond aspers” [i.e., ⱕ 1⁄2 Venetian ducat] (metal worth) Byzantine perperi 1 perpero ⫽ 24 carats ⫽ 96 quarte (1 carat ⫽ 4 quarte) Cretan perperi [de Chandia] 1 perpero ⫽ 12 grossi ⫽ 384 piccoli (1 grosso ⫽ 12 piccoli) 1.5 to the Constantinople perpero [⫽ 2⁄3 perpero of Constantinople], i.e., 2⁄9 of a gold ducat Morean perperi [de Coron] 1 perpero ⫽ 20 soldi di piccoli and 240 piccoli (1 soldo ⫽ 12 piccoli) 21⁄4 to the Constantinople perpero, i.e., (2⁄3) of Cretan ones Bezant of Tana divided into 6 aspers 1 [Venetian] ducat ⫽ 131⁄3 bezants (13 bezants and 2 tangi) 1 perpero ⫽ 41⁄4 bezants Sicilian gold ounce divided into 30 tari or tareni of 20 grains each Ounce 1

[Florin] 5 1

Tari 30 6 1

Grain 600 120 20

2. Actual Coins Byzantine perperi (⫾ 90% fine silver) 1 perpero ⫽ [2 “stavrati” 7.1 g silver] ⫽ 4 intermediate coins ⫾ 3.5 g ⫽ 16 ducatelli ⫾ 0.9 g ⫾ 3 perpero, 6 carats to the Venetian ducat Venetian ducats 3.56 g of 99% fine gold Turkish ducats (gold) (weight and gold content unknown) ca. 2 perperi, 1 carat [1 Venetian ducat ⫽ 1.5 Turkish ducat] “1 Turkish ducat ⫽ 36 aspers of Simisso” “1 Turkish ducat ⫽ 80 Trapezuntine aspers” Turkish aspers (ak.ˇces) (⫾ 1.06 g of 90–95% fine silver) various rates ca. 11 to the perpero Trapezuntine aspers ⫾ 1 g of 51% fine silver ⫾ 36 to the perpero *This table sums up the rates arrived at from the various entries discussed in the text, pp. 220–35.

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TABLE 2. RATES OF EXCHANGE IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI (continued) Sommo (Caffa) ⫾ 200–205 g ⫽ 9 perperi, 6 carats and 10 perperi, 9 carats ⫽ 2021⁄2 aspers Aspers (Caffa) 0.56–1.00 g, silver content unknown 1 perpero ⫽ 20 aspers [i.e., 0.64–0.73 g fine silver weight] 1 [Venetian] ducat ⫽ 66 aspers (c. 307, p. 616, line 12) Aspers of Simisso 1 Turkish ducat ⫽ 36 aspers of Simisso 1 perpero ⫽ 19 aspers of Simisso Aspers (tangi) (Tana) 1 bezant (account) ⫽ 6 tangi 1 [Venetian] ducat ⫽ 13 bezants ⫹ 2 tangi 1 tango ⫽ 0.82 i.e., ⫾ 4⁄5 asper of Caffa; 1 asper of Caffa ⫽ 11⁄5 tango Ducats and aspers of Rhodes 1 ducat (ca. 3.5 g at 23 carats fine [95.8%]) ⫽ 30 aspers (⫾ 2.0 g) 1 asper ⫽ 16 denari “1 ducat of Rhodes ⫽ 1 Venetian ducat ⫺16 percent tara” (discount) Florentine florins 1 florin ⫽ 3 perperi, 7 carats Egyptian ducats and dirhams 1 ducat ⫽ 2 perperi, 10 carats 1 dirham ⫽ 1⁄95 perpero North African dobla (double dinar) bought for 16 carlini, 1 grain in Syracuse reckoned in Constantinople at ca. 3 perperi, 13 carats each 3. Metals Gold 1 pound pure gold ⫽ 254 perperi, 21 carats Silver 1 pound worked silver ⫽ 30 to 27 perperi 1 pound arzento d’asperi (Turkish aspers) ⫽ 26 perperi, 6 carats or 25 perperi 1 pound perperi grievi ⫽ 23 perperi, 4 carats, 22 perperi, 15 carats, 22 perperi, 12 carats Copper rame de tornexi: 1 cantar ⫽ 17 perperi [hence, 1 pound ⫽ 4 carats] chofe de rame ( folari, tornexi, piatine): 1 cantar ⫽ 17–15 Alexandria ducats Lead 1 cantar ⫽ 3.62 perperi ⫽ 3 perperi, 18 carats ⫽ 90 carats

239

240 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI

TABLE 2. RATES OF EXCHANGE IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI (continued) 4. Resulting Exchange of the Bezant and Ducat in Other Currencies or Moneys of Account The Byzantine perpero in ducats of Venice ducats of Pera Cretan perperi Morean perperi Turkish ducats Turkish aspers Trapezuntine aspers sommo of Caffa aspers of Caffa aspers of Simisso bezants of Tana Egyptian ducat Egyptian dirhams

⁄3 to 1⁄4 (1⁄4 ⫹ 1⁄18) ⁄ 11⁄2 21⁄4 ⬍ 1⁄2 (1 Turkish ducat ⫽ 1 perpero ⫹ 1 carat) 11 331⁄3 to 36 ca. 1⁄10 20 19 4 5⁄12 95

The Venetian ducat in Byzantine perperi ducats of Pera Cretan perperi Morean perperi Turkish ducats Turkish aspers sommo of Caffa aspers of Caffa bezants of Tana Egyptian dirhams

3 to 4 12⁄3 45⁄6 71⁄3 11⁄2 353⁄4 ca. 3 (2 ducats, 10 grossi to 3 ducats, 4 grossi and 16 piccoli) 66 131⁄3 (13 and 2 tangi) 230 and once 285

1

12

usually rated at 17 perperi a cantar and only in a few cases at 18 perperi.119 One should note that, by selling at 15 or 16 local Egyptian ducats the cantar of copper, he was making a good profit, roughly more than doubling his original investment. Not all the numerous currencies in which Badoer, or rather his correspondents, traded were used as a means of payment. The present survey may be concluded by noting that for the Venetians of that time coins were just another type of metal and exporting them even from their own country was not regarded as detrimental to the economy (see the Deathbed Oration of Doge Mocenigo120) as the mercantilist and bullionist theory and practice would later have it. C. 133, p. 269, lines 14–15: “a dı` 6 zugno1439 per rame de raxon de ser Zuane e ser Jachomo Bragadin per l’amontar de chant. 50 ro 94 de rame a perp 18 el chanter, tenpo al retorno de le galie de Mar Mazor de 1439 . . . perp. 916 car. 22.” If 1 cantar ⫽ 18 perperi [100 pounds ⫽ 18 perperi; 1 pound ⫽ 0.18 perpero ⫽ 1⁄6 ⫹ 1⁄8 perpero], 1 pound ⫽ 41⁄3 carats. 120 The text mentions that some 5,000 marks of silver (⫽ 30,000 ducats) were annually exported to Egypt and Syria and 50,000 ducats worth to the Venetian colonies; A. Stahl, “The Deathbed Oration of Doge Mocenigo and the Mint of Venice,” Mediterranean Historical Review 10.1/2 (1995): 284–301; F. C. Lane, “Exportations ve´nitiennes d’or et d’argent de 1200 `a 1450,” in Etudes d’histoire mone´taire, ed. J. Day (Lille, 1984), 29–48, repr. in Lane, Studies in Venetian Social and Economic History (London, 1987), XIV. Other data are collected in E. Ashtor, Les me´taux pre´cieux et la balance des paiements du Proche-Orient `a la basse ´epoque (Paris, 1971). 119

Appendix

A page of the Libro and its edition (carta 33, p. 66, lines 1–27). Two credit accounts are illustrated; that of the pepper bought in Bursa for Badoer and Nicolo Justignan (lines 1–15); and that of Christofal Bonifazio, Badoer’s correspondent in Bursa (lines 16–27).

Facsimile Del Dare Della C. 33

244 COIN USAGE AND EXCHANGE RATES IN BADOER’S LIBRO DEI CONTI Specimens of denominations mentioned (real size) Byzantine coins Stavraton, John VIII (1423–48) (S. Bendall and P. J. Donald, The Later Palaeologan Coinage [London, 1979], p. 172, 1). Half-stavraton (ibid., p. 172, 2) Duchatello (1⁄8 stavraton) (ibid., p. 174, 3) Tornexe, Manuel II (1391–1425) (ibid., p. 163, 3) Venetian ducat Francesco Foscari (1423–57) (N. Papadopoli, Le monete di Venezia [Venice, 1893], p. 269, no. 1, pl. XIV, 1) Turkish asper (ak. ˇce) Murad II (825 H/1422 A.D.), Edirne (W. Marsden, Numismata Orientalia illustrata, vol. 1 [London, 1823], pp. 381–82, pl. XXIII, no. CCCLXXXVI) Trapezuntine asper Alexios IV (1417–47) (P. J. Sabatier, Description ge´ne´rale des monnaies byzantines [Paris, 1862], pl. LXIX, 25) Genoese ducat (ducat of Pera) Thomas Campofregoso, doge of Genoa (1436–43) (G. Schlumberger, Numismatique de l’Orient Latin [Paris, 1878], p. 454, pl. XVII, 22) Genoese asper of Caffa Bilingual issue with the Genoese castle ( janua) and the Tartar tanga (Schlumberger, Numismatique de l’Orient Latin, p. 466, pl. XVII, 25 ⫽ G. Lunardi, Le monete delle colonie genovesi [Genoa, 1980], p. 73, C28) Asper (tangi) (Caffa) Silver coin with tanga on reverse and inscription: “struck in the city of Crim, in 845” ¨nzen der Gireı¨ [Moscow, 1905], p. 4, pl. 1, 1) (O. Retowski, Die Mu Ducat and asper of Rhodes Ducat, Antonio Fluviano (1421–37) (Schlumberger, Numismatique de l’Orient Latin, p. 255, pl. X, 15) Asper, Jean de Lastic (1437–34), (ibid., p 256, pl. X, 16) Florentine florin Florin (1436) (Corpus Nummorum Italicorum, vol. 12, Toscana. Firenze (Rome, 1930), p. 129, pl. XVII, 46) Egyptian ducat and copper dirham (drawings by F. Thierry) Ducat, Cairo. Barsbay (825/1422–841/1438) (H. Lavoix, Catalogue des monnaies musulmanes de la Bibliothe`que Nationale, vol. 3, Egypte et Syrie [Paris, 1896] no. 988) Copper, Haleb, Barquq (784/1382–801/1399) (Lavoix, ibid., no. 958; illustrated here in the absence of any Egyptian copper dirham of the period in the Paris collection) North African dobla (double dinar) (drawing by F. Thierry) Tunis, Abul-Faris ‘Abdal Aziz II (839/1435–), (Lavoix, Catalogue, p. 271, no. 969, pl. CXCI, no. 5)

AR

AR

AR

Byzantine coins (stavraton and fractions)

AE

Byzantine tornexe

AV

Venetian ducat

AV

AR

Trapezuntine asper

AR

Turkish ak. cˇe

Asper of Caffa

Tangi

B

B

Genoese ducat (Pera)

AV

Ducat of Rhodes

Asper of Rhodes

AV

AE

Egyptian ducat

Copper dirham

Florentine florin

AV

North African dobla

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2001 © 2002 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

www.doaks.org/etexts.html

Gifts and Gift Exchange as Aspects of the Byzantine, Arab, and Related Economies ANTHONY CUTLER For Philip Grierson

espite their ubiquity in Arab, Byzantine, and western chronicles, the part that diplomatic gifts played in medieval economies has been largely overlooked. There are at least two explanations for this neglect. First and most obviously, as we use the sources, we accept the fact that presents of this sort were taken for granted by the authors in question: gifts were a traditional and constitutive part of diplomatic practice and therefore normally touched upon lightly or not at all. To Skylitzes, for instance, writing in the second half of the eleventh century, it was all but a matter of course that Romanos I would load “Saracen” ambassadors to his court with expensive (but unspecified) presents as a way to dissuade al-Mahdı¯, the Fa¯.timid ruler of North Africa, from a projected alliance with Symeon of Bulgaria.1 Similarly, while Skylitzes’ contemporary, the Andalusian Ibn H . ayya¯n, like most Arab historians, provides many more details about the nature of the gifts he reports, the twenty dromedaries, complete with saddles, bridles, and other trappings, and the twenty pregnant camels that Muh. ammad b. Jazar, an ally of
Abd alRah. ma¯n III, sent to Cordoba in 930, were no more than the contribution to be expected of a regional leader and implicit testimony to the caliph’s suzerainty.2 In the eyes of both Muslim and Byzantine writers, duly followed by their modern successors, the gifts that they mention are incidental and peripheral to the central events of political history that they describe. A second reason for this omission may be the appropriation of the topic by the social sciences. Filling the vacuum left by historians, anthropologists and sociologists have captured the field, concentrating on what they call “primitive” or “archaic” societies or on

D

1 Synopsis historiarum, ed. H. Thurn (Berlin-New York, 1973), 264, lines 81–91. According to Skylitzes, Romanos’ message concludes (ironically?) that “the emperors of the Romans thus know how to repay their enemies.” For knowledge of this passage I am indebted to Denis Sullivan, and no less to William North and Alice-Mary Talbot who suggested a number of the examples used in this paper. To Jonathan Bloom and Irfan Shahıˆd, who advised me on much of the Arabic material and translated some of it, I likewise owe much. The comments of two anonymous readers and those of the economist Philip A. Klein on the last section of this paper were invaluable as it reached its final state. 2 Ibn H . ayya¯n, Al-Muqtabis V, ed. P. Chalmeta, F. Corriente, and M. Subh (Madrid, 1979), 177–79; see also Cronica del Califa
Abderrahma¯n III an-Nası¯r entre los an ˜os 912 y 942, trans. M. J. Viguera and F. Corriente (Saragossa, 1981), 203–5.

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the functions of gifts in the early modern and contemporary worlds. Following the pioneering essay of Marcel Mauss, Claude Le´vi-Strauss, Pierre Bourdieu, Maurice Godelier,3 and many others have fastened on exchange as the most fruitful approach to an enduring phenomenon, preferring to regard it as ritual rather than as economic behavior. I shall treat this aspect more fully in another context,4 confining the present paper largely to what Lord Keynes might have called the economic consequences of the gift.5 Yet even before embarking, it must be admitted that economic theory itself may be partly responsible for the fact that gifts have been neglected as vehicles of medieval exchange. Given that the sources understandably concentrate on offerings by and to emperors, caliphs, and kings, stressing their rarity and in many cases their uniqueness, it is hardly surprising that gifts have come up against such notions as marginal utility—Alfred Marshall’s doctrine that the value of an item is determined by the need for it and by its relative scarcity instead of any intrinsic or inherent worth that it may have.6 Precious objects have thus fallen foul of judgments concerning “luxuries” in which modern thought, albeit unaware of the parallelism, has tended to reinforce much medieval Christian and some Muslim prejudice against goods that are not considered “necessary.” 7 They have effectively been removed from the realm of economic history. By contrast, I shall try to show that gifts are part of what Keynes, Marshall’s pupil, in a memoir of his teacher described as “a whole Copernican system by which all elements of the economic universe are kept in their places by mutual counterpoise and interaction.” 8 Such an understanding is rarely exhibited by medieval donors; indeed, many may have been unaware of the economic effects of their offerings, although we should not forget the large number of occasions on which gifts were instrumental in the negotiation of trade treaties.9 Rather, the messages that accompanied their presents purport to demonstrate the magnanimity of the donor,10 to teach moral lessons about the faith of the 3 M. Mauss, “Essai sur le don. Forme et raison d’e´change dans les societe´s archaı¨ques,” L’Anne´a sociologique, n.s., 1 (1925), 30–186, trans. W. D. Halls as The Gift. The Form and Reason for Exchange in Archaic Societies (London, 1990); C. Le´vi-Strauss, “Introduction `a l’oeuvre de Mauss,” in his Sociologie et anthropologie (Paris, 1950), i–lii; P. Bourdieu, Esquisse d’une the´orie de pratique . . . (Geneva, 1972), trans. R. Nice, Outline of a Theory of Practice (Cambridge, 1977), esp. 171–97; M. Godelier, L’e´nigme du don (Paris, 1996), trans. N. Scott, The Enigma of the Gift (Oxford-Chicago, 1999). 4 For now, see A. Cutler, “The Empire of Things: Gift Exchange between Byzantium and the Islamic World,” Center 20. Record of Activities and Research Reports, June 1999–May 2000 (Washington, D.C., National Gallery of Art, Center for Advanced Study in the Visual Arts, 2000), 67–70, and below, 271–72. Mauss’s ideas have been applied to medieval gifts by R. Cormack, “But Is It Art?” in Byzantine Diplomacy. Papers from the Twenty-Fourth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Cambridge, March 1990, ed. J. Shepard and S. Franklin (Aldershot, 1992), 219–36, and A. Cutler, “Les ´echanges de dons entre Byzance et l’Islam (IXe–XIe sie`cles),” JSav (January–June 1996): 51–66. 5 Cf. J. M. Keynes, The Economic Consequences of the Peace (London, 1919). 6 See esp. his Principles of Economics (London-New York, 1890). 7 On some of these, see A. Cutler, “Uses of Luxury: On the Functions of Consumption and Symbolic Capital in Byzantine Culture,” in Byzance et les images, ed. A. Guillou and J. Durand (Paris, 1994) 289–307, esp. 289–95. 8 “Alfred Marshall,” in Collected Writings of John Maynard Keynes, 30 vols. (London, 1971–89), 10:205. 9 While a perennial phenomenon (see the literature cited in ODB 3:2101–2, s.v. Trade treaties), the correlation between gifts and diplomacy targeted toward commercial ends is best documented in negotiations between the Palaiologoi and the Mamlu ¯ k sultans. On these see M. T. Mansouri, Recherche sur les relations entre ´ gypte (1259–1453) d’apre`s les sources arabes (Tunis, 1992), esp. 134 and tables 2 and 3, where the Byzance et l’E occasions and presents involved are set out diagrammatically. 10 Thus Romanos I to al-Mahdı¯ in Skylitzes, cited in note 1 above.

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society that he represented,11 or simply to assert the giver’s political might.12 Yet it would be a mistake to equate pronounced intentions with ultimate results, to assume that all effects proceeded from deliberate policy, or to impose theoretical sophistication upon the economic behavior of early medieval governments.13 On the other hand, “glorious gifts,” as Theophylact Simokatta put it, constituted one of the strategies the raw economic value of which was understood. Describing in this manner the tribute that the Romans agreed to transmit to the Avars after their capture of Sirmium in 582, the historian observes that the goods of silver and embroidered cloth to be delivered annually to the barbarians were worth 80,000 gold coins.14 Two aspects of this passage are significant for our purposes. First, its manner of expression suggests that such agreements were first expressed monetarily and only later fulfilled in terms of commodities of equal value. Second, Simokatta’s word for goods (ejmpori´a") 11 Cf. al-Mamu ¯ n’s famous response to the presents of an unidentified Byzantine emperor: “Send him a gift one hundred times greater than his, so that he may recognize the glory of Islam and the grace that Allah has bestowed on us,” cited in M. Hamidullah, “Nouveaux documents sur les rapports de l’Europe avec l’Orient musulman au Moyen Age,” Arabica 7 (1960): 286, and G. al-Hijja¯wı¯ al-Qaddu ¯ mı¯, Book of Gifts and Rarities, Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯ wa al-Tuh. af (Cambridge, Mass., 1996) 77, §31 (hereafter Book of Gifts). It is worth noting how often invitations to embrace Islam are accompanied by gifts. Early 10th-century
Abba¯sid envoys to the Volga Bulgars, for example, stop on their way to present a letter to the king of the Oghu ¯ z Turks, bidding him to convert and offering him 50 dinars, musk, and leather goods, as well as clothing of cotton, brocade, and silk. See M. Canard, “La relation du voyage d’Ibn Fadla¯n chez les Bulgares de la Volga,” Annuaire de l’Institut d’e´tudes orientales 16 (1958): 41–145, esp. 78 (hereafter Canard, “Ibn Fadla¯n”). Of course, the practice was by no means confined to Muslims. As Bede relates (Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. B. Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors [Oxford, 1969], 170, 174), Pope Boniface V (619–625) sent a gold-embroidered robe, an “Ancyrian garment,” a silver mirror, and an ivory comb adorned with gold to the Christian queen Aethelburgh in an attempt to effect the conversion of her husband, Edwin. 12 See, e.g., the report in the anonymous chronicle known as the Kita¯b al-
Uyu ¯n that a Byzantine monk, serving as ambassador to al-Mu
izz in 953, “saw the grandeur of Islam and the power of the sovereign the likes of which he had never seen in the country of the Greeks” (M. Canard, Les extraits des sources arabes [⫽ A. A. Vasiliev, Byzance et les Arabes, vol. 2.2 [Brussels, 1950], 224 (hereafter Vasiliev-Canard). Conversely, the position of recipient of presents as a sign of the acknowledgment due to a ruler is a leitmotif of Byzantine ideology. Thus, in the preface to the instructions that he gives his son, Constantine Porphyrogennetos tells Romanos that God “raised thee up, that the nations may bring thee their gifts and thou mayest be adored of them that dwell upon the earth.” See De administrando imperio, ed. Gy. Moravcsik and R. Jenkins, vol. 1 (Washington, D.C., 1967), 46, lines 38–39 (hereafter DAI). 13 As when, e.g., G. Musca, Carlo Magno ed Harun al Rashid (Bari, 1963), 108–15, suggests that Charlemagne sent “Frisian” cloths to Baghdad to correct a “balance-of-payments” problem caused by western tastes for
Abba¯sid silks, rock crystal, and other luxury objects. By contrast, it seems quite reasonable to accept as rational such decisions as the Fa¯.timid calculation that funds were better spent on arming and maintaining their fleet than on the ransoming of prisoners of war as is prescribed for the treatment of infidels in the Qur¯an (su ¯ra 47). See M. Campagnolo-Pothitou, “Les ´echanges de prisonniers entre Byzance et l’Islam aux IXe et Xe sie`cles,” Journal of Oriental and African Studies 7 (1995): 1–55, esp. 26. 14 Theophylacti Simocattae Historiae, ed. C. de Boor and P. Wirth (Stuttgart, 1972), 45, lines 10–13 (hereafter Theoph. Sim.; the English version by L. M. and M. Whitby, The History of Theophylact Simocatta, is referred to as “trans. Whitby”). The Avar khagan later demanded a supplementary tribute of 20,000 pieces of gold (ibid., 46, lines 13–15). We are accustomed to thinking of tribute as a one-way street, but at least on occasion, as Ibn Isfandiya¯r makes clear, it could form part of a transaction essentially indistinguishable from gift exchange. Thus the ruler of Ispahbadan is said to have responded to al-Mans.u ¯ r’s gift of “a royal crown and robe of honour” with “a poll-tax of one dirham of gold for each inhabitant, 300 dirhams, each containing four dangs of ‘white’ silver, 300 bales of green silk carpets,” colored cottons, garments, saffron, and “a certain amount of sea fish,” all laden on forty mules. Ta rı¯kh-i Isfandiya¯r, trans. E. G. Browne, An Abridged Translation of the History of T. abarista¯n Compiled about A.H. 613/A.D. 1216 (Leiden, 1905), 118.

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implies that the silver objects applied in this instance to the obligation were available in the marketplace rather than made expressly to discharge the debt. The commercial status of many things offered as presents will be of concern to us below, but for now it is the relationship between gifts and specie that merits investigation. Both Arab and Byzantine texts manifest perennial awareness of their parity, and hence convertibility. This is already evident with respect to tribute, as the just-cited sixth-century example makes clear. No less telling is the rhetorical device whereby spoils of war are described as dw'ra, applied equally to the 300,000 pieces of gold and silver and the Syrian garments and aromatics seized by John Tzimiskes during his Mesopotamian campaign in the early 970s.15 Where the conversion of objects into specie is the reason for attention to them, it is hardly surprising to find an author emphasize their liquidity, as the Continuator of Theophanes does with respect to the golden automata and organ sent to the melting pot by Michael II.16 More remarkable is the readiness to assign monetary value to offerings to holy places. It might be supposed that Theophylact Simokatta’s extraordinary portrait of Chosroes’ “dickering” with St. Sergios is an educated civil servant’s expression of contempt for a calculating barbarian. With reference to a gem-studded gold cross that the “king of kings” had first taken as booty (in 549) and then embellished with yet another cross before deciding to send it to the saint’s shrine at Sergiopolis, he puts into the mouth of the Sasanian king the statement that “for its value, although this does not extend beyond four thousand three hundred standard miliaresia, five thousand standard coins [stath'ra"] should be dispatched in its place.” 17 Yet contemporary accounts of Greek oblations are no less attentive to their material worth. The vita of Daniel the Stylite, for instance, describes a thanksgiving gift offered by a repentant heretic as “a silver image, ten pounds in weight.” 18 Records of this sort, abundant in monastic inventories and typika, suggest that the perceived effectiveness of an object was bound up with its monetary value. And the prominence of material and quantitative data in the
Abba¯sid gift lists, discussed below, suggest that as much is true of secular offerings. Aesthetic, economic, and pious gestures do not inhabit entirely separate universes. GIFTS OF CASH, COMMODITIES, AND LABOR If the image of Chosroes II that Theophylact Simokatta paints is one of condescension to the king’s shrewdness, such behavior, far from being thought crass, is esteemed 15 Leo Diaconus, Historia, 10.2, ed. C. B. Hase (Bonn, 1828), 163, lines 1–7. On the date of this campaign, see the literature cited in M. McCormick, Eternal Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the Early Medieval West (Cambridge, 1986), 175 n. 176. See also below, 259. 16 Theophanes Continuatus, ed. I. Bekker (Bonn, 1838), 173, lines 6–11 (hereafter TheophCont), where the transaction is said to have yielded 200 kentenaria of gold. 17 Theoph. Sim. (as above, note 14), 212, lines 6–16; 214, line 26–215, line 1; trans. Whitby, 152. The extended discussion of this incident is ambiguous in that Chosroes seems at first to offer a monetary substitute for the cross, then changes his mind and sends it with the provision that it be melted down: “from its value one paten and one cup should be made for the sake of the divine mysteries,” and that, further, an altar cross, a gold censer, and “a Hunnic curtain adorned with gold” be bought out of the proceeds. Even these would not exhaust the value of the cross: Chosroes informs Sergios that “the remaining miliaresia are for your holy shrine” (ibid., 215, lines 15–24). Additional parts of his gift are a paten and other unspecified vessels inscribed with Chosroes’ name. The entire transaction is depicted by the chronicler as an exchange for the child for whose birth the king had prayed to Sergios. See M. J. Higgins, “Chosroes II’s Votive Gifts at Sergiopolis,” BZ 48 (1955): 89–102. 18 H. Delehaye, Les saints stylites (Brussels, 1923), 58.

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in Arab sources. The fame of Chosroes’ largesses seems to have been transmitted from one generation to another until it surfaces in the eleventh-century compilation known as Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯ wa al-Tuh. af (Book of Gifts and Rarities).19 Especially detailed, and consequently telling, is its account of Chosroes’ gifts on the occasion of his marriage to Emperor Maurice’s daughter. The report begins with the king’s distribution to the imperial retinue of 2,500 “purses of money,” 20 followed by an offering to Maurice himself of “gifts worth ten thousand pieces of money.” These are said to have included “a thousand bars of gold, each of them weighing a thousand mithqa¯ls, five hundred purses of money in coins [and] a thousand flawless pearls, each of them worth four thousand dirhams.” Thereafter, presents of 1,000 pieces of brocade, each said to be worth 4,000 dirhams, and 1,000 pack horses, each described as worth 2,000 dirhams “or, it is [also] said, four thousand dirhams,” are listed. Given the long life of this story and the marked variation in the evaluation of at least the animals, there is little point in trying to arrive at an absolute aggregate for the gift. But the relative worth of its elements is noteworthy: the pearls, textiles, and pack horses clearly made up only a minor portion of its overall value. The sense that luxurious and even sacred items are simply sweeteners, addenda to the specie that constituted the major portion of a gift, is equally apparent in Anna Komnene’s record of her father’s offering to Henry IV when (before August 1081) he sought the German king’s aid against Robert Guiscard. Her account begins in the past tense with Alexios’ agreement to send 144,000 nomismata and 100 pieces of purple silk (blatti´a), and advances with the explanation that this sum had already been transmitted in the form of “worked silver and Romanata of old quality”; a further 216,000 nomismata and rogai for twenty dignitaries would follow when the king reached Longobardia.21 Only much later in his transmittal letter does Alexios note that “as a mark of friendship” he is sending to Henry a golden enkolpion set with pearls, a golden qh´ kh containing the relics of various saints whose identity is conveyed by labels, a sardonyx chalice, a crystal cup, an ajstrope´ lekin on a golden chain, and balsam.22 Book of Gifts, 62–63, § 5. Basing herself on al-Qalqashandı¯, al-Qaddu ¯ mı¯ defines a purse (badra) as containing 10,000 dirhams or 7,000 dinars. Clearly, the sum in question could vary according to the occasion: the Byzantine envoys to Baghdad in 917 were given fifty purses each containing 5,000 dirhams. See Vasiliev-Canard, 108. According to al-Juwainı¯, “purses stuffed with dinars” featured among the presents of “ceremonial and everyday clothing, all sorts of goblets . . . , large numbers of horses, mules and camels,” as well as other paraphernalia and slaves sent by the atabeg Sa
d to the sultan Jala¯l ad-Dı¯n, shah of Khwa¯rizm, in the early 13th century. See the translation by J. A. Boyle, Genghiz Khan. The History of the World Conqueror (Seattle, Wash., 1997), 418–19. 21 Anna Komnene, Alexiade, ed. B. Leib, 4 vols. (Paris, 1937–76), 1:134, lines 4–17. I cite the translation of M. Hendy, Coinage and Money in the Byzantine Empire, 1081–1261, DOS 12 (Washington, D.C., 1969), 47, which departs significantly from Leib’s French version. For this and earlier imperial gifts to the West generally beyond the purview of the present paper, see the survey by T. C. Lounghis, “Die byzantinischen Gesandten als Vermittler materieller Kultur vom 5. bis ins 11. Jahrhundert,” in Kommunikation zwischen Orient und Okzident: Alltag und Sachkultur, Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Bd. 619 (Vienna, 1994), 49–67. 22 Alexiade, 135, lines 21–27. I take it that an astropelekin is some sort of meteoroidal stone carried as a talisman; see E. Trapp, Lexikon zur byzantinischen Gra¨zita¨t, vol. 2 (Vienna, 1996), 221. A similar if smaller combination of goods and funds is recorded by Leo Marsicanus in his Chronicle (Die Chronik von Montecassino, ed. H. Hoffmann, MGH, SS 34 [Hanover, 1980]), 514, lines 15–17: “octo libras solidorum michalatorum et ¨lger, Regesten pallium triacontasimum” sent by Alexios I to Benedict of Montecassino in June 1112. Cf. F. Do der Kaiserurkunden des ostromischen Reiches von 565–1453 (Munich-Berlin, 1932; repr. Hildesheim, 1976), no. 1262. In the light of yet a third recorded offering of the same type—the same emperor’s promise to convey 400 gold pieces and two silk cloths to the cathedral of St. Mary in Pisa as well as lesser gifts to the archbishop 19 20

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The movement of relics, above all as gifts but occasionally in trade, is by now a commonplace of western medieval studies.23 Perhaps because the economic value assigned to one celebrated eastern example is described only in an Arabic source, it has been neglected by Byzantinists. Yah. ya¯ b. Sa
¯d ı Anta¯kı¯ claims that the Greeks offered 12,000 gold pieces and 200 prisoners of war for the mandylion, lost when the Arabs had taken Edessa in the seventh century. Since the mandı¯l was also venerated by Muslims, the proposal for its redemption became a juridical issue: the resulting fatwa¯ accepted it on the grounds, as Yah. ya¯ put it, that “the liberation of a single Muslim is more agreeable to God than any other thing.” 24 The deal reported by the Arab chronicler appears eminently plausible when the prices put on the head of other captives are considered.25 Yet for our purposes it is not so much the preponderance of specie in this transaction as the common monetary basis for the evaluation of relics and prisoners that is remarkable. The equation may be extended to other forms of sacra. Presents (hada¯ya¯) and hard cash (amwa¯l) both figure in al-Ainı¯’s account of Basil II’s offerings to al-
Azı¯z when he sought the Fa¯.timid caliph’s approval for repairs to the Holy Sepulchre26 —an exchange linked with Basil’s agreement to lift a prohibition on commercial contacts.27 No less when purely internal affairs were concerned, specie and precious materials were coupled in Byzantine negotiations with the holy.28 Naturally, luxuries overtly marked for Christian use were not sent to Islamic courts, ¨lger, Regesten, no. 1255)—this was clearly a standard practice of Alexios’, if not of and two Pisan judges (Do his era. 23 See, generally, P. Geary, “Sacred Commodities: The Circulation of Medieval Relics,” in The Social Life of Things. Commodities in Cultural Perspective, ed. A. Appadurai (Cambridge, 1986), 169–91 although his ample bibliography omits the critical study of the diplomatic applications of Christ relics from Constantinople, B. ¨per, “Christus-Reliquien-Verehrung und Politik,” Bla¨tter fu ¨r deutsche Landesgeschichte 117 (1981): Schwineko 183–281. 24 Ta rı¯kh, ed. and trans. I. Kratchkovsky and A. Vasiliev as Chronique universelle, PO 22 (Paris, 1932), 770. Al-T . abarı¯, Ta rı¯kh al-rusu ¯l wal-mulu ¯k, ed. M. J. de Goeje, 15 vols. (Leiden, 1879–1901), 5:98, trans. C. E. Bosworth, The History of al-T. abarı¯, 39 vols. (Albany, N.Y., 1985–97), 30:264, furnishes an extreme example of the cost of ransom in his report on the 50,000 dirhams sent by Nikephoros I to Ha¯ru ¯ n al-Rashı¯d for a female slave captured at Herakleia in 806. It should be noted, however, that the woman was desired by, if not actually betrothed to, Nikephoros’ son and that the emperor’s offering was part of a larger exchange that involved brocade garments, falcons, hunting dogs, and horses. 25 The premium placed upon treasured objects is evident in the value assigned to an enameled belt offered by Leo VI to an Arab governor (10,000 dinars), as against the price put on the heads of captives (107 dinars each) in a typical prisoner exchange. See Cutler, “Les ´echanges de dons,” 58. In a will attached to the typikon of the monastery of Koutloumousi (Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, ed. J. Thomas and A. C. Hero [Washington, D.C., 2000], 1426, a mandyon and other monastic vestments are expressly bequeathed “so they may be sold to aid the captives’ . . . expenses.” The most recent survey is Campagnolo-Pothitou, “Les ´echanges de prisonniers,” 13. 26 Cited in V. Rosen, Imperator Vasilii Bolgaroboitsa: Izvlecheniia iz letopisi Iakh’i Antiokhiiskogo (St. Petersburg, 1883; repr. London, 1972), 203. 27 G. L. F. Tafel and G. M. Thomas, Urkunden zur ¨alteren Handels- und Staatsgeschichte der Republik Venedig, 3 ¨lger, Regesten, no. 770. vols. (Vienna, 1856), 1:25–30, no. XIV, and Do 28 Explicit statements are the representations of imperial apokombia in the mosaics of Hagia Sophia, Constantinople. But the best-documented instance is Michael I’s gift to the Great Church when his son Theophylact was crowned co-emperor in 811. Theophanes the Confessor, Chronographia, ed. C. de Boor, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1885), 2:494, lines 25–33, records on this occasion “golden vessels set with stones and a set of four curtains of ancient manufacture, splendidly embroidered in gold and purple and decorated with wonderful sacred images.” At the same time Michael presented 25 pounds of gold to the patriarch and 100 pounds to the clergy. I cite the translation of C. Mango and R. Scott, The Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor (Oxford, 1997), 678.

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although the distinction between the religious and secular functions of such objects would have meant little to those who made them and are of even less significance when their material value is in question. In this connection it is interesting to note that John Synkellos, who took with him more than forty kentenaria of gold to be scattered to the crowd when serving as an ambassador to al-Mamu ¯ n in 829/30, also brought what the Continuator of Theophanes calls two gold and gem-encrusted cernibo´ xesta, a term used for washing sets whether for liturgical or domestic use.29 These were likely filled with coins, if we may judge by the reception of Ol’ga at the Byzantine court in 957. On this occasion she was presented with a jewel-studded golden bowl containing 500 miliaresia, a mere foretaste of the wealth that would be distributed to her relatives, attendants, the apokrisarioi and their retainers, as well as the forty-four merchants that accompanied her.30 Conspicuous as they are in the sources, extravagant presents in precious materials and coin may not exhaust the economic range of the gift phenomenon. Occasionally in the reports of donations and exchanges we catch sight of more mundane commodities, as in the “welcome wagon” that Andronikos III offered to Ibn Bat..tu ¯ .ta upon his arrival in Constantinople in the early 1330s. Along with money and rugs, the emperor is said to have provided flour, bread, sheep, fowl, ghee, fruit, and fish,31 just as “necessities of life” formed part of the gift that Leo V had sent to an unnamed monk of Philomelion who had foretold the emperor’s future.32 On a larger scale, the giraffe and elephant sent to Constantine IX by al-Mustans.ir in 1053 may be understood as a response to the shipment of grain that the basileus had sent to Egypt in time of famine.33 Grain also figures not as an antidoron but as the first item mentioned among the presents of the former rebel
Umar b. H . afs.u ¯ n to
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n III in A.H. 302/A.D. 914–915; .tira¯zı¯ brocades, Iraqi silks, jeweled swords, and other luxuries make up the rest of the list.34 Clearly, ordinary commodities such as grain are no more evidence of trade than the expensive accouterments familiar from such lists. Yet equally they signal their senders’ recognition of need, one condition for a subsequent and successful commercial relationship. For two reasons it is particularly problematical to assess the impact, and sometimes even to establish the historicity, of exports of human capital. First, Muslim statements to the effect that labor forces and/or massive amounts of material were summoned from Byzantium may be no more than bombast designed to show that the emperor heeded the Commander of the Faithful. Such claims recur in Arabic sources, starting with the 29 TheophCont (as above, note 16), 96, lines 13–15. On the range of uses of cherniboxesta, see ODB s.v., 1:418. For John’s mission in general, see P. Magdalino, “The Road to Baghdad in the Thought-World of NinthCentury Byzantium,” in Byzantium in the Ninth Century: Dead or Alive? ed. L. Brubaker (Aldershot, 1998), 195–213, esp. 196–99. 30 De cerimoniis, 2, 15, ed. J. J. Reiske, 2 vols. (Bonn, 1829), 1:597, line 22–598, line 12 (hereafter De cer.). I am indebted to Jeffrey Featherstone for discussions of his as yet unpublished translation of this passage. Adding up the gifts indicated, P. Grierson, “Commerce in the Dark Ages: A Critique of the Evidence,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th ser., 9 (1959): 134, arrived at a total of more than a million miliaresia. 31 The Travels of Ibn Bat..tu ¯.ta, A.D. 1325–1354, trans. H. A. R. Gibb, 4 vols. (Cambridge, 1958–94), 2:504. 32 “Genesios,” Regum libri quattuor, ed. A. Lesmu ¨ ller-Werner and H. Thurn (Berlin-New York, 1978), 10, lines 20–21: ste´ llei aujtv' ta` pro` " crei´an kat∆ eujch` n ajnaqh´ mata. 33 Michael Attaleiates, Historia, ed. W. Brunet de Presle and I. Bekker (Bonn, 1853), 48, line 11–50, line ˇevcˇenko, “Wild Animals in the 11. The event is also recorded by Skylitzes and Glykas. See N. Patterson S Byzantine Park,” in Byzantine Garden Culture, ed. A. Littlewood et al. (Washington, D.C., 2002), 69–86. See also 269, below. 34 Ibn H . ayya¯n, Al-Muqtabis V (as in note 2), 75–76; trans. Viguera and Corriente, 96–97.

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report of al-T . abarı¯ that the S. ¯ah. ib al-Ru ¯ m (i.e., Justinian II) sent, in addition to 100,000 mithqa¯ls of gold,35 100 workmen and 40 loads of mosaic cubes to al-Walı¯d.36 T . abarı¯’s report was written more than two centuries after the event it describes and refers not to the Great Mosque in Damascus, with which Justinian’s gift is connected by al-Maqdisı¯,37 but to al-Walı¯d’s decision to rebuild the Mosque of the Prophet at Madı¯na. A similar interval separates al-Idrı¯sı¯’s account of the Umayyad Mosque in Cordoba, for the qibla of which
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n III obtained tesserae from “the emperor of Constantinople.” 38 Now, removal in time does not necessarily mean error in the transmission of fact, but the economic historian will be concerned with the lack of demonstrable effect on the industries of art in the lands identified in these reports, especially if, as has been claimed, the art of mosaic was taught to native workers in Cordoba by a visiting Byzantine craftsman.39 In light of the absence of evidence for any enduring impact on domestic production, one could dismiss these gifts from overseas as economically inconsequential. (The far from negligible impact of gifts on the economies in which they were produced is treated in the section on “The Relation of Gifts to Economic Exchange,” below.) On the other hand, if true, they would represent considerable transfers of technical skills and artistic talent. Moreover, the prestige and reputation for the creation of powerful symbolizations acquired in this way would denote incalculable political and ideological advantage achieved at minimal cost. Even in terms of banal human contact, one visiting craftsman could prompt a request for another or, at the very least, provoke a demand for further imports. Thus al-Maqqarı¯ reports that the Mozarabic bishop Recemundo (called al-Rabı¯
b. Zaid), sent to Constantinople by
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n in 955, came back with artifacts probably for the caliphal residence at Madı¯nat al-Zahra¯, and further, citing an anonymous source without exact date, speaks of the emperor sending 140 columns for the same palace.40 35 As Vasiliev-Canard, 279 n. 1, point out, the term mithqa¯l is used as a synonym for dı¯na¯r, since
Abd alMa¯lik’s issues of this coin weighed 1 mithqa¯l (4.25 g). In this case, therefore, the sum involved would be 425 kg of gold. 36 Tabarı¯, Tarı¯kh (as above, note 24) 2:1194, on which see above all H. A. R. Gibb, “Arab-Byzantine Relations under the Umayyad Caliphate,” DOP 12 (1958): 219–33, esp. 225–29. 37 Ah. san al-Taqa¯sı¯m fı¯ Ma
rifat al-Aqa¯lı¯m, ed. M. J. de Goeje in Bibliotheca geographorum Arabicorum, 8 vols. (Leiden, 1870–94), 3:158. 38 P. A. Jaubert, La ge´ographie d’Edrisi, 2 vols. (Paris, 1840), 2:60. 39 E. Le´vi-Provenc¸al, Histoire de l’Espagne musulmane (Paris, 1953), 3:393. Cf. H. Stern, Les mosaı¨ques de la Grande Mosque´e de Cordoue (Berlin, 1976), 22–25. This view would seem to be contradicted by the request of al-H . akam II (961–976) for another mosaicist from Constantinople. Thus Ibn
Idha¯rı¯, Histoire de l’Afrique et de l’Espagne intitule´e Al-Bayano l-moghrib, trans. E. Fagnan (Algiers, 1904), 2:392: the caliph wrote to “the king of the Ru ¯ mı¯ . . . and ordered him to send a capable worker, in imitation of that which al-Alı¯d ben
Abd alMalı¯k had done at the time of the construction of the mosque at Damascus.” Precisely on the grounds of alH . akam’s request, the historicity of
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n’s appeal to Constantinople has been contested by J. M. Bloom, “The Revival of Early Islamic Architecture by the Umayyads of Spain,” in The Medieval Mediterranean, ed. M. J. Chiat and K. L. Reyerson (St. Cloud, Minn., 1988), 37–38. 40 Analectes sur l’histoire et la litte´rature des Arabes d’Espagne, ed. R. Dozy (Leiden, 1855; repr. Amsterdam, 1967), 1:372–73. Cf. Vasiliev-Canard, vol. 2.1 (Brussels, 1968), 331–32 n. 5. On both reports see P. Senac, “Contribution `a l’e´tude des relations diplomatiques entre l’Espagne musulmane et l’Europe au Xe sie`cle. Le re`gne de
Abd ar-Rahmaˆn III (912–961),” Studia Islamica 61 (1985): 49, who argues that such contacts were catalysts for Byzantine-Andalusian trade. Al-Maqqarı¯’s reference may be compared with Theophanes’ report that Justinian II was persuaded to send
Abd-al-Ma¯lik columns for the reconstruction of the Ka
ba. See Chronographia (as above, note 28), 365, lines 26–27, trans. Mango and Scott, 510.

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What is sure is that in Andalusia, if not elsewhere, Arab rulers were familiar with the practice of artisans traveling in teams. In 936
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n responded to a letter of ¯ fiya appealing for help in building a stronghold in the Maghreb by sendMu ¯ sa¯ b. Abı¯ l-
A ing his chief architect, “30 masons, 10 carpenters, 15 diggers, 6 able lime burners, and 2 mat makers . . . chosen among the ablest of their profession [and] accompanied by a certain number of tools and accessories for the work to be realized.” 41 Even if we exempt the documentary and physical evidence for individual ouvriers sans frontie`res,42 there is reason to distinguish within the category of human capital between military forces sent overseas as “gifts” and craftsmen ordered to work for longer or shorter periods abroad. The brigade, said to be 40,000 strong,43 sent along with weapons and silver to Chosroes II in 591 by Emperor Maurice, may have been instrumental in helping the Sasanian king regain his throne from the rebel Bahra¯m.44 The troops did their job, some perhaps taken prisoner45 or killed, while the rest went home. By contrast, skilled and unskilled workers made material contributions to the economy of the lands that they visited, notwithstanding the fact that we can hardly measure their impact on culture or commerce. In connection with the latter, however, one neglected passage is highly suggestive. In a chapter entitled “Rare Merchandise, Products, Slaves, Stones, etc. Imported from Abroad,” Pseudo-Ja¯h. iz. lists the goods and services arriving in Baghdad from various Muslim and non-Muslim countries. These last include India, China, and “the land of the Byzantines.” The human contingent indicated as coming from Ru ¯ m consists of “hydraulic engineers, agronomical experts, marble workers, and eunuchs.” The articles of commerce specified are “utensils of gold and silver, ‘dinars’ of pure gold, simple brocades (buzyu ¯n), abrun (?) of brocade, swift horses, female slaves, rare utensils of red copper, unbreakable locks, and lyres.” 46 The list may provoke a smile, but the overlap between the items cited here as commodities and the content of the gift lists with which we are concerned is nonetheless remarkable. GIFTS REQUESTED, GIFTS TESTED To the modern eye, one of the most disconcerting aspects of medieval texts is the frequency with which gifts are said to have been specifically invited. Where such requests are noted in the Byzantine sources, more often than not they are authorial devices directing the reader’s attention to the savage nature of the petitioner. In this way, Theophylact Simokatta, whom we have repeatedly seen mocking the Avars, tells the story of the kha41 Ibn H . ayya¯n, Al-Muqtabis V (as above, note 2), 263–64, trans. Viguera and Corriente, 290–91. In addition to provisions for the workers, the caliph sent wheat, barley, figs, and honey, as well as a group of richly described silks, woolens, and made-up goods. 42 See A. Cutler, “A Christian Ewer with Islamic Imagery and the Question of Arab Gastarbeiter in Byzantium,” in Iconographica. Me´langes Piotr Skubiszewski (Poitiers, 1999), 63–69. 43 Agapios of Manbij, Kita¯b al-
Unva¯n, ed. and trans. A. Vasiliev, PO 8 (Paris, 1912), 466. 44 Chronographia (as above, note 28), 365, lines 20–28; trans. Mango and Scott, 510. Theophanes claims this as an exchange achieved after Mans.u ¯ r,
Abd al-Malik’s Christian treasurer, prevailed upon the caliph not to remove columns from “Holy Gethsemane.” 45 Thus T . abarı¯, Ta rı¯kh (as above, note 24), 2:1451, trans. J. L. Kraemer, The History of al-T. abarı¯, vol. 34 (Albany, 1985), 90, notes two Muslim goldsmiths among the prisoners exchanged when an emissary of alMutawakkil visited the court of Michael II in 860. 46 ˇ ¯ahiziana, I. Le Kita¯b al-Tabassur bi-l-Tigˇara attribue´ `a G ˇ ¯ahiz,” Arabica 1 (1954): 159. C. Pellat, “G

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gan who asked Maurice for one of his elephants, only to return it “whether in terror or scorn of the marvel.” The “Hun” then pesters the emperor “to fashion a golden couch and to send it to him,” a request that the emperor duly honors. Inevitably, the khagan, “as if he had been besmirched by the unworthiness of the gift,” sends it back “as though it were something cheap and common.” 47 Barbarian solecisms of this sort became legendary in Byzantium and no doubt contributed to the topos of the alien’s rapacity. Concerning the Pechenegs, for instance, with whom imperial representatives in Cherson had dealings in the tenth century, De administrando imperio observes that these people “are ravenous in their demands . . . keenly covetous of articles rare among them,” and “shameless in their demand for generous gifts (xena´ lia).” 48 Leo the Deacon, in turn, describes an ambassador to the Rus’ as corrupting Svjatoslav with gifts: “since all the Scythians are exceptionally greedy, they are extremely prone and susceptible to the promising and taking of bribes.” 49 In this light it is little wonder that Byzantine chroniclers do not dwell on imperial requests for gifts. This reserve says little, of course, of actual practice and even less about the number or nature of presents received by the emperors.50 Gifts were required as Cassiodorus put it, more gentium.51 What apparently no Greek author concedes is that they were a way of buying peace, although Psellos comes closest to such an admission when he describes Constantine X’s preference for settling his differences with the barbarians by means of “presents and certain other favors” rather than warfare. With this strategy, he says, the emperor spared his treasury outlays on the military and assured himself a trouble-free existence.52 If the preferred Byzantine way with gifts was to exchange them domestically in such a way as to make “it possible to ask for other favors that range from gifts of more considerable economic value to privileges and favors granted, even to Theoph. Sim. (as above, note 14), 45, line 19–46, line 10; trans. Whitby, 24. The Avar penchant for luxurious couches is further attested by Menander Protector in several passages preserved in the Excerpta de legationibus (The History of Menander the Guardsman, ed. and trans. R. C. Blockley [Liverpool, 1985], 48, §5.2 and 92, §8). On the first of these occasions, Justinian I sends the present to the Avars; on the second, Avar envoys come to Constantinople to receive “the usual presents” from Justin II. 48 DAI (as above, note 12), 54, lines 8–11. 49 Historia, 5.1 (as above, note 15), 77, lines 4–9. The “international” nature of the custom is borne out by a well-known example of 1338 when a Genoese merchant was asked by Toghan Temu ¨ r, the khan of Cathay, to request “horses and other marvels” from the pope. The merchant sought to procure these in Venice, but the transaction remained unconsummated when the senate of the Serenissima gave permission for five to ten horses and “gioielli di cristallo,” worth 1,000–2,000 golden florins, to be exported but only in Venetian bottoms. See R. S. Lopez, “Venezia e le ‘grande linee’ dell’espansione commerciale nel secolo XIII,” in La civilta` veneziana nel secolo di Marco Polo (Florence, 1955), 50–51. Once again one observes the correspondence between gifts and objects of commerce. 50 Thus it is from an Arab source that we learn that John Tzimiskes asked for the parade horse and weapons of his erstwhile enemy and later commander in Damascus, Alptekı¯n, in the course of an elaborate exchange of gifts in 975. See Ibn al-Qala¯nisi, Dhayl tarı¯kh Dimishq, ed. H. F. Amedroz (Leiden, 1908), 12–14; for a French translation, M. Canard, “Les sources arabes de l’histoire byzantine aux confins des Xe et XIe sie`cles,” REB 19 (1961): 293–95. A similar version of the story is to be found in the Chronography of Abu‘l Faraj (as below, note 124), 175, but not in any Greek source. 51 Variae, 4.1.3. Theodoric is here acknowledging receipt of silver-colored horses from Herminafrid, king of the Thoringi. 52 Chronographia, 17, ed. E. Renauld, 2 vols. (Paris, 1928), 2:146, lines 4–8. Psellos here ignores the raids of the Uzes across the Danube and Seljuk incursions on the empire’s eastern frontiers, not least Alp Arsla¯n’s capture of Ani in 1064. For a concise survey of gifts as a means of buying peace, see N. Oikonomide`s, “To o´ plo tou crh´ mato"” in To empo´ lemo Buza´ ntio, ed. K. Tsiknakes (Athens, 1997), 261–68. 47

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measures that can have broad social and political significance,” 53 then it was subtler than that of other cultures. Qalqashandı¯ notes the modest objective of “the Christian kings of Abyssinia, the Greeks, and the Franks,” who, in exchange for the presents they would send the Mamlu ¯ k sultan, sought only oil of a balsam plant that grew near
Ain Shams (Heliopolis) made holy by Christ’s visit during the Flight into Egypt.54 But at least the Mongols were ready to propose grand designs that could come about if triggered by the right gifts. In 1289 the Ilkhan Arghu ¯ n offered Philip the Fair an alliance and a promise to deliver Jerusalem in return for an envoy with “rare gifts from the land of the Franks, falcons and precious stones in various colors.” 55 As
Abba¯sid tributaries the Ghaznavids observed a customary tariff for presents to Baghdad, distinguishing proportionally between those sent to the caliph personally, his court circle, and his ambassadors.56 This graduated distribution recalls the careful ranking of letters addressed to foreign governments prescribed in the Book of Ceremonies, a code in which messages to Baghdad carried seals weighing four solidi, while the pope at Rome merited only one.57 Although the Byzantine system addressed a wider world than Ghaznavid communications with other Muslims, it is evident that both societies operated on the basis of a clear-headed and quantified evaluation of presents whether these were for internal or external consumption. A domestic example is provided by the story of Ktenas, “an aged cleric of great wealth,” who sought the roga of protospatharios and knew enough to add a pair of earrings worth ten pounds and “a silver table with animals on it in gold relief, also valued at ten pounds” to the forty pounds of gold that he had already presented to Leo VI. The offer worked, although Ktenas lived only two more years, receiving “a stipend of one pound for each of the two years.” 58 Appraisals of this sort can be seen in a larger context in the provisions for evaluation laid out in the Book of Ceremonies. Notwithstanding the fact that it appears in a context quite distinct from that of the reception of the envoys from Tarsos and Ol’ga and the Rus’—the book is not a narrative history—the passage is explicitly devoted to the treatment of diplomatic missions and the assessment of their offerings. And then [after the ambassador’s third prostration] the silentiarioi, who are charged with notifying the magistros and bringing them to the vestosakra, receive all the gifts; and they deliver them, and the evaluation of the gifts (diati´mhsi" tw'n dw´ rwn) is done. And the officials of the vestosakra bring the evaluation to the magistros so that he knows what each A. Laiou, “The Correspondence of Gregorios Kyprios as a Source for the History of Social and Political Behaviour in Byzantium or, on Government by Rhetoric,” in Geschichte und Kultur der Palaiologenzeit, ed. W. Seibt (Vienna, 1996), 97. 54 ¨ gypten nach den Arabischen des Abul-’Abba¯s Ahmed ben Ali F. Wu ¨ stenfeld, Die Geographie und Verwaltung von A ¨ttingen, 1879), 13–14. el-Calcashandi (Go 55 B. Spuler, History of the Mongols, Based on Eastern and Western Accounts of the Thirteenth and Fourteenth Centuries (Berkeley-Los Angeles, 1972), 142. 56 See the ranked list of goods (indigo, cloth, some of it woven with gold, musk, camphor, gems, etc.) sent in 1032 by the sultan Has
u ¯ d to al-Qa¯im, the new
Abba¯sid caliph, as detailed by C. E. Bosworth, “The Imperial Policy of the Early Ghaznawids,” Islamic Studies 1.3 (Islamabad, 1962): 65. 57 De cer. 1:686, line 5–692, line 2. For commentary see Cutler, “Les e´changes de dons,” 52–53. These gradations reproduce the nature of the gold medallions prepared as multiples of the solidus and issued as largitio, a practice that seems to have died out in the late 6th century. See P. Grierson, “The Kyrenia Girdle of Byzantine Medallions and Solidi,” NC, 6th ser., 15 (1955): 55–70. 58 DAI, 50, lines 246–56. 53

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GIFTS AND GIFT EXCHANGE gift is [worth], so that he will be able to recall to the emperor at the time of the exchange of gifts (ajntidw´ rwn) what he should return through his ambassadors.59

Although the text is borrowed wholesale from Peter the Patrician, we can be sure that, vis-a`-vis late antiquity, this recommendation for tenth-century practice represents an elaboration rather than a reduction in the rituals attaching to the reception of foreign offerings.60 Obviously comparable measures were taken in Baghdad. While he stresses the value of the gifts rather than the procedure applied to their assessment, Hila¯l al-S. ¯abi in his Rules and Regulations of the
Abba¯sid Court includes an account of the presents sent by
Ad. ud al-Dawla to the caliph al-T . ¯a’i
in A.H. 367/A.D. 977. Arriving on the backs of 500 animals, the Buwayhid prince’s gift was analyzed to the point where even the “silvery loops” sealing the ten embroidered bags containing 50,000 Amma¯ni dinars were observed, as well as “500 garments varying in quality from the royal brocade costing 200 dı¯na¯rs to the simple white garment, the dyeing of which costs half a dı¯na¯r.” 61 It is from such documents that the
Abba¯sid gift lists, of which the Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯ wa al-Tuh. af is the best preserved, were derived. I have already cited this book in connection with the traces it contains of Chosroes II’s reputed liberality,62 an account unsubstantiated by any citation of the author’s source. But gifts between Muslims and on occasion those attributed to Byzantine emperors63 are sometimes provided with an apparatus that records the name of the author’s informant, often an eyewitness to the event, and/or embedded in so meticulously detailed a report of their circumstances that they cannot be dismissed out-of-hand as fiction. Even if we cannot rely on the quantitative data supplied—if any element of these registers is exaggerated, it is the number of, say, silk brocades furnished or their worth— for the moment it is not the values assigned to these items but the act of evaluation that is significant. Purposive and ostensibly precise, they reveal an attitude toward gift-giving and gift-recording that is fundamentally economic. In their utility for us, then, as well as for their original audience, they differ from the fullest of Byzantine lists, in the Digenes Akrites, where the value of gifts is surely inflated for dramatic purposes.64 De cer. 1:89, 407, lines 7–13. I am indebted to Alexander Alexakis for his help with this passage. On such elaboration, see Averil Cameron, “The Construction of Court Ritual: The Byzantine Book of Ceremonies,” in Rituals of Royalty. Power and Ceremonial in Traditional Societies (Cambridge, 1987), 126, and on the place of these extracts from Peter in the design of the Book as a whole, ODB 1:596, s.v. De cerimoniis. 61 Rusu ¯m da¯r al-Khila¯fa, trans E. A. Salem (Beirut, 1977), 79. Other components of the gift included “30 gilded and nongilded silver trays containing ambergris, purified musk, musk bags, camphor, . . . gilded statues,” Indian swords, and parade horses. 62 Note 19 above. A brief survey of silks as gifts in the Arab world is offered by M. Lombard, Les textiles dans le monde musulman du VIIe au XIIe sie`cle (Paris, 1978), 193–94. 63 Especially valuable are the monetary calculations offered in the Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯ regarding a gift of Constantine IX to al-Mustans.ir in A.H. 427/A.D. 1046. It included “thirty qint.¯ars of gold, each qint.¯ar of which was equivalent to [seven] thousand two hundred Byzantine (Ru ¯mı¯) dinars, plus ten thousand Arabic dinars. Thus the total value was two hundred sixteen thousand Byzantine dinars plus three hundred thousand Arab dinars.” See Book of Gifts (as above, note 11), 109, §82 and cf. 196–97, §263 (Romanos IV’s distribution in Constantinople “on the day of their greatest feast” [Easter?] in 1071). (It is self-evident that the qint.¯ars in question refer not to the Arab weight system but to Byzantine kentenaria). For Muslim gifts complete with valuations, see 66, §11; 68, §16; 79, §35; 84, §46 and passim. 64 Digenes Akritis. The Grottaferrata and Escorial Versions, ed. and trans. E. Jeffreys (Cambridge, 1998), bk. 4, lines 704–15, 791–96, 899–912, 920–30. Of the first of these (Eudokia’s dowry), M. F. Hendy, Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy c. 300–1450 (Cambridge, 1985), 217–18, has justly remarked that, while the figures given are “doubtless . . . fantastical,” the truly striking aspect of the passage is “the resemblance of the 59 60

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Apart from the difference between documentary intention and literary effect, another dissimilarity characterizes our sources. The distinction between diplomatic gifts, regulated, as we have seen, by custom if not actually under the control of respective chanceries, and presents (wedding gifts, dowries) offered in affection might seem to be critical. Yet the contrast may not be as great as it appears at first sight, for on several occasions these were two sides of the same coin. When Baldwin III of Jerusalem, threatened by Nu ¯ r al-Dı¯n, took a Greek bride in 1158, her uncle, Manuel I, is said by William of Tyre to have sent her “100,000 hyperpera of standard weight” (iusti ponderis), plus “10,000 of the same coins” for the expenses of her wedding. Her outfit of “gold, gems, clothing and pearls, tapestries and silks, as well as precious vessels, might justly be valued at an additional 14,000 [hyperpera].” 65 Loving and generous as this present may have been, it was approached by that which Manuel bestowed on Baldwin himself. This, according to the same source, “was reputed to amount to 22,000 hyperpera and 3,000 marks of purest silver” (argenti examinitissimi), supplemented again by garments, silks, and precious vases. William does not specify the gifts lavished upon the king’s “countless” followers, limiting his description to the adjective “profuse,” as he had “learned from certain people whose testimony is wholly reliable.” 66 Once again, the signs of economic force majeure are unmistakable. Leaving Cilicia where he had been campaigning, the emperor entered Antioch in triumph, while the threat of joint Crusader-Byzantine action caused Nu ¯ r al-Dı¯n to release several Crusader leaders and thousands of other captives. Manuel’s political triumph cannot be entirely separate from the fact that the figures for his largesse are recorded. Nor is it wholly cynical to suppose that long gift lists were created and read as indices to both wealth and might. Even where they are not expressed numerically, as is the case with Ibn H . amma¯d’s Akhba¯r Mulu ¯k Banı¯
Ubayd,67 a clear correlation is propounded between a man’s generosity and his authority. This elementary chronicle of Fa¯.timid history devotes a single line to the foundation of Cairo by Jawhar, alMu
izz’s generalissimo, but vastly greater space to a catalogue of the gifts that the soldier presented to the caliph when the latter installed himself in the citadel of his new capital in A.H. 362/A.D. 972–973. Ibn H . amma¯d’s one and one-half page list, starting with four caskets of carved wood, each of which had to be carried by four men, containing vessels of gold and silver, and culminating in 600,000 dinars, is interrupted only once. At the point where the bamboo case containing a gem-encrusted crown (ta¯j) is mentioned, the author pauses to observe that al-Mu
izz was the first of his dynasty to wear the crown.68

general terms in which wealth is expressed . . . to those expressed” in other Byzantine accounts [e.g., wills, typika] of private fortunes. 65 Willelmi Tyrensis archiepiscopi chronicon, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, CCSL, Continuatio medievalis 63A (Turnhout, 1986), 843, lines 22–28. For the context of the marriage, see R.-J. Lilie, Byzantium and the Crusader States, 1096–1204 (Oxford, 1993), 195–76. 66 Willelmi Tyrensis . . . chronicon, 847, lines 52–57. 67 Ed. and trans. M. Vonderheyden as Histoire des rois
obaı¨dides (Algiers-Paris, 1927). The exception to Ibn H . amma¯d’s reluctance to quantify occurs at the end of the long list of gifts considered immediately below. Anticipating Adam Smith’s and Marx’s labor theory of value, he describes the two carpets given by Jawhar to al-Mu
izz as having taken two years to create with their makers earning a salary of 10,000 dinars. 68 Ibid., 68–69. Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Itti
¯az. al-H . unafa¯ bi-Akhba¯r al-Fat.imiyyı¯n al-Khulafa¯, ed. Jamal al-dı¯n al-Shayya¯l, 2 vols. (Cairo, 1967), 1:134, adds that Jawhar provided al-Mu
izz with a golden throne in the palace that he had prepared for the caliph. For the larger context, see J. M. Bloom, “The Origins of Fatimid Art,” Muqarnas 3 (1985): 20–38.

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Jawhar’s wealth, attested by the material splendor of his offerings, translates into power: he is the kingmaker.

GIFTS AS CAPITAL, SYMBOLIC AND OTHERWISE If political power is a domain one of whose principal dimensions is wealth, and giftgiving a major ostensive aspect of that wealth, the messages conveyed by gifts refer by no means only to politics. More directly they allude to the parties involved in the transaction and affirmed their “stock,” the larger portion of wealth that was enhanced by the gift or remaining after the expenditure involved in its donation. This wealth was understood as capital, not in the sense of a sum invested in the market in the expectation of financial return69 but as material possessions that bespoke both the larger authority that came with, say, dynastic succession or military conquest and the prestige that undergirded such authority. One means by which this capital was accumulated, recognized, and conveyed was the transfer of gifts. It is time to look at such transfers and to assess their contribution to the actual and reputed capital of an individual and the entity that he or she was seen to represent. In the fifteenth century the Egyptian historian al-Maqrı¯zı¯, seeking to demonstrate the esteem in which Saladin held Nu ¯ r al-Dı¯n, records at length and almost nostalgically the presents that the sultan had sent to his predecessor and nominal ruler of Egypt: furnishings, objects of gold and silver, crystal and jade, the like of which would have been hard to find, precious stones and pearls of great value, in money sixty thousand dı¯na¯rs, together with many rare and desirable curios. There was also an elephant, pieces of red atta¯bı¯ and three Balakhshah rubies weighing more than thirty mithqa¯ls.70

It is clear that the Arab audience of such texts expected that the gems would remain in the state treasury to bring luster (in several senses) to the image of the ruler. While some large distributions are understood as signs of caliphal munificence,71 in the early fourteenth century, Ibn al-Tiqt.aqa¯, for example, criticizes al-Muqtadir for frittering away the jewel treasury (da¯r al-jawhar) that had included the “‘hyacinth’ stone that al-Rashı¯d had bought for 300,000 dinars.” 72 At least as late as the Fa¯.timid era there existed a storehouse Nonetheless, rogai of the type acquired by Ktenas (above, note 58) could be considered a sort of government bond yielding an annuity. See P. Lemerle, “‘Roga’ et rente d’e´tat au Xe et XIe sie`cles,” REB 25 (1967): 77–100. 70 Al-Maqrı¯zı¯, Kita¯b al-Sulu ¯k li-Ma
rifa¯t Duwal al-Mulu ¯k, ed. M. Ziya¯da, 2 vols. (Cairo, 1934), 1.1:50, trans. R. J. C. Broadhurst as A History of the Ayyu ¯bid Sultans of Egypt (Boston, 1980), 43–44.
Atta¯bı¯ is taffeta usually striped in black and white; balakhsha¯hs come from the Altai Mountains in Badakhshan. 71 Notably Ha¯ru ¯ n al-Rashı¯d’s disbursement of gems, objects of gold and silver, specie, khila
(robes of honor), and aromatics when, in A.H. 167/A.D. 781, he consummated his marriage to his wife, Zubayda. See Book of Gifts, 121–22, §111. The expenses of the wedding ceremony are here described as amounting to 50 million dinars “besides what Ha¯ru ¯ n spent of his own money.” 72 On the Systems of Government and the Moslem Dynasties, trans. C. E. J. Whitting (London, 1947; repr. 1970), 255. Ha¯ru ¯ n al-Rashı¯d’s collection of gems was legendary. Among many other stories, he is said to have bought the “Orphan” pearl (al-Yatı¯ma) for 70,000 dinars (see Book of Gifts, 181, §224), and ordered the recovery of the ruby ringstone known as al-Jabal from the Tigris where his brother and predecessor, al-Ha¯di, had thrown it: ibid., 184, §232. 69

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for royal gifts,73 whence presumably they were distributed to the many treasuries described in the Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯ as dedicated to particular classes of object. The destruction of these magazines and the commercial dispersal of their contents “to other cities and all countries [where] they became beautiful adornments and objects of pride for their kingdoms” 74 in and after 1068 signaled the decline of a dynasty that would survive in name for another century. Although gems may have been prized as much by the Byzantines as by the Muslims,75 they figure far less often in Greek accounts of gifts. Only
Abba¯sid sources report, for example, “the thousand flawless pearls” sent by Maurice to Chosroes II or the jewelencrusted beakers, flasks, buckets, knives, jars, and boxes that formed parts of Romanos Lekapenos’ present to al-Ra¯d.¯. ı 76 It would be a mistake to treat all such reports as fabrications on the part of later Muslim chroniclers intent on depicting the subservience of the Ru ¯ mı¯. Rather, it is evident that the two societies participated in a “shared culture” 77 of luxurious objects, with precious stones—most of which originated in lands far beyond the imperial frontiers—bulking less large in the Byzantine than in the Arab consciousness. One measure of this contrast is available in the huge body of literature produced in Islam on the sources, nature, and uses of gems as against Greek interest in their symbolic and curative powers.78 Some index to the relative economic value attached in Byzantium to the constituent parts of gifts is provided by reports on displays of booty, when, as we have seen in the case of John Tzimiskes’ triumph after the conquest of Mayya¯fa¯riqı¯n, coins, objects of gold and silver, clothing, and aromatics, all described as “do¯ra of the Agarenes,” are said to have been displayed to an admiring populace along the Mese¯.79 The visual impact of perfumes and scented woods may be a puzzle, but there can be no doubt about their function as stores of wealth.80 No less precious, and all but ubiquitous in the lists of both booty and gifts, was silk. Clothing in this material, it has been observed, was “as good Mentioned in a letter of al-H . ¯afiz. to Roger II of Sicily acknowledging the Norman king’s presents, on which see M. Canard, “Une lettre du calife faˆtimite al-Haˆfiz (524–544/1130–1149) `a Roger II,” in Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi Ruggeriani (Palermo, 1955), 125–46, esp. 145. Unfortunately, Roger’s letter and accompanying gift list are not preserved. Specialized treasuries housing sacred vessels, linens, and money are reported in the Byzantine monastery of the Evergetis in the 11th century. See Thomas and Hero, Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents, 462, 491. 74 Book of Gifts, 230, §372. 75 The use of pearls, emeralds, and hyacinthi (sapphires? aquamarines? amethysts?) on harness trappings is expressly forbidden to private individuals in a law of Leo I (CIC, CI 11.12 [11]), although other stones are permitted. 76 Book of Gifts, 63, §5; 99–100, §73. The implications of M. F. Hendy’s astute observation, in the face of the Byzantine prohibition on trade in bullion with Syria in the late 7th century, that gifts of jewelry would constitute a convenient and acceptable means of exporting gold seem not to have been exploited. See the discussion in his Studies, 275–99. 77 I borrow the phrase from O. Grabar, “The Shared Culture of Objects,” in Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204, ed. H. Maguire (Washington, D.C., 1997), 115–29. 78 A valuable survey of Arab literature on this topic is provided by M. Ullmann, Die Natur- und Geheimwissenschaften in Islam (Leiden, 1972), esp. 118–22; for Byzantine attitudes see s.v. Gems in ODB 2:828. 79 Note 15 above. 80 Thus at the head of Theophanes’ list of stored valuables found when Herakleios took Chosroes’ palace at Dastagerd are “a great quantity of aloes and big pieces of aloes wood, each weighing seventy or eighty pounds.” See his Chronographia (as above, note 28), 451, lines 3–6, trans. Mango and Scott, 451. 73

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and as prestigious as cash and interchangeable with it.” 81 In 950 at the Byzantine court Liutprand famously witnessed the almost comic spectacle of officials so encumbered by the salaries paid out in gold by the emperor that they needed help in removing their money bags from the hall of the Nineteen Couches.82 But, as Nicholas Oikonomide`s remarked, the head table bearing these bags was also laden with silk garments, skaramangia conveyed in appropriate numbers—a fact that in itself denotes a precise evaluation of these garments—to the raiktor, the patrikioi, and possibly other members of the imperial hierarchy. The effective equivalence of silk and gold is clearly suggested by the parallelism between occasions when gold was used to make up for a shortage of silk garments83 and those times when the latter formed parts of rogai distributed by an emperor temporarily pressed for gold.84 That such embarrassments were not limited to the tenth century is indicated in the reign of Romanos IV Diogenes who resorted to the substitution of silk for gifts of specie.85 At least in Arabia, woven robes were accepted as tax payments from the very start of the Umayyad dynasty. Al-Bala¯dhuri (d. 892), who records the rise and fall of these levies over time, makes it clear that figured silks made by the (Christian) inhabitants of Najra¯n constituted the most valuable commodities of this class.86 The ready correlation between silks and capital in both Greek and Muslim society is further suggested by the circumstances in which the precious fabric was stored and distributed. In tenth-century Byzantium, skaramangia were numbered, along with undershirts, purple-dyed hoods, and red leather boots, among the commodities brought along on imperial campaigns to give to “distinguished refugees and for sending to distinguished and powerful foreigners.” 87 These were presumably kept in a state treasury of the sort on which al-Fad. l, the vizier of Ha¯ru ¯ n al-Rashı¯d, reports in detail.88 Late in the This quotation and much of the paragraph that follows I borrow from N. Oikonomide`s, “Title and Income at the Byzantine Court,” in Maguire, Byzantine Court Culture (as above, note 77), 199–215, esp. 200– 202. The role of silk as a substitute for specie was earlier noted by Hendy, Studies, e.g., 229, on the case of Romanos IV who, when he ran out of gold for the payment of rogai, replaced it with silk. 82 Antapodosis, 6, 10, ed. J. Becker, MGH, ScriptRerGerm (Hanover, 1915), 157, line 29–158, line 34. 83 De cer., 1:668, line 19–669, line 3. Shortages of costume periodically affected the Arab world. Muh. ammad ibn Sasra¯, Al-Durra al-Mud.¯ı a fil-Dawla al-Z. ¯ahirı¯ya, ed. and trans. W. M. Brinner as A Chronicle of Damascus 1389–1397, 2 vols. (Berkeley-Los Angeles, 1963), 1:154, reports an eyewitness account of a viceroy of Syria when reviewing his infantrymen, who were reduced to donning the garments worn by their precursors as they entered his presence. 84 JH sune´ ceia th'" cronografi´a" tou' jIwa´ nnou Skuli´tsh, ed. Eu. Th. Tsolakes (Thessalonike, 1968), 142, lines 5–7, cited by Oikonomide`s, “Title and Income,” 202, note 15. 85 D. Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium before the Fourth Crusade,” BZ 84/85 (1991–92): 489. For Alexios I’s present to Henry IV combining gold coins and silk, see Alexiade (as above, note 21). 86 Kita¯b futu ¯h. al-Bulda¯ n, trans. P. K. Hitti as the Origins of the Islamic State (New York, 1916; repr. Beirut, 1966), 103–5. 87 Constantine Porphyrogennetos, Three Treatises on Imperial Military Expeditions, ed. J. F. Haldon (Vienna, 1990), 110, lines 247–49; cf. 108, lines 225–32. One example of offerings from this traveling wardrobe are the brocade garments given (along with jewels, parade horses, and mules) by Tzimiskes to Alptekı¯n in an exchange outside Damascus in A.H. 365/A.D. 975. See Ibn al-Qala¯nisi (as above, note 50), 14, trans. Canard, 295. Of course, such garments were by no means only sent abroad. Ha ¯ru ¯ n ibn Yahya¯, a prisoner in early 10th-century Constantinople, tells of the bestowal of khila
on other Muslim prisoners after they had acclaimed the emperor in the Hagia Sophia. See Vasiliev-Canard, 391. 88 The inventory is preserved in the Book of Gifts, 207–8, §302. The same text, 190, §243, provides what may be the best illustration that silk, like gold and silver, was subject to thesaurization: when in A.H. 324/ A.D. 936 the treasury of the vizier Abu ¯ Jafar Muhammad b. al-Qa¯sim al-Kharkı¯ was opened after his flight, there were found “[f]orty-year-old labeled sacks of pure silk.” Upon opening, the contents are said to have 81

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reign of al-Muqtadir (908–932), Miskawayh notes that great men kept khila
(robes of honor) in their houses for presumably similar purposes. The context of this observation is an excuse that the caliph might have used, claiming that “there were no robes ready,” to delay an investiture.89 In this instance the ruse may well have been politically motivated, but given what such outfits could cost,90 at least when distributed on a large scale, one can understand al-Muqtadir’s reticence. On occasion robes of honor would have been distributed in vast numbers. Dwarfing the number of 228 guests that the hall of the Nineteen Couches normally accommodated,91 1,200 senior officials “without counting other personages who received this favor,” were awarded robes of honor in Cairo in A.H. 708/A.D. 1308–9 when the Mamlu ¯ k sultan Baybars II al-Jashinkı¯r received the caliph’s 92 diploma of investiture. If gifts from a ruler to his officials are fairly understood as part of their salary, those he received from his appointees are surely to be considered a sort of tax. Such transactions were expressions of an ethic rarely reported when it was observed but pounced ¯ dil (A.H. 694– upon when it was transgressed. Thus al-Mufad. d. al reports that the sultan al-
A 696/A.D. 1294–96) received horses and textiles from his amı¯rs, “a present the value of which reached 10,000 dirhams and even more. But he bestowed on them no present in recognition of that which he had received, as he was obliged to do by the customs that kings observe.” 93 Muslim gift exchange was grounded in an ideal world of courtesy and distilled in a ninth-century manual of court etiquette in which this world was notionally identified with the Sasanian empire. The Kita¯b al-Ta¯j, attributed to al-Ja¯h. iz. , includes in a chapter on protocol for those who were familiars of the caliph the observation that the sovereign had the right to receive presents from them, while they, in turn, must give what crumbled “as a result of long storage.” For other examples of silk stored in Arab treasuries, see Lombard, Les textiles, 194–98. An early Byzantine example of the value of clothing as capital is provided by the report of John of Antioch, 214b, §4 (in Fragmenta historica graecorum, ed. K. Mu ¨ ller, 5 vols. [Paris, 1841–84], 5:30) that ca. 495 Anastasios sold Zeno’s wardrobe to finance his Isaurian wars. 89 Kita¯b Taja¯rib al-umam, ed. and trans. H. F. Amedroz and D. S. Margoulioth as The Eclipse of the
Abbasid Caliphate, 4 vols. (Oxford, 1920–21), 4:237. 90 E. Ashtor, Histoire des prix et des salaires dans l’Orient me´die´val (Paris, 1969), 55, describes one khil
a as costing 100 dinars. Clearly, this occupied the lower end of a scale that could rise steeply, especially in light of the fact that the term was generally used to designate not a single item of clothing but an ensemble. See EI 2, s.v. khil
a. 91 A. P. Kazhdan and M. McCormick, “The Social World of the Byzantine Court,” in Maguire, Byzantine Court Culture (as above, note 77), 176. 92 Al-Mufad. d. al, Histoire des sultans mamlouks, ed. and trans. E. Blochet, PO 14 (Paris, 1920), 593. The historian observes that “no one had ever heard of such prodigality in earlier reigns,” on which comment see note ¯ mir (A.H. 495–525/A.D. 1101–1130), the distribution of costumes 125 below. In the reign of the caliph al-A (kiswa) was so lavish that the Festival of Fast-Breaking (
¯d ı al-fit.r) became known as the Festival of Gala Costumes (
¯d ı al-h. ulal). See P. Sanders, Ritual, Politics, and the City in Fatimid Cairo (Albany, N.Y., 1994), 79. Sanders, 172 n. 218, suggests that on these occasions the ceremony included women; if so, this would obviously have greatly increased the size of the distribution. 93 Histoire des sultans mamlouks, 593. The passage that immediately follows is worth citing since it sets out both the doctrine of noblesse oblige as it was understood in the 14th-century Arab world and the capital expenditure involved in the custom: “In fact, the kings were accustomed when they entered a town such as Damascus, the well-guarded, to distribute gifts and presents to the amı¯rs, to the great and to lesser men, to the commanders of the troops, on their own initiative and not as a response to the politesses and the gifts with which they had been presented, above all when a prince was in the early stages of his reign and at the beginning of the sovereignty.”

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they hold dearest: “If he loved amber, he offered amber; if he was a lover of fabrics and luxurious costumes, he offered robes and costumes; if he was brave and a lover of horses, he offered a horse, a lance, or a saber.” 94 The passage, which continues in this vein, may be no more than a piece of utopian nostalgia, but it spells out the belief that transfers of the author’s own day had their origins in purely symbolic gifts in kind. Al-Ja¯h. iz. , or whoever wrote these lines, may have found in the Sasanian world a model for behavior, but other Arabs, before and after him, as well as western Europeans, looked to contemporary Byzantium as a source of objects that carried a particular mystique. It matters less whether their accounts of a Constantinopolitan origin for these goods are true than that they were believed to be so, a credence that lent special force when a present was perpetuated in local use. Among the gifts that Emperor Henry III conveyed to Sts. Simon and Juda in Goslar, a church that he had founded as his royal chapel before 1050, was a chalice said to have been made from the heavy gold seal on a letter that he received from “the king of Greece,” while the letter itself was recycled as a pallium for the altar.95 Perhaps unsurprisingly these are no longer preserved, but among numerous objects from the so-called Guelph treasure—precious metal vessels, silk vestments, and relics reputed to have been given in 1172 to Henry the Lion, duke of Saxony, by Manuel Komnenos—there survive a chalice in Trzemeszno Abbey in Poland and the “paten of St. Bernward” in Cleveland.96 The velocity with which these objects circulated upon their initial arrival in the West is explicated by more discursive reports, both Muslim and Latin, of the Byzantine custom of “re-gifting.” A revealing report by an emissary of the
Abba¯sid caliph al-Mutawakkil on a prisoner exchange effected with Michael III in A.H. 246/A.D. 860–861 tells how “the emperor accepted my gifts [1,000 bags of musk, silk garments, saffron, etc.] and did not give orders that any of them be handed on to anyone else.” 97 Concerning clothing in particular, Niketas Choniates recounts the story of Manuel Komnenos’ gift of his surcoat, embroidered with purple and gold, to Gabras, Kılıc¸ Arslan’s envoy on the field of Myriokephalon.98 I shall discuss elsewhere the abundant evidence for the recycling of prestige-laden vestments in Byzantium and Islam; to indicate the economic significance of these exchanges, suffice it for now to point to
Ubayd-Allah, a Syrian provincial governor who died in 901 after passing on to the caliph al-Mut
ad.¯d ı garments “of the then Byzantine sovereign” (Leo VI) of purple brocade woven with gold, 94

ˇ ¯ahiz, trans. C. Pellat (Paris, 1954), Le Livre de la Couronne. Kita¯b al-Ta¯j fı¯ ahla¯q al-mulu ¯k, ouvrage attribue´ `a G

166. Mittelalterliche Schatzverzeichnisse. Von der Zeit Karls des Grossen bis zur Mitte des 13. Jahrhunderts, ed. B. Bischoff (Munich, 1967), no. 128, p. 130, lines 32–34. 96 P. de Winter, The Sacral Treasury of the Guelphs, exhib. cat., Cleveland Museum of Art (Cleveland, 1985). On the Trzemeszno chalice, see P. Skubiszewski, “The Iconography of a Romanesque Chalice in Poland,” JWarb 34 (1971): 40–64. 97 Preserved in al-T . abarı¯, Tarı¯kh, 2:1450, trans. Kraemer (as above, note 45), 169. A much later example is provided by a Florentine witness to the Mamlu ¯ k sultan Barqu ¯ q’s redistribution to his “barons” of the gifts, borne on the backs of “one hundred camels,” from the admiral of Damascus. See S. Sigoli, Visit to the Holy Places of Egypt, Sinai, Palestine, and Syria in 1384, trans. T. Belloni and E. Hoade, Studium Biblicum Franciscanum 6 (Jerusalem, 1948), 173–74. 98 Historia, ed. J. L. van Dieten (Berlin, 1975), 189, lines 50–63. According to Choniates, this was a spontaneous offering in exchange for a double-edged sword and a horse with a bridle adorned in silver sent by the sultan. 95

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each said to be worth 2,000 dinars, and a girdle “fashioned of two thousand mithqa¯ls of gold inlaid with enamel . . . that cost ten thousand dinars.” 99 Despite the huge value imputed to such artifacts, it may well be misleading when dealing with medieval objects to treat them as constituting either economic or symbolic capital.100 The recycling of gold, silver, silks, gems, and rock crystal denotes their liquidity101 just as their fungible character is demonstrated by the substitution of one of these goods for another or for gifts of specie.102 So, too, the sort of potlatch ceremonies that Mauss discovered in Malinowski’s and others’ accounts of the South Pacific and the American Northwest103 do not translate well to the medieval Mediterranean. Unknown, so far as I am aware, in Byzantium, in Muslim reports they are normally limited to circumcision ceremonies or attributed to Mongol potentates.104 Rather than attempt to assimilate Arab and Byzantine gifts to modern or “archaic” practice, it seems more useful to view them as historically contingent, in the settings in which they flourished and in terms of the economies and cultures that they represented. THE RELATION OF GIFTS TO ECONOMIC EXCHANGE Most of the gifts that I have considered above belong to the category that today would be described as “e´lite” goods. Although this qualification normally differentiates them from commodities traded in bulk, it is immediately transferred to the agents of such exchanges, their sponsors and recipients. As a result, presents of this sort are more likely to be bearers of ideological messages.105 But this function does not require that they be 99 Book of Gifts, 89, §62. On the recycling of clothing, see further A. Cutler, “Exchanges of Clothing in ´ tudes ByzanByzantium and Islam: Asymmetrical Sources, Symmetrical Practices,” XXe Congre`s International d’E tines, pre´-actes. 1, Se´ances ple´nie`res (Paris, 2001), 91–95. 100 Cf. Bourdieu, Theory of Practice (as above, note 3), 171–83. Obviously, the “turquoise table of priceless value, the edges of which were adorned (with precious stones),” repeatedly looted from each other by Arab leaders in the mid-11th century, had considerable material worth. But no less clearly it was an object replete with immense symbolic capital. As the Book of Gifts, 194–95, §256, notes, it “had passed down to the Abbasids from the treasuries of the Umayyads, to whom it had been transferred in turn from the Sasanid treasures.” 101 One example, striking both because it represents the reuse of a royal gift and reveals a deliberate plan for recycling its precious material, is the provision in the will of Remigius, bishop of Reims (d. 533), that a vasa, weighing 18 pounds and given to him by Clovis on the occasion of the king’s baptism, should be melted down to make a thurible, a chalice, and other sacra for his church. See Hincmar, Testamentum S. Remigii, ed. B. Krusch, MGH, ScriptRerMerov, vol. 3 (Hanover, 1896), 337. 102 Beyond the examples already cited, one could note the Spanish vizier Mans.u ¯ r’s bestowal on the Christian and Muslim princes who had helped him in a victorious campaign in A.H. 387/A.D. 997 of “two thousand two hundred and eighty-five pieces of various kinds of .tira¯zı¯ silk, twenty-one pieces of sea-wool, two
anbarı¯ robes [i.e., perfumed with ambergris], eleven pieces of siqla¯tu ¯n [silk in a variety of colors dependent on its place of origin] . . . seven brocade carpets . . . and two marten furs.” For the complete catalogue, see alMaqqarı¯, Analectes (as above, note 40), 1:271. 103 Mauss, The Gift, esp. 8–13, 20–46, 72–76. 104 Coins showered on guests at circumcision rites: Book of Gifts, 138, §139, 141; Mongol distributions: see, e.g., al-Juwainı¯ (as above, note 20), 254–55, 259–60. The famous “hundredfold gift” of al-Mamu ¯ n (note 11 above) was not an act of potlatch but, as I have indicated, a gesture with specifically political intent. That it was an act of calculation, rather than abandon, is indicated by the conclusion of the story: learning that the Byzantines prize musk and sable above all, al-Mamu ¯ n orders that an additional 200 rat.ls of musk and 200 sable pelts be sent to them. 105 Cf. notes 11 and 12 above.

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removed from the conditions that applied to less celebrated transactions. I shall suggest that the material circumstances of gifts, as well as what were often their objectives and results, tend to lessen the force of the customary distinction between economic and noneconomic exchange. Although testimonia to the distribution of luxurious goods do not in themselves witness to commercial activity,106 to divorce the two activities entirely would be to adopt the opposite extreme. In the first place, a number of sources point to the presence, and even the participation, of merchants at events that involved gift exchanges. As we have seen, those who accompanied Ol’ga to Constantinople in 975 received handouts in coin along with the rest of her retinue.107 Conversely, traders themselves could be the means by which imperial presents were transmitted. A letter of Manuel II Palaiologos to the Mamlu ¯ k sultan Faraj declares that he has entrusted five falcons and a falconer to the care of a Constantinopolitan trader whose name is disguised in the Arabic form Soumas.108 Better known is Liutprand’s report of Liutfred, the “rich merchant of Mainz, bearer of courtly presents” from the Italian king Berengar to Constantine VII, in return for those that the emperor had sent in 949.109 Indeed, on occasion it would not be excessive to say that a foreigner’s designation as “ambassador” or “merchant” is a function of the purpose of his visit rather than a clear-cut distinction in the minds and attitudes of those upon whom he called.110 A letter of Muh. ammad b. T . ughj al-Ikhshı¯d to Romanos Lekapenos sets out the Egyptian amı¯r’s permission for the emperor’s ambassadors “to trade in the goods that you have sent for this purpose” and allows them “to sell and buy all that they wish to desire.” 111 Similarly, while it specifies that goods brought in for sale are generally tithed, Abu ¯ Yu ¯ suf
Ya qu ¯ b’s late eighth-century handbook on taxes specifies that an envoy from “the Christian prince” is not subject to this treatment and that his status as ambassador is recognizable from the fact that he is accompanied by horses, goods, and slaves intended as gifts, as well as from the customary letter validating his mission.112 Having arrived in the land of their destination, both envoy and merchant needed a Grierson, “Commerce in the Dark Ages,” 125. Note 30 above. Another example of such a “mixed” mission is provided by Ibn H . ayya¯n, Al-Muqtabis V ([as above, note 2], 47, trans. Viguera and Corriente, 365): when an envoy of the lord of Sardinia arrived in Cordoba in August 942, he was accompanied by Amalfitan merchants bringing silver ingots, brocade, etc. 108 ´ gypte et les puissances H. Lammens, “Correspondances diplomatiques entre les sultans mamlouks d’E chre´tiennes,” ROC 9 (1904): 361. 109 Antapodosis, 6, 4 (as above, note 82), 155, lines 29–33. The gifts specified are clearly regionally specific: “nine excellent cuirasses, seven excellent shields with gilded bosses, some swords, lances, spits, and four corzimasia [eunuchs].” We know that in 953 John of Gorze’s embassy to Cordoba on behalf of Otto I relied heavily on the services of experienced Verdun merchants, one of whom later helped to extricate John after he had been detained by
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n III for three years: Vita Iohannis Gorziensis, §116–17, ed. G. H. Pertz, in MGH, SS, vol. 4 (Hanover, 1841), 370, 375–76. On this embassy see K. J. Leyser, “Ends and Means in Liutprand of Cremona,” ByzF 13 (1988): 119–43, esp. 134. 110 The absence of a professional diplomatic class meant that even a “tourist” could be enlisted for the purpose. Thus the Moroccan Ibn Bat..tu ¯ .ta was charged by the sultan of Delhi with bearing a huge present to the Chinese emperor: 100 thoroughbred horses and the same number of both male slaves and “Hindu singing- and dancing-girls,” as well as silks, cottons, and robes of honor “from the Sultan’s own wardrobe and ten caps also worn by him.” See The Travels of Ibn Bat..tu ¯.ta (as in note 31), 4:773–74. 111 ´ gypte `a The text is edited by M. Canard, “Une lettre de Muhammad ibn T . ughj al-Ihsˇsı¯s, ´emir d’E l’empereur Romain Lecape`ne,” AnnIEOAlg 3 (1936): 189–90, and trans. in Vasiliev-Canard (as above, note 12), 213. 112 Le Livre de l’impoˆt foncier (Kitaˆb el Kharaˆdj), trans. E. Fagnan (Paris, 1921), 291. 106 107

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safe-conduct normally obtainable only from the ruler and, once in his presence, underwent the rites in which gift-giving preceded negotiations toward their objective. These obtained whether the visit was to a comparatively backward country like that of the Saqa¯liba, whose king paid tribute to the Khazars, but, as Ibn Fad. la¯n notes, still had the right to choose one slave from every ten brought in by Rus’ merchants,113 or a sophisticated court like that of
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n III. Here, according to Ibn H . ayya¯n, the caliph had his first pick of imported goods, but in at least one instance he acquired the “major part” of the satin and purple (silk?) being offered for sale by the malfata¯nı¯n, Amalfitan traders who arrived in Cordoba in March 942; the balance was sold to dealers in the Spanish capital.114 The idea that gifts and commodities were often interchangeable likewise finds support in the manner in which they were distributed. Among the extraordinarily diverse offerings presented by Michael VI to al-Mustans.ir in A.H. 444/A.D. 1053, the Kita¯b alHada¯ya¯ distinguishes between the fine articles said to have arrived on a Byzantine warship and the heavy objects consigned to a cargo boat.115 We may presume that vessels of this second type were more usually employed: the lighter weight and normally smaller bulk of luxurious items implies that commercial wares traveled with them in order to make up economical shiploads.116 In fact, this is attested by the cause ce´le`bre that was the loss to Genoese and Pisan pirates of a Venetian ship carrying Greek and Syrian merchants, as well as “equos et mulos et alia animalia ad venationem pertinentia et omnigenas pretiosas merces,” sent by Saladin to Isaac II Angelos in 1192.117 The emperor’s protest to the Genoese authorities, complete with claim for compensation and threat of reprisal against their compatriots in Constantinople, likewise recounts the gifts with which Isaac responded to Saladin’s gesture. These were sent together with goods belonging to his brother, Alexios, and Byzantine merchants. The total value of the cargo, the Canard, “Ibn Fad. la¯n” (as above, note 11), 115. Al-Muqtabis V (as above, note 2), 322, trans. Viguera and Corriente, 358–59. In August of the same year, the Amalfitans returned, this time in the company of an ambassador from Sardinia, offering ingots of pure silver and again satin. The practice of “first fruits” is echoed in Arab legend, as in The Thousand and One Nights, trans. N.J. Dawood (Harmondsworth, 1955), 119, where the “choicest and most precious articles” brought by Sinbad are given to Mahjaran, king of an unnamed island, in return for which the sailor receives “priceless treasures.” 115 Book of Gifts, 110, §85. The items listed include slave boys and girls, a menagerie of birds, all white (the official color of the Fa¯.timids), huge bears that played musical instruments, dogs, and “one thousand seven hundred lead-sealed bottles containing special fine drinks used by the king and kept in his cellar.” The envoy responsible for their conveyance reported that the value of each [bottle] in Byzantium was 7 dinars. 116 ´ gypte me´die´val d’apre`s le Minhadj C. Cahen, “Douanes et commerce dans ports me´diterrane´ens de l’E dal-Makhzu mi,” Journal of the Economic and Social History of the Orient 7 (1964): 234. For a shipment of silk ¯ from a Constantinopolitan vestioprates to Egypt, carried by a Venetian merchantman in 1111, see Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 496. 117 Nuova serie di documenti sulle relazioni di Genova coll’impero bizantino, ed. G. Bertolotto (Genoa, 1895), no. XII, 450; MM 3:no. VI, 38. Earlier in the same document, but possibly describing another gift of Saladin’s, the sultan is said to have sent horses, aloes wood, balsam, ambergris, blattia, and twenty-seven saddles studded with precious stones and pearls. Whatever the relation between these two catalogues, they represent at most two stages in a sequence of exchanges that included Saladin’s present to Isaac of an elephant, an aloe tree with green roots and branches (said to be more precious than the box of aloes wood included in the gift, presumably because with it the emperor would henceforth have his own source of supply), and 20,000 bezants. For the full list see the Chronicon Magni Presbyteri, s.a. 1189, ed. W. Wattenbach, MGH, SS, vol. 17 (Hanover, 1861), 511–12, and, for the political framework, C. M. Brand, “The Byzantines and Saladin, 1184–1192: Opponents of the Third Crusade,” Speculum 37 (1962): 167–81. 113 114

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emperor indicates, was 96,000 hyperpera and 566 nomismata, of which the merchants’ share alone amounted to 39,000 hyperpera and 193 nomismata.118 Even if the numbers are inflated, they suggest both the commutability of commodities and gifts and their economic significance. Generally, nonetheless, we have scant way to measure the effect of such transactions upon either the economies of the countries that produced the goods involved or those that received them. Yet some of the reports that we do possess in this domain are worth mentioning, if only because their very sparsity presupposes that, in aggregate, the impact of exchanges of this sort was vastly larger. As if to demonstrate the point, a Byzantine ambassador, called Tarath (Tarasios?) b. al-Layth and identified as a batriq (patrikios) and son of a “king of Ru ¯ m” by the Khatı¯b al-Baghda¯dı¯, is said to have asked his host, the caliph al-Mahdı¯ (A.H. 158–169/A.D. 775–785), to lend him half a million dirhams to establish a factory later known as the Mills of the Patrikios; the caliph was promised a return on investment of the same sum every year.119 Despite the inherent implausibility of this bit of palaeocapitalism, the Khatı¯b says that al-Mahdı¯ advanced the Greek twice the amount requested and, implying that the venture was a stunning success, ordered that a share of the income should be sent every year to Constantinople. This pension, we are told, the patrikios continued to receive until his death. Like exports of human acumen those of goods also have stories to tell, although these may say at least as much about the society in which they originated as about that in which they ended up. Thus the production of the supposedly peerless silk palio depicting the life of St. Lawrence and sent to Genoa in 1261 by Michael VIII is put into some perspective by the pearl-bedecked “samite” altar cloth that Michael offered to Pope Gregory X a few years later.120 No longer extant, it is described in an inventory as depicting an image of Christ and, at his feet, the Virgin enthroned amid saints to whom the pope presents the emperor. Echoing the motif of the emperor’s introduction to the elect, the lost cloth is no less important in that it witnesses to the production of elaborate silks, and especially those made ad hoc, well into the Palaiologan period. And much the same may be true of fine gold- and silver-smithery. In a famous passage, Pachymeres has a great deal of fun at the expense of the Mongol commander Nogay, to whom Michael sent a variety of expensively adorned headgear and costumes which the khan rejected on the grounds that they would not ward off lightning bolts or prevent headaches.121 Overlooked in this orientalist fable is the datum that the gift included gold and silver cups which, along with other finery, evidently continued to be manufactured in an age supposed by many historians to be one of straitened circumstances. I shall return in a moment to the impact on domestic industrial production of diplomatic gifts but, for now, there are other effects of ambassadorial exchange to be considered. Quite apart from the infusion of capital represented by the ransom paid for prisonBertolotto, 450; MM 2:39. See the translation by J. Lassner, The Topography of Baghdad in the Early Middle Ages (Detroit, 1970), 75–76, with commentary on 184. 120 E. Molinier, “Inventaire du tre´sor du Saint-Sie`ge sous Boniface VIII (1295),” BEC 46 (1885): 18–19, no. 811. This pallium was first connected with the one in Genoa by P. Schreiner, “Zwei Denkma¨ler aus der ¨r Klaus Wessel zum fru ¨ hen Pala¨ologenzeit: Ein Bildnis Michaels VIII und der Genueser Pallio,” in Festschrift fu 70. Geburtstag, ed. M. Restle (Munich, 1988), 249–58, and associated by him with the Unionist negotiations of 1274. 121 Relations historiques, ed. A. Failler, 2 vols. (Paris, 1984), 2:447, line 26–449, line 11. 118 119

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ers of war, and considered above, the very preparations for such negotiations could entail vast investment. The most detailed information that we have on such a reception concerns the mission to Baghdad of two envoys from Constantine VII (in A.H. 305/A.D. 917– 918) and derives from at least four Arabic and Syriac sources. The short, almost contemporary account of
Arı¯b, the continuator of T . abarı¯, concentrates on the quantity of gold and silver objects, jewels, and carpets laid out to astonish the Greeks, as did the “elephants, giraffes, lions, and panthers” 122 paraded on the banks of the Tigris. None of these was necessarily acquired for the occasion, although the robes of honor, including scarves of heavy brocade presented to the ambassadors (along with 20,000 dirhams given to each)123 by the caliph, must surely have been new. In the Book of Gifts, however, the narrative begins long before their reception by al-Muqtadir and dwells on the Da¯r Sa¯
id, the palace prepared for them, and the Da¯r al-Bu ¯ sta¯n, the “Garden House,” in the grand audience hall of which they had their audience with Ibn al-Fura¯t, the vizier. He had ordered superb furnishings to be spread and beautiful drapes to be hung, then “requested even more furnishings, drapes, and carpets, the cost of which amounted to thirty thousand dinars.” 124 There is no point in rehearsing the description of the palaces traversed by the ambassadors, the armies in satin uniforms, or the menageries that they witnessed, for these other expenses are not quantified. Rather, in light of the richness of the textual tradition and the unparalleled length of the passage devoted to this embassy, it will suffice to accept the spirit if not the letter of
Arı¯b’s declaration that “its like had never before been seen.” 125 It is far from the banks of the Tigris to those of the Volga, but a` propos of furnishings, Ibn Fad. la¯n’s report on the Saqa¯liba suggests a further point that needs to be made in any discussion of the economics of diplomacy. After he bestowed on their king the khila
that he had brought from Baghdad, the
Abba¯sid envoy notes that this ruler sat in his tent on a throne covered with Byzantine brocade; the same is true of the Bulgar king’s throne, although his tent, large enough to contain a thousand persons, is, in addition, said to be carpeted with Armenian rugs.126 Now, to identify their places of origin on the basis of the epithets applied in medieval texts to fabrics and furnishings is always risky. But the repetition and specificity of these descriptions, if they are not purely conventional, allow only two interpretations: either these textiles were gifts presented by an emissary earlier than Ibn Fad. la¯n or they were commodities obtained in trade. Whichever is the case, the functional overlap between these categories requires that the received distinction between commercial and noncommercial exchange be reconsidered. Vasiliev-Canard (as above, note 12), 61–62. For another textual tradition, see ibid., 252. By the time of Sibt. ibn al-Jawzı¯ (d. 1257), in ibid., 169–71, this amount had grown to 50,000 dirhams. 124 Book of Gifts, 148–55, esp. 149;
Arı¯b (in Vasiliev-Canard, 56–60, esp. 57) gives the same figure for the new accoutrements. The account in the Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯ is clearly based on the early 11th-century description of the event by Miskawayh (in Vasiliev-Canard, 66–69). For an equally detailed account of the mission, see ˆl Faraj, trans. E. A. Wallis Budge, 2 vols. (London, 1932), 1:156–57. The Chronography of Gregory Abu 125 Assertions of this sort, although clearly topoi, still have their uses; since economic history cannot be confined to the history of quantities, the task is to recognize in them indications of more than hyperbole. On occasion they are associated with precise information of obvious historical value. One such is the comment of al-Mufad. d. al, cited on p. 261 above, made in relation to the number of robes of honor offered to al-Muz. affar’s senior officials. 126 Canard, “Ibn Fad. la¯n” (as above, note 11), 88, 103. 122 123

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Nowhere is the consonance between goods and gifts made clearer than in the famous story of the trap set by Mu
¯awiya I (A.H. 41–60/A.D. 661–680) to kidnap an unnamed patrikios who had insulted an Arab prisoner. To whet his appetite, the Umayyad caliph sent the Byzantine magnificent presents—“a chalice of cut glass, scents, jewels, all sorts of rare objects and splendid clothing,” in the tenth-century account of al-Mas
u ¯ dı¯127 —on a Tyrian ship. When the patrikios had been hooked, he requested the merchant to bring him “a Susanjird carpet with cushions and pillows,” asserting that no matter how high their price he would pay it. Returning with these goods, the Tyrian lured the offending dignitary on board and carried him off to Damascus. Even if this is a later invention intended to delight a Muslim audience with tales of Greek rapacity, it nicely epitomizes an enduring Arab understanding of the enemy’s weaknesses.128 For our purposes, moreover, the story exemplifies the currency in Constantinople of garments from Syria—the striped cloaks, goods of iridescent silk, and Bagdadi´kia—purveyed by the prandiopratai of the Book of the Eparch to the archontes, the satisfaction of whose wishes extended to both dyestuffs and perfumes.129 I am arguing, of course, that perceived needs promoted both the desirability of gifts and the impulse to trade: the activities of donors, recipients, merchants, and those who bought from them merely define specific points along curves of desire that pursued the same course and frequently intersected; both describe what Keynes called “the propensity to consume.” One economic moment of their crossing was the stimulus that the readiness to offer luxurious presents lent to the industries of art. Such incentives are rarely visible in the texts, concerned as they are primarily with the identity and circumstances of the giver or (less often) the impact of the gift upon its destinataire and the results that are said to flow from the act in question. Yet the report of “Bar Hebraeus” on the way in which
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n, ambassador of Tegu ¨ der, the Mongol ruler of Iran (1281–84), to the Mamlu ¯ k sultan of Egypt, assembled in Tabrı¯z “handicraftsmen of all kind, jewelers and sewers [i.e., weavers], and others, and . . . made everything to a royal pattern” 130 allows us to see the mechanisms by which this and other sumptuous gifts came into being. 127 Les Prairies d’or, ed. and trans. C. Barbier de Meynard and P. de Courteille, 9 vols. (Paris, 1861–77), 8:75–88. See the revised edition by C. Pellat (Paris, 1971), §3202–12, and trans. P. Lunde and C. Stone, The Meadows of Gold. The Abbasids by Mas
udi (London, 1989), 320–24. 128 The story ends with the merchant returning the patrician to Constantinople not only with the goods he had sought but with gifts from the caliph to the emperor. 129 Das Eparchenbuch Leons des Weisen, ed. J. Koder (Vienna, 1991), 94. That such commodities moved no less in the other direction is indicated by the commercial treaty of 969 between Byzantium and the Syrian emirate of Aleppo. Preserved in the 13th-century history of Kama¯l al-Din known as the Zubdat al-halab min tarı¯kh H . alab, ed. S. Zakkar, 2 vols. (Damascus, 1997), 1:167–68, it includes provisions for a Byzantine customs officer, seated beside an Arab counterpart, in Aleppo to assess levies on imports of gold, silver, brocade (⫽ buzyu ¯n, despite the prohibitions repeatedly specified in the Book of the Prefect 4, §1, 3, 8; 5, §2; 6), raw silk, garments of this material (sundus), precious stones, etc. On the context of the treaty, see M. Canard, “Les relations politiques et sociales entre Byzance et les Arabes,” DOP 18 (1964): 48–56. The view that in the mid11th century, when Nasir-i Khosrau visited Egypt, this country and especially the city of Tinnis excelled in the production of fine linens is implicit in this traveler’s anecdote that “the ruler of Byzantium once sent a message to the sultan . . . that he would exchange a hundred cities of his realm” for that of Tinnis alone. See Nase¯r-e Khosraw’s Book of Travels (Safarna¯ma), trans. W. M. Thackston (New York, 1986), 39. 130 Chronography (as above, note 124), 468. The text suggests that the objects ordered by
Abd al-Rah. ma¯n supplemented the “large amount of money from the royal treasury of the Mongols, and precious stones, and marvellous pearls, and gold, and silver, and apparel, and bales of stuff (i.e. brocades) wherein much gold was woven.” T. T. Allsen, Commodity and Exchange in the Mongol Empire. A Cultural History of Islamic Textiles (Cambridge, 1997), 34, suggests that at least the last items in this list were created ad hoc.

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Seven centuries earlier the golden couch prepared for the khagan, and a fortiori the silver vessels and embroidered textiles agreed by Maurice as annual tribute to the Avars,131 had offered analogous incentives to Byzantine craftsmanship. At such moments the division between economic and noneconomic exchange becomes questionable. Whether a ruler’s gifts consisted of commercially obtained goods, as were probably the Indian spices (cloves, cassia, etc.) that Priskos conveyed to the ambassadors of the Avar khagan,132 and the furs that Andronikos II sent to the Mamlu ¯ k al-Na¯s.ir Muh. ammad b. Qala¯u ¯ n in 1302,133 or articles manufactured in state factories, as in the case of the elaborate silks, linens, and cotton cloths offered four years later by this sultan to James II of Aragon,134 their acquisition and production served as economic stimuli to traders and craftsmen. Many diplomatic presents involved articles of both kinds. Thus Constantine IX’s gift to al-Mustans.ir in 1046 included not only “a hundred [and] fifty beautiful she-mules and selected horses” but also brocade saddles for each, as well as fifty mules carrying fifty pairs of boxes, covered with fifty pieces of silk thin brocade.” In turn these boxes are said to have contained “a hundred golden vessels of various kinds inlaid with enamel” and a great variety of fabrics, some made up into turbans, girdles, and hangings.135 Even if these last items issued from “palace workshops,” 136 it is clear that the domestic impact of this body of production far transcended the emperor’s immediate environment. It is in the nature of our sources to personalize such presents rather than to see them as performances having macroeconomic effects. In doing so they also seem to emphasize discontinuities in production and consumption: Romanos I, Romanos IV, and Michael VIII Palaiologos loom as exceptional figures in the gift lists, serial givers whose generosity is treated as anomalous. More likely than that they represent instances that happen to be recorded, it might be nearer the truth to suppose that the gifts of emperors, caliphs, and others were normal behavior, the very constancy of which both promoted trade in precious substances, giving employment to thousands of artisans over the course of centuries, keeping craft skills alive, and furnishing a currency that was no less de rigueur in international and interregional exchanges than transfers of specie. Perhaps a greater danger than exaggerating their impact lies in underestimating the size and frequency of such exports, continuing as they did from the fifth through the fifteenth century,137 See 247, 254, above. Theoph. Sim. (as above, note 14), 267, line 8–268, line 3, trans. Whitby, 196–97. 133 ¨lger, Regesten, no. 2240. For the sources, see Do 134 For this exchange, which included balsam, incense, and crossbows, see A. S. Atiyah, Egypt and Aragon: Embassies and Diplomatic Correspondence between A.D. 1300 and 1310, AbhKM 23 (Leipzig, 1938), 7, 20–25. This early 14th-century body of production falls within the chronological framework of W. Sombart, Luxury and Capitalism (Ann Arbor, Mich., 1967), who maintained that the demand for such luxuries expressed by aristocracies old and new was the driving force behind the expansion of early capitalist trade, industry, and finance. 135 These formed part of the present the valuation of which in the Book of Gifts is cited in note 63 above. 136 Such institutions have an enduring place in the scholarship on middle Byzantine crafts. Yet apart from the attested workshops producing silk and jewelry (cf. ODB 1:774–75, s.v. Factories, imperial), their existence is largely unsubstantiated. For a critique of the concept, see A. Cutler, The Hand of the Master. Craftsmanship, Ivory, and Society in Byzantium, 9th–11th Centuries (Princeton, N.J., 1994), 186–87, 233. 137 ¨lger’s Regesten which, over the course of the period from A crude index to this activity is provided by Do 565 to 1453, note at least 110 such transfers, usually baldly summarized as “mit Geschenken.” These repre¨lger drew. It is also worth observing sent, of course, only the instances reported in the sources on which Do that there is no necessary correlation between exports and the relative strength of a particular economy. Contemplating the recent economic growth of China, the editor of an east Russian newspaper, Amurskaia 131 132

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driven less by internal political conditions and economic “downturns” than by external threats to the empire. Be that as it may, there are at least two other reasons why gifts and gift-exchange merit inclusion in the purview of the economic historian. First, there is the remarkable, if unremarked, parallelism between constituent parts of diplomatic presents and objects of trade in the eastern Mediterranean. Beyond the slaves, precious metalwork, gems, perfumes (musk, civet, vetiver), and spices that were the stock-in-trade of such exchanges, rare woods, such as that of aloes which recur in the gift lists,138 appear in both commercial treaties and documents that record prohibitions on their exportation.139 Ivory, virtually invisible in Byzantine inventories after the mid-eleventh century, is recorded among the luxuries dispersed from the Fa¯.timid treasuries140 and at the same time noted as hugely available as a raw material in the markets of Fust.¯a.t.141 Above all, textiles, both “by the yard” and in the form of clothing, have pride of place in both Muslim and Greek presents. It can hardly be an accident that the eleventh century, “the golden age of the overseas trade on the Islamic side of the Mediterranean,” 142 is also the period of the highest incidence of gifts listed in the Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯. This convergence, however, is more than a matter of chronology. Itemized as single garments or as ensembles (hulla, hullta¯hu) in the gift lists, this was also the way they were traded, given at weddings, and transmitted by parents as precious heirlooms to their children.143 These patterns of consumption, then, may have more to tell us about cultural distribution than the rich body of information that we possess, at least for the Muslim world, regarding systems of production.144 In any case they provide a broader base than courtly examples (of which we know most) of the “shop window” phenomenon, the mechanism by which gifts presented to and displayed by potentates provoked demand in quantities that could be satisfied only by trade. It would be excessive to say that gifts were a sine qua non of commerce, but they certainly whetted the appetite not only for textiles but for all the other goods catalogued with almost monotonous repetition in chronicles, priviPravda, is quoted in the New York Times (20 July 1999, 1) as saying “For China, it is not profitable for us to be strong. The weaker we are, the more they can get from us.” 138 E.g., Book of Gifts, 61, §1; 80–82, §39. See also note 115 above. 139 Thus the agreement between Basil II and al-
Azı¯z (note 26 above) lifted the ban on precious woods originally imposed by John Tzimiskes in 971. Prized mainly for its fragrance, aloes wood was also used as a material for fine carving. A “decorated” cross of this material (xulalw´ h) is specified among the gifts of Thomas Komnenos Prealympos (Preljubovic´), despot of Epiros, to the Great Lavra in 1375 (Actes de Lavra, ed. P. Lemerle et al. [Paris, 1979], 107, line 8). Ha¯ru ¯ n ibn Yahya¯, a 9th-century Syrian captive taken to Constantinople, describes the altar of Hagia Sophia as “a block of aloes wood encrusted with pearls and rubies.” See M. Izeddin, “Un prisonnier arabe `a Byzance au IXe sie`cle,” REI 15 (1941–46): 51. 140 Book of Gifts, 234, §381; 235, §390. 141 Nase¯r-e Khosraw’s Book of Travels (as above, note 129), 53. 142 S. D. Goitein, Letters of Medieval Jewish Traders (Princeton, N.J., 1973), 73. 143 Ibid., 74. This status derived, of course, from their cost. Commenting on the 60 dinars cited as the price for one such outfit in a letter of ca. 1010, Goitein observes that on this sum a family (of unspecified size) could live for about three years. Further substantiating the consonance of gifts and goods, he tells the story of a traveler from Qayrawa¯n (Tunisia) who, having forgotten to bring his wife the ensemble that she desired, immediately sought to amend his oversight by means of “the very first caravan setting out” (167). 144 Al-Maqqarı¯, Analectes (as above, note 40), 1:102, tells of the Christian ships tied up at Almeria (AlMariya) in Spain ready to carry the products of its eight hundred looms weaving .tira¯zı¯ garments of silk, and its one thousand looms producing siqla¯tu ¯n,
attabı¯, and other stuffs, to their own lands.

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leges granted to merchants, and gift lists. If emulation has become a cardinal principle of social anthropology, it has long been understood by economists as the engine driving what they call the multiplier effect. In the absence of any full medieval account of the process, we may turn once again to fable, to the story of Sinbad the merchant who introduced the saddle and other trappings to a land rich in horses but ignorant of the means by which they could be ridden with ease. Having taught a carpenter to make a wooden saddle frame and a blacksmith to forge a bit and a pair of stirrups, he applied this equipment to one of the royal horses and was rewarded with “precious gifts and a large sum of money” from the king. The vizier begged Sinbad to make one for him, with the result that “[i]t was not long before every courtier and noble in the kingdom became the owner of a handsome saddle” and Sinbad “the richest man on the island.” 145 GIFTS AND GIFT EXCHANGE IN ECONOMIC HISTORY AND THEORY The behavior of Sinbad and those whom he served is a perfect example of the classical economic doctrine that the motive to produce things is the desire to exchange them for other goods and that this supply in and of itself creates demand and thereby stimulates further exchange. But Say’s law, as this nineteenth-century notion is now called, is hardly useful to our investigation in that it is based upon the belief (still essential in Marx’s thinking) that the value of something is the reason for its exchange146 rather than that it is this exchange that stamps an object with value. The validity of this counterproposition, first set out to my knowledge by Georg Simmel,147 is supported by Ibn Bat..tu ¯ .ta’s remarks about the amount of silk that he encountered on his diplomatic mission: a luxury elsewhere, in China it was so plentiful that “[i]f it were not for the merchants [trading it] it would have no value.” 148 The Arab traveler was, of course, observing the movement of commodities in a field of activity that today would be described as economic, a viewpoint that seems to set them apart from the transfer of goods—bracelets, necklaces, and, above all, armshells—that for Malinowski and, after him, Mauss and a host of other anthropologists, constituted the kula of the Western Pacific. This trade Mauss described as “carried on in a noble fashion, apparently in a disinterested and modest way. It is distinguished carefully from the mere economic exchange of useful goods.” 149 Its “nobility” is said to derive from the ethical climate in which it circulated, a system that institutionalized the obligation to give, to receive, and, after a decent interval, to reciprocate the initial gift, all the while ignoring, as befitted “primitive” or “archaic” societies, its monetary value. The question now is the extent to which this model is applicable to the gifts that The Thousand and One Nights (as above, note 114), 140. J. B. Say, Traite´ d’e´conomie politique (Paris, 1841). 147 G. Simmel, Die Philosophie des Geldes (Leipzig, 1907), trans. T. Bottomore, D. Frisby, and K. Mangelberg as The Philosophy of Money, 2d ed. (London, 1990). An insightful study of the implications of Simmel’s ideas is to be found in A. Appadurai, “Introduction: Commodities and the Politics of Value” in his Social Life of Things (as above, note 23), 3–63. 148 The Travels of Ibn Bat..tu ¯.ta (as above, note 31), 4:890. This theoretical aperc¸u was based on empirical observation. In the previous paragraph he had observed that “You will see an important merchant whose wealth is beyond reckoning wearing a tunic of coarse cotton.” 149 The Gift, trans. Halls (as above, note 3), 22. For more recent understandings of the system, see Godelier, The Enigma of the Gift (as above, note 3), 78–95, and the papers by various hands collected as The Kula: New Perspectives on Massim Exchange, ed. J. W. Leach and E. Leach (Cambridge, 1983). 145 146

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moved within and especially between the economies that are the subject of this paper. It is not enough to disown its relevance to Muslim or Byzantine societies on the ground that their economies were neither primitive nor archaic. Even if the texts (and especially the Greek texts) at our disposal present what Pierre Bourdieu called “sincere fictions,” making it difficult for us to see the economy that they inhabited “as an economy, i.e., as a system governed by the laws of interested calculation, competition, or exploitation,” 150 much of the evidence discussed above not only allows us to reject the notion that gifts represent disinterested activity, but, upon analysis, requires that we recognize the calculative dimension of so-called noncommercial exchange. The extent to which the early medieval economy was monetized151 is immaterial to this understanding; Grierson’s argument that gifts (and theft) were the principal means by which precious goods were distributed still makes it easier to grasp, first, the reason why at least Muslim chronicles and treatises put so much emphasis on presents and, second, why, in both these and their Byzantine equivalents, gold and silver coin figures so often in accounts of such transfers. The prominence of specie underscores another reason why the Maussian account is less than useful as an analogy. In his interpretation, the reciprocal movement of objects made from shells was essentially a religious activity disguised as a seemingly economic operation.152 By contrast, the material worth of the wares, processed or unprocessed, that traveled in several directions among caliphs, emperors, and their immediate subalterns was clearly their primary aspect. This is manifest not only in the textiles that did duty for capital, as we have seen, but in contemporary readings of gifts the monetary value of which is reported, as in the case of Constantine IX’s present to al-Mustans.ir,153 even before its individual components are itemized. Whatever one’s stance toward the economy of our own time, it is evident from such appraisals that that of the medieval Islamic and Greek worlds was not differentiated by rejecting monetary value—Marx’s “radical leveler that . . . does away with all distinctions”—as the yardstick by which gifts were measured. Far from disavowing interest in the material worth of presents, claims that they were unprecedented or unique were 150 Bourdieu, Outline (as above, note 3), 171–72. I owe the term “calculative dimension” later in this sentence to A. Appadurai. 151 Grierson, “Commerce” (as above, note 30). Recent archaeological finds, and especially the evidence of coin hoards, suggest that this point of view requires qualification. This is not the place to discuss the issue at length, but attention must be paid to the work of T. S. Noonan, much of it conveniently assembled in his collection, The Islamic World, Russia and the Vikings 759–900 (Aldershot-Brookfield, Vt., 1998). A representative statement is his conclusion (first published in 1984 and repr. ibid., 152–53) that “the thousands and thousands of dirhams imported into Eastern and Northern Europe between the early ninth and early eleventh centuries were overwhelmingly the product of Eastern European trade.” For the North, see also the papers by W. Duczko and T. Talvio in Byzantium and Islam in Scandinavia. Acts of a Symposium at Uppsala University June 15–16, 1996, ed. E. Piltz (Jonsered, 1998), 77–84, 107–115; for western Europe, M. McCormick, Origins of the European Economy: Communications and Commerce, A.D. 300–900 (in press). The implications of such a revision are enormous, not least for cultural and art historians. Thus, e.g., the gold coins of Offa, king of Mercia (757–796), on which the only non-Arabizing forms are his name and title, and which have long been recognized as imitations of the
Abba¯sid dinar, may well have been struck as much for commercial as for political reasons. 152 The source of Mauss’s error is pointed out by M. Sahlins, “The Spirit of the Gift. Une explication de ´ changes et communications. Me´langes offerts `a Claude Le´vi-Strauss `a l’occasion de son 60e`me anniversaire, ed. texte,” in E J. Pouillon and P. Maranda (The Hague-Paris, 1970), 998–1012. 153 See note 63 above.

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clearly rhetorical devices designed to emphasize this very aspect of their nature. And if this emphasis is seen to impugn the supposedly “non-exploitative, innocent, and even transparent” 154 world of gift exchange, it does so only in the minds of those who have constructed an ideology of the gift in antithesis to that said to be characteristic of capitalism. The essential contrast here is not that between medieval and modern markets but that between the gift which, in modern as well as medieval times, momentarily pretends to ignore the scarcity, and therefore the value, of a good and the commercial transaction which frankly acknowledges these qualities. One importance of the Kita¯b al-Hada¯ya¯ and its like is that, for medieval as for modern readers, they pierce the veil of this pretense. In other words, they oblige us to recognize the economic role of diplomatic offerings and in so doing restore gifts to their place in economic history. It is this place that demands our attention if only because it both complements and departs from the most authoritative account of “outward” and “inward flows”—the pattern of payments and subsidies made by and to the Byzantine state.155 Michael Hendy observed the much smaller sums involved in such do¯ra in the middle and later periods, as against the era when, in the fifth and sixth centuries, the Byzantines had bought off the Huns, Persians, and Avars. The record of material gifts scarcely differs in this latter respect: before the tenth century, Maurice’s reign is one of the few times in which a consistent pattern of material offerings can be recognized unmistakably in the texts. Yet it is precisely in the light of the later decline in monetary transfers noted by Hendy that we can observe that if in terms of absolute value the worth of Byzantine gifts to Muslims was similarly reduced, their value relative to transfers as a whole greatly increased. Even if the presents of Romanos I and Constantine IX, richly documented in the Kita¯b alHada¯ya¯,156 are not entirely explicable as signs of political and military weakness, those of Romanos IV, Michael VIII, and Manuel II157 cannot be interpreted otherwise. Yet long before these clearly symptomatic gestures, the economic picture that I have tried to sketch is already complicated by the interpretations placed on presents in the sources. Clouding the view that the offer of a gift must be a mark of either superiority or feebleness is the diverse significance attached to such behavior by both Greeks and Muslims. The labeling of tribute as do¯ra, the subordination of the emperor implicit in al-Tabarı¯’s version of the workmen and materials sent to al-Walı¯d, the patrikios lured to Baghdad with presents, the overt contempt for Nogay expressed by Pachymeres, and other stories that we have considered all bespeak in their various ways the values added to the bestowal and reception of gifts. The antagonistic spirit of reports of this sort might be regarded as representative of the difference between “traditional” and “modern” economies where the rational operation of the latter is fondly supposed to preclude the attachment of values to acts of exchange and the commodities that these involve. But in a less idealized view both precapiI borrow the quotation and this part of my argument from M. Bloch and J. Parry, “Introduction: Money and the Morality of Exchange,” in Money and the Morality of Exchange, ed. J. Parry and M. Bloch (Cambridge, 1989), 1–32, esp. 7–9. They, in turn, acknowledge dependence on a review by M. Sahlins in American Anthropologist 64 (1962): 1068. 155 Hendy, Studies (as above, note 64), 257–79, with occasional reference to gifts (268–71). 156 See 245, 251, 259, 261 above. 157 See 257, 264, 266 above. 154

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talist and capitalist markets can be seen to display competitive instincts that are parallel if not directly akin. Moreover, since decisions to give and receive, if not the judgments visited upon these gifts, were made at the highest levels, it follows that neither the presents from and to caliphs and emperors, nor the rarity of the substances that these at once celebrated and purported to ignore, were determined by the entire societies over which they presided. Even if, as we have seen, the harvesting or manufacture of commodities could stimulate industries that supplied the court with luxuries,158 beyond the level of their production, golden couches, say, and rock-crystal ewers would have had little impact on the majority of people living at the subsistence level.159 Another way of looking at this division of interest within the societies with which we have been concerned is to express it in terms of “two related but separate transactional orders”:160 on the one hand, Muslim and Greek ´elites that concerned themselves with exchanges understood to reproduce the long-term political, social, and even cosmic order,161 ends ostensibly furthered by the conveyance of prestigious goods; on the other, their subject populations inhabiting an arena of short-term transactions characterized for the most part by individual acquisition.162 Both groups were engaged in competition, but, whereas for the second class this could be a condition of survival, for the first it was often laden, as we have seen, with ideological significance. To the extent that gifts of luxuries can be dissociated from commercial exchange—a distinction the absolute nature of which I have questioned above—they represent a source of information about the interpretation of economic and symbolic capital more eloquent than records of routine transactions in goods that were regarded as necessities, or at least as staples, in the medieval Mediterranean. This interpenetration comes about when, as in the case of lapis lazuli,163 goods are See 268–69 above. I know of no evidence that, unlike natural disasters such as famines and plagues, the gift-giving habits of the Byzantine administration affected the lives of the misthioi or dependent peasantry. The most likely beneficiaries of these practices would be the state or privately owned factories (on which see p. 266 above) accustomed to producing gifts. These would profit from what economists call “increasing returns to scale”: once the artisans and materials were in place, the marginal cost of production (i.e., the manufacture of subsequent versions in a series of luxury objects) would decline markedly. Unfortunately, as I point out in note 136, we know next to nothing of such workshops. 160 Bloch and Parry, “Introduction,” 24. 161 For the last dimension, beyond the purview of the present paper, see esp. Godelier, The Enigma of the Gift (as above, note 3). 162 A modern economist would put this differently, but to the same effect, with an appeal to the Engel curve, which demonstrates that the share of a household’s expenditure on necessities is inversely related to its income or some other measure of its total resources. On this, see M. Friedman, A Theory of the Consumption Function (Princeton, N.J., 1957). 163 In addition to the precious goods (fragrant woods, spices, textiles, etc.) discussed above, it is remarkable that lapis lazuli, mentioned rarely in the gift lists perhaps because of its rarity (but cf. Book of Gifts, 2 §1; 75, §29; and 234, §383) and prized in both Byzantium and Islam for the color that it lent to inscriptions, was available for purchase in both Tyre and Qayrawa¯n in the 11th century. The merchant who records this (see Goitein, Letters, 95, 111) reports that it “sells here well because only a little of it is on the market.” L. James, Light and Colour in Byzantine Art (Oxford, 1996), 30, suggests that in the classical era the only known source for lapis lazuli was Afghanistan. At least one Arab source, Abu ¯ Bakr, writing in 1068, reports that in the country of the Ketama, beyond Qayrawa¯n, lapis of excellent quality was to be found (as well as iron and copper mines). See W. McG. de Slane, “Description de l’Afrique septentrionale par el-Bekri,” JA (December 1858): 498. 158 159

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transformed into gifts or otherwise perceived as entities that signal their removal from an initial commercial state. This process became well understood in the last quarter of the twentieth century when formulated as the conversion of commodities into signs.164 But in the richly developed symbologies of medieval societies signs could also become commodities, particularly if we understand the term broadly enough to include religious objects used instrumentally in pursuit of political and economic ends.165 A classic Byzantine instance is the relic of the True Cross treasured in the Great Palace at the time of Alexios I Komnenos. This possession allowed him early in his reign to give a portion of it to Henry IV when he sought the western emperor’s alliance against the Normans. In 1097 Alexios made the leaders of the First Crusade swear upon the relic that they would cede to Byzantium the cities and strongholds that they took in the East. And seven years later he presented a large fragment to the Transfiguration monastery on Mount Sagmata in Boeotia,166 a gift that may signal recognition of the region’s renewed significance for the imperial fisc. No matter the manner in which the emperor obtained his piece of the precious wood, from the standpoint of economic anthropology such distributions represent “kingly monopolies,” in effect little different from the exclusivity that attached at various times to goods such as salt, gold, and barley.167 Yet it is much harder to plot the demand for relics and therefore more difficult to insert them into the struggle for commodities waged, according to one analysis, between, on the one hand, political ´elites that tended to be the guardians of restricted exchange and sumptuary barriers and, on the other, merchants who championed “free trade” and an unfettered equivalence with money. What is clear is that relics had emblematic as much as economic value. In a sense undreamt of by the anthropologist who applied the term generally to luxury goods, they were “incarnated signs.” 168 What we know of the circulation of relics does not upset Grierson’s view that gifts and loot were prime forms of transfer in the early Middle Ages.169 Indeed, the commutability of these categories and, by extension, their effective equivalence with objects of the trade in luxuries leaps from the sources, both Greek and Muslim, that devote much more space to plunder than they do to presents. Theophanes notes, for instance, the “great quantities of aloes and big pieces of aloes wood, each weighing over 70 or 80 lbs., much silk and pepper, more linen shirts than one could count, sugar, ginger, . . . silver, silken garments, woolen rugs, and woven carpets” seized by Herakleios’ troops at the royal Notably in the work of J. Baudrillard, Pour une critique de l’e´conomie politique du signe (Paris, 1972), trans. C. Levin, For a Critique of the Political Economy of the Sign (St. Louis, Mo., 1981). From the point of view of economic anthropology, a roughly analogous argument was offered by C. A. Gregory, Gifts and Commodities (London-New York, 1982) who, however, also recognized the transformation of gifts into commodities. 165 ¨per, “Christus-Reliquien-Verehrung” (both as See Geary, “Sacred Commodities” and esp. Schwineko above, note 23). 166 E. Voordeckers and L. Milis, “La Croix byzantine d’Eine,” Byzantion 39 (1969): 456–88, which focuses on Alexios’ gift to his daughter Maria of a particle of the cross now encased in a triptych at the collegial church of Eine in Flanders. For the growing importance of Boeotia, see A. Harvey, “Economic Expansion in Central Greece in the Eleventh Century,” BMGS 8 (1982–83): 21–28. For other gifts offered on this occasion and the sources, see 249 and notes 21 and 22 above. 167 Appadurai, “Introduction,” in The Social Life of Things (as above, note 23), 33. 168 Ibid., 38. 169 “Commerce in the Dark Ages” (as above, note 30). For the exceptions that prove the rule, see Geary, “Sacred Commodities,” 184–86. 164

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treasury of Dastagerd in 628.170 On the Muslim side Niz. am al-Mulk records the valuables stored at the Ka
ba when the Shiite rebel Abu ¯ Ta¯hir attempted to destroy it (A.H. 317/ A.D. 929–930): “It was impossible to estimate the amount of gold, dirams, dinars, fine linen, musk, aloes-wood, ambergris and other precious things which they took.” 171 Accustomed by now to hyperbole of this sort, the reader still cannot fail to notice the extent to which these goods coincide with the most prestigious items of Mediterranean commerce. The mechanisms of trade, loot, and gift-giving differed, but these passages, as well as many cited above, suggest that all three categories were forms of that exchange which, if one agrees with Simmel,172 is the source, not the consequence, of the value placed upon things. The roles that I have attributed to gifts tend to confirm this transference of economic responsibility from the things themselves to the fact of their circulation. Like goods in trade, gifts functioned as incentives to further consumption and thereby provoked production. They served a variety of ends—social, political, and ideological—and were therefore means to the attainment of objectives rather than objectives in themselves.173 Moreover, to reach these ends, the Greek and Muslim subjects of this study, like merchants, made rational calculations, including the selection of recipients, the value of the gifts sent, some anticipation as to the benefits that would accrue from this behavior, and even the decision to move things in and out of commerce.174 Donors chose to send one good rather than another, recipients to evaluate and then to consume it, to keep it for purposes of display, or to transfer it to a third party. In a word, they economized. Pennsylvania State University Chronographia (as above, note 28) 1:322, lines 1–8, trans. Mango and Scott, 451. Theophanes goes on to add that the Romans burned all these goods “on account of their weight” (dia` to` ba´ ro"). 171 Siyar al-Mulu ¯ k, trans. H. Dale as The Book of Government or Rules for Kings (New Haven, Conn., 1960), 235. 172 271, above. 173 The distinction is clearly drawn by M. Douglas and B. Isherwood, The World of Goods (New York, 1979), 71. 174 On this phenomenon in a broader context, see I. Kopytoff, “The Cultural Biography of Things: Commoditization as Process” in The Social Life of Things (as in note 23), 64–91. 170

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Constantius oJ Filokti´sth"? NICK HENCK

itruvius, in the preface to his work On Architecture which he dedicated to Augustus, wrote: “I observed that you cared not only about the common life of all men, and the constitution of the state, but also about the provision of suitable public buildings; so that the state was not only made greater through you by its new provinces, but the majesty of the empire also was expressed through the eminent dignity of its public buildings. . . . Furthermore, with respect to the future, you have such regard to public and private buildings, that they will correspond to the grandeur of our history, and will be a memorial to future ages.” 1 From this it is clear that some at least both viewed the emperor’s providing of public buildings to be every bit as virtuous as his care for his subjects and the constitution, and held that such works redounded to the majesty of the res publica. Moreover, no one who is acquainted with Paul Zanker’s work can be left in any doubt as to the numerous functions that Augustus’ immense building program fulfilled, both at Rome and in the provinces. Through these projects he displayed the traditional Roman virtues of pietas and benevolentia. This highly effective means of propaganda was not surprisingly adopted by the remainder of Julio-Claudian emperors, continued by the Flavian dynasty, and perpetuated by subsequent emperors. In a like manner, the fourth century witnessed a succession of “builder emperors”; Milan was embellished by Maximian, Thessalonike by Galerius, Nikomedeia by Diocletian, Trier and later Byzantium by Constantine, and Antioch by Valens. Indeed, John Malalas applies the adjective filokti´sth" to both Diocletian and Valens, thus demonstrating that at least by his day—he was writing in the last quarter of the sixth century— these emperors had earned a reputation as “lovers of building.” However, another emperor’s name deserves to be added to this list, that of Constantius II (337–361). The extent to which Constantius has been deprived of the treatment and credit due to him is nowhere more apparent than in this context.2 His passion for building, and his conse-

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This paper originally took the form of a chapter in my D.Phil. thesis, “Images of Constantius II: OJ filanqrwpo" basileu´ " and Imperial Propaganda in the Mid-Fourth Century A.D.” (Oxford, 1998); I am therefore indebted to my supervisors, Barbara Levick and Roger Tomlin, my external examiners, E. D. Hunt and E. M. Jeffreys, and also Terry Brown, J. F. Drinkwater, Wolf Liebeschuetz, Neil McLynn, and Cyril Mango, all of whom read and commented on the original. I am also grateful to my two anonymous referees at DOP for their suggestions. 1 The translation is that of F. Granger, Vitruvius: On Building, 2 vols. (Cambridge, Mass., 1931). 2 All too often the 4th century has been portrayed as a period largely devoid of imperial building. See, e.g., R. MacMullen, “Roman Imperial Building in the Provinces,” HSCPh 64 (1959): 207–35, esp. 232 n. 85:

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quent extensive building activities, have received no treatment in major modern works, though there is extensive evidence for it: Constantius II, it will be shown, is every bit as deserving of the epithet filokti´sth" as Diocletian and Valens. Testimony to Constantius’ interest in monumental architecture can be found in Ammianus’ description of the emperor’s visit to Rome in 357: “But when he [Constantius] came to the Forum of Trajan, a construction unique under the heavens, as we believe, and admirable even in the unanimous opinion of the gods, he stood fast in amazement, turning his attention to the gigantic complex about him, beggaring description and never again to be imitated by mortal men. Therefore abandoning all hope of attempting anything like it, he said he would and could copy Trajan’s steed alone, which stands in the centre of the vestibule, carrying the emperor himself.” 3 Clearly, Constantius both appreciated and was inclined to emulate the building feats of his predecessors in imperial office. In this instance, however, Prince Ormisda dissuaded Constantius even from undertaking the copying of Trajan’s mount. There are, it is true, great numbers of inscriptions from Rome ostensibly attesting to considerable building activity undertaken by Constantius in the capital.4 However, these are misleading since it is evident from the Theodosian Code that the emperor’s name was associated with all building work carried out during his reign regardless of whether or not he was in any way connected with it.5 (Moreover, Roman emperors, and particularly those of late antiquity, typically claimed by means of inscriptions the credit for constructing buildings that they had in fact merely renovated.) What is interesting about Constantius, as we shall witness below, is that the vast majority of the major works undertaken during his reign were built while the emperor was present at the location, or were at the very least dedicated/consecrated in his presence. Thus the distinction between buildings/monuments that were erected by an emperor and those that were merely erected under an emperor (i.e., during his rule) proves rather unimportant to Constantius’ reign. One does not need to credit Constantius with the building of a monument simply on the grounds that he remitted a city’s taxes to enable the town’s curia to afford such an enterprise, or because he channeled revenue from taxation that was originally earmarked for the imperial treasury back into local building projects; his was a far more direct patronage. “But Diocletian, Constantine and Valentinian are the only major exceptions to a general stagnation stretching on from the Severi.” For an even bleaker perspective, see S. Mitchell, “Imperial Building in the Eastern Roman Provinces,” HSCPh 91 (1987): 234–365, esp. 365: “The decline of imperial building in the provinces, noticeable with the death of Hadrian, and leading to an almost total cessation after Marcus Aurelius, may in fact be one of the clearest indications of the transformation of the empire, which was in progress even before the beginning of the third century.” Of course, the apparent concentration of imperial building almost solely in the major metropoleis may be held responsible for giving an impression of overall decline in building in the provinces. However, this apparent concentration may well be a distortion arising from the geographical bias of our literary evidence: most of our authors were writing in major metropoleis, e.g., Ammianus in Rome, Libanios and Malalas in Antioch, and the Chronicon Paschale in Constantinople. 3 Ammianus, 10.16. All 16 translations of Ammianus are those of J. C. Rolfe, Ammianus Marcellinus, 3 vols. (Cambridge, Mass., 1935). 4 See CIL, vol. 6, for examples too numerous to list here. 5 CTh 15.1.31: “If any judges should inscribe their own names, rather than the name of Our Eternity, on any completed public work, they shall be held guilty of high treason.” See also Y. Janvier, La le´gislation du Bas-Empire romain sur les ´edifices publics (Aix-en-Provence, 1969).

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Constantius’ sojourn at Rome was limited to just thirty days,6 giving him little opportunity to contribute personally to the embellishment of the Eternal City. We know, however, that Constantius was responsible for the erection of an Egyptian obelisk “on the barrier of the Circus Maximus.” 7 This obelisk, from the Temple of Ammon in Thebes,8 was one of a pair taken by Constantine and shipped downriver to Alexandria.9 There the obelisk halted, its journey curtailed by the death of the emperor in 337.10 The monument remained in Alexandria for twenty years,11 until Constantius decided to ship it to Rome to adorn the Circus Maximus. Ammianus attributes Constantius’ erection of this obelisk at Rome to vanitas: an attempt, encouraged by his sycophants, to outdo Augustus, who, while bringing two Heliopolitan obelisks to Rome,12 left this one alone, being “overawed by the difficulties caused by its size.” 13 Ammianus is perhaps correct here, although his sneering at what was in fact a traditional and often lauded trait of Roman emperors—their striving to exceed the accomplishments of their imperial predecessors—reveals his prejudice. On the other hand, it is not impossible that Constantius’ main motive for the setting up of this obelisk derived not from vanitas but from pietas.14 We know that Constantine had intended to consecrate this monument either at Rome (according to Ammianus)15 or at Constantinople (according to the inscription Constantius had inscribed on the monolith’s base),16 and it is far from implausible that Constantius, in this instance also, was as determined as ever to ensure the completion of his father’s plans.17 Nor ought we to dismiss political Ammianus, 16.10.20. S. Guberti Bassett, “The Antiquities in the Hippodrome of Constantinople,” DOP 45 (1991): 87–96, esp. 93. Constantius was at Rome from 28 April to 29 May. This would just about have been enough time to erect such a monolith, given that an inscription on the obelisk erected by Theodosios in 390 informs us that it had taken just thirty days (“ter denis . . . diebus”) to set up. 8 This was the seventh (and final) of Tuthmosis III’s Karnak obelisks. It was raised in the first half of the 15th century B.C. by Tuthmosis IV, the grandson of Tuthmosis III, the latter having died before he could have it erected. 9 Ammianus, 17.4.13. See also Guberti Bassett, “Antiquities,” 94. 10 Ammianus, 16.4.14: “After these provisions, the aforesaid emperor departed this life and the urgency of the enterprise waned, but at last the obelisk was loaded on the ship, after long delay, and brought over the sea and up the channel of the Tiber.” 11 Interestingly enough, the obelisk had originally had to lie on the ground for thirty-five years before being erected by Tuthmosis IV. 12 He erected one in the Circus Maximus, the other in the Campus Martius. 13 Ammianus, 17.4.13. 14 This represents yet another example of Ammianus’ (often subtle) denigration of Constantius. Here he takes a positive motive (i.e., pietas) and portrays it as a far from noble driving force (i.e., vanitas). 15 Ammianus (17.4.13) at least knew of Constantine’s intention. See also Constantius’ inscription on the obelisk’s base (quoted below, note 16). 16 It reads: “hoc decus ornatum genitor cognominis urbis esse volens caesa thebis de rupe revellit,” (“Constantine’s wish was that it should stand in the town known to the world as his namesake; so, with that aim, it was torn from its rock at the temple of Thebai”). See E. Iversen, Obelisks in Exile, 2 vols. (Copenhagen, 1968), 1:57–58, for the text and a translation of the entire inscription. 17 Two possibilities exist concerning the confusion over where Constantine intended to place this monolith, Rome or Constantinople: (1) Ammianus was mistaken, or, more likely, wrote that Constantine had intended to bestow the monolith upon Rome in order to steal Constantius’ thunder so to speak, as S. Mazzarino, Aspetti sociali del quarto secolo: Ricerche di storia tardo-romano (Rome, 1951), 125–26, would have it; (2) Constantius, by informing the Roman populace that he was now making them a gift which his father had intended for Constantinople, sought “to fudge his predecessor’s intentions, so as to present his own benefaction in a more 6 7

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motives, which certainly played a part in the timing of the erection. Indeed, Cyril Mango suggests that Constantius “was anxious to add a further note of theatricality to his triumphal visit to Rome.” 18 By adorning the Circus at Rome in this way Constantius was both reassuring the city of the high esteem in which he held it and providing a monument to himself that would be viewed by a considerable percentage of the citizenry on a regular basis. Indeed, J. Humphrey, noting the exact location of the obelisk (i.e., “very close to the precise centre of the Circus as a whole” 19) and its sheer size (“it was the largest of all the Egyptian obelisks” 20), concluded that it “would have made an enormous impression upon the citizens of Rome.” 21 The fact that first Constantine, and then Constantius, had concentrated so much of their time, wealth, and resources on the creation and embellishment of a Nova Roma; that Constans had largely neglected Rome, preferring instead to spend his time and resources on Milan; and that Magnentius’ troops had briefly entered the city in order to murder Nepotianus, Constantius’ kinsman, there, all would have left the Romans feeling acutely in need of the reassurance of imperial favor. The addition of a second obelisk to the Circus Maximus not only confirmed Rome’s uniqueness, since no other city in the empire enjoyed a circus possessed of two obelisks,22 but also showed the populace that despite the no doubt bloody reprisals that Constantius inflicted upon supporters of Magnentius’ regime there,23 they still commanded his favor. Moreover, Constantius had inscribed on the obelisk’s base that Constantine had intended the monolith for Constantinople,24 whereas he had now had it redirected for the pleasure of the people of Rome. In addition, the Roman people would be left with a permanent reminder of his favor and majesty, which would remain with them in the years to come when Constantius would be far away in the East and another pretender to the purple might arise in the West. This was the message implicit in the erection of this monolith. However, in case the sentiment expressed proved too subtle for some, Constantius made it explicit in the final two (of four) inscriptions he had carved on each side of the obelisk’s pediment. Interea Roman ta[et]ro vastante tyrrano Augusti iacuit donum studiumque locandi non fastu spreti sed quod non cederet ullus tantae molis opus superas consugere in auras favourable light,” according to G. Fowden, “Nicagoras of Athens and the Lateran Obelisk,” JHS 107 (1987): 51–57, esp. 54. 18 “The Columns of Justinian and His Successors,” in C. Mango, Studies on Constantinople (Aldershot, 1993), no. X, 1–20, esp. 19. 19 J. Humphrey, Roman Circuses: Arenas for Chariot Racing (London, 1986), 288. Similarly, Iversen, Obelisks, 1:60: “Constantius had raised it in the middle of the arena directly opposite the imperial box, the pulvinar.” 20 Humphrey, Roman Circuses, 287. Today it weighs 455 tons and stands to a height of 32.15 m, but originally it would have been about a meter taller, a piece having been removed at the time of its reerection in 1586. 21 Ibid., 288. Cassiodorus, writing in the 6th century, was clearly impressed by both of Rome’s obelisks, which he tells us were “raised to the heights of heaven” (Variae, 3.51.8; PL 69.501–880, Eng. trans. S. J. B. Barnish, Cassiodorus: Variae [Liverpool, 1992]). 22 Guberti Bassett, “Antiquities,” 93: “while other circuses may have had a single obelisk, only Rome was distinguished by two: the Heliopolitan Obelisk donated by Augustus and the Theban Obelisk erected by Constantius.” 23 See Ammianus, 14.5.1 ff, although allowance must be made for exaggeration on the author’s part. 24 See above, note 16.

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Nunc veluti rursus ruf[is] avulsa metallis emicuit pulsatque polos haec gloria dudum auctori servata suo cu[m c]aede tyranni redditur atque aditu Ro[mae vi]rtute reperto victor ovans urbiq[ue locat sublim]e tropaeum principis et munus cond[ignis us]que triumfis.25 Meanwhile, when Roma was raped by the vilest of Tyrants Long lay the gift in its dock-yard, deserted but never disdained, Nobody dared to believe that this gift of the glorious God could Ever be raised among mortals again, and as promised, once more Vie with the heaven in purple and gold as it used to. But, Lo! After the swift and inglorious death of the tyrant Soon it returned to the master to whom it by justice belonged Pure and sublime as when first made to rise from its rose-coloured rock-bed, Proud to point at the pole star; and the victorious hero Opened its way unto Rome where he raised it again as a trophy Never surpassed, and truly the tribute was worthy his triumph.

Finally, G. Fowden suggests a further motive behind Constantius’ choice of gift to the people of Rome. He emphasizes the pagan nature of the obelisk, noting that its purpose might have been to ensure the continued loyalty of those pagan senators whom he had perhaps just alienated by his removal of the Altar of Victory from the Senate house.26 Alternatively, Caroline and Oliver Nicholson have suggested that the obelisk may have had “Christian associations” and therefore its erection need not be viewed as a sop to the pagan senatorial ´elite of Rome at all.27 In addition to the Egyptian obelisk, there are other building projects in the capital that we can attribute to Constantius with reasonable security. R. Krautheimer, for example, has demonstrated that the apse mosaic at St. Peter’s was the work of Constantius.28 Moreover, evidence exists to suggest that Constantius built the mausoleum of Santa Constanza: it too, like the apse of St. Peter’s, was decorated with a mosaic depicting the traditio legis.29 This structure, described by one modern scholar as “the pre-eminent extant exCIL 6.1:1163; H. Dessau, ILS 736; trans. Iversen, Obelisks, 59. G. Fowden, “Nicagoras of Athens and the Lateran Obelisk,” JHS 107 (1987): 51–57, esp. 54–55. On the removal of the Altar of Victory, Ambrose, Epistula 18.32; PL 16, 1321–42. 27 “C. and O. Nicholson, Lactantius, Hermes Trismegistus and Constantinian Obelisks,” JHS 109 (1989): 198–200, esp. 200. 28 R. Krautheimer, “A Note on the Inscription in the Apse of Old St. Peter’s,” DOP 41 (1987): 317–20. 29 For the similarities between these two mosaics, see Krautheimer, “Note,” 318. 25 26

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ample of an Imperial Roman/Early Christian mausoleum,” 30 has recently been attributed to Constantius by W. Eugene Kleinbauer.31 It is also possible that a good many of the building works attributed to Constantine by our major sources were in fact the work of Constantius. Several factors may have led to various constructions being dubbed Constantinian as opposed to Constantian. For example, orthodox ecclesiastical writers may have preferred to attribute a work to an emperor they perceived as orthodox (i.e., Constantine) rather than one they deemed to be Arian (i.e., Constantius), while R. Davis has noted that the manuscript tradition of the Liber Pontificalis, our Hauptquelle for imperial building benefactions in Rome, frequently confuses the names of Constantine and his sons.32 Ammianus’ depiction of Constantius’ visit to Rome reveals that emperor’s positive attitude toward imperial monuments. However, one must turn to the eastern capital in order to see what could result from this attitude when Constantius had more than thirty days at his disposal. For at Constantinople this passion was combined with a profound sense of pietas, the result being an extensive building program that saw Constantius not only completing those works his father had initiated but adding others of his own. Indeed, as one contemporary puts it: “You [i.e., Constantius] did not merely guard unharmed your father’s sacred trust, but you made it manifold and increased it, nor did you merely assent to possess the things which came from him, but you added many things of your own, and you struggled emulously in this fair contest, with the founder, as to which of you should outrun the other in benefactions.” 33 Regrettably, it is almost impossible to isolate and identify precisely what form these numerous benefactions took. Constantius’ building projects in Constantinople, as in Rome, are frequently lumped together and generalized by our sources, receiving no individual treatment. The result is that it is difficult for modern scholars to re-create the general impression of Constantius’ considerable embellishment of both the imperial palace34 and the city as a whole (through statues, porticoes, colonnades, fountains, and fa¸cades)35 that must have confronted contemporaries. Other factors also make an assessment of Constantius’ building program in Constantinople problematic. For example, in the case of the Horrea Constantiaca, there exists no evidence, other than its name, to suggest that this harbor facility was built by Constantius.36 Furthermore, certain works are deliberately attributed to other emperors beD. J. Stanley, “New Discoveries at Santa Constanza,” DOP 48 (1994): 257–61, esp. 257. “The Anastasis Rotunda and Christian Architectural Invention,” Journal of the Centre for Jewish Art 23/24 (1988): 140–46, who asks, “did Constantius, who had recently transferred his principal residence from Antioch to Milan, arrange for the transport of the body of his oldest sister from Bithynia to Rome, and did he direct the replacement of the small triconch alongside S. Agnese with the present mausoleum as a sepulchre more befitting her?” (143). 32 R. Davis, The Book of the Pontiffs (Liverpool, 1989), xx. 33 Themistios, Oratio 3.47b, G. Downey and A. F. Norman, eds., Themistii Orationes, 3 vols. (Leipzig, 1965–74). 34 On Constantius’ embellishment of the palace at Constantinople, see C. Mango, The Brazen House (Copenhagen, 1959), 22, esp. n. 7. 35 See G. Dagron, Naissance d’une capitale (Paris, 1974), 89: “il est certain que Constance comple´ta et acheva le de´cor de la cite´ mis en place par son pe`re: murs d’enceinte, portiques, fontaines”; and A. Piganiol, l’empire chre´tien, 2d ed. (Paris, 1972), 116–17. 36 See C. Mango, “The Development of Constantinople as an Urban Centre,” in The 17th International Byzantine Congress, Major Papers (New York, 1986), 117–36, esp. 121. 30 31

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cause of the religious prejudices of our sources. For instance, the orthodox Christian sources attribute nearly all of Constantinople’s early churches to Constantine, hence the conflicting accounts found in the literary evidence concerning the construction of the church of the Holy Apostles which have resulted in much modern debate as to whether it was Constantine, Constantius, or both, who built this church.37 Similarly, our pagan sources prefer to allot certain Constantinopolitan constructions to Julian. Most notable among these are a harbor and curved stoa leading to it, both of which Zosimos attributes to Julian,38 but which, given the length of his reign and his single, extremely brief stay in the city,39 perhaps ought to be assigned on grounds of probability to the twenty-fouryear reign of Constantius. There are, of course, other problems facing those seeking certainty as to the “authorship” of a particular construction. For example, even when our sources single out a specific building project, the archaeological40 methods at our disposal are often of little or no avail when it comes to identifying whether a building or monument was erected by Constantine or was the work of his son and successor. Needless to say, the question of what proportion of a work was initiated by Constantine and what proportion was continued and completed by Constantius proves even more problematic. Finally, again as with the case of Rome, scrutiny of the manuscript tradition of the literary evidence shows the Greek sources to be no more reliable in distinguishing between Constantine and his sons palaeographically. This having been said, let us begin by looking at those specific secular works claimed by our sources to have been undertaken by Constantius. These, unlike Constantinople’s ecclesiastical buildings, are comparatively easy to identify as having been the work of that particular emperor. The sole references to these are found in three works that seldom receive the attention they deserve: the Chronicon Paschale, Themistios’ Orations 3 and 4, and Julian’s first panegyric on Constantius. The first informs us that during the consulship of Amantius and Albinus (345) “the building of the Thermae Constantianae in Constantinople near the Apostles was begun by Constantius, from day 17 of the month of April.” (In the event, these baths, southeast of the church of the Holy Apostles, were not completed until the reign of Theodosios II,41 at which point they were renamed the Theodosianae.42) Themistios both corroborates what the Chronicon Paschale tells us about the Thermae Constantianae and informs us of other building projects undertaken by Constantius: “Thus it is right that while tripling his realm he [Constantius] increases the See below, pp. 287 ff. Zosimos, Historia nova, ed. L. Mendelssohn (Leipzig, 1887), 3.11.3. Zosimos’ work is perhaps better described as pagan hagiography rather than history, which leads him to deny the Constantinian dynasty any responsibility for prestigious building projects in the eastern capital; the credit for them is instead transferred to Julian the Apostate. Hence Zosimos also attributes the Constantinopolitan library to Julian, despite the explicit testimony of a contemporary which credits Constantius with building it (see below, pp. 284 f). 39 Julian wintered at Constantinople in 361/62 while passing through on his way to Antioch. 40 The excavation of modern Istanbul is almost impossible given its massive population and the extent to which it is built up. Moreover, modern religious sensibilities require bearing in mind; the site of the Holy Apostles, for example, is currently occupied by the Fatih Camii, making excavation an impossibility. 41 3 October 427, to be precise. 42 Chronicon Paschale, ed. L. Dindorf, 2 vols, CSHB 1832; Eng. trans. M. and M. Whitby, Chronicon Paschale 284–628 A.D. (Liverpool, 1989), s.a. 427. 37 38

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City which is of the same age as his imperial power, not extending the circuit wall, but contriving to add something to the City’s beauty, both seeking more abundant springs of water, and building baths which bear his name (whose size you can now see,43 while it is expected that their beauty will match their size) and encircling the City with a covered colonnade like a luxurious girdle, and creating the royal market place like a headdress woven of gold and ornamental strips.” 44 A little later, in the same oration, Themistios adds that Constantius also founded a public library at the eastern capital.45 As G. Dagron suggests, he perhaps built this at the time he was establishing Constantinople’s imperial scriptorium.46 Moreover, Constantius appointed an overseer to ensure the copying of precious manuscripts.47 Unfortunately, the details surrounding Constantius’ provisions for this Constantinopolitan library remain sketchy, and H.-G. Beck is surely correct to add a note of caution in asking “whether the activity of the scriptorium was as expansive as Themistius tries to insinuate” and whether “it was a public library or only a treasury of books, where now and then an emperor could enter and feel bookish.” 48 Finally, Julian, in his first panegyric to the emperor, writes: “As to your benefactions to the city of your ancestors [i.e., Constantinople], you built round it a wall that was then only begun, and all buildings that seemed to be unsound you restored and made safe for all time.” 49 Julian’s assertion that part of Constantius’ energies had to be spent reconstructing certain buildings is supported by Zosimos’ statement that “some [structures] he [Constantine] built were shortly after pulled down, being unsafe owing to their hasty construction.” 50 In addition to the buildings mentioned above, it is evident that Constantius adorned the city with statues. (This penchant for statues he evidently inherited from his father, who, we are told, had erected “a great statue of himself with rays of light on his head, a work in bronze which he had brought from Phrygia,” 51 a pair of statues representing the Dioscuri,52 a statue of “Rhea, mother of the gods, and . . . of Fortuna Romae,” 53 and numerous other unspecified pieces.54) In particular, both these emperors, and some of their successors, made significant contributions to the Hippodrome’s statuary.55 Nor were the 43 The foundations of these baths must already have been laid at the time this oration was delivered (probably on 1 January 357) if the size of them could be seen. 44 Or. 4.58b–c. The translation is that of J. Vanderspoel, Themistius and the Imperial Court (Michigan, 1995), 79. 45 Or. 4.59d–61d. In addition, see J. Vanderspoel, “The ‘Themistius Collection’ of Commentaries on Plato and Aristotle,” Phoenix 43 (1989): 162–64. 46 Dagron, Naissance d’une capitale, 89. 47 Themistios, Or. 4.60a: kai` ta´ ttei me` n a“rconta ejpi` tv' e“rgv. 48 “Constantinople: The Rise of a New Capital in the East,” in Age of Spirituality: A Symposium, ed. K. Weitzmann (New York, 1980), 29–37, at 33 and 34 respectively. 49 Or. 1.41a. 50 Zosimos, 2.32. 51 Chron. Pasch. s.a. 328. 52 Zosimos, 2.31.1. 53 Zosimos, 2.31.2. 54 Chron. Pasch. s.a. 328; John Malalas, Chronographia, ed. L. Dindorf, CSHB (1831); Eng. trans. E. Jeffreys, The Chronicle of John Malalas, Byzantina Australiensa 4 (Melbourne, 1986), 13.8. See also C. Mango, “Antique Statuary and the Byzantine Beholder,” DOP 17 (1958): 55–75. 55 See Guberti Bassett, “Antiquities,” 88: “In addition to completing the Hippodrome’s structure, Constantine initiated the first systematic ornamentation of the site. This project appears to have been incomplete

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statues in question simply commissioned indiscriminately by Constantine and Constantius from local artisans. Instead, they were imported from Rome and were the works of the great sculptors of antiquity.56 Previously they had adorned the Circus Maximus and other highly significant locations; now they decorated places of corresponding importance at the eastern capital. As well as providing Constantinople with the splendor necessary to surpass that of any other city of the Greek East,57 its embellishment with these objets d’art was motivated by political considerations. The Chronicon Paschale leaves its readers in no doubt that Constantine had modeled the Hippodrome of his New Rome on that of the Old Rome’s Circus Maximus: “he [Constantine] also completed the Hippodrome, adorning it with works of bronze and with every excellence, and made in it a box for imperial viewing in the likeness of the one which is in Rome.” 58 Thus S. Guberti Bassett, after acknowledging that “one of the very basic aims in the requisitioning of statuary must have been to make the place look like its Roman prototype,” concludes that “by using ancient monuments as decoration, the Hippodrome acquired a patina of age and respectability that an essentially fourth-century (i.e., modern) building would have lacked.” 59 Later she adds, “no other Circus in the Roman world incorporated so many images of Rome with such consistency as to proclaim itself unequivocally a New Rome.” 60 Constantius also clearly appreciated the importance of statuary. He, like his father,61 removed great works of art from other cities in the East, embellishing Constantinople with them. For example, the (admittedly rather unreliable) Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai states that Constantius brought statues of Perseus and Andromeda to Constantinople from Iconium. These statues he had erected ejn tv' Kwnstantianai'" loutrv'.62 It also appears that Constantius may have continued his father’s practice of adorning Nova Roma with works from its elder sister, since it was possibly (even probably) he who removed the colossal bronze of Herakles,63 attributed to Lysippos of Sikyon (4th century B.C.), from the Capitol to Constantinople. It had previously adorned the acropolis of Tarentum, but was removed to Rome in 209 B.C. when the city was recaptured by the Romans following at his death, and the decoration of the arena was carried on by subsequent emperors, among them Constantius, Theodosius I, Arcadius, and Theodosius II.” For the evidence concerning Constantinopolitan statuary, see Averil Cameron and J. Herrin, eds., Constantinople in the Early Eighth Century: Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai (Leiden, 1984), text and commentary. 56 For example, the statue of Herakles by Lysippos of Sikyon (see below). 57 That Constantine was acutely aware of the competition provided by other older and more decorated cities in the East is demonstrated by the numerous complaints of pagan writers that he stripped these cities and in particular their temples of their objets d’art in order to embellish Constantinople. See Eunapios, Vitae Sophistarum, Eng. trans. W. C. Wright in Philostratus and Eunapius: The Lives of the Sophists, Loeb Classical Library (LCL) (London, 1922), 462; Libanios, Libanios Opera, ed. R. Foerster (Leipzig, 1921), Or. 1.202, 30.37, 70.4 Ep. 252; Julian, Eng. trans. W. C. Wright in The Works of the Emperor Julian, 3 vols. LCL (London, 1913–1923), Or. 1.41a; and Claudius, Claudian, 2 vols. Eng. trans. M. Platnauer, LCL (New York, 1922), Bell. Gild. 1.58 f. 58 S.a. 328, trans. M. and M. Whitby, Chronicon Paschale 284–628 A.D. (Liverpool, 1989). 59 Guberti Bassett, “Antiquities,” 93. 60 Ibid., 95, adding that “while obelisks and imperial statuary existed in other circuses, the presence of uniquely Roman monuments was unknown elsewhere.” 61 See Zosimos, 5.25.6 for some of the art treasures Constantine had removed from other eastern cities, e.g., the statues of Zeus from Dodona and Athena from Lindos. 62 Scriptores Originum Constantinopolitanarum, ed. T. Preger (Leipzig, 1901–7), p. 73, chap. 85. 63 The statue depicted Herakles sitting down resting after having cleaned the Augean stables.

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its defection to Hannibal. The work must have been singularly impressive to have been deemed worthy of occupying two such prestigious locations within two such prestigious cities as these. Although it cannot be shown beyond doubt that Constantius was responsible for this statue’s removal, the Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai relates how it was brought to Constantinople from Rome in the consulship of Julian.64 According to R. S. Bagnall and Alan Cameron,65 the consulship was held by a Julian only six times in late antiquity, three of them during Constantius’ reign. The first of these occurred in 322 when Anicius Julianus was consul in the West. However, since this predates the foundation of Constantinople by two years, it can be rejected. The next consulship is that of Julius Ionius Julianus in 325. This is the date that Guberti Bassett prefers66 (although she ignores the possibly pertinent fact that Constantinople had not even been dedicated by 325). Then occur the consulships of the Caesar Julian in 356, 357, and 360, which Guberti Bassett rejects as “unlikely” since Julian was a pagan and therefore would not have had the statue removed from Rome.67 Guberti Bassett, however, clearly misunderstands the nature of Julian’s position at this time if she thinks that he could have disobeyed an order from Constantius to send the work to Constantinople,68 an order the emperor may have issued in 357 or (even 360) after having no doubt seen the statue during his visit to Rome. Julian’s consulship while augustus in 363 provides the last possible consular date. However, I agree with Guberti Bassett that in 363 Julian would probably not have removed the statue from Rome. The date of the removal of this statue, then, can be chosen more plausibly from the years 325, 356, 357, and 360, with the last three dates occurring during Constantius’ rule. Although all of these dates are possible, their distribution suggests that the removal of the statue is more likely to have occurred under Constantius. I offer the suggestion, therefore, that Constantius saw the statue while in Rome in 357 and thought it so impressive as to have it removed the same year to adorn Constantinople. Finally, with regard to Constantius’ secular building program at the eastern capital, it is evident from Julian’s Letter to the Alexandrians that Constantius had intended to provide the city with an obelisk: “I am informed that there is in your neighbourhood a granite obelisk which, when it stood erect, reached a considerable height, but has been thrown down and lies on the beach as though it were something entirely worthless. For this obelisk Constantius of blessed memory had a freight-boat built, because he intended to convey it to my native place, Constantinople. But since by the will of heaven he departed from this life to the next on that journey to which we are fated, the city claims the monument from me because it is the place of my birth and more closely connected with me than with the late emperor. For though he loved the place as a sister, I love it as my mother.” 69 Julian does not say who had removed the monolith to Alexandria (from its original location at Thebes). However, he appears to imply that Constantius was responsible solely for the preparations to ship the monument from Alexandria to ConstantiChap. 37. It must be emphasized, however, that the Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai is a rather unreliable work. 65 Consuls of the Later Roman Empire (Atlanta, Ga., 1987), 178, 246–49, 254–55. 66 Guberti Bassett, “Antiquities,” 90 n. 35. 67 Ibid. 68 Julian had no authority in Rome until late 361. 69 Ep. 48. All translations of Julian’s works are by W. C. Wright, Julian, 3 vols. (Cambridge, Mass., 1923). The obelisk referred to originally honored Tuthmosis III. 64

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nople, in which case one of Constantius’ predecessors must have brought the obelisk down the Nile. A likely candidate would be Constantine, whom we know from Ammianus70 to have moved at least one obelisk from Thebes to Alexandria. With regard to Constantius, J. Humphrey plausibly suggests that “having raised an obelisk in the circus of the ancient city, Constantius had intended, as a parallel gesture, to erect a corresponding monument in the new capital of the empire.” 71 E. Iversen goes one step further, arguing that the Constantinopolitan monolith, like its Roman counterpart, was intended by Constantius as a triumphal monument celebrating his victory over Magnentius.72 In any event, the obelisk was finally erected in 390, when Theodosios had it set up in the Hippodrome.73 I now turn to Constantius’ contribution to ecclesiastical building in the eastern capital. Regrettably, the lack of any original remains has meant that archaeologists and students of ancient architecture are unable to distinguish between those buildings constructed by Constantine and those that were the work of his son. This is especially unfortunate since the literary evidence is often confused on these matters. We possess references to only two churches having been built in Constantinople by Constantius— the church of the Holy Apostles and St. Sophia—and both of these are attributed to Constantine by other ancient writers. Concerning the church of the Holy Apostles, Eusebios of Caesarea,74 Paulinus of Nola,75 Socrates,76 Sozomen,77 and a host of much later Byzantine chroniclers78 attribute its construction to Constantine. However, Philostorgios,79 Prokopios,80 Constantine of Rhodes,81 Nicholas Mesarites,82 Symeon Metaphrastes,83 and the Synaxarion of Constantinople84 all state that Constantius erected the church. The problem is compounded by mention of Constantine’s mausoleum which appears to have comprised part of the Ammianus, 17.4.13. Roman Circuses, 11. 72 Obelisks, 2:12–13. 73 Marcellinus Comes, under the third indiction, consulship of Valentinian Augustus (4th) and Neotenius. See B. Croke, The Chronicle of Marcellinus (Sydney, 1995), 4, 61. See also R. Janin, Constantinople byzantine: De´veloppement urbain et re´pertoire topographique (Paris, 1964), 189–91; S. Rebenich, “Zum Theodosiusobelisken in Konstantinopel,” IstMitt 41 (1991): 447–76. 74 Vita Constantini, ed. F. Winkelmann, GCS (Berlin, 1975), 4.58–60, 70–71. 75 Carmina 19.329–42, in CSEL 30, p. 130. 76 Socrates, 1.16. 77 Sozomen, 2.34. 78 Most notably Theophanes, A.M. 5816, vol. 1, p. 23, 30 ff, ed. C. De Boor; George the Monk, Georgius Monarchus: Chronicon, ed. C. de Boor, rev. P. Wirth (Stuttgart, 1978), p. 501, 2–4, ed. De Boor; Leo the Grammarian, Chronographia CSHB (Bonn, 1842), pp. 87, 19–21, and 89, 2–7, Bonn ed. and others. See G. Downey, “The Builder of the Original Church of the Apostles at Constantinople,” DOP 6 (1951): 53–80, for a complete list of these other authors, many of whom simply copied the works of their predecessors listed above. 79 Philostorgios, Historia Ecclesiastica, ed. J. Bidez, rev. J. Winkelman, GCS (Stuttgart, 1972), 3.2. See also Artemii passio, ed. P. B. Kotter, Die Schriften des Johannes von Damaskos, vol. 5 (Berlin, 1988), 185–245 (18) and Zonaras, Annales, ed. M. Pinder et al., 3 vols., CSHB (Bonn, 1841–1897) (13.4.28), both of whom in all probability were drawing on Philostorgios here. 80 De Aedificiis, Procopius, Eng. trans. H. B. Dewing, 7 vols., LCL (London, 1954), 1.4.19. 81 In his description of the Wonders of Constantinople, line 477 (which appears on fol. 143v of the unique manuscript of Constantine). 82 Text and translation in G. Downey, TAPS, n.s., 47 (1957): 859–924. 83 Martyrium S. Artemii, 8, PG 115:1169; Vita S. Timothei, 3, 11–12, PG 114:772 B–C. 84 Synaxarium CP, 22 January, p. 412, 16–33. 70 71

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church of the Holy Apostles. Again, two rival source traditions arose, with some authors attributing its construction to Constantine,85 others to Constantius.86 G. Downey, in his magisterial article on the subject, undertook a comprehensive survey of the sources available and concluded that the source traditions that attribute the building of the mausoleum and the church of the Holy Apostles to Constantius should be preferred to those that attribute them to Constantine.87 With regard to the church itself, Downey argued that the passage in the Vita Constantini that attributes the construction of these two edifices to Constantine is a later interpolation.88 After noting that several passages in the work appear to have been added at a later date—a view shared by many earlier scholars89 —he argued that this passage in particular looks suspect because it states that “it is possible even now (kai` nu'n) to see” the church of the Holy Apostles.90 This phrase was not only a “stock motif of popular chronicles and edifying works, in which it was used rather naively, in order to lend verisimilitude to tales designed for simple audiences,” 91 but it was, furthermore, wholly inappropriate given its context. As Eusebios died before 340 (probably in May 339), it would appear odd at the very least that he should comment that the church could “even now” be seen.92 Downey, having dismissed the Hauptquelle for Constantine having built the Holy Apostles, then moves on to discuss the merits of the alternative source tradition, which names Constantius as the church’s builder. Philostorgios, he admits, was pro-Arian and drew on a pro-Arian source, which led him “to glorify Constantius.” 93 Thus Downey concedes that Philostorgios’ testimony is far from unimpeachable.94 (Downey does well to note, however, that otherwise Philostorgios’ credentials are impressive: he moved to Constantinople in the 380s and therefore “could have made himself familiar with the history of the Church of the Apostles” 95). Regarding the testimonies of Prokopios, Constantine of Rhodes, and Nicholas Mesarites, Downey concluded that these three authors “wrote under official auspices, had an intimate knowledge of the building, which they described for its own sake, and must have been familiar with the commemorative building inscription which the building undoubtedly contained.” 96 Thus, stated Downey, 85 I.e., Sozomen, Historia Ecclesiastica, ed. J. Bidez, rev. G. C. Hanson, GCS 50 (Berlin, 1960), (2.34.7–8) and the Patria Constantinoupoleos, ed. T. Preger, Scriptores origenum Constantinopolitanum (Leipzig, 1907), 140, 9–14. 86 Namely, Philostorgios (3.2), Nikolaos Mesarites: Byzantinische Geschichtsschreiber 9 (Graz, 1958) (chaps. 1 and 39), and Zonaras (13.4.28), who was perhaps drawing on Philostorgios here. 87 “The Builder of the Original Church of the Holy Apostles,” DOP 6 (1951): 53–80. 88 Ibid., esp. 58–65. 89 Most notably, G. Pasquali, “Die Composition der Vita Constantin des Eusebius,” Hermes 45 (1910): 369–86; J. Maurice, BullSocAntFr (1913): 387–96, and ibid. (1919): 154–55; O. Sta¨hlin, in W. Schmid and Sta¨hlin’s revision of Wilhelm von Christ’s Geschichte der griechischen Literatur, 6th ed., vol. 2. 2 (Munich, 1924), 1369; H. Gre´goire, “Euse`be n’est pas l’auteur de la ‘Vita Constantini’ dans sa forme actuelle et Constantin ne s’est pas ‘converti’ en 312,” Byzantion 13 (1938): 561–83; but see Downey, “The Builder,” 62–64, for a full survey of modern scholars who share similar views. 90 Vita Const. 4.71: wJ" oJra'n e“sti eijse´ ti kai` nu'n to` me` n th'" trismakari´a" yuch'" skh'no". 91 Downey, “The Builder,” 58. 92 Ibid. For the date of Eusebios’ death, see below, p. 289 n. 109. 93 Downey, “The Builder,” 66. 94 Ibid. 95 Ibid. 96 Ibid., 69.

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“it seems beyond question that the Church of the Holy Apostles was built by Constantius” 97 —a conclusion that has found widespread,98 although not universal,99 acceptance, most notably by Mango.100 On the other hand, Downey’s conclusion that Constantine’s mausoleum was the work of Constantius101 has met with less support. Eleven years after Downey’s article appeared, P. Grierson, while upholding the former’s conclusion that “the church of the Apostles was built by Constantius,” 102 challenged the notion that it was Constantius who had built Constantine’s mausoleum: “it is incredible that an emperor with such a passion for building [i.e., Constantine] should have neglected to undertake what was, after all, a normal imperial activity.” 103 More recently, Mango echoed this view, writing that Constantine’s construction of his own mausoleum “would have been the normal thing to have done.” 104 He continues: “Constantine’s immediate predecessors and several members of his family had put up magnificent mausolea for themselves, using . . . the same architectural formula. Would not he have done likewise?” 105 This, I think, is correct, although it has to be admitted that an argument that is based on likelihood (as this one must be, given the nature of the source material106) can never be conclusive. Finally, concerning Constantius’ ecclesiastical building at Constantinople, there reIbid. and similarly on p. 80. A. E. R. Boak, review of G. Downey, Speculum 28 (1953): 155–58; R. J. H. Jenkins, review of G. Downey, JHS 73 (1953): 192; D. J. Geanakoplos, “Church Building and ‘Caesaropapism,’ A.D. 312–565,” GRBS 7 (1966): 167–86, esp. 176 n. 33. 99 Note the dissenting voice of R. Krautheimer, “Zur Konstantins Apostelkirche in Konstantinopel,” in Mullus: Festschrift Theodor Klauser (Munster, 1964), 224–29, English trans. in idem, Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art (London-New York, 1971), 27–34; idem, Three Christian Capitals (Berkeley, Calif., 1983), 58 and 138 n. 26. 100 C. Mango, Le de´veloppement urbain de Constantinople (Paris, 1985), 27; idem, “Constantine’s Mausoleum and the Translation of the Relics,” BZ 83 (1990): 51–61, esp. 57 ff. See also Dagron, Naissance d’une capitale, 401–5. Dagron appears to suggest that Constantine began work on the Holy Apostles, but that the transferral of the relics of Sts. Timothy, Andrew, and Luke there in 359 by Constantius brought about “un changement complet dans la conception du monument, et inaugure peut-eˆtre une modification architecturale importante” (405). 101 Downey, “The Builder,” 56–57, and 77. 102 P. Grierson, “The Tombs and Obits of Byzantine Emperors,” DOP 16 (1962): 1–65, esp. 5. 103 Ibid. 104 C. Mango, “Constantine’s Mausoleum and the Translation of the Relics,” BZ 83 (1990): 51–61, esp. 57. 105 Ibid. 106 Those sources which state that Constantine built the mausoleum include: Vita Constantini, ed. F. Winkelmann, GCS (Berlin, 1975), 4.70–71; Socrates, Historia ecclesiastica (hereafter HE), ed. R. Hussey, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1853), 1.40; Sozomen, HE 2.34.5; Theodoros Anagnostes Kirchengeschichte, ed. G. C. Hansen, Griechische Christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte. Neue Folge, Bd. 3 (Berlin, 1995), 27; Prokopios, De Aedificiis, 1.4.9; while Philostorgios, HE 3.2 (and his dependent Zonaras) attribute it to Constantius. Julian’s statement (Or. 1.16c–d) that Constantius “adorned his [Constantine’s] tomb (ta´ fon) not only by lavishing on it splendid decorations” has been employed both by Downey (“The Builder,” 77) to argue “that at the time when Julian spoke, Constantius had already built the mausoleum but had not yet built the church” and by Grierson (“The Tombs,” 5) to argue that the tomb had therefore been the work of his father. In short, Julian’s statement is inconclusive, and in any case may have been a to´ po"—a consideration that appears to have escaped both Downey and Grierson—given that it appears to have been borrowed from Isocrates’ Evagoras, which Julian employed as a template for this panegyric on Constantius. (Cf. Isocrates, Eng. trans. G. Norlin, 3 vols., LCL (New York, 1928–1945), Evag. 1, JOrw'n, w« Niko´ klei", timw'nta´ se to` n ta´ fon tou' patro` " ouj mo´ non tv' plh´ qei kai` tv' ka´ llei tw'n ejpiferome´ nwn, with Julian, Or. 1.16c–d: ouj mo´ non tv' plh´ qei kai` ka´ llei tw'n ejpenecqe´ ntwn to` n ta´ fon ejko´ mei". 97 98

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mains to be discussed the original church of St. Sophia,107 or the Great Church as it was frequently styled. Again our sources are in disagreement as to whether Constantine or Constantius was the founder. This time, however, the case for Constantius having constructed the church is far stronger. For a start, Eusebios makes no mention of the building, a silence that in itself could be taken to imply that work on it had not begun before his death108 (some point before 340109). Furthermore, all the authors who attribute the building of St. Sophia to Constantine were writing considerably later than the fourth century.110 George Kedrenos, perhaps in an attempt to reconcile the differing accounts in his sources, wrote that Constantine left instructions for the building of the Great Church with his son who subsequently built and consecrated it.111 Similarly, some modern scholars have sought to reconcile the conflicting accounts of our sources by suggesting that “it is possible that Constantine laid the foundations of St. Sophia, which was completed by his successor, Constantius.” 112 Such a reconciliation is, however, unnecessary, since the tradition that attributes the building of the church solely to Constantius is earlier and ultimately stronger. Indeed, the earliest source to discuss the construction of St. Sophia (as opposed to merely its consecration) is Socrates,113 who was writing approximately seventy years after the church’s consecration114 (on 15 February 360115), and who informs us that Constantius was responsible for it. In addition, Philostorgios, admittedly a pro-Constantian writer, also states that Constantius was responsible for the building of St. Sophia.116 Consequently, both Mango117 and Dagron118 have attributed the Great Church to Constantine’s son, the latter concluding that “la premie`re Sainte-Sophie est l’oeuvre de Constance.” 119 In any case, as Mary and Michael Whitby have observed, “the 107 This was burned to the ground on 20 June 404, only forty-four years after its consecration, during the turmoil that ensued from John Chrysostom’s expulsion. See Socrates, HE 6.18.18–17; and Chron. Pasch. s.a. 404). 108 This is, admittedly, an argumentum e silentio. 109 E. Schwartz, “Eusebios,” RE 6:1434. See also G. Pasquali, “Die Composition der Vita Constantin des Eusebius,” Hermes 45 (1910): 386, who puts his death in May 338. He is followed by J. Maurice, BullSocAntFr (1913): 387 n. 2. However, more recently T. D. Barnes, in his Constantine and Eusebius (Cambridge, Mass., 1981), has argued convincingly for a date of May 339 (p. 263) and has been followed by Av. Cameron and S. G. Hall in their new edition of the Vita Constantini, entitled Eusebius: Life of Constantine (Oxford, 1999), pp. 3, 9, and 10. 110 I.e., the Narratio de St. Sophia, 1 (Patria, ed. Preger, 74.6–8); George the Monk (2.627.4–5); and George Kedrenos (1.498.3). The first was written by Paul the Silentiary and delivered either at the rededication of the church on 24 December 562 or a few days later at Epiphany (6 February 563), while George the Monk wrote during the 840s and Kedrenos ca. 1100. 111 Kedrenos, 1.523.4–7. 112 A. A. Vasiliev, History of the Byzantine Empire 324–1453, 2d ed. (Oxford, 1952), 53. Similarly, Krautheimer, Three Christian Capitals, 53. 113 Socrates, HE 2.16. 114 On the date of composition of Socrates’ Ecclesiastical History, see Alan Cameron, “The Empress and the Poet: Paganism and Politics at the Court of Theodosius II,” YCS 27 (1982): 217–89, esp. 265–67. F. Geppert, Die Quellen des Kirchenhistorikers Socrates Scholasticus, Studien zur Geschichte der Theologie und der Kirche 3.4 (Leipzig, 1889), 4–9, argued for simply between 439 and 444. 115 Chron. Pasch. s.a. 360; The Chronicle of Hydatius and the Consularia Constantinopolitana, ed. and trans. R. W. Burgess (Oxford, 1993), s.a. 360. 116 Philostorgios, 3.2. 117 The Brazen House, 51. 118 Naissance d’une capitale, 397–99. 119 Ibid., 399.

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completion of the Great Church, together with the appointment of a city prefect in 359, was an indication that the new city of Constantinople had now developed into a major urban centre.” 120 And so, at the exact same time Julian was being proclaimed at Paris, Constantius was putting the final touches to his father’s dreams of creating a Christian capital of the East to rival pagan Rome. Thus far, Constantius’ building activities appear to have been motivated by a deepseated sense of filial pietas and, in the case of the ecclesiastical works, a desire to be seen as a “good Christian emperor” as opposed to merely a bonus princeps. While the projects treated above, both at Rome and Constantinople, may be viewed as deriving from either pietas or piety or both, Constantius’ embellishment of Antioch betrays a genuine love for monumental structures. At Constantinople, most of the construction work, though imperially funded, was probably carried out (at least after 359) under the direction of the city’s prefect.121 Constantius, it must be noted, is attested at Constantinople on only five occasions throughout his twenty-four-year reign as augustus, wintering there perhaps only three times.122 The emperor, while in the East, preferred to winter instead at Antioch, which he did most years from 337 to 350 and again in 360/61.123 Antioch had been the command headquarters for the eastern front for centuries. In the late third and early fourth centuries, first Diocletian and then Galerius had used it as a base of operations against Persia. Subsequently, Constantine, and more recently Constantius124 and Gallus, had directed their eastern campaigns from Antioch, as both Julian and Valens were later to do. The importance of this city was confirmed by the concentration of officials to be found there, which included, in addition to the emperor, the magister militum per Orientem, the comes Orientis, and the consularis Syriae. If we begin by examining Constantius’ secular building works at Antioch, we can see that he concerned himself with both practical and cosmetic undertakings. On the practical side, he built a harbor at Seleucia Pieria in 346.125 The primary aim of this construcWhitby and Whitby, Chronicon Paschale, 34 n. 107. Dagron, of course, has argued convincingly that the existence of a city prefect and a senate of its own meant that Constantinople was not merely a “major urban center” but an imperial capital. 121 This, indeed, was common practice even at Antioch where the emperor was resident. Julian, Or. 1.41a informs us that adornments to the city were made by Constantius through Antioch’s governors. See also J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, Antioch (Oxford, 1972), 135 n. 3, who, citing Libanios, Or. 11.194, concludes that “at this time (under Constantius) governors received imperial subsidies for public works at Antioch.” (In addition, see W. K. Prentice, “Officials Charged with the Conduct of Public Works in Roman and Byzantine Syria,” TAPA 43 (1912): 113–23.) This practice must account for Constantinople’s embellishment during the long years of Constantius’ absence from the capital. 122 See T. D. Barnes, Athanasius and Constantius (Cambridge, Mass., 1993), app. 9. Constantius perhaps wintered at the eastern capital in 343/44, 349/50, and 359/60. 123 Ibid. See Libanios, Or. 11.180: “Indeed, he [Constantius] has not gone elsewhere, except in so far as warfare has compelled him to, but in truth has spent the pleasantest part of his time here [in Antioch], taking his pleasure as though in the arms of a loved one.” See also the Expositio totius mundi et gentium, ed. Jean Rouge´ (Paris, 1966), SC 124 (chap. 23): “there is Antioch, the first regal city, good in all things, where the lord of the universe [i.e., Constantius] has his seat” (similarly, chap. 32: “since the emperor has there [i.e., Antioch] his seat”). 124 See Libanios, Or. 11.179: “wherefore, the Persians blame us especially among their enemies because we provide this city as a base of operations which rivals the warlike prowess of the emperor, and we have nowhere diminished his eager courage by any deficiency of the help which we supply.” 125 Seleucia Pieria was to Antioch what Ostia was to Rome and the Piraeus was to Athens. For the date, see Jerome, Chronicle, s.a. 346 and a host of chroniclers dependent on him (i.e., Theophanes and his dependent 120

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tion must have been to facilitate the movement of men, supplies, and equipment from all parts of the empire to Antioch in preparation for coming campaigns against the Persians. Indeed Libanios, in his oration on Antioch delivered in 360, writes: When this last Persian war was unchained, for which the Persian government had been preparing for a long time, and when the emergency called for adequate counter preparation to match the threat, and, even more than for preparations, called for a place capable of receiving all those things that such a war requires, this land of ours is the one that rose above the emergency with its abundance and collected the forces to its bosom and sent forth the entire army, when the time called. For there flowed to it, like rivers to the sea, all the soldiers, all the bowmen and horsemen and the horses, both those of the fighting men and those carrying burdens, and every camel and every band of soldiers, so that the ground was covered with men standing and men sitting; the walls were covered with shields hung up and spears and helmets were to be seen everywhere; everything resounded with hammering and whinnying, and there were so many units stationed here that their officers alone would have added no small population to the city, or rather such a great army was gathered that in other places the drinking water would have been exhausted.126

Moreover, the previous year (late 359), the troops that Julian in Gaul was requested by Constantius to send for the summer offensive against Sapor almost certainly would have traveled by sea and disembarked at Seleucia. In addition, G. Downey writes that “aside from its military importance, this new harbour also contributed materially to the economic prosperity of the city, by providing improved opportunities for travel and communications and for the movement of goods.” 127 Indeed Julian, writing in 355, says of Antioch: “Her existence she does indeed owe to her founder [i.e., Antiochus], but her present wealth and increase in every sort of abundance she owes to you (i.e., Constantius), since you provided her with harbours that offer good anchorage for those who put in there. For till then it was considered a dangerous risk even to sail past Antioch; so full were all the waters of that coast, up to the very shores, of rocks and sunken reefs.” 128 The Expositio totius mundi et gentium, written at about the same time,129 also attests to the importance of this harbor: “Similarly, Seleucia is also a very wealthy city, offering to Antioch its imports, goods pertaining to the public treasury as well as those that are private. The lord of the world, the Emperor Constantius, realising that it is so useful both to him and to the army, cut a very high mountain, let in the sea, and made a large and good harbour where incoming vessels might be secure and the public freight ( fiscale onus) Kedrenos, and the Chronicle of A.D. 724). There was already a harbor at Seleucia in 306 at the time of Eugenios’ revolt (see Downey, 330); presumably Constantius developed this further. 126 Or. 11.177–78, translation that of G. Downey, in “Libanius’ Oration on Antioch,” PAPS 103 (1959): 652–86. For further mention of Constantius assembling troops and military supplies at Antioch for coming actions against the Persians, see Julian, Or. 1.20d ff, and Libanios, Or. 18.166–69, 205–7 and Or. 69.69–72, 89–92. 127 A History of Antioch in Syria (Princeton, N.J., 1961), 361. 128 Or. 1.40d–41a. 129 A. A. Vasiliev, “Expositio totius mundi et gentium,” SemKond 8 (1936): 1–39, after a comprehensive review of previous scholars’ views on the matter, places the date of composition in 350 (p. 36). J. Rouge´, in his edition of the text in SC 124 (Paris, 1966), pp. 9–26, has 359/60. More recently, Barnes, Athanasius, 311 n. 7, placed the date of composition between 347 and 350.

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might not perish.” 130 So too, Libanios, in his Oration (the Antiochikos), further emphasizes the nature of this work: “In speaking of the outlet of the river into the sea I am impelled to mention the harbour. When he [Constantius] saw that this did not rank among those to which it rightfully belonged, the ruler was troubled and changed its form, and there was cut out in Seleucia, but for the benefit of our city, a harbour hewn from rock at a cost of as much gold as the Pactolus did not treasure up for Croesus. Wherefore all ships put to sea from all parts of the world, carrying goods from everywhere . . . [are] brought here, since the quickness of selling draws hither the wits of merchants, and because of this we enjoy the fruits of the whole of the earth. Among harbours, this has furled the most of the sails that are spread over the seas.” 131 Clearly this harbor was a major feat, undertaken at considerable cost, and brought with it substantial economic benefits. It would have contributed in no small way to the image of Constantius as a benevolent, even philanthropic emperor. The same could be said of Constantius’ adornment of the city, perhaps more so given that, unlike the harbor, these structures had no practical function. These embellishments are enumerated by Julian, again in his first panegyric to the emperor: “I need not stop to mention the porticoes, fountains, and other things of the kind which you caused to be bestowed on Antioch by her governors.” 132 Finally, we come to the Great Church at Antioch.133 It is to be regretted that archaeologists have as yet been unable to find remains of this church, while the literary evidence provides no insight as to its location within the city. Work on the church was begun under Constantine134 and completed by Constantius, it being dedicated in 341.135 Downey, after noting that Theophanes contradicts his own date for the start of work on the church (which he puts in 326/27) by stating in a later passage on its dedication (in 341) that building had taken six years to complete, and that Socrates tells us that the work had been begun ten years prior to the church’s dedication, tentatively suggests “that although the construction was officially inaugurated in A.D. 327, the actual work of building was not begun until later.” 136 He further notes that “the differing dates given for the inauguration of the work on the church, and the length of time that seems to have been required to build it, may reflect the practical difficulties that seem to have been caused by Constantine’s ambitious building programme.” 137 In addition, Downey believes the descripChap. 28. The translation is that of Vasiliev, “Expositio.” Libanios, Or. 11.263–64. 132 Or. 1.41a. 133 In the 4th century alone the church was also known as the Domus Aurea, the Golden Church, and the Octagonal Church, for obvious reasons. For descriptions of this church, see Eusebios, Triakontaeterikos (9.15) and the Vita Constantini (3.50), and Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. C. de Boor, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1883–1885), A.M. 5819. See also Downey, Antioch, 342–45, for a more coherent description of the church. 134 Jerome (Chron. s.a. 327) places the start of work on it in 327, and is followed by Theophanes (A.M. 5819). The “Lost Arian Ecclesiastical Historian” (see J. Bidez, Philostorgius: Ecclesiastical History, 212) also has the same date, and is in turn followed by the Syriac Chronicon miscellaneum ad A.D. 724 pertinens. Socrates, however, claims that the church was dedicated “in the tenth year after its foundations were laid” (2.8). 135 Theophanes, A.M. 5833, p. 36, 29–31, ed. De Boor; Malalas, bk. 13.17; Sozomen, HE 35.1–2; the “Lost Arian Ecclesiastical Historian” (see note 134). Jerome wrongly places the dedication in 342 (Chron. s.a. 342). 136 Antioch, 343 n. 106. 137 Ibid. Downey also notes that “there seem to have been delays connected with the construction of the new capital.” 130 131

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tion of the church afforded by Eusebios in his Triakontaeterikos (delivered in 335) “must represent the church as it was planned” (rather than as it stood at the time), while the description in the Vita Constantini represents a later interpolation.138 Certainly the closeness of the Greek in these two passages points to someone, either Eusebios or a later interpolator, copying almost verbatim the description from the Triakontaeterikos and incorporating it into the Vita Constantini.139 Given this, it seems quite probable that Constantius, far from merely putting the finishing touches to the Great Church, contributed significantly to its construction.140 (Again, however, as with building work at Constantinople and secular works undertaken at Ephesos, the task of immediate supervision of the building work was left to an official, the comes Gorgonius.141) The church was dedicated on 6 January (Epiphany) 341 and clearly marked a significant achievement (perhaps the first major one of Constantius’ reign as augustus). Indeed, its significance ought not to be underestimated, for if F. W. Deichmann is correct in asserting that the Great Church was in fact a cathedral (as opposed to a palace church),142 then Constantius can be credited with having played a considerable part in the construction of the first central plan cathedral in the history of Christian architecture. It is little wonder then that Constantius should have commissioned the (pagan) orator Bemarchius to tour the East (including Egypt), delivering a single oration extolling the virtues of this church’s magnificence.143 Moreover, Constantius appears cleverly to have used the occasion of the dedication to attempt to enforce religious conformity in the East. Both Socrates and (unsurprisingly) Sozomen inform us that a synod of some ninety bishops was convened at Antioch “under pretence of dedicating the church,” 144 although both authors state implausibly that it was Eusebios of Nikomedeia and not Constantius who lay behind this scheme.145 The plan was a good one. Constantius took the opportunity of having what must have comprised Ibid., nn. 107 and 108. Cf. Triakontaeterikos, 9.15: makroi'" e“xwqen peribo´ loi" to` n pa´ nta new` n perilamba´ nwn, ei“sw de` to` ajna´ ktoron eij" ajmh´ canon ejpai´rwn u”yo", ejn ojktae´ drou me` n sch´ mati katepoi´killen, oi“koi" de` tou'to plei´osin ejxe´ drai" te ejn ku´ klv peristoicisa´ meno", pantoi´oi" ejstefa´ nou ka´ llesin; with Vita Constantini, 3.50: makroi'" me` n e“xwqen peribo´ loi" to` n pa´ nta new` n perilabw´ n, ei“sw de` to` n eujkth´ rion oi«kon eij" ajmh´ canon ejpa´ ra" u”yo", ejn ojktae´ drou me` n sunestw'ta sch´ mati, ku´ klv uJperv´ wn te kai` katagei´wn cwrhma´ twn aJpantaco´ qen periestoicisme´ non, o’n kai` crusou' plei´ono" ajfqoni´a calkou' te kai` th'" loiph'" polutelou'" u”lh" ejstefa´ nou ka´ llesin. 140 It need not surprise us, given that the Triakontaeterikos and the Vita Constantini were panegyrics of Constantine, that these works should attribute the church’s construction wholly to that emperor. 141 See the church’s dedicatory inscription as provided by Malalas (bk. 13.17): “For Christ Constantine made this lovely dwelling, like in all respects to the vaults of heaven, bright-shining, with Constantius obeying the commands of the ruler; the comes Gorgonius carried out the work of cubicularius.” See G. Downey, “Imperial Building Records in Malalas,” BZ 38 (1938): 1–15. 142 “Das Oktogon von Antiocheia: Heroon-Martyrion, Palastkirche oder Kathedrale?” BZ 65 (1972): 40–56. 143 Libanios, Or. 1.39: “he [Bemarchius] had travelled as far as Egypt, delivering just one oration, in which, although he personally was a worshipper of the gods, he spoke in praise of him [Jesus] who had set himself up against them, and discoursed at length upon the church Constantius had built for him.” A. F. Norman, in a note on this passage (Libanius’ Autobiography [Oxford, 1965], 158–59 n. 39), writes: “this lecture tour . . . was part of Constantius’ propaganda upon the dedication of the Great Church of Antioch.” 144 Socrates, HE 2. 8. See also Sozomen, HE 3.5.2. 145 It was the emperor, and not a mere bishop, who was responsible for convening ecumenical synods, and there is no reason to accept the orthodox writers’ portrayal of Constantius as being wholly under the sway of Eusebios. On the contrary, Constantius seems to have been every bit as keen (if not more so) as his father to ensure religious unity. 138 139

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nearly all the bishops of the East—the major ones at least—assembled in one place, and that a newly built edifice in honor of the Lord. Constantius was probably following his father’s example here. In 335 Constantine had taken advantage of an assembly of bishops brought together for the dedication of a church, that of the Holy Resurrection at Jerusalem, to convene a council.146 Here was a truly golden chance; ninety bishops gathered together under the roof of probably the most impressive church in the East, which his father had inaugurated and he was to dedicate. No doubt Constantius hoped that these men, filled with a fond memory for their first imperial patron and a sense of obligation to his son who had so devotedly continued Constantine’s work, would end their quibbling and assent to religious unity. Moreover, the creed produced at the council147 appears to reflect a genuine attempt at reconciliation between the Arian and Nicene parties. Indeed, B. J. Kidd, in his monumental church history, stated that this creed “was at once SemiArian and Semi-Nicene.” 148 Constantius’ hopes for unity, however, proved to be in vain. The council broke up apparently without achieving anything of great significance,149 and about a century later more orthodox writers would be portraying it as an attempt “to subvert and nullify the doctrine of consubstantiality.” 150 Julian, in his first panegyric to Constantius, assures us that so great and numerous were that emperor’s benefactions to Antioch that the city called itself Antiochia Constantia.151 This statement, however, proves problematic. Downey, commenting on it, writes: “Due allowance must of course be made for the fact that Julian was writing a panegyric of Constantius. There is no other evidence that Antioch called itself by the name of Constantius . . . but there is no reason to doubt Julian’s statement. It is, on the other hand, remarkable that we have no more evidence in the case of Antioch for the adoption of imperial cognomina, a custom which was widely followed elsewhere.” 152 Clearly, certainty is impossible on this point. Perhaps Julian, in a panegyric that was written in the West, for a western audience, could have embroidered the truth. Indeed, his use of the phrase “I often hear” (ajkou´ w polla´ ki") invites suspicion. If it was common knowledge that Antioch called itself after Constantius, Julian could have stated the fact plainly without having to introduce the statement with a phrase that (at best) suggests that this cognomen existed but was not officially recognized. As for Constantius’ building activities elsewhere in the empire, there exist scattered references in the literary evidence to other works of his, although these references are See Athanasius, De Synodis, chap. 2. The so-called Dedication Creed, although sometimes also called the Lucianic Creed, after the Antiochene martyr (d. 312) of that name. 148 B. J. Kidd, A History of the Church to A.D. 461 (Oxford, 1922), 2.81. D. Bowder, The Age of Constantine and Julian (London, 1978), 76, termed it “a new moderate Arian creed.” More recently, R. P. C. Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God: The Arian Controversy 318–381 (Edinburgh, 1988), 284–92, observed how “it has been by different scholars branded as Arian and also anti-Arian” (p. 287); he then goes on to list these scholars and their respective stances (ibid., n. 39). The creed clearly represents an attempt at compromise, it being couched in deliberately ambiguous terms so as to encourage acceptance by moderates of both doctrines. 149 It is to be regretted that, as T. D. Barnes has put it, “the theological deliberations of the Dedication Council cannot be reconstructed” (Athanasius, 57). See also H. M. Gwatkin, Studies in Arianism (Cambridge, 1900), 119: “its character is one of the most disputed points of the history before us.” 150 Socrates, HE 3.10. 151 ´ cou po´ lin eJauth` n sou' ejpw´ numon ejponoma´ zousan ajkou´ w polla´ ki" . Or. 1.40d: ejpei` kai` th` n Antio j 152 Downey, Antioch, 356 n. 172. 146 147

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frequently uncorroborated and lacking in detail. For example, Ammianus, in his obituary on Constantius, tells us that this emperor erected triumphal arches at great expense in Pannonia and Gaul.153 Unfortunately, nothing else is known about these monuments. The same is true concerning John Malalas’ assertion that Constantius constructed a bridge over the Pyramus River: “Advancing to Persian territory, he [Constantius] made a peace treaty with the Persians for a certain period, after many on both sides had fallen in the battle. He returned and performed the dedication of the Great Church in Antioch. Then Constantius left Antioch, on his way back to Constantinople, and reached Cilicia. He built there the bridge over the river Pyramus, a very great work (e“rgon me´ giston). He came to Mopsuestia, a city in Cilicia, and fell ill and died there, at the age of forty.” 154 (This passage is echoed by John of Nikiu,155 who no doubt drew upon Malalas when writing his 7th-century Egyptian Chronicle.)156 Constantius would have had to cross the Pyramus on his return from Antioch and the eastern front to Constantinople.157 Indeed, any route from Constantinople to Antioch, be it along the coast of western Asia Minor or the overland road through Galatia and Cappadocia, would have entailed the crossing of the Pyramus.158 Clearly, then, such an undertaking by Constantius would have been of practical benefit to an emperor who frequently had to take this route. Unfortunately, the date of Constantius’ construction of the Pyramus bridge is difficult to ascertain since the passage of Malalas’ chronicle cited above greatly telescopes events. The battle in which both sides lost many men was possibly that of Singara, variously ascribed by modern scholars to either 344 or 349.159 There was, at that time, no formal armistice between Constantius and Sapor, although an eight-year lull in hostilities occurred in 350 following the unsuccessful siege of Nisibis, which Constantius used to turn west to engage Magnentius, and Sapor to move against the Massagetae, a troublesome 153 Ammianus, 21.16.15: “quo pravo proposito magis quam recto vel usitato, triumphalis arcus ex clade provinciarum sumptibus magnis erexit in Galliis et Pannoniis titulis gestorum affixis, se (quoad stare poterunt monumenta) lecturis.” Clearly these triumphal arches, which Ammianus disparages Constantius so much for having erected, were meant to celebrate the emperor’s victories over Magnentius at the battles of Mursa (Pannonia) and Mons Seleucus (Gaul). 154 Book 13.17. The translation is that of E. Jeffreys, The Chronicle of John Malalas, Byzantina Australiensia 4 (Melbourne, 1986), Ammianus describes Mopsuestia as “the last station of Cilicia as you go from here, situated at the foot of Mount Taurus’ (21.15.2). Cf. Chronicon Paschale, s.a. 361: “he came to the springs of Mopsus at the first staging-post from Cilician Tarsus.” One of Constantius’ last actions, then, would have been to cross the bridge that he had built over the Pyramus earlier in his reign. The bridge crossed the Pyramus at Mopsuestia; see D. Magie, Roman Rule in Asia Minor (Princeton, N.J., 1950), 2:1153. 155 Chron. 78.7: “Sapor-Arsekius, king of Persia, attacked the Roman empire, and there was much bloodshed between them. And afterwards, they were reconciled and there was peace and tranquility and love between Rome and Persia. On his way back to Byzantium Constantius built a bridge strongly constructed over the river named Pyramus in Cilicia.” 156 R. H. Charles, in the introduction to his translation of John of Nikiu’s chronicle (Oxford, 1916), believed Malalas was “undoubtedly at our author’s disposal” (p. xi). 157 Constantius is attested as having traveled from Constantinople to Antioch or vice versa on at least six occasions: in late summer/early winter 337, early 342, autumn 343, autumn 349, autumn 350, and autumn 361; see Barnes, Athanasius, app. 9, “imperial residences and journeys.” 158 Alexander the Great crossed the Pyramus at Mallus shortly before his victory at the battle of Issus. The Pilgrim’s Road also entailed a crossing of the Pyramus; see D. French, Roman Roads and Milestones in Asia Minor, BAR International Series 105 (Oxford, 1981). 159 See Barnes, Athanasius, 312 n. 19, for discussion of the two schools of thought that have emerged concerning the dating of this nocturnal battle.

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nomadic tribe on his northeastern frontier.160 Constantius dedicated the Great Church at Antioch in 341 and died at Mopsucrenae on 6 November 361. Malalas’ chronology is evidently highly confused. However, since Constantius’ movements between Constantinople and Antioch (and vice versa) are well attested,161 some tentative suggestions can be made as to the date of construction of this bridge. Constantius traveled from Antioch to Constantinople in early 342 and in the autumns of 343, 349, 350, and 361.162 Of these dates, the latter two can be ruled out since Constantius was in a desperate hurry to engage the usurpers Magnentius and Julian respectively, and so would not have had time to build a great bridge.163 Constantius’ journey from Antioch to Constantinople in early 342 was a flying visit to expel the orthodox bishop Paul from his see, with the emperor returning to Antioch by 31 March at the latest.164 With regard to 349, the evidence for Constantius’ presence at Constantinople is far from strong. Indeed, it is based upon two entries in the Theodosian Code165 which Barnes believes ought to be amended to 343.166 There remains only the autumn of 343. Barnes, following and emending R. Klein, holds that Constantius celebrated his vicennalia at the eastern capital on 8 November 343.167 On this occasion Constantius may have made a more leisurely journey, giving him time to halt en route and build the e“rgon me´ giston that was the Pyramus bridge. This would have been an appropriate activity to indulge in on the way to such an event, with news of the feat reaching Constantinople ahead of the emperor. Moreover, Constantius would have been accompanied by a large body of troops (the imperial anniversary required much pomp and ceremony), and the army was traditionally employed on building such works.168 Perhaps more significantly, we know that Constantius won a victory over the Persians in the summer/autumn of 343, which fits in well with the testimony of John Malalas (and John of Nikiu). In addition, the Dedication Council took place only one year and ten months prior to Constantius’ vicennalia. Ephesos, as is attested by the inscriptional evidence, benefited greatly from Constantius’ benevolentia. He restored the Harbor Baths there—originally a second-century structure—so sumptuously that the baths became known as the Thermae Constantianae.169 In addition, Constantius also restored the Nymphaeum—a great fountain that distributed to all sections of the city the water carried there by the Marnas Aqueduct— following its destruction by fire.170 The restoration of both of these works was conducted 160 Malalas (and John of Nikiu) were not the only Byzantine writers to misconstrue this lull for a formal peace; see also John Zonaras, 13.7. 161 See above, note 143. 162 See Barnes, Athanasius, app. 9. 163 Sozomen, (HE 4.1) informs us of the speed with which Constantius headed west to engage Magnentius; Ammianus (21.15.1) tells us that he was in no less of a hurry to halt Julian. 164 CTh 3.12.1. 165 CTh 12.2.1, 15.1.6. 166 Barnes, Athanasius, 312 n. 18. 167 Ibid., 84–85 and n. 6; R. Klein, Constantius II und die christliche Kirche, Impulse der Forschung 26 (Darmstadt, 1977), 74 n. 179. 168 See R. MacMullen, “Roman Imperial Building in the Provinces,” HSCPh 64 (1959): 207–35, esp. 214; and S. Mitchell, “Imperial Building in the Eastern Roman Provinces,” HSCPh 91 (1987): 333–65, esp. 338. 169 For the restoration of these baths by Constantius, see CIL 3:14195, p. 28. 170 See C. Foss, Ephesus after Antiquity (Cambridge, 1979), 24–25, and 79 f; W. Alzinger, “Ephesus,” RE, ¨hrer durch Ephesos (Vienna, 1964), 135 f; and AnzWien 100 (1963): supp. 12:1588–1704, esp. 1606; J. Keil, Fu

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by the proconsul Caelius Montius, Constantius (as far as we know) never visiting Ephesos during his reign, although we know from the inscriptions that the emperor gave this official very specific orders concerning Ephesos’ embellishment. There exist other monuments and buildings in the empire that although not directly attested by any of our sources as being the work of Constantius, may perhaps be attributed to him. The obelisk at Arles, for example, may well have been erected in the circus there by Constantius.171 We have seen above that Constantius displayed a particular fondness for obelisks, although the same can admittedly be said of his father. Moreover, Ammianus informs us that Constantius spent the winter of 353/4 at Arles,172 “where he gave entertainments in the theater and the circus with ostentatious magnificence” in celebration of his tricennalia.173 That such an occasion would have been marked by the addition of an impressive monument to the circus at Arles is far from improbable.174 Similarly, the mid-fourth-century cathedral of Milan, later dedicated to St. Thecla, may have owed at least its completion to Constantius. Krautheimer writes that “given its size, the presumable cost of the property required, and the expensive, careful construction of foundations and walls, financial backing must have been strong, possibly involving imperial assistance.” 175 He adds tentatively “that work was started between 345 and 350 under Constans . . . and that it was completed, perhaps hastily, after 353 to be ready for the synod of 355.” However, more recently, N. McLynn has cast doubt on the notion that the Council of Milan was held in the Great Church there,176 the implication being that the cathedral may have been completed later than 355. The pushing of the date of the church’s completion beyond 355 allows McLynn cautiously to postulate that building work commenced under Constantius and not his younger brother, although ultimately he acknowledges the uncertainty as to “whether construction began under Constantius while he resided in the city or during the reign of Constans.” 177 In any event, Constans was murdered by the tyrant Magnentius on 18 January 350 at Autun, and so a substantial proportion (if not all) of the work was probably conducted under the supervision and

47. The latter contains a transcription of one of the two inscriptions that attest to Constantius’ rebuilding of ¨ Jh 15 (1912): B175. this fountain. For the other inscription, see O 171 For the Arles obelisk, see Humphrey, Roman Circuses, esp. 398; C. Sinte`s, “Quelques remarques sur la spina du cirque d’Arles,” in Le cirque et les courses de chars, Rome-Byzance (Lattes, 1990), ed. C. Landes 55–63, esp. 55; and G. Hallier, “Le cirque romain,” in “Du nouveau sur l’Arles antique,” ed. C. Sinte`s, Revue d’Arles 1 (1987): 56–62, esp. 57–58. 172 Ammianus, 14.5.1, 10.1. Similarly, CTh 8.7.28. 173 Ammianus, 14.5.1. 174 After all, we know that Constantine spent time at Arles. Indeed, along with Trier, it appears to have been his principal residence during the period 306–316 (Lactantius, De Mort. Pers. 29.5 and Pan Lat. 6 (7).14.6, 16.1 ff). See also T. D. Barnes, The New Empire of Diocletian and Constantine (Cambridge, Mass., 1982), 68–80: Constantine is attested at Arles on 1 August 314, and 7 and 13 August 316. August 316 saw the birth of Constantine’s eponymous son, Constantine II, undoubtedly a suitable occasion for the erection of an obelisk in the circus. 175 Three Christian Capitals, 77. 176 Ambrose of Milan (Berkeley, Calif., 1994), 28 ff: “the assumption that this church housed the council of 355 is based on two errors: acceptance of Socrates’ and Sozomen’s vastly inflated figure of three hundred for the participants of the council, and reliance upon an adjective in Ambrose’s account of the expulsion of Dionysius and Eusebius (Ep. extra coll. 14 [63].68: ‘cum raperentur de ecclesia maiore,’ now shown to be a medieval insertion [M. Zelzer, CSEL 82.3, p. 271]).” 177 Ambrose of Milan, 29.

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with the financial backing of Constantius, whose main residence was Milan (or Como, just outside it) from November 352 to 19 March 357.178 Constantius, moreover, may well have played a significant part in the construction of the church of San Lorenzo, also in Milan. There exists much controversy concerning the date of construction of this church, with few modern scholars prepared to specify a narrower time span than that of the hundred-year period from 350 to 450. However, of those who attempt a more precise dating, G. Chierici179 (followed by Dale Kinney180) argues for a foundation of between 355 and 372 (i.e., during the episcopate of the Arian Auxentius), while Kleinbauer has argued convincingly that San Lorenzo was built after 313 but before the episcopate of Ambrose (374–397).181 Thus one can tentatively argue that there is a reasonably strong probability that Constantius played a part in the building of this church as well as St. Thecla. Our sources inform us of other ecclesiastical works for whose construction Constantius may have been responsible. For example, there is the Great Church or Caesareum at Alexandria. Athanasios, in his Apologia ad Constantium, writes: “The place [i.e., the Caesareum] is ready, having been already sanctified by the prayers which have been offered in it, and requires only the presence of your Piety. This only is wanting to its perfect beauty. Do you then supply this deficiency, and there make your prayers unto the Lord, for whom you have built this house. That you may do so is the prayer of all men.” 182 J. Moreau offers the plausible suggestion that “wahrscheinlich war sie fu ¨ r den Bischof Georgios bestimmt und stand noch vor der Vollendung, als Athanasius sie am 19. April 352 in Besitz nahm.” 183 In addition, Socrates and Sozomen inform us that Constantius donated a sanctuary of Mithras at Alexandria to the church there.184 The Liber Pontificalis mentions a basilica at Naples known as Santa Restituta, which was constructed along with an eight-mile-long aqueduct and a forum. These it attributes to the emperor Constantine.185 However, R. Davis has recently argued that “on architectural grounds a date shortly after the middle of the century is thought preferable to the reign of Constantine himself.” 186 Moreover, Davis, after noting that “Constantius’ and his supporters’ involvement in Italian ecclesiastical affairs entailed in or soon after 355 the replacement of Maximus, bishop of Naples, with the Arian Zosimus,” offers the plausible suggestion that “it might have been to mollify local opinion that Constantius founded and endowed a basilica and provided a forum and aqueduct.” 187 178 Constantius spent four winters at Milan: 352/53, 354/55, 355/56, and 356/57; see Barnes, Athanasius, app. 9, “imperial residences and journeys.” It is hardly likely that much work was carried out on the Milanese basilica during the tumultuous two years and ten months that Magnentius ruled Italy. 179 La Basilica di San Lorenzo Maggiore in Milano (Milan, 1951), 184. 180 “La chiese paleocristiane di Mediolanum,” in Milano, una capitale da Ambrogio ai Carolingi, ed. C. Bertelli (Milan, 1987), 48–79, esp. 60. 181 “Toward a Dating of San Lorenzo in Milan: Masonry and Building Methods in Milanese Roman and Early Christian Architecture,” ArtLomb 13 (1968): 1–22, esp. 16. It is interesting to note that Eugene Kleinbauer believes Santa Tecla and San Lorenzo to have been “nearly coeval” (p. 16). 182 Chap. 18 (my emphasis); see also chap. 14. The translation is that of A. Robertson, “Select Writings and Letters of Athanasius,” in The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 2d ser., vol. 4 (Edinburgh, 1891; repr. 1992). 183 “Constantius II,” JbAC 2 (1959): 162–79, esp. 176. 184 Socrates, HE 3.2 and Sozomen, HE 5.7. 185 Titulus Silvestri, in Davis, Book of the Pontiffs, 25 f. 186 Davis, Book of the Pontiffs, xxvi. 187 Ibid.

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In addition, Sozomen, when treating the progress of Christianity under the sons of Constantine, stated that “the greatest possible care was bestowed upon the houses of prayer, those which had been defaced by time were repaired, and others were erected from the foundations in a style of extraordinary munificence. The church of Emesa is one most worthy to see and famous for its beauty.” 188 Since Constantius was the only son of Constantine to rule over the East, this impressive church at Emesa must have been built by him. Moreover, as R. P. C. Hanson has noted, there existed a strong link between this emperor and Emesa, since the latter’s bishop, Eusebios, had “accompanied the Emperor Constantius on one of his Parthian campaigns (either 342–50 or 357–60, with probability inclining to the latter).” 189 It is also probable that Constantius put the finishing touches to Constantine’s embellishment of the “tomb of Christ” in Jerusalem. There is broad scholarly consensus—with one notable exception—that attributes the rotunda or anastasis surrounding the edicule of the “tomb of Christ” to one of the sons of Constantine,190 in all probability Constantius,191 since Jerusalem would have fallen under his jurisdiction following the division of the empire after Constantine’s death in 337. In short, in Alexandria, Antioch, Constantinople, Emesa, Jerusalem, Milan, and Naples, Constantius erected testimonies to his eujse´ beia, one of the new virtues the ruler of an increasingly Christian Roman Empire was required to display in order to be viewed by contemporaries and posterity alike as a good ruler. There remains to be discussed only Constantius’ building projects on the eastern frontier. Ammianus writes of Amida (on the upper Tigris): “This city was once very small, but Constantius, when he was still Caesar, in order that the neighbours (accolae) might have a secure place of refuge, at the same time as he built another city called Antoninupolis, surrounded Amida with strong walls and towers; and by establishing there an armoury of mural artillery, he made it a terror to the enemy, and wished it to be called after his own name.” 192 Constantius’ fortification of Amida and refounding of Antoninupolis have been correctly viewed by modern scholars “as the culmination of Diocletian’s 188 HE 3.17.3; trans. C. D. Hartranft, “Sozomen’s Ecclesiastical History,” in The Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers, 2d ser., vol. 2 (Edinburgh 1957), 297. 189 Hanson, Christian Doctrine of God, 388. 190 E.g., E. Wistrand, “Konstantins Kirche am Heiligen Grab in Jerusalem nach den ¨altesten literarischen ˚ rsskrift 58.1 (1952): 21; K. J. Conant, “OrigiZeugnissen,” Acta Universitatis Gotoburgensis, Go¨teborgs Ho¨gskolas A nal Buildings at the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem,” Speculum 31 (1956): 1–48, esp. 47; C. Cou ¨ asnon, The Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, Schweich Lectures of the British Academy (London, 1972), 14–17; J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels to the Holy Land, rev. ed. (Jerusalem-Warminster, 1981), 40; J. E. Taylor, Christians and Holy Places (Oxford, 1993), 114, esp. n. 2, 121, esp. n. 13; C. Mango, “The Pilgrim’s Motivation,” in Akten ¨r Christliche Archa¨ologie (Munster, 1995), 1:1–9, esp. 5 n. 18. The notable des XII. Internationalen Kongresses fu exception is M. Biddle, The Tomb of Christ (Oxford, 1999), 69 and 149 n. 82. 191 S. Gibson and J. E. Taylor, Beneath the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, Palestine Exploration Fund Monograph (London, 1994), 77: “the Anastasis was most likely constructed during the latter part of the reign of Constantius (A.D. 337–361), who consolidated the programme of Christianisation and church building begun by his father Constantine”; and more recently, W. E. Kleinbauer, “The Anastasis Rotunda and Christian Architectural Invention,” Journal of the Centre for Jewish Art 23/24 (1988): 140–46, esp. 144 and 146. 192 Ammianus, 18.9.1. For Constantius’ fortification of Amida, see also the Chronicle of 724 and the Chronicle of 846; and those of Jacob of Edessa, Pseudo-Dionysios, and Michael the Syrian, all of whom appear to have drawn on the Chronicle of Edessa. For Antoninupolis (perhaps renamed Constantia by Constantius and later called Tella), see the Chronicle of Edessa and its dependents. On these eastern frontier fortresses, see most recently, R. W. Burgess, “Studies in Eusebian and Post-Eusebian Chronology,” Historia Einzelschriften 135 (Stuttgart, 1999): 275 ff.

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fortification of the frontier.” 193 Amida was the lynchpin of the Roman defense on the northeastern front. Any invading army would have to take it by siege or risk leaving a heavily fortified enemy position at its rear. The city’s significance (and strength) is attested by the efforts Sapor went to in investing it,194 the losses the Persian army suffered in taking it,195 and the dismay felt by the Romans at having lost it.196 (Antoninupolis, L. Dillemann has suggested, was probably meant more as a defense against troublesome Arab nomads than against the Persian army.)197 Nor were Amida and Antoninupolis the only eastern frontier forts constructed by Constantius. Jacob the Recluse, in his History, writes: “The Tur Abdin was in the midst of these lands (i.e., Mesopotamia) and (Constantius) built two great castles there to protect these countries against Persian bandits: he built one of them at the frontier of Bet Arabiae, on the top of a mountain, and the other on the Tigris, and he named it the castle of stone (Hesn-Kef) and he made it the chief city in the land of Arzon.” 198 As R. C. Blockley notes, “if these forts have been properly identified, the first would be part of the northern defences based on Amida, the second of the South based on Nisibis.” 199 Similarly in the East, Theophanes, in all likelihood drawing on a Syriac source, informs us that Constantius “founded a city in Phoenicia, which he named Constantia . . . it had previously been known as Antarados.” 200 In conclusion, I would argue that Constantius, like Augustus, embarked on an extensive building program for the same reasons that led his predecessor to leave Rome a city of marble as opposed to one of brick (as he had found it.) Regardless of the function of each individual building or monument, the mere prosecution of a building policy could in itself promote a positive image of the emperor; it revealed benevolentia, which itself was the hallmark of a bonus princeps or a fila´ nqrwpo" basileu´ " .201 Individual projects, on the other hand, could be undertaken by the emperor with a view to displaying his “love of his father” (as with the embellishment of Constantinople); or his piety and/or desire to ensure religious unity by making the clergy feel as obligated to him as they had done to his father202 (as with those churches he had built or completed at Constantinople, Anti193 F. Millar, The Roman Near East (Cambridge, Mass., 1994), 209. See also R. C. Blockley, “Constantius II and Persia,” in C. Deroux, Studies in Latin Literature and Roman History 5 (1989, Brussels), 465–90; and C. S. Lightfoot, “The Eastern Frontier of the Roman Empire with Special Reference to the Reign of Constantius II” (D. Phil. thesis, Oxford, 1981). 194 See Ammianus, 19.2–15, 5.1–8, 7.1 ff. 195 Ibid., 19.6.3–13, 9.9. 196 Ibid., 20.11.4–5. 197 L. Dillemann, Haute Me´sopotamie orientale et pays adjacents. Contribution `a la ge´ographie historique de la re´gion, du Ve sie`cle avant l’e`re chre´tienne au IVe sie`cle de cette `ere (Paris, 1962), 77. 198 Trans. M. H. Dodgeon and S. N. C. Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier and the Persian Wars, A.D. 226–363 (London, 1991), 191. 199 Blockley, “Constantius II and Persia,” 473 n. 44. 200 A.M. 5838. The translation is that of C. Mango and R. Scott, The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor (Oxford, 1997), 63. 201 On an emperor’s liberalitas being demonstrated through building works, see F. Millar, The Emperor in the Roman World (London, 1977), 133 ff and 420 ff; and R. Krautheimer, “The Ecclesiastical Building Policy of Constantine,” in Constantino il Grande dall’antichita` all’umanesimo, Colloquio sul Cristianesimo nel mondo antico, vol. 2 (Macerata, 1993), 509–52, esp. 544 ff. 202 D. J. Geanakoplos, “Church Building and ‘Caesaropapism,’ A.D. 312–565,” GRBS 7 (1966): 167–86, concludes: “the emperor’s building of religious structures [from Constantine to Justinian] constituted an instrument not only for the furthering of imperial control over the church, but, through imperial insistence on ecclesiastical unity as reflected in the aims of their building policy, for promoting the ultimate aim of unity

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och, Milan, and Alexandria); or his martial prowess (as with the triumphal arches in Pannonia and Gaul, and again the obelisk in the Circus Maximus); or the glory, stability, and longevity of his reign (as with the vicennalia obelisk at Arles). In addition, sometimes considerations such as political expediency (as with the obelisk at Rome), practicality (as with the port at Seleucia and the bridge over the Pyramus), and military strategy (as with Amida and the other eastern forts and with the walls of Constantinople), also motivated the undertaking of a project. Nor, finally, ought we to exclude the possibility that Constantius, like Augustus, possessed a genuine, deep-seated passion for building, inherited from his father and characteristic of several Roman emperors. I would further argue that specifically with regard to Constantius perhaps more subtle forces were at play. For example, certain prestigious building projects no doubt provided him with a stage upon which he acted out his adventus and other important ceremonies. As noted at the start of this investigation, by far the vast majority of the buildings and monuments discussed above were constructed or erected in Constantius’ presence.203 For example, Constantius’ vicennalia and tricennalia games in the circus at Rome and Arles respectively took place in full view of his newly erected obelisks. The ecclesiastical councils at Milan and Antioch were held in the basilica of the former and Great Church of the latter, both of which Constantius had recently completed. Moreover, one can perhaps safely assume that Constantius’ visits to Constantinople were all marked by the opening or completion of a major new structure, be it the baths or the library or whatever.204 (The only exceptions to this rule were the building of the Caesareum at Alexandria and those works conducted by Montius under orders from Constantius at Ephesos.) It is highly probable, therefore, that an emperor who paid so much attention to detail when it came to court ceremony in general and an imperial adventus in particular, who took care not to spit or wipe his face in public and to bow as he passed under arches,205 also took great pains with the stage upon which he acted or the backdrop against which the scene was set. Constantius was, after all, a master of ceremony. Bodleian Library, Oxford of the empire itself ” (186). See, in addition, G. T. Armstrong, “Imperial Church Building and Relations, A.D. 315–565,” ChHist 36 (1967): 3–17. On the question of a possible relationship between the church foundations of Constantius and his ecclesiastical policy, see most recently W. Hagl, “Die Religionspolitik der Kaiser Constantin und Constantius II. im Spiegel kirchlicher Autoren,” in Christen und Heiden in Staat und Gesellschaft ´ (Munich, 1992), 103–29. des zweiten bis vierten Jahrhunderts, ed. G. Gottlieb and P. Barcelo 203 This was the norm during the 4th century. See MacMullen, 219: “Imperial building activity is concentrated where the emperor is resident, as if the machinery for far-flung subsidies was lacking.” 204 One would imagine that Constantius played a very active role in the enhancement of his father’s city. If circumstances dictated that he must be absent from the capital for much of his reign, one can be sure that he gave very specific orders as to what should be built in the city and where. After all, Constantius went to great personal lengths (despite his absence from the city) to ensure that Constantinople had the best rhetoricians—he picked Themistios for the job himself and ordered Libanios to move there—is it probable that he would have played a lesser part in shaping its physical appearance? 205 Ammianus, 16.10.9–10.

This is an extract from:

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Jerusalem, Antioch, Rome, and Constantinople: The Peter Cycle in the Oratory of Pope John VII (705–707) ANN VAN DIJK

n 1605 Pope Paul V ordered the east end of old St. Peter’s nave, the last section of the early Christian basilica still standing, destroyed to make way for the new church then under construction.1 Condemned along with the Constantinian structure were the many chapels it housed, among them the oratory of Pope John VII (705–707), a richly decorated chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary that occupied the east end of the church’s outermost north aisle.2 Unlike his sixteenth-century predecessors responsible for earlier demolition campaigns at the site, Pope Paul V provided for the preservation of “memoriae” from the old church, as well as for detailed documentation of the structure “in pictura et scriptura.” 3 The job of implementing these provisions fell to Giacomo Grimaldi, whose drawings and descriptions have provided scholars ever since with some of the most detailed information known about the early Christian basilica.4 Grimaldi was also instrumental in creating a type of museum in the crypt under the new St. Peter’s, known as the Vatican grottoes, consisting of painted views of the old church, as well as artifacts from its many altars and chapels.5

I

This article reworks material found in my doctoral dissertation, “The Oratory of Pope John VII (705–707) in Old St. Peter’s” (Johns Hopkins University, 1995), the research for which was funded by the Johns Hopkins University, the Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, and the Samuel H. Kress Foundation. For their generous help during the process of adapting the material for publication, I am especially grateful to: Beat Brenk, Adam Cohen, Herbert Kessler, Per Jonas Nordhagen, John Osborne, Valentino Pace, Erik Thunø, and the anonymous reviewers of my manuscript. 1 On the destruction of old St. Peter’s, see R. Krautheimer et al., Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae, vol. 5 (Vatican City, 1977), 184 f; J. H. Jongkees, Studies in Old St. Peter’s (Groningen, 1966), 41–43. 2 Van Dijk, “The Oratory of Pope John VII.” The location of the chapel is clearly marked as no. 114 on Tiberio Alfarano’s plan of old St. Peter’s: see Tiberius Alpharanus, De Basilicae Vaticanae Antiquissima et Nova Structura, ed. D. M. Cerrati, ST 26 (Vatican City, 1914), pl. 1, p. 179 ff, for a transcription of the plan’s legend, and p. 194 for the oratory. On the date and origins of this plan, see P. Silvan, “Le origini della pianta di Tiberio Alfarano,” RendPontAcc 62 (1989–90): 3–23. 3 G. Grimaldi, Descrizione della basilica antica di S. Pietro in Vaticano: Codice Barberini latino 2733, ed. R. Niggl (Vatican City, 1972), 148. 4 ¨mischen Archa¨ologen und HistoriR. Niggl, “Giacomo Grimaldi (1568–1623): Leben und Werk des ro kers” (Ph.D. diss., Ludwig-Maximilians Universita¨t, 1971). 5 Ibid., 16, 36 f; van Dijk, “Oratory,” 9–32, with further bibliography.

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The destruction of the nave began soon after the demolition order was announced and proceeded from west to east; the oratory of John VII survived until 1609.6 Just before it came down, Grimaldi had numerous fragments of the mosaic and sculptural decoration taken to the Vatican grottoes to be preserved and exhibited, where many of them remain to this day.7 In addition, he commissioned a series of detailed studies of individual panels of the mosaic decoration, now kept in a volume of drawings known as the Album (Vatican Library, MS Archivio di S. Pietro A64 ter).8 He also composed a lengthy description of the oratory, illustrated with additional drawings, that is preserved in seven autograph manuscripts ranging in date from 1612 to 1621.9 Among the drawings illustrating Grimaldi’s description is one showing a Peter cycle: six scenes arranged in three registers narrating primarily apocryphal events from the apostle’s life (Fig. 1). Grimaldi clearly identifies the events depicted.10 Beginning with two images of Peter preaching in Jerusalem and Antioch, the action then moves to Rome and presents highlights from the apostle’s career in the imperial capital as recounted in two related hagiographic texts, a Passio of the two apostles, known in both Greek and Latin versions, and a Greek Acta.11 After an additional preaching scene, the encounter with and triumph over Simon Magus are recounted in two episodes: Peter, now joined by Paul, appearing with Simon Magus before Nero, followed by the magician’s flight and subsequent fall as a result of the apostles’ prayers. The cycle then closes with Peter and Paul’s ensuing martyrdom at the hands of Nero. Niggl, “Giacomo Grimaldi,” 39 f. For the history of the various fragments of the oratory’s decoration after their detachment, see M. Andaloro, “I mosaici dell’Oratorio di Giovanni VII,” in Fragmenta Picta: Affreschi e mosaici staccati del medioevo romano, ed. M. Andaloro et al. (Rome, 1989), 169–77; P. J. Nordhagen, “The Mosaics of John VII (705–707 A.D.),” ActaIRNorv 2 (1965): 121–66, repr. in idem, Studies in Byzantine and Early Medieval Painting (London, 1990), 58–130, esp. 62–82 (subsequent page references to this and the following article are to the reprints); idem, “A Carved Marble Pilaster in the Vatican Grottoes: Some Remarks on the Sculptural Techniques of the Early Middle Ages,” ActaIRNorv 4 (1969): 113–19, repr. in idem, Studies, 391–403; O. Etinhof, “I mosaici di Roma nella raccolta di P. Sevastianov,” BA 76, no. 66 (1991): 29–38. 8 Niggl, “Giacomo Grimaldi,” 40, 308. These drawings are published in S. Waetzoldt, Die Kopien des 17. Jahrhunderts nach Mosaiken und Wandmalereien in Rom (Vienna-Munich, 1964), cat. nos. 896–900, figs. 479–83. 9 Grimaldi’s description of the oratory forms part of two larger works, the Instrumenta autentica translationum sanctorum corporum et sacrarum reliquiarum e veteri in novam principis apostolorum basilicam (hereafter Instrumenta) and the Opusculum de sacrosancto Veronicae sudario ac lancea qua salvatoris nostri Iesu Christi latus patuit in vaticana basilica maxima veneratione asservatis (hereafter Opusculum). Although found in two separate works, Grimaldi’s description of the oratory is essentially a single text, albeit one that varies somewhat from manuscript to manuscript, allowing the reader to trace the author’s evolving thoughts on the monument: see van Dijk, “Oratory,” 14–33. Out of the seven surviving autograph manuscripts of these works, I have consulted four: two copies of the Opusculum (Vatican Library, MS Archivio di S. Pietro H3, dated 1618, and Florence, Bib. Naz. MS II-III-173, dated 1620) and two copies of the Instrumenta, both in the Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana (MS Barb. lat. 2732, dated 1612, and MS Barb. lat. 2733, dated 1619–20). The last of these manuscripts has been published in facsimile (see note 3 above), and in this edition the description of the oratory is found on pp. 105–13, 117–28, and 257–59. On the creation of the Instrumenta and for a full list of the surviving manuscripts of both works, see Niggl, “Giacomo Grimaldi,” 35 ff, 154–78, 182–205. 10 Grimaldi, Descrizione, 105, 117. 11 Both texts were compiled ca. 450–550 from earlier material. The texts are published in R. Lipsius and M. Bonnet, eds., Acta apostolorum apocrypha, vol. 1 (Darmstadt, 1959), 118–222; see also M. Erbetta, ed., Gli apocrifi del Nuovo Testamento, vol. 2 (Turin, 1966), 178–92; E. Hennecke and W. Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, trans. R. McL. Wilson et al., rev. ed., vol. 2 (Cambridge, 1992), 440–42; J. T. Shotwell and L. R. Loomis, The See of Peter (New York, 1927), 168–81. 6 7

1

Peter cycle in the oratory of John VII. Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica, Barb. lat. 2732, fol. 75v (photo: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana)

2

General view of the oratory of John VII. Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica, Barb. lat. 2733, fols. 94v–95r (photo: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana)

3

Christological cycle in the oratory of John VII. Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica, Barb. lat. 2732, fols. 76v–77r (photo: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana)

4

Mosaic fragment of St. Peter preaching, from the oratory of John VII. Vatican grottoes (photo: Reverenda Fabbrica di S. Pietro)

5a Appearance to the Apostles in Proskynesis, fresco. Rome, Sta. Maria Antiqua (photo: Istituto Centrale per il Catalogo e la Documentazione)

5b Tracing (photo: after Nordhagen, “Frescoes of John VII,” pl. XXXVI)

6

Mosaic fragment of Adoration of the Magi, from the oratory of John VII. Rome, Sta. Maria in Cosmedin (photo: Monumenti, Musei e Gallerie Pontificie Vaticane)

7

Peter and Paul fresco cycle. Müstair, St. Johann (photo: B. Brenk)

8

9

Rome, Lateran Baptistery, detail of the bronze doors of Celestine III for the Chapel of St. John the Evangelist (photo: after Iacobini, “Porte bronzee,” fig. 22)

Miracle of the Quails. Rome, Sta. Maria Maggiore (photo: Monumenti, Musei e Gallerie Pontificie Vaticane)

10 Slaying of the Firstborn Egyptians, copy of a fresco formerly in Rome, S. Paolo fuori le mura. Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica, Barb. lat. 4406, fol. 56r (photo: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana)

11 Slaying of the Firstborn Egyptians, copy of a fresco formerly in Rome, S. Paolo fuori le mura. Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica, Barb. lat. 4406, fol. 62r (photo: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana)

12 Dispute of the Magi, detail. Grottaferrata, Monastery museum (photo: V. Pace)

13 Dispute of Peter, Paul, and Simon Magus before Nero. Müstair, St. Johann (photo: Susanne Fibbi-Aeppli)

14 Flight and Fall of Simon Magus. Tuscania, S. Pietro (photo: Istituto Centrale per il Catalogo e la Documentazione)

15 Dispute of Peter, Paul, and Simon Magus before Nero, Fall of Simon Magus. Monreale, Cathedral (photo: Alinari/Art Resource, NY)

16 Paul preaching in Rome. Müstair, St. Johann (photo: B. Brenk)

17 Paul preaching in the synagogue, copy of a fresco formerly in Rome, S. Paolo fuori le mura. Vatican, Biblioteca Apostolica, Barb. lat. 4406, fol. 92r (photo: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana)

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Grimaldi informs us that these images were made of mosaic and that they were found on the north (i.e., side) wall of the oratory, thus secondary in position and importance to the more extensive christological cycle on the east wall (Fig. 2). The christological cycle was arranged around a regal and imposing image of the Virgin Mary in orant pose, to whom the smaller figure of John VII was represented offering a model of the oratory (Fig. 3). Directly below, a type of ciborium supported by two twisted vine scroll columns sheltered the altar, in front of which John VII was buried. In the lower sections of wall beneath the mosaics, sheets of gray and white stone revetment alternated with vertical acanthus scroll friezes. The richness of the decoration suggests that John VII intended to impress viewers by its opulence, an intention that the pope’s epitaph confirms: “Previous squalor removed, he brought together splendor from all parts, so that posterity might be amazed by the lavishness.” 12 The surviving fragments of the oratory also testify to the richness of its decoration, as well as to the general accuracy of Grimaldi’s documentation. Still preserved at St. Peter’s are the twisted vine scroll columns and the acanthus scroll friezes, beautifully carved spolia from the Severan period.13 Eight fragments of the gold ground mosaics also survive, corroborating Grimaldi’s record of the pictorial decoration.14 With one exception, however, the mosaic fragments all come from the oratory’s east wall and include the large central figure of Mary, the bust of John VII, and pieces from the Nativity, Adoration of the Magi, and Entry into Jerusalem. The exception is a small, heavily restored fragment, showing the bust of Peter from the scene of the apostle preaching in Rome, the sole physical survival from the mosaics on the north wall (Fig. 4).15 The studies in the Album display a similar bias, recording only christological scenes. In comparison to the christological cycle, therefore, the evidence for the Peter cycle is meager. Grimaldi commented on the poor state of these mosaics’ preservation which may account for the relative lack of interest in them in the seventeenth century.16 The result, however, is that today the drawing and description in the Grimaldi manuscripts are the only sources of information about these mosaics. This situation is likely the reason why scholars of the oratory have rarely devoted more than a sentence or two to this feature of the decoration. Of those who mention the 12 “Hic decus omne loco, prisco squalore remoto, / Contulit, ut stupeat prodiga posteritas. . . .” The epitaph is published in W. Levison, “Aus Englischen Bibliotheken II,” in NA 35 (Hannover-Leipzig, 1910; repr. 1985), 363 f. For a full translation, see van Dijk, “Oratory,” 116. 13 The twisted vine scroll columns are currently in the Chapel of the Sacrament, as Cerrati first noted in his commentary to Alpharanus, De Structura, 55; on these columns see also van Dijk, “Oratory,” 108–15. On the acanthus scroll friezes, see ibid., 98–103; Nordhagen, “Pilaster,” 113–19, 391–403; J. M. C. Toynbee and J. B. Ward Perkins, “Peopled Scrolls: A Hellenistic Motif in Imperial Art,” PBSR 18 (1950): 20 f, 23. 14 Andaloro, “Mosaici,” 169–77; Nordhagen, “Mosaics,” 58–130; Etinhof, “Mosaici di Roma,” 29–38. For a detailed assessment of the accuracy of Grimaldi’s documentation of the oratory’s christological cycle, see van Dijk, “Oratory,” 42–77; P. J. Nordhagen, “The Integration of the Nativity and the Annunciation to the Shepherds in Byzantine Art,” in Acts of the Twenty-Second International Congress on the History of Art, Budapest, 1969, vol. 1 (Budapest, 1972), 253–57, repr. in idem, Studies, 318–25. 15 Nordhagen, “Mosaics,” 79 f, cat. no. 8. Grimaldi mentions that the fragment was taken from the scene of Peter preaching to the Romans, and when Francesco Maria Torrigio wrote the first guide to the Vatican grottoes, the fragment still retained its ROMA inscription: see Grimaldi, Descrizione, 117; F. M. Torrigio, Le sacre grotte vaticane (Viterbo, 1618), 78. 16 The comment is found in the Opusculum manuscript of 1618, Vatican Library, MS Archivio di S. Pietro H3, fols. 21v–22r: see Grimaldi, Descrizione, 40 n.41.

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Peter cycle at all, most have assumed that it was an original feature of the oratory’s decoration but have expended little or no energy on demonstrating that the assumption is a valid one.17 The only exceptions are Guglielmo Matthiae and William Tronzo who, however, took opposing points of view on the subject.18 Arguing on the side of tradition, Matthiae attempted to draw stylistic comparisons between Grimaldi’s drawing of the Peter cycle and the surviving frescoes John VII commissioned in Sta. Maria Antiqua. Tronzo, on the other hand, pointed out a number of disturbing anomalies in the Peter cycle drawing in order to argue that these mosaics were not an original component of the oratory’s decoration but a later addition, possibly dating to the twelfth century. Tronzo concluded that in fact none of the decoration of the north wall was original, and that the oratory initially consisted only of the decoration of the east wall. Neither Matthiae’s nor Tronzo’s argument is entirely convincing, although both made important observations that need to be factored into any assessment of the Peter cycle. While the poor state of the evidence makes it unlikely that it will ever be possible to provide definitive answers to the questions the Peter cycle poses, this essay examines the issue afresh with the aim of proposing a new and hopefully more satisfactory solution to the puzzle.19 There is no inherent reason why John VII could not have included a Peter cycle in the decoration of his oratory. Already in the early Christian period, pictorial hagiographic narratives decorated the walls of churches and other structures in Rome. Two scenes illustrating the martyrdom of three unknown saints, dating to the second half of the fourth century, survive in the Christian community house underneath SS. Giovanni e Paolo on the Coelian hill, and by the fifth century an extensive fresco cycle illustrating the life of St. Paul decorated the left nave wall of St. Paul’s Outside the Walls.20Also dating A. Weis, “Ein Petruszyklus des 7. Jahrhunderts im Querschiff der Vatikanischen Basilika,” RQ 58 (1963): 244–48; C. K. Carr, “Aspects of the Iconography of Saint Peter in Medieval Art of Western Europe to the Early Thirteenth Century” (Ph.D. diss., Case Western Reserve University, 1978), 146 ff passim; J. Wilpert and W. N. Schumacher, Die ro¨mischen Mosaiken der kirchlichen Bauten vom IV.–XIII. Jahrhundert (Freiburg in Breisgau, 1976), 332–34; L. Eleen, The Illustration of the Pauline Epistles in French and English Bibles of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (Oxford, 1982), 9. 18 G. Matthiae, Pittura romana del Medioevo, 2d ed., vol. 1 (Rome, 1987), 104 f; W. Tronzo, “Setting and Structure in Two Roman Wall Decorations of the Early Middle Ages,” DOP 41 (1987): 489–92. 19 While beyond the scope of this study, a thorough technical analysis of the surviving fragment of the Peter cycle might yield valuable evidence for resolving the question of date. The brief comments in Nordhagen, “Mosaics,” 79 f, cat. no. 8 are the only discussion of this type. It is to be hoped that such an analysis will be carried out in the future. 20 On the hagiographic scenes under SS. Giovanni e Paolo, see J. Wilpert, Die ro¨mischen Mosaiken und Malereien der kirchlichen Bauten vom IV. bis XIII. Jahrhundert (Freiburg im Breisgau, 1916), 2:633 f, 4: pl. 127 f; A. M. Colini, “Storia e topografia del Coelio,” Atti della Pontificia Accademia Romana di Archeologia, ser. 3, Memoria 7 (1944): 177–79; L. Jessop, “Pictorial Cycles of Non-Biblical Saints: The Evidence of the 8th Century Mural Cycles in Rome” (Ph.D. diss., University of Victoria, 1993), 49–61. The remains of the cycle in St. Paul’s Outside the Walls perished in 1823 in the fire that destroyed the church. On this cycle see L. Eleen, “The Frescoes from the Life of St. Paul in San Paolo fuori le mura in Rome: Early Christian or Medieval?” RACAR 12 (1985): 251–59; H. Kessler, “‘Caput et Speculum Omnium Ecclesiarum’: Old St. Peter’s and Church Decoration in Medieval Latium,” in Italian Church Decoration of the Middle Ages and Early Renaissance: Functions, Forms and Regional Traditions, ed. W. Tronzo (Bologna, 1989), 122–24. The question of a corresponding Peter cycle (other than the one in the oratory of John VII) in old St. Peter’s is vexed. In the late 16th century, Giacomo Grimaldi noted the existence of a mosaic Peter cycle in very poor condition in the church’s right transept. It is possible that this cycle dated to the early medieval period and predated the Peter cycle in the oratory of John VII: see Weis, “Petruszyklus”; van Dijk, “Oratory,” 173–92, esp. 186–92. W. Tronzo, “The Prestige of St. Peter’s: Observations on the Function of Monumental Narrative Cycles in Italy,” in Pictorial 17

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to the fifth century is Prudentius’ description of a painting depicting the martyrdom of Hippolytos that he saw above the saint’s tomb in Rome.21 During the seventh and eighth centuries, however, this type of imagery appears to have become particularly popular.22 Frescoes illustrating the legend of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesos and the Martyrdom of St. Erasmus, now detached, originally adorned the walls of the first church of Sta. Maria in Via Lata. At Sta. Maria Antiqua, scenes of the Death of the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste are still visible in the left aisle and in the oratory of the Forty Martyrs, and a cycle devoted to the martyrdoms of SS. Quiricus and Julitta decorates the Theodotus chapel. Fragments of a hagiographic cycle depicting the martyrdom of St. Callixtus, bishop of Rome 217–222, adorn the chamber originally containing the saint’s tomb in the catacomb of Calepodius. All of these frescoes have been dated between the mid-seventh and the mid-eighth centuries, testifying to the practice of decorating Roman churches and other structures with narrative hagiographic imagery in the period around John VII’s pontificate.23 The increased incidence of this type of imagery at this particular time in Rome has been linked to a concurrent influx of Greek-speaking immigrants.24 Many of the surviving cycles depict eastern saints whose cult in Rome was either introduced by or strongly associated with members of the Greek-speaking population.25 Moreover, although no Narrative in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. H. Kessler and M. S. Simpson, Studies in the History of Art 16 (Washington, D.C., 1985), 105, suggested that a Peter cycle may have originally decorated the left nave wall of old St. Peter’s, corresponding to the Paul cycle in St. Paul’s, and that this cycle was replaced in the early Middle Ages by the christological cycle known from the 17th-century drawings, necessitating the creation of a new Peter cycle in the transept. However, H. L. Kessler, “Old St. Peter’s as the Source and Inspiration of Medieval Church Decoration,” in Studies in Pictorial Narrative (London, 1994), 455–57 rejected the possibility of an early Christian Peter cycle on the left wall of old St. Peter’s, arguing that since Peter’s biography begins in the Gospels, the christological narratives would have served, in part, to introduce the apostle and establish his role in sacred history. 21 The painting is described in Peristephanon liber, 11, lines 123–44: see Prudentius, ed. and trans. H. J. Thomson, vol. 2 (London-Cambridge, Mass., 1953), 312–15. For discussion of this text, see A.-M. Palmer, Prudentius on the Martyrs (Oxford, 1989), 248–50, 273–75; Jessop, “Non-Biblical Saints,” 28–30. 22 Jessop, “Non-Biblical Saints,” 64–111, 117–26; L. Jessop, “Pictorial Cycles of Non-Biblical Saints: The Seventh- and Eighth-Century Mural Cycles in Rome and Contexts for Their Use,” PBSR 47 (1999): 233–79 (hereafter Jessop, “Non-Biblical Saints” [1999]). 23 The Quiricus and Julitta cycle in Sta. Maria Antiqua is dated firmly to the pontificate of Zacharias (741–752): see G. B. Ladner, I ritratti dei papi nell’antichita` e nel medioevo (Vatican City, 1941–84), 1:101–3, 2:23–25. The two scenes from an Erasmus cycle in Sta. Maria in Via Lata have been dated to the same period on stylistic grounds: see M. R. Tosti-Croce, “Gli affreschi di Santa Maria in Via Lata,” in Fragmenta Picta (as above, note 7), 191. The Erasmus frescoes originally covered an earlier fresco layer with scenes from the legend of the Seven Sleepers, which have been dated to the 7th century: see ibid., 180 f. The two scenes of the Death of the Forty Martyrs of Sebaste in the left aisle of Sta. Maria Antiqua and in the oratory of the Forty Martyrs have been associated with other frescoes securely dated to the pontificate of Martin I (649–655) on the bases of style and paleography: see P. J. Nordhagen, “The Earliest Decorations in Santa Maria Antiqua and Their Date,” ActaIRNorv 1 (1962): 53, repr. in idem, Studies (as above, note 7), 167; idem, “The Frescoes of the Seventh Century,” ActaIRNorv 8 (1978): 133–35, 138 f, repr. in idem, Studies, 219 f, 221–23. For the Callixtus cycle in the catacomb of Calepodius, see A. Nestori, “La catacomba di Calepodio al III miglio dell’Aurelia vetus e i sepolcri dei papi Callisto I e Giulio I,” RACr 47 (1971): 169–278; J. Osborne, “The Roman Catacombs in the Middle Ages,” PBSR 53 (1985): 313–16. 24 Osborne, “Roman Catacombs,” 287–89; Jessop, “Non-Biblical Saints,” 131–40; Jessop, “Non-Biblical Saints” (1999). 25 J.-M. Sansterre, Les moines grecs et orientaux `a Rome aux ´epoques byzantine et carolingienne (milieu du VIe s.–fin du IXe s.), vol. 1 (Brussels, 1983), 147–62.

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early eastern hagiographic cycles survive, the textual evidence suggests that pictorial saints’ lives gained their greatest initial popularity in the eastern Mediterranean.26 John VII was himself Greek by birth.27 The inclusion of Greek inscriptions among the frescoes and on the ambo he commissioned in Sta. Maria Antiqua, as well as on the sarcophagus in which he was buried in his oratory, provide clear evidence that he identified himself with the Greek population in Rome.28 Given the circumstances of time, place, and patronage, therefore, the inclusion of a narrative cycle illustrating events from the life of St. Peter in the oratory of Pope John VII is entirely possible. Moreover, when placed side by side, the drawings of the two narrative cycles in John VII’s oratory display a number of shared features that suggest a common date of origin (Figs. 1, 3). Both cycles arrange the narrative in three superimposed registers, and both follow the same general pattern of simpler compositions, with fewer scenes per panel, in the upper registers and more complicated, polyscenic compositions in the bottom register. In particular, the reduced scale of the martyrdom scenes in the Peter cycle can be compared to the small scenes of the Raising of Lazarus, the Last Supper, and the Women at the Tomb in the upper corners of the bottom panels on the east wall. The compositions of some of the individual scenes in the two cycles are also closely related. The arrangement of figures in the Dispute of Peter, Paul, and Simon Magus before Nero closely duplicates the Adoration of the Magi, and the composition of the preaching scenes in the Peter cycle finds a parallel in two of the post-Resurrection scenes among the frescoes John VII commissioned in Sta. Maria Antiqua, the Incredulity of Thomas and the Appearance to the Apostles in Proskynesis.29 The latter especially, showing two groups of disciples kneeling to either side of the central standing figure of Christ, is almost identical to the composition of the preaching scenes in the oratory’s Peter cycle (Fig. 5). The inscriptions are a third common feature. Names positioned above the heads of the figures they identify appear in the drawings of both oratory cycles as well as in the frescoed christological cycle John VII commissioned in Sta. Maria Antiqua. Those differentiating the locations of the three preaching scenes also have parallels in the John VII material in Sta. Maria Antiqua; although they have largely disappeared now, at the beginning of the century J. Wilpert was able to distinguish the words [Cı´]VITAS [Em]MAUS identifying the city in the fresco of Christ’s Appearance at Emmaus in the presbytery and [Be]-TULIA in the scene of Judith and Holofernes on one of the transennae.30 Finally, narrative cycles in mosaic are relatively rare throughout the Middle Ages in Rome; therefore, the fact that both cycles in the oratory shared this medium has some significance. As Tronzo pointed out, however, placing the drawings of the two cycles side by side Jessop, “Non-Biblical Saints,” 30–41. The Liber Pontificalis describes John VII as “natione Grecus”: see Le Liber Pontificalis, ed. L. Duchesne and C. Vogel, 2d ed., vol. 1 (Paris, 1955–57), 385. 28 On the painted Greek inscription in Sta. Maria Antiqua, see P. J. Nordhagen, “The Frescoes of John VII (A.D. 705–707) in S. Maria Antiqua in Rome,” ActaIRNorv 3 (1968): 47 f, 121 f. On the Greek inscription adorning the ambo base, see G. McN. Rushforth, “S. Maria Antiqua,” PBSR 1 (1902): 89–91. On the Greek inscription adorning John VII’s sarcophagus, see Grimaldi, Descrizione, 259; van Dijk, “Oratory,” 28–31. 29 This was first noted by Matthiae, Pittura, 105. On the scenes in Sta. Maria Antiqua, see Nordhagen, “Frescoes of John VII,” 32 f, 35–38. 30 Wilpert, Mosaiken und Malereien, 2:267, 4: pl. 191; Nordhagen, “Frescoes of John VII,” 38, 70. 26 27

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reveals a number of discrepancies between them that need to be taken into account as well.31 One of the most eye-catching is Peter’s pronounced size relative to the other figures in the preaching scenes. Tronzo noted that while a similar scale discrepancy occurs in the central panel of the christological cycle, showing the Virgin Mary and John VII, in the individual scenes of the surrounding narrative cycle it occurs only as a means to indicate spatial, not hierarchical, relationships. The observation may be true of the drawing of the christological cycle; however, it is not borne out by the surviving mosaic fragments. In the fragment of the Adoration of the Magi, for example, the seated figure of Mary clearly dwarfs the relatively less important Joseph standing behind her (Fig. 6). The surviving fragments of the Nativity, moreover, indicate that the scale used for the midwives washing the Christ child in the foreground of the scene was approximately twothirds of that used for the figure of Mary reclining just behind them.32 Peter’s visual prominence on the oratory’s north wall, therefore, was closely matched by Mary’s on the east wall. More serious is Tronzo’s observation that the use of architecture to frame the individual scenes in the Peter cycle has no parallel in the christological cycle. This is not entirely true; architecture is used as a framing device in at least one instance in the christological cycle, the archway that separates the Presentation in the Temple from the Baptism. However, the distinctive form of the towers in the Peter cycle, with their tall, slender proportions, crenelated tops, and, relative to the figures, tiny doors and windows are unique to this cycle and find no parallels in any other John VII material. In fact, the closest comparison I have been able to find for both the form and the function of the architecture in the Peter cycle is the tower that separates the Decapitation of Paul from the Burial of the Apostles in the Peter and Paul cycle decorating the left apse at Mu ¨ stair, frescoes that 33 B. Brenk dated to the third quarter of the twelfth century (Fig. 7). In Rome, comparable towers with narrow windows and crenelated tops appear on the bronze doors Pope Celestine III (1191–98) commissioned for the chapel of St. John the Evangelist in the Lateran 31 Tronzo, “Setting and Structure,” 490 f. Some of Tronzo’s arguments, however, are less convincing. The “pronounced sway” he notes in the figures probably has more to do with conventions of drawing in the 17th century than the figure style of the mosaics the drawings copy. His comments about the “odd” placement of the Peter cycle on the north wall and the differences between decoration of the two walls also fail to convince for a number of reasons. First, these observations take into account neither the fairly amateurish quality of the drawings recording the mosaics’ placement in the oratory, nor the fact that they vary widely among themselves. Moreover, in contrast to the drawings of the individual narrative cycles which already appear in the first Grimaldi manuscript, the Instrumenta of 1612 (Vatican Library, MS Barb. lat. 2732: on the date of this manuscript, see van Dijk, “Oratory,” 14 n. 38), the earliest of those showing the whole chapel, and therefore the relationship of the various components of the decoration to each other, appears only six years later in the Opusculum of 1618 (Vatican Library, MS Archivio di S. Pietro H3, fols. 122v–123r) and thus some nine years after the chapel’s destruction. By that time such details as the precise placement of the Peter cycle on the north wall and the exact relationship of the decoration on the two walls to each other had probably receded from memory. Moreover, the surviving fragments of the lower wall revetment, the six acanthus scroll friezes currently in the Vatican grottoes, indicate that this part of the decoration of the two walls at least was coeval: see van Dijk, “Oratory,” 97–104; S. de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor: Liturgia e architettura nella Roma tardoantica e medievale, vol. 2, ST 356 (Vatican City, 1994), 572–74. 32 The head of Mary measures approximately 15 cm from chin to crown; that of the surviving midwife measures only 10 cm. 33 B. Brenk, Der romanische Wandmalerei in der Schweiz (Bern, 1963), 44–49, 61. Similar towers appear in the contemporary frescoes decorating the other two apses.

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baptistery, although in this case they form part of a gatelike structure (Fig. 8).34 The towers in the drawing of the oratory’s Peter cycle, therefore, provide some of the strongest evidence in support of Tronzo’s argument that this part of the decoration dated to the twelfth century. Also noteworthy is the distinction he drew between the borders of the two cycles, pointing out that the wide, inscribed border beneath the top register of the Peter cycle has no counterpart in the christological cycle. This same feature, however, constitutes an anomaly within the Peter cycle itself, which Tronzo failed to appreciate; in the bottom two registers the wide border disappears and the inscriptions appear within the scenes, just as they do in the christological cycle. How to account for this internal inconsistency? The most plausible explanation is one that no scholar has yet seriously entertained: that the Peter cycle experienced at least one major restoration during the course of its history. This is most evident in the inconsistent placement of the inscriptions, but restoration could also account for the unusual towers, which appear most prominently in the top register where they coincide with the anomalous inscribed borders. However, the crenelated structures are not confined to the top register; they also appear in the scene of Peter preaching in Rome, as well as in the bottom register, where a tower divides the Flight and Fall of Simon Magus from the martyrdom scenes. There are two possible explanations for this. One is that the restoration, and hence the crenelated towers, were in fact limited to the top register but that Grimaldi’s desire to impose a certain uniformity on the image of the Peter cycle resulted in the adoption of this particular form of architectural structure throughout. The other possibility is that the drawing accurately transcribes what was visible and that the restoration, therefore, while most extensive in the top register, also involved other parts of the mosaic. Lending weight to the latter possibility is the fact that the tower in the bottom register coincides with an aberration in the narrative—Peter and Paul turn their backs on the action of the scene they are supposed to be participating in—suggesting some intervention here as well. Based on the evidence provided by the drawing, therefore, it seems that any assessment of the Peter cycle must take into account an extensive restoration of the first two scenes, with possibly some lesser intervention in the lower registers as well. How plausible is this hypothesis? The restoration of churches is a task that many popes undertook, and the Liber Pontificalis is full of references to such activity. Although the text rarely specifies the nature or extent of these projects, other evidence indicates that they included the restoration of pictorial decoration. The best evidence for the type of restoration I am proposing comes from Sta. Maria Maggiore where at least one of the mosaic panels in the nave, the scene of the Miracle of the Quails, displays clear signs of intervention (Fig. 9). Both figure style and tesselation distinguish the three figures to the right both from those in the left half of the scene and from the rest of the cycle in general. A Carolingian date for the figures on the right, on stylistic grounds, is generally accepted.35 The presence of the monogram of Pope Hadrian I (772–795) in the apse of Sta. 34 A. Iacobini, “Le porte bronzee medievali del Laterano,” in Le porte di bronzo dall’antichita` al secolo XIII, ed. S. Salomi (Rome, 1990), 76–91. 35 While the fact of a Carolingian restoration of the nave mosaics of Sta. Maria Maggiore is generally accepted, the extent of the intervention has been hotly debated: see C. Bertelli, “Un antico restauro di Santa Maria Maggiore,” Paragone 63 (1955): 40–42; S. Spain Alexander, “Carolingian Restoration of the Mosaics

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Pudenziana, documented in a seventeenth-century drawing, provides further evidence of Carolingian mosaic restoration.36 The twelfth and thirteenth centuries are also periods for which mosaic restoration is known. Work was carried out on the apse mosaics of all three Constantinian basilicas— in St. Peter’s under Innocent III (1198–1216), in St. Paul’s under Honorius III (1216–27), and in the Lateran basilica under Nicholas IV (1288–92)—although to what extent the renewed apses reflected or even incorporated parts of the original mosaic decoration is debatable.37 Evidence for the restoration of narrative cycles survives from the thirteenth century as well, both in Rome and in nearby Grottaferrata, although in these cases the medium used was fresco. The best-known example is the restoration of the narrative cycles in the nave of St. Paul’s Outside the Walls, possibly carried out by Pietro Cavallini between ca. 1275 and ca. 1280.38 Fire destroyed the church in 1823, making it impossible now to gauge the exact nature and extent of the restoration; however, scholars have gleaned important information from the extensive series of studies made of individual scenes for Cardinal Francesco Barberini in 1635. Comparisons between the drawings of the Old Testament scenes in St. Paul’s and what is known about the corresponding cycle in St. Peter’s, which St. Paul’s copied, indicate that although the restorer appears to have abbreviated the early Christian cycle somewhat, he adhered quite faithfully both to the original choice of scenes and to their iconography. The existence among the drawings of two almost identical versions of the Slaying of the Firstborn Egyptians, one of which is early Christian and the other the work of the restorer, demonstrates this very clearly (Figs. 10, 11). At Grottaferrata, thirteenth-century frescoes in the nave showing Old Testament scenes were restored twice within fifty years of when they were painted.39 The first restoration consisted of overpainting “a secco” directly on top of the earlier frescoes, without the application of new intonaco. This restoration was carried out in the late thirteenth century by an artist in the circle of Pietro Cavallini, if not by Cavallini himself, and was evidently intended to update the imagery stylistically; the choice of scenes and iconography was not disturbed. The second restoration was a repair job occasioned by the insertion of Gothic windows ca. 1300 in the nave wall. In this case new intonaco was applied where the frescoes were damaged and the missing imagery replaced (Fig. 12). of S. Maria Maggiore in Rome,” Gesta 16 (1977): 13–22; P. J. Nordhagen, “The Archeology of Wall Mosaics: A Note on the Mosaics of Sta. Maria Maggiore in Rome,” ArtB 65 (1983): 323 f; S. Spain, “The Restoration of the Sta. Maria Maggiore Mosaics,” ibid., 325–28. 36 Waetzoldt, Kopien, 73. 37 ¨mische ApsisW. Oakeshott, The Mosaics of Rome (London, 1967), 24–30, 70–73; W. Schumacher, “Eine ro komposition,” RQ 64 (1959): 137–202; J. Wilpert, “La decorazione Constantiniana della basilica Lateranense,” RACr 6 (1929): 53–150; G. J. Hoogewerff, “Il mosaico absidale di S. Giovanni in Laterano ed altri mosaici romani,” RendPontAcc, ser. 3, 27 (1951–54): 297–326. 38 A. Tomei, Pietro Cavallini (Milan, 2000), 134–41; P. Hetherington, Pietro Cavallini: A Study in the Art of Late Medieval Rome (London, 1979), 81–106, with further bibliography. 39 V. Pace, “La chiesa abbaziale di Grottaferrata e la sua decorazione nel medioevo,” BollGrott 41 (1987): 47–87, repr. in idem, Arte a Roma nel medioevo. Committenza, ideologia e cultura figurativa in monumenti e libri (Naples, 2000), 417–97, esp. 453–90; M. Andaloro, “La decorazione pittorica medioevale di Grottaferrata e il suo perduto contesto,” in Roma Anno 1300, ed. A. M. Romanini (Rome, 1983), 253–66; M. Nimmo, “Proposta per un esame storico e tecnico del ciclo di Grottaferrata,” ibid., 289–91. For a summary of earlier `,” in Bonifacio VII e il suo tempo, ed. M. R. Tostiliterature, see T. Strinati, “Cinque storie della vita di Mose Croce (Milan, 2000), 200 f, cat. no. 155.

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Although the restoration jobs in St. Paul’s Outside the Walls and at Grottaferrata involved frescoes, there seems no reason why similar restoration work cannot be envisioned for a mosaic, given the renewed activity in this medium in Rome during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. If a restoration of the Peter mosaics in the oratory of John VII, based on the evidence just cited, is accepted as possible, when might it have occurred? An inscription in the oratory’s north wall, recording the translation of relics into the chapel during the pontificate of Hadrian I, provides evidence of Carolingian intervention in the vicinity of the Peter cycle. However, mosaic is a durable medium, and it seems unlikely that restoration would have been necessary so soon after the mosaics were made.40 The turn of the twelfth century is also a period for which new activity in the oratory of John VII is recorded; following the introduction of Veronica’s Veil into the chapel, Celestine III (1191–98) constructed a ciborium to house the relic, and Innocent III instituted a procession of the Veronica from St. Peter’s to the hospital of Santo Spirito.41 Moreover, the form of the towers in the Peter cycle also points to a date in the latter part of the twelfth century as indicated by the comparisons drawn above with the towers at Mu ¨ stair and on the bronze doors of Celestine III (Figs. 7, 8). It seems more probable, therefore, that restoration of the Peter cycle took place around this time as part of a larger project to refurbish the oratory for its new function as cult site of the most celebrated holy image in Rome.42 For those sections of the cycle that seem not to have been affected by restoration, that is, the Dispute before Nero, the left half of the Flight and Fall of Simon Magus, and the martyrdom scene, the evidence is consistent with an attribution to the patronage of John VII for the reasons already discussed above. Compositional elements of these scenes, as well as the form and placement of their inscriptions, find parallels both in the oratory’s christological cycle and in the surviving John VII material in Sta. Maria Antiqua. The Peter cycle displays the same overall visual structure as the christological cycle, and it shared the same mosaic medium. Finally, the frescoes preserved from Sta. Maria in Via Lata and in Sta. Maria Antiqua provide evidence for the decoration of churches and chapels with hagiographic narrative in this period. An examination of the iconography of these scenes lends some additional support to an early date. The second half of the Peter cycle in the oratory of John VII is closely related to a number of later monumental cycles, including both the eighth-century and the twelfth-century frescoes at Mu ¨ stair, the late eleventh-century frescoes in S. Pietro in Tuscania, and the twelfth-century cycles in Sta. Maria in Monte Domenico at Marcellina, the Cappella Palatina in Palermo, and the cathedral at Monreale.43 Also related are the The inscription is visible in Fig. 2. For a transcription and discussion, see Grimaldi, Descrizione, 106; van Dijk, “Oratory,” 17 f, 27 f, 31–33. The inscription is currently in the Vatican grottoes, in the Cappella delle Partorienti. 41 On the ciborium, see Grimaldi, Descrizione, 105–7 passim, 122 f; de Blaauw, Cultus et Decor, 669. On the institution of the procession, see Gesta Innocentii III, 144, PL 214:200–203; Innocent III, Epistula 10, 179, PL 215:1270 f. 42 This issue will be examined in detail in a study I am presently working on that deals with the later history of the oratory and its transformation into the Veronica chapel. 43 On the frescoes at Mu ¨ stair, see L. Birchler, “Zur karolingischen Architektur und Malerei in Mu ¨ nster¨hmittelalterliche Kunst in den Alpenla¨ndern, Akten zum III. Internationalen Kongress fu Mu ¨ stair,” in Fru ¨ r Fru ¨ hmittelalterforschung (Olten-Lausanne, 1954), 220–25; Brenk, Romanische Wandmalerei, 44–49. On those in Marcellina: G. Matthiae, “Les fresques de Marcellina,” CahArch 6 (1952): 71 ff, esp. 78. On those in Tuscania: C.-A. Isermeyer, “Die mittelalterlichen Malereien der Kirche S. Pietro in Tuscania,” Kunstgeschichtliches Jahr40

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thirteenth-century frescoes that decorated the portico facade of old St. Peter’s and their copies in the upper church of S. Francesco in Assisi and the church of S. Piero a Grado near Pisa, although in many ways these monuments constitute a new and distinct iconographic phase.44 Despite the fact that a number of apocryphal texts exist giving differing accounts of the apostles’ activities in Rome, these pictorial cycles all follow the same version of the events as was depicted in the second half of the oratory cycle, including scenes of the Dispute of Peter and Paul with Simon Magus before Nero and the Flight and Fall of Simon Magus, and in many cases ending with representations of the apostles’ martyrdom.45 Almost identical representations of the Dispute appear in most of the cycles listed above, starting with the ninth-century frescoes at Mu ¨ stair (Fig. 13) and including the eleventh-century frescoes at Tuscania, the twelfth-century cycles at Mu ¨ stair, Marcellina, Palermo, and Monreale (Fig. 15), and the thirteenth-century frescoes at Pisa.46 As in the oratory cycle, Nero, attended by one or more guards, sits enthroned to one side of the composition, opposite the two standing figures of Peter and Paul. Simon Magus is always in the center; however, placed slightly nearer to Nero and the guards, and facing Peter and Paul as they do, the magician is clearly allied with the wicked emperor and placed in opposition to the apostles.47 The appearance of the scene among the ninth-century frescoes at Mu ¨ stair indicates the existence of this iconography already in the early medieval period, thus lending credence to the possibility that its appearance in the oratory of John VII belonged to the initial phase of the chapel’s decoration. However, the consistency with which the episode was represented in the later cycles prevents it from serving as proof for the early date of the version in the oratory. Somewhat more variation exists in depictions of the following scene, the Flight and Fall of Simon Magus, although the question of the relation of the image in the oratory to the other examples is complicated by the evidence of restoration work carried out on the mosaic. The scene appears in every one of the comparative monuments listed above, although the ninth-century image at Mu ¨ stair is largely obscured by the twelfth-century buch der Bibliotheca Hertziana 2 (1938): 289 ff, esp. 294 f; O. Demus, Romanesque Mural Painting, trans. M. Whittall (London, 1970), 301 f. On the Sicilian mosaics: O. Demus, The Mosaics of Norman Sicily (New York, 1950), 46, 118–20, 294–99; E. Kitzinger, The Mosaics of Monreale (Palermo, 1960), 33–50; E. Borsook, Messages in Mosaic: The Royal Programs of Norman Sicily (1130–1197) (Oxford-New York, 1990), 29–31, 59–61. 44 On the portico cycle, see Grimaldi, Descrizione, 164, 167–78; J. Wollesen, Die Fresken von San Piero a Grado (Bad Oeynhausen, 1977), 105–12. On S. Piero a Grado: ibid. On Assisi: H. Belting, Die Oberkirche von San Francesco in Assisi (Berlin, 1977), 56 f, 91, 133 f, pls. 5, 49–52. On the relationship between the three, see also J. Wollesen, “Perduto e ritrovato: Una riconsiderazione della pittura romana nell’ambiente del papato di ` III (1277–1280),” in Roma Anno 1300 (as above, note 39), 345–47. Niccolo 45 For the textual sources, see note 11 above. 46 Birchler, “Mu ¨ nster-Mu ¨ stair,” 222–24; Isermeyer, “S. Pietro in Tuscania,” 94; Demus, Norman Sicily, 46, 118 f, 296, pls. 43b, 83; Borsook, Messages in Mosaic, 29–31, 59–61, pls. 54, 55, 76; Wollesen, S. Piero a Grado, 51–54, pl. 22. The scene in Marcellina is poorly preserved, and only the right half of the 12th-century version of the scene at Mu ¨ stair survives; however, in both cases what remains corresponds to the other images: see Matthiae, “Marcellina,” 78; Brenk, Romanische Wandmalerei, 44 f, fig. 20. Grimaldi, Descrizione, 164, 179, also describes a scene of the Dispute among the portico frescoes of old St. Peter’s; however, his description is somewhat confused, and no illustration is provided as the scene had already been destroyed when Grimaldi wrote. 47 The images in Tuscania and Pisa include some additional figures and two dogs at the feet of Simon Magus, by which the image refers to a specific moment in the rather long dispute recorded in the apocryphal texts. These figures, however, are inserted into an iconographic framework that is otherwise identical to that of the other examples cited.

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version of the same scene painted on top of it.48 In this case, the apocryphal text is quite explicit in describing the episodes, mentioning many details that aided in visualizing the scene.49 For example, the text states that Simon Magus launched his flight from a tall tower made of wood and that winged demons carried him through the air. The roles of the two apostles are also distinguished; Paul knelt in prayer while Peter commanded the “angels of Satan” to let the magician fall. Consequently, in most representations, such as the fresco in S. Pietro in Tuscania (Fig. 14), a tall tower of scaffolding dominates the scene. The figures of Paul kneeling and Peter with one arm raised appear to one side while an enthroned Nero observes from the other. Where the representations differ is in the depiction of Simon Magus. Like the drawing of this scene in the oratory, the fresco in S. Pietro in Tuscania shows the magician twice, once above the tower, borne aloft by two small winged demons, and the second time at the foot of the tower, plummeting to his death. The inclusion of two figures of Simon Magus appears to be characteristic of an early iconographic phase; in addition to the eleventh-century frescoes at Tuscania, the same iconography appears in the late tenth-century Antiphonary of Pru ¨ m (Paris, Bibl. Nat., MS lat. 9448, fol. 54v).50 By contrast, in the twelfth- and thirteenth-century representations of this scene, such as the one at Monreale (Fig. 15), the magician appears only once, either flying or falling but not both. The appearance of two figures of Simon Magus in the oratory’s version of this scene clearly ally it with the earlier phase of the iconography. The final scene in the oratory, showing the Crucifixion of Peter and the Decapitation of Paul, appears in only five of the related monumental cycles: the twelfth-century cycles at Mu ¨ stair and Monreale and the thirteenth-century frescoes in old St. Peter’s, Assisi, and Pisa.51 However, the incidence of these two scenes is not confined to narrative cycles; they also appear as isolated motifs, primarily in liturgical manuscripts, making the body of comparative material considerably larger than for the other scenes.52 While there are many variations in the depiction of Peter’s crucifixion showing little in the way of a discernable pattern, the opposite is true for representations of the Decapitation of Paul, as Luba Eleen demonstrated in her detailed study of the subject.53 Images of the Decapitation of Paul made in western Europe (with the exception of Italy) consistently show the apostle facing his executioner, but the moment depicted changes over time; until ca. 1100 the moment before the execution is depicted, but from the twelfth century on Paul Matthiae, “Marcellina,” 78; Isermeyer, “S. Pietro in Tuscania,” 94; Demus, Norman Sicily, 46, 118 f, 299, pl. 83; Kitzinger, Monreale, 42; Borsook, Messages in Mosaic, 29–31, 59–61, pls. 55, 56, 76; Grimaldi, Descrizione, 167, fig. 64; Wollesen, S. Piero a Grado, 55–57, pl. 25; Belting, Oberkirche, pl. 50a; Birchler, “Mu ¨ nsterMu ¨ stair,” 224 f; Brenk, Romanische Wandmalerei, 46, fig. 23. 49 The story is recounted in chaps. 48–56 of the Passio and chaps. 70–77 of the Acta: see Lipsius and Bonnet, Acta apostolorum, 1:160–67, 207–11; Shotwell and Loomis, See of Peter, 175 f; Erbetta, Apocrifi, 2:189 f. 50 A. Goldschmidt, German Illumination, vol. 2 (New York, n.d.), 17, pl. 68; Eleen, Pauline Epistles, 22, fig. 33. 51 Brenk, Romanische Wandmalerei, 47, fig. 22; Demus, Norman Sicily, 46, 118 f, pls. 77a, 81; Kitzinger, Monreale, 36; Borsook, Messages in Mosaic, 29–31, 59–61, pls. 74, 78, 79; Grimaldi, Descrizione, 169, 171, figs. 66, 67; Wollesen, S. Piero a Grado, 60–75; pls. 28, 35; Belting, Oberkirche, 91, pls. 5bc, 50b, 51a. Doubtless the scenes also appeared in the 9th-century frescoes at Mu ¨ stair; however, they remain covered by the later layer, and their iconography is unknown. 52 Eleen, Pauline Epistles, 22 f, 103 f; Wollesen, San Piero a Grado, 60–75, table 4; Carr, “Iconography of St. Peter,” 160–62. 53 Eleen, Pauline Epistles, 9, 22 f, 103 f. 48

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regularly appears already headless. By contrast, Byzantine representations consistently show the executioner standing behind Paul and the moment before execution. The series of cycles to which the oratory is related seems to represent a hybrid of these two traditions; as in the Byzantine images, the executioner stands behind the apostle, but following the western tradition, the moment depicted changes over time. In the later examples, starting with the twelfth-century images at Mu ¨ stair (Fig. 7) and Monreale, the executioner’s work is already completed. Showing Paul still alive, the image in the oratory of John VII thus again appears to belong to an earlier phase of the iconographic tradition than the twelfth-century images at Mu ¨ stair and Monreale. Iconographic analysis cannot provide conclusive proof that the scenes in the second half of the Peter cycle in the oratory of John VII date to the early eighth century. However, through the isolation of two important iconographic details—the inclusion of two figures of Simon Magus in the scene of his flight and the depiction of the moment before Paul’s decapitation—it does indicate quite clearly that the cycle belongs to an earlier rather than later medieval iconographic tradition, and one that certainly predates the twelfth century. Therefore, while the state of the evidence is such that any conclusions drawn from it must remain tentative, analysis of the iconography in conjunction with the internal and external criteria discussed above support the notion that from the beginning the decoration of John VII’s oratory included a hagiographic cycle illustrating Peter and Paul’s activities in Rome that incorporated scenes of the apostles’ conflict with and triumph over Simon Magus and concluded with their ensuing martyrdom at the hands of Nero. The question of the Peter cycle’s original opening scenes is more complicated. Did the restorers respect the original choice of subject matter and adhere more or less to the original iconography, as appears to have been the case in the restorations at Sta. Maria Maggiore, St. Paul’s Outside the Walls, and Grottaferrata discussed above? Or did they alter the cycle to bring it in line with new programmatic aims? Despite the distinctive towers and inscribed border, the existence of parallels to the preaching scenes’ pictorial composition and inscription texts (if not their placement) among the John VII frescoes in Sta. Maria Antiqua could suggest that the restorers made relatively few and superficial changes to the iconography of the original scenes. On the other hand, there is a clear juncture between the preaching scenes and those following that divides the cycle into two distinct sections, making for a somewhat disjointed narrative. In the second half of the cycle, Peter and Paul appear and act together, and the pictorial narrative corresponds closely both to the hagiographic text on which it is based and to the later cycles discussed above. By contrast, the first three scenes of the oratory cycle spotlight Peter alone, and the repetition of the three preaching scenes in Jerusalem, Antioch, and Rome has no parallel in any other written or visual source. These observations could suggest that the cycle’s first three scenes represent an alteration by the mosaics’ restorers of what was originally a more uniform narrative, closer to the apocryphal text, and illustrating the joint activities of the apostles in Rome throughout. To resolve the problem it is necessary to look a little more closely at this unusual trio of scenes. Unlike the rest of the cycle, the first two scenes, showing Peter preaching in Jerusalem and Antioch, both have some basis in the Bible. In the case of Peter in Jerusalem the basis is firm; starting with the events at Pentecost (Acts 2:14 ff), the book of Acts records

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numerous occasions on which Peter preached in Jerusalem, and it is there that he makes his final appearance in the text (Acts 15:7–11) before the focus of the narrative turns to the activities of Paul. The biblical case for Peter preaching in Antioch is somewhat more tenuous; although Paul mentions a meeting between the two apostles in that city in Galatians 2:11 f, he makes no reference to Peter preaching. The passage in Galatians, however, early gave rise to an elaborate apocryphal career of the apostle in Antioch.54 The pseudo-Clementine Recognitions describes an encounter between the apostle and Simon Magus there as well as the conversion of a house into a church “in qua Petro apostolo constituta est ab omni populo cathedra.” 55 Originally written in Greek, the Recognitions were translated into Latin by Rufinus (ca. 345–410/411) whereupon they became increasingly popular in the West. Also influential were Eusebios’ Chronological Canons, translated and updated by Jerome, which attribute the foundation of the church of Antioch to Peter.56 Statements to the same effect appear in the letters of Popes Leo I and Gregory I; the former makes specific reference to the apostle preaching in that city as well.57 Peter’s occupation of the episcopal seat of Antioch was included in the apostle’s biography in the Liber Pontificalis when the work was compiled ca. 545.58 In fact, the text of the Liber Pontificalis provides a fairly close parallel to the oratory’s Peter cycle as a whole, mentioning many of the same events that the mosaics illustrated. For example, the vita recounts that after Peter left Antioch, the apostle came to Rome in the time of Nero: “St. Peter, the apostle and prince of the apostles, an Antiochene, . . . first occupied the episcopal cathedra at Antioch for seven years. Peter went to Rome when Nero was Caesar and there he occupied the episcopal cathedra 25 years 2 months 3 days.” 59 Peter’s preaching activities in Rome are emphasized, as are his disputes with and triumph over Simon Magus: “He ordained two bishops, Linus and Cletus, to be present in Rome to provide the entire sacerdotal ministry for the people and for visitors; while Peter himself was free to pray and preach, to teach the people. He held many debates with Simon Magus, both before the emperor Nero and before the people, because Simon was using magical tricks and deceptions to scatter those whom Peter had gathered into Christ’s faith. When their 54 G. Downey, A History of Antioch in Syria from Seleucus to the Arab Conquest (Princeton, N.J., 1961), 583–86; Shotwell and Loomis, See of Peter, 96–100, 112–16. 55 Pseudo-Clement, Recognitiones, 10.68–71, PG 1:1452 f; Erbetta, Apocrifi, 2:226 ff, esp. 235 f, and for commentary, 211–14. 56 Eusebios’ work survives only in later versions and translations by various authors, the earliest and, according to A. M. Mosshammer, the most accurate of which is Jerome’s: see A. M. Mosshammer, The Chronicle of Eusebius and Greek Chronographic Tradition (Lewisburg, Pa.-London, 1979), 29–83. Under the year A.D. 42, Jerome’s chronicle reads, “Petrus apostolus cum primus Antiochenam ecclesiam fundasset Romam mittitur, ubi evangelium praedicans .XXV. annis eiusdem urbis episcopus perseverat”: see R. W. O. Helm, Die Chronik des Hieronymus, 2d ed., Eusebius Werke, vol. 7, GCS 47 (Berlin, 1956), 179. 57 Leo I, Epistula 119, 1, PL 54:1042 (foundation of churches of Rome and Antioch); idem, Epistula 106, 5, PL 54:1007 f (preaching in Antioch); Gregory I, Registrum Epistolarum, 7.37, ed. D. Norberg, CCSL 140 (Turnhout, 1982), 501. Reference to Peter’s foundation of the church at Antioch may even have appeared in the mosaics. The drawing of the Peter cycle in Vatican Library, MS Barb. lat. 2733, fol. 89r (Grimaldi, Descrizione, fig. 38) shows a small church in the background of the scene in Antioch; however, in the earliest surviving version of this illustration, reproduced here in Fig. 1, the church does not appear. 58 Liber Pontificalis, 1:118 for the text; 1:xxxiii–xlviii, ccxxxf, 3:3–9 on the date. 59 The Book of Pontiffs (Liber Pontificalis): The Ancient Biographies of the First Ninety Roman Bishops to AD 715, trans. and intro. R. Davis (Liverpool, 1989), 1.

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disputes had lasted a long time, Simon was struck down by God’s will.” 60 The text closes with a statement of Peter and Paul’s joint martyrdom and Peter’s burial near the site of his crucifixion: “he was crowned with martyrdom along with Paul in the 38th year after the Lord suffered. He was buried . . . close to the place where he was crucified . . . on the Vatican . . . on 29 June.” 61 The summary account of the apostle’s life in the Liber Pontificalis cannot be considered a textual source for the oratory’s Peter cycle; it lacks many of the narrative details from the apocryphal texts illustrated in the mosaics’ Simon Magus and martyrdom scenes. However, it puts emphasis on most of the same aspects of the story that are portrayed in the pictorial cycle, including Peter’s activities in Antioch and his preaching in Rome. Furthermore, while the text in the Liber Pontificalis is a Petrine narrative, like the oratory cycle it includes Paul in the story by mentioning his martyrdom along with Peter’s, indicating how inextricably entwined the lives of the two apostles were in Roman tradition.62 Offering an early medieval textual counterpart to the oratory’s Peter cycle that allows one to bridge the two halves of the narrative depicted in Grimaldi’s drawing, the biography of Peter in the Liber Pontificalis lends credibility to the notion that from the beginning the pictorial cycle may have opened with earlier versions of the preaching scenes that Grimaldi recorded in the first three panels. The pictorial evidence points toward the same conclusion. The closest iconographic relative to the first three scenes in the oratory’s Peter cycle is the image of Paul preaching in Rome among the ninth-century frescoes at Mu ¨ stair, which follows the same compositional pattern of a central preaching figure flanked by auditors (Fig. 16).63 The image at Mu ¨ stair seems to have been derived from an image of Paul preaching in the synagogue that appears in cycles of narrative Acts imagery going back to the fifth-century frescoes in the nave of St. Paul’s Outside the Walls (Fig. 17).64 This material suggests that the scenes of Peter preaching in the oratory of John VII were the product of improvisation, ultimately patterned on a single image of Paul preaching in the synagogue. The immediate model, however, may have already adapted that iconography to show Paul preaching in Rome and appeared in a pictorial cycle more closely based on the apocryphal texts, like the cycle at Mu ¨ stair. It is more likely that the original creator of the oratory’s decoration was responsible for the improvisation than the restorer. Although no examples have survived, preaching imagery seems to have been fairly common in early medieval Rome. According to the Ibid., 2. Ibid. 62 Sedulius Scottus’ tituli for a pallium donated by Empress Irmingard (d. 851) to St. Peter’s provides a slightly later example of another cycle that emphasizes Peter alone in the early scenes, including his connection with Antioch, but switches its focus to the joint activities of Peter and Paul in Rome at the end: see MGH, Poetae latini aevi carolini, ed. L. Traube, vol. 3 (Berlin, 1896), 187 f; see also Sedulius Scottus, On Christian Rulers and The Poems, ed. and trans. E. G. Doyle, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies (Binghamton, N.Y., 1983), 121 f. For a discussion of this text and its relationship to the oratory cycle, see Weis, “Petruszyklus,” 252–55. 63 Birchler, “Mu ¨ nster-Mu ¨ stair,” 222. On this image see also H. L. Kessler, “An Apostle in Armor and the Mission of Carolingian Art,” Arte medievale 4.1 (1990): 26. 64 Ibid. On the frescoes in S. Paolo fuori le mura, see also Eleen, “Life of St. Paul,” 251–59. 60 61

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Liber Pontificalis, Leo III (795–816) donated a precious textile to St. Paul’s Outside the Walls “representing in the centre the Saviour and on the right and left SS. Peter and Paul preaching to the nations” and decorated ten of the apses of the second Lateran Triclinium with “various representations of the apostles preaching to the nations.” 65 Later in the ninth century, Leo IV (847–855) donated a textile to St. Peter’s decorated with an image of St. Peter preaching to the holy Roman church.66 By contrast, preaching imagery in the later Middle Ages is far more rare. For example, although the Romanesque artists largely replicated the ninth-century imagery when the frescoes at Mu ¨ stair were repainted in the twelfth century, the scene of Paul Preaching in Rome was replaced with an episode from the Dispute before Nero.67 Moreover, none of the other later cycles to which the Peter cycle in the oratory is related—at Tuscania, Marcellina, Palermo, Monreale, Assisi, and Pisa—include images of either apostle preaching.68 The evidence of preserved or recorded examples of preaching imagery, therefore, also points toward an early rather than later medieval context for the oratory’s preaching scenes. But perhaps the most arresting argument for considering the Peter cycle, the first three scenes included, an original part of the oratory’s decoration and a product of John VII’s patronage is a circumstantial one, because the imagery and the conception of papal behavior it presents correspond so closely with what we know about actual papal activity and aspirations around the time of John VII. Viewed as a whole, the imagery decorating the oratory of John VII served, at least in part, as a monumental project of self-promotion.69 The large central panel on the east wall presented “John, the unworthy bishop and servant of the holy mother of God,” in both word and image, following a biblically sanctioned tradition of gifts and service to the Virgin illustrated in the surrounding narrative scenes, especially the Annunciation, Visitation, Nativity, and Adoration of the Magi in the top register. As an original component of the oratory’s decoration, the Peter cycle on the adjacent north wall would have participated in this project but injected a political element into the program.70 Adorning the chapel with scenes from the life of his illustrious predecessor, John would have defined his own role as vica65 Liber Pontificalis, 2:10 f; trans. R. Davis, The Lives of the Eighth-Century Popes (Liber Pontificalis) (Liverpool, 1992), 196, 198. 66 Liber Pontificalis, 2:119: “habentem istoriam qualiter beatus Petrus praedicavit sanctam Romanam ecclesiam.” 67 Brenk, Romanische Wandmalerei, 45. 68 The only possible exception to that statement is an intriguing but enigmatic fresco that formerly decorated a walled-up window in the church of S. Andrea Catabarbara but is known today only through a 17thcentury watercolor (Windsor Castle, Royal Library, inv. no. 9164): see J. Osborne and A. Claridge, Early Christian and Medieval Antiquities: Mosaics and Wall Paintings in Roman Churches, ser. A, pt. 2, vol. 2 of The Paper Museum of Cassiano dal Pozzo (London, 1998), 82 f, cat. no. 180; Waetzoldt, Kopien, 29 f; T. Ashby and G. Lugli, “La Basilica di Giunio Basso sull’Esquilino,” RACr 9 (1932): 227 f, 255. According to the watercolor, the fresco showed Peter and Paul preaching in the upper register and their martyrdom in the bottom register. The fresco’s date is not known; Krautheimer dated the walling up of the window to the 10th or 11th century, but did not state his reasons for thinking so, and the church itself was destroyed in 1686: see R. Krautheimer, Corpus, 1:62 f. 69 Van Dijk, “Oratory,” 193–287. 70 A political message for the Peter cycle has been proposed, but not sufficiently explored, by Schumacher and Sansterre: see Wilpert and Schumacher, Mosaiken, 332; J.-M. Sansterre, “Jean VII (705–707): Ide´ologie pontificale et re´alisme politique,” in Rayonnement grec: Hommages `a Charles Delvoye, ed. L. HadermannMisguich and G. Raepseat (Brussels, 1982), 383.

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rius Petri, with episodes chosen for inclusion in the cycle furnishing prototypes for papal behavior. Of all the imagery in the Peter cycle, the Simon Magus scenes most strongly suggest an allegorical reading, since throughout the Middle Ages writers frequently invoked the name of the magician as a paradigm for heresy and other wickedness.71 Already in the second century, Irenaeus described Simon as the one “from whom all heresies got their start,” adding that “all those who in any way adulterate the truth and do injury to the preaching of the Church are the disciples and successors of Simon, the magician of Samaria.” 72 From the fourth century on, the magician was associated most frequently with the crime of buying or selling ecclesiastical services or offices, eventually known as simony after him.73 The magician’s association with simony, however, derives from the episode recorded in Acts 8:9–24, when Simon offered the apostles Peter and John money in exchange for the power of the Holy Spirit, and not the episode illustrated in the oratory. Although less frequent, writers invoked Simon’s career in Rome when they wanted to convey a more general notion of heresy and sin, particularly the sin of pride. For example, Gregory of Tours recounts the story of two evil priests who rebel against their bishop, the saintly Sidonius Apollinaris of Clermont-Ferrand, removing him from control of his church and subjecting him to all kinds of indignity.74 For Gregory the situation “smacks of heresy, that one of God’s bishops should not be obeyed in his own church, the man to whom had been entrusted the task of feeding God’s flock, and that someone else to whom nothing at all had been entrusted, either by God or by man, should have dared to usurp his authority.” 75 The priests get their just desserts, however, and Gregory compares their deaths to those of two famous heretics. The first “went off to the lavatory and while he was occupied in emptying his bowels he lost his soul instead . . . [like] Arius, who in the same way emptied out his entrails through his back passage in the lavatory.” 76 The second priest, having seized church property and behaved in a most arrogant manner, died suddenly at a lavish banquet he had organized. On this Gregory comments that the priest “was dashed headlong from the very summit of his pride, like Simon Magus at the behest of the holy Apostle,” adding that doubtless “these two who plotted together against their holy Bishop now have their place side by side in nethermost hell.” 77 A second example, closer in time to John VII, concerns one Polychronios who was condemned at the Sixth Ecumenical Council (680–681) for being a proponent of MonoE. Amann, “Simon le magicien,” DTC 14.2:2133–40; J. Leclercq, “Simoniaca Heresis,” Studi gregoriani 1 (1947): 523–30. 72 Irenaeus of Lyons, Contra haereses, 1.23.2, 1.27.4, trans. K. J. Unger, Ancient Christian Writers 55 (New York-Mahwah, N.J., 1992), 82, 92. 73 H. Meier-Welcker, “Die Simonie im fru ¨ hen Mittelalter,” ZKircheng 64 (1952–53): 61–93; A. Bride, “Simonie,” DTC 14.2:2143–47. 74 Gregory of Tours, Historiae Francorum, Gregoire de Tours. Histoire des Francs. Texte des manuscrits de Corbie et ´ tude et a l’Enseignement de ´n. Collection des Textes pour servir `a l’E de Bruxelles, ed. H. Omont and G. Collo l’Histoire, vols. 2, 13 (Paris, 1886–1893; repr. Paris, 1913), 2.23. 75 Idem, The History of the Franks, trans. L. Thorpe (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, 1974), 135. 76 Ibid. 77 Ibid., 137. 71

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theletism, a christological heresy that denied the existence of Christ’s human will. In the Liber Pontificalis, the arrival of the Acts of the council in Rome is recorded in the life of Leo II (682–683). According to the Roman account, the Acts “condemned Cyrus, Sergius, Honorius, Pyrrhus, Paul and Peter, also Macarius and his disciple Stephen, and Polychronius the new Simon—those who said or preached that there was one will and operation in the Lord Jesus Christ.” 78 The Acts themselves elucidate the reference to the magician.79 When questioned about his beliefs during the fifteenth session of the council, in April 681 Polychronios had requested permission to give a public exposition of his faith in the presence of a dead man so that by resuscitating the corpse with the power of his prayers he might demonstrate the validity of his beliefs. The council concurred, Polychronios was provided with a cadaver, and the assembly adjourned to the atrium of the Baths of Zeuxippos. Polychronios placed a manuscript containing his confession of faith on the corpse and began murmuring in its ear, an activity he apparently kept up for hours. When he was finally obliged to admit defeat, the crowd reportedly burst out, hurling anathemas at “the new Simon . . . Polychronius, misleader of the people.” 80 The council then condemned and deposed Polychronios as a heretic and fraudulent demagogue. He was sent to Rome and confined to a monastery, where he died without recanting. In both the Acts of the council and the Liber Pontificalis, therefore, the reference to Simon Magus was evidently meant to underline not only Polychronios’ heresy—all those condemned were advocates of Monotheletism—but also his overweening pride in presuming to possess the power of raising the dead, just as the magician had alleged that he could fly. The appearance of the Simon Magus scenes in the oratory of John VII may have been intended as a simple affirmation of the papacy’s traditional role as the champion of orthodoxy. However, the condemnation of Monotheletism at the Sixth Ecumenical Council had confirmed Rome’s position as guardian of orthodox belief, ending the schism that had divided the church for much of the seventh century.81 With this issue resolved, questions of orthodoxy ceased to be a point of contention between Rome and Constantinople, and the universal church remained united in faith, at least nominally, through John VII’s pontificate. True, large pockets of Monophysitism remained in the eastern Mediterranean, not to mention the more powerful threat of Islam; however, the sources give no indication that these were issues with which John VII was immediately and actively concerned. On the other hand, the Liber Pontificalis devotes almost half of John VII’s short biography to the issue of the unsigned canons of the Quinisext Council.82 Emperor Justinian II had convened this council in 691–692 to complete the work of the Fifth and Sixth 78 Liber Pontificalis, 1:359; trans. Davis, Book of Pontiffs, 78. Polychronius is also called “the new Simon” in Leo II’s letter to Constantine Pogonatos, in which he confirms the Acts: see Liber Pontificalis 1:361 n. 2. 79 Mansi, 11:601–12. See also F.-X. Murphy and P. Sherwood, Constantinople II et Constantinople III, Histoire des conciles oecume´niques 3 (Paris, 1974), 211. 80 Mansi, 11:609C. 81 For an overview of the controversy, with further bibliography, see J. Herrin, The Formation of Christendom (Princeton, N.J., 1987), 206–16 passim, 250–59, 275–80. 82 Liber Pontificalis, 1:385 f. On the canons of the Quinisext Council and their reception in Rome, see ¨mischen Kanones des Concilium Quinisextum (692)— most recently H. Ohme, “Die sogenannten anti-ro Vereinheitlichung als Gefahr fu ¨ r die Einheit der Kirche,” in The Council in Trullo Revisited, ed. G. Nedungatt and M. Featherstone (Rome, 1995), 307–21; H. Ohme, Das Concilium Quinisextum und seine Bischofsliste (Berlin-

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Ecumenical Councils, neither of which had issued any disciplinary canons. Although papal representatives were present and signed the canons along with all the other participants, a number of the rulings went against practices of the Roman church, and some were even openly critical of Roman custom. When the canons were sent to Rome for the signature of Sergios I (687–701), the pope refused, “choosing to die rather than consent to erroneous novelties.” 83 Following the example of his predecessors Justinian I (527– 565) and Constans II (641–668) when faced with papal intransigence, Justinian II sent his protospatharios Zacharias to arrest Sergios and bring him to Constantinople, but the emperor’s designs were foiled by an outpouring of local support for the pope.84 Alerted to the situation, the armies of Ravenna and the Pentapolis marched to Rome to protect the pope. According to the Liber Pontificalis, the now increasingly fearful Zacharias sought refuge in Sergios’ bedroom, eventually passing out with terror under his bed, while the pope addressed the angry crowds that had gathered outside and assured them of his safety. Zacharias was expelled from Rome, but before Justinian could respond to the situation, he too was driven from power, deposed by the usurper Leontios, who exiled the emperor to Cherson on the north shore of the Black Sea, after having him publicly mutilated in the hippodrome.85 Ten years later and shortly after John VII became pope, Justinian regained power. Again according to the Liber Pontificalis: “Immediately after he [i.e., Justinian] entered the palace and obtained the imperium, he dealt with the matter of the copies of the acts he had previously sent to Rome in the time of the lord pontiff Sergius of apostolic memory, in which there were written various chapters in opposition to the Roman church. He despatched two metropolitan bishops, also sending with them a mandate in which he requested and urged the pontiff to convene a council of the apostolic church, and to confirm such of them as he approved, and quash and reject those which were adverse. But he [i.e., John VII], terrified in his human weakness, sent them back to the prince by the same metropolitans without any emendations at all.” 86 The pope had reason to fear; at approximately the same time that he received the canons of the Quinisext Council, the former patriarch of Constantinople, Kallinikos, also arrived, blinded and exiled to Rome by Justinian as punishment for performing the coronations of Leontios and his successor, Tiberios Apsimar.87 Recently scholars have begun to credit the pope with more courage than did his eighth-century biographer, however, since not only did John VII refuse to convene a council as requested by the emperor, but he also most likely returned the canons to Constantinople without his signature.88 New York, 1990), 8–75, both with further bibliography. The text of the canons is reproduced in Mansi, 11:929–1006; for a new edition with English translation, see Council in Trullo, 41 ff. 83 Liber Pontificalis, 1:373; trans. Davis, Book of Pontiffs, 84. 84 The incident is recounted ibid. 85 Nikephoros, Breviarium historicum, 40, ed., trans., and comm. C. Mango, CFHB (Washington, D.C., 1990), 94–99; Theophanes the Confessor, Chronographia, ed. C. de Boor, vol. 1 (Leipzig, 1883; repr. Hildesheim, 1963), 368 f; The Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor: Byzantine and Near Eastern History A.D. 284–813, trans., intro., and comm. C. Mango and R. Scott (Oxford, 1997), 514 f. See also C. Head, Justinian II of Byzantium (Madison, Wisc.-London, 1972), 92–98. 86 Liber Pontificalis, 1:385 f; trans. Davis, Book of Pontiffs, 88 f. 87 Nikephoros, Breviarium historicum, 42, ed. Mango, 104 f; Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. de Boor, 1:375; Chronicle of Theophanes, 523. See also Ohme, Concilium Quinisextum, 63 f; Head, Justinian II, 118 f. 88 Ohme, Concilium Quinisextum, 62–66; Sansterre, “Jean VII,” 377–79.

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Is it possible that the Peter cycle in the oratory makes reference to this issue?89 In his recent, detailed study of the Quinisext Council, Heinz Ohme came to the conclusion that the friction that ensued between Rome and Constantinople derived not only from the content of a number of the canons but also from the list of signatures appended to them.90 Comparing this list to the surviving subscription lists from other ecclesiastical councils, and especially that of the Sixth Ecumenical Council, he noted a number of anomalies in the order of the signatures. For one, the signatures of the bishops from East Illyricum, traditionally under Roman jurisdiction, as well as those from regions under the jurisdiction of Antioch, appear as though under the jurisdiction of Constantinople.91 More conspicuous and even more significant is the placement of Justinian’s signature.92 Whereas in other cases the imperial signature was usually placed last, as a confirmation and ratification of the decisions reached by the ecclesiastical authorities, in the subscription list of the Quinisext Council, Justinian’s name appears in first place, even before the space left for the papal signature. Both the placement of Justinian’s signature and the fact that he ratified the decisions of the council before receiving papal approval had important implications for the council’s definition of itself as ecumenical.93 Thus in addition to the affront of being requested to ratify decisions of the Quinisext Council that condemned certain practices of the Roman church, John VII, like Sergios before him, found himself presented with a document that rearranged ecclesiastical jurisdiction at Rome’s expense and embodied a conception of “ecumenical” that significantly diminished the role of the papacy in favor of the emperor. In this situation it is conceivable that John VII judged Justinian to be guilty of the same sort of pride that had inspired earlier writers to invoke the name of Simon Magus. If this is the case, the Simon Magus scenes in the Peter cycle may have been intended as an allusion to the current situation, with Nero standing in for Justinian and the magician personifying his pride. However, invoking the apostles’ triumph over the magician, they present an interpretation of the pope’s handling of the affair that runs counter to the version that would shortly appear in the Liber Pontificalis. Moreover, the placement of the Simon Magus scenes immediately before the final image of martyrdom suggests that John VII wished to cultivate the notion that he too would choose “to die rather than consent to erroneous novelties,” a decision the Liber Pontificalis records with approval in the biography of his more fiery predecessor Sergios.94 An even stronger case can be made for associating the trio of preaching scenes that opened the cycle with the same issue. The choice of locale for the first two scenes is 89 The impact of one of the canons of the Quinisext Council, canon 82, on the artistic patronage of John VII has been discussed in connection with the frescoes he commissioned at Sta. Maria Antiqua: see P. J. Nordhagen, “John VII’s Adoration of the Cross in S. Maria Antiqua,” JWarb 30 (1967): 388–90; idem, “Frescoes of John VII,” 50–54, 95–98; J. D. Breckenridge, “Evidence of the Nature of Relations between Pope John VII and the Byzantine Emperor Justinian II,” BZ 65 (1972): 364–74; J.-M. Sansterre, “Jean VII,” 379–82; idem, “A propos de la signification politico-religieuse de certaines fresques de Jean VII `a Ste.-MarieAntique,” Byzantion 57 (1987): 434–40. 90 The text of the subscription list is published in Mansi, 11:987–1006; however, for a new critical edition, see Ohme, Concilium Quinisextum, 77–175. 91 Ohme, Concilium Quinisextum, 208–216, 370 f. 92 Ibid., 345–66. 93 Ibid., 374–86. 94 Liber Pontificalis, 1:373; trans. Davis, Book of Pontiffs, 84.

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particularly significant given the history of Rome’s relationship with Jerusalem and Antioch in the second half of the seventh century.95 Both cities had been conquered in the period of rapid Arab expansion during which most of the eastern Mediterranean fell to Islam, and by 638 both cities were without an orthodox patriarch.96 In the resulting vacuum both Rome and Constantinople, then in schism over the issue of Monotheletism, vied for influence in the region, to the extent that they were able given the political situation. Constantinople initially seems to have gained the upper hand. Sergios, the monothelete bishop of Joppa, seized power in Jerusalem and began to ordain suffragans, and Emperor Herakleios appointed Makedonios, another monothelete, patriarch of Antioch, although he remained resident in Constantinople. Rome was not slow to respond. Pope Theodore I (642–649) deposed Sergios of Joppa and appointed Stephen of Dora papal vicar in Jerusalem. Theodore’s successor, Pope Martin I (649–655), declared Makedonios a heretic and appointed John, bishop of Philadelphia, apostolic vicar in both Jerusalem and Antioch.97 In a letter to John of Philadelphia, Martin invokes his apostolic authority to confer on his vicar the power to replace the pope in all ecclesiastical matters and to review and regulate the ecclesiastical hierarchy in all the cities under the jurisdiction of Jerusalem and Antioch, with the intent of weeding out and replacing heretics and other undesirable elements.98 In the following decades, Rome seems successfully to have retained its influence in Jerusalem. The see was administered by a locum tenens appointed by Rome. By 685 Theodore, the locum tenens of Jerusalem during the Sixth Ecumenical Council, had been raised to the position of patriarch.99 The situation for Antioch is more complicated. Rome’s attempt to exercise control over this see as well through John of Philadelphia’s appointment as apostolic vicar does not seem to have been accepted in Constantinople, where a series of monothelete patriarchs of Antioch remained in residence.100 This situation 95 On the poorly documented history of the churches of Jerusalem and Antioch during this period, see C. Karalevskij, “Antioche,” DHGE 3:592–95; S. Vailhe´, “Antioche, patriarcat grec,” DTC 1.2:1407; E. Amann, “Je´rusalem (Eglise de),” DTC 8.1:999; G. Fedalto, “Liste vescovili del patriarcato di Gerusalemme. I. Gerusalemme e Palestina prima,” OCP 49 (1983): 16; F. Trombley, “A Note on the See of Jerusalem and the Synodal List of the Sixth Ecumenical Council,” Byzantion 53 (1983): 632–38. A. Linder, “Christian Communities in Jerusalem,” in The History of Jerusalem: The Early Muslim Period, 638–1099, ed. J. Prawer and H. Ben-Shammai (Jerusalem-New York, 1996), 121–62 is disappointingly unscholarly. I was not able to consult a dissertation cited by the latter: M. Levy-Rubin, “The Jerusalem Patriarchate after the Muslim Conquest” (Ph.D. diss., Hebrew University of Jerusalem, 1994) (in Hebrew). 96 Sophronios of Jerusalem, the indefatigable partisan of the anti-Monothelete party, died in 638. Antioch had been without an orthodox patriarch since the death of Anastasios during an uprising in the city in 610: see Downey, History of Antioch, 572–74. 97 E. Amann, “Martin Ier (Saint),” DTC 10.1:183. 98 Martin I, Epistula 5, PL 87:153–64, esp. 155: “ad tollendam omnem haeresim, quae verbo fidei adversatur, et ad omne vitium expugnandum, quod virtuti divinae contrarium sit; ut sic prosperans in Domino, ea quae desunt corrigas, et constituas per omnem civitatem earum que sedi tum Jerosolymitanae tum Antiochenae, subsunt, episcopos et presbyteros et diaconos: hoc tibi omni modo facere praecipientibus nobis ex apostolica auctoritate, quae data est nobis a Domino per Petrum sanctissimum, et principem apostolorum.” Another letter of Martin survives addressed to the churches of Jerusalem and Antioch, in which he warns them against Monotheletism, condemned at the Lateran Council, and informs them of the powers invested in John of Philadelphia in his capacity as apostolic vicar: idem, Epistula 11, PL 87:175–80. On the concept of apostolic vicar, see P. Conte, Chiesa e primato nelle lettere dei papi del secolo VII (Milan, 1971), 211–18. 99 Trombley, “See of Jerusalem,” 632–38. 100 Karalevskij, “Antioch,” 595.

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ended only in 680–681, when the last of these, Makarios, was condemned and deposed at the Sixth Ecumenical Council.101 In his place Theophanes, abbot of the monastery of Baias in Sicily and a member of the Roman contingent, was elected.102 Following the council, Makarios was sent to Rome, where he was confined to a monastery.103 Thus by the conclusion of the Sixth Ecumenical Council, Rome had not only won over Constantinople to its position in matters of orthodoxy, but had also managed to bring both Jerusalem and Antioch within its sphere of influence. By the time Justinian held the Quinisext Council in 691–692, however, the situation seems to have changed somewhat. Among the signatures are those of two new patriarchs, George II of Antioch and Anastasios of Jerusalem.104 Little is known about either of these men beyond their participation in the council; however, the fact that they both added their signatures to the subscription list when the pope so adamantly refused to do so suggests a decline in Rome’s influence over the heads of the two eastern patriarchates during the previous decade.105 By the time Justinian sent the canons of the Quinisext Council to John VII for his signature, the situation had changed once more. The period of Arab tolerance that had allowed the continued existence of the church in regions under their domination ended shortly after the Quinisext Council, probably as a result of increased hostilities with the Byzantine Empire. Following the death of Patriarch George II, possibly in 702 or 703, the see of Antioch fell vacant and would remain so for the next forty years.106 Jerusalem was more successful in retaining a patriarch, and in 705 John V was elected to the position, which he occupied until his death, possibly in 735.107 Again, little is known about this man, especially in the early part of his reign. During the iconoclastic controversy, however, he would side with the iconodules, and therefore with Rome against Constantinople. It is possible that the affiliation with Rome dated from the beginning of his tenure; however, nothing can be said with certainty in this respect. Given the linked history of the two eastern patriarchates in their relationship with Rome during the second half of the seventh century, the appearance of two images show101 Makarios was examined during the eighth session of the council, 8 March 681, and deposed during the ninth, the following day: see Mansi, 11:331–88. An account of his trial and deposition also appears in the Liber Pontificalis, 1:352–54. 102 Theophanes must have been raised to the position of patriarch between the thirteenth and the fourteenth sessions of the council, held 28 March and 5 April 681, respectively. In the acts of the thirteenth session, Theophanes’ name still appears near the end of the list of those present at the head of a group of monastic figures, all from “Greek” monasteries in Rome: see Mansi, 11:553 f. In the acts of the fourteenth session, however, his name has been moved to near the beginning of the list and appears among the patriarchs as “Theophanes, the venerable and most holy archbishop . . . of Antioch”: see ibid., 11:583 f. Theophanes’ ordination as patriarch of Antioch is also recorded in the Liber Pontificalis, 1:354. 103 Ibid. 104 Mansi, 11:987 f; Ohme, Concilium Quinisextum, 145. 105 Ibid., 312–15; R. Aubert, “George II, patriarche melkite d’Antioche,” DHGE 20:591. 106 Karalevskij dated the death of George II to 702/3 based on Theophanes’ statement that Stephen III became patriarch of Antioch in A.M. 6234 (A.D. 742/3) following a period of forty years during which the post was vacant: see Karalevskij, “Antioch,” 595; Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. de Boor, 1:416; Chronicle of Theophanes, 577. On the other hand, Eutychios, Annales, PG 111:1118 places the beginning of George II’s tenure in 685 and states that it lasted twenty-four years, resulting in a date of 709 for the patriarch’s death. Eutychios’ dates, however, are considered notoriously untrustworthy for this period. 107 Fedalto, “Liste vescovili,” 16; R. Aubert, “Jean V, patriarche de Je´rusalem,” DHGE 27:163–64.

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ing Peter preaching in Jerusalem and Antioch strongly suggests a topical reference, reasserting a tradition of Roman authority and influence in these centers. In particular, the image of Peter preaching in what may by then have been the vacant see of Antioch suggests that John VII saw the papacy as assuming responsibility over the church in that region, in the absence of a patriarch. In light of the issue of the Quinisext Council, this is especially significant given Constantinople’s attempt to claim jurisdiction over the same region through the arrangement of the signatures in the subscription list. In fact, it is possible that the preaching scenes in the oratory constituted an attempt to invalidate the subscription list presented for John VII’s signature through challenging the image of ecclesiastical oecumene it offered. To whom would the Peter cycle have been addressed? While the imagery can be construed as John VII’s response to Justinian’s revival of the issue of the unsigned canons of the Quinisext Council, does it necessarily follow that its primary viewer was intended to be the emperor or, more likely, his representatives? Recent events, and especially Justinian’s abortive attempt to have John VII’s predecessor, Sergios, arrested, had demonstrated the importance of local support to the papacy in situations of imperial displeasure. However, the somewhat critical assessment of John VII’s handling of the affair of the Quinisext canons in the Liber Pontificalis suggests that the pope did not enjoy unqualified approval in Rome. In the circumstances, therefore, it seems more likely that the cycle’s message was directed toward viewers in Rome in an attempt to counter criticism and garner support for John VII’s actions. In fact, the first three scenes of the cycle, showing Peter preaching to the inhabitants of Jerusalem, Antioch, and Rome, also appear to identify the intended audience. One of the results of the Persian and Arab expansion in the seventh century was an influx of immigrants and refugees into Rome, and by the early eighth century former inhabitants of Syria and Palestine constituted a significant presence there.108 Among the most powerful monastic establishments in the city was the monastery of St. Sabas, whose monks had come from the monastery of the same name near Jerusalem.109 Many Syrians, moreover, held high positions in the ecclesiastical hierarchy, providing a number of popes during the period, including John VII’s predecessor, Sergios, and his immediate successors, Sissinios and Constantine.110 In fact, the presence of these groups surely to some extent motivated and directed Rome’s involvement in the affairs of Jerusalem and Antioch during the second half of the seventh century. In addition to making claims for Roman authority and influence in Jerusalem and Antioch, therefore, the preaching scenes seem also to have functioned as a statement of papal authority over and solidarity with the emigrants who had come to Rome from the two eastern centers and who now occupied such an important position in Roman society. As such, they served as a means by which John VII hoped to enlist the support of the whole Roman population, with a special appeal to two of its most powerful minorities. In the early eighth century, therefore, the Peter cycle in the oratory of John VII Sansterre, Moines grecs, 9–41. The presence of monks from San Saba in Rome is first attested in the acts of the Lateran Council of 649, at which they played an active role. On this and the later history of the community in Rome, see ibid., 22 ff, 90 ff, 127 ff. 110 Ibid., 20, 39. 108 109

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would have presented a very current message in the guise of hagiographic narrative. The Simon Magus scenes invoked the glorious Roman tradition of victory over heresy of all kinds and associated it with John VII and his dealings with Justinian II. The three preaching scenes, moreover, made reference to the recent history of papal involvement in the eastern patriarchates. What is particularly interesting about these scenes is that while they made that history of involvement seem to follow apostolic tradition, in reality the relationship had been inverted. Without parallel in any other literary or pictorial source, the preaching scenes adapted the narrative of Peter’s life so that it reflected the activities and aspirations of the oratory’s patron, John VII, allowing the pope to appear to emulate his illustrious predecessor when it was rather Peter who was being made to emulate John. Therefore, the unique historical situation that existed around the time of John VII, which seems to be so directly reflected in the highly unusual choice of scenes making up the Peter cycle, is perhaps the best argument for dating the cycle to the early eighth century and seeing it as an original, indeed integral, element of the oratory’s decorative program. Northern Illinois University

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The Conspiracy of Michael Traulos and the Assassination of Leo V: History and Fiction DMITRY AFINOGENOV

he reign of the Byzantine emperor Michael II, nicknamed Traulos (Latin Balbus, a stammerer), 25 December 820 to 2 October 829, is one of the most obscure periods in the history of Byzantium. The sources we possess are heavily loaded with entertaining stories whose veracity is, to put it mildly, suspicious, and with various pieces of propaganda. The problem with the latter is that it is extremely difficult to identify the political forces that were interested in manufacturing each particular propagandistic piece, because the usual divisions, such as Iconoclast vs. Iconophile or patriarchs vs. the Studites, apparently do not work here. On top of that, it sometimes seems that modern research has added to the amount of fiction rather than reduced it. The purpose of this paper is therefore quite modest: to evaluate the data available and to propose some solutions which, however, will necessarily remain to a fair extent hypothetical. As the first step, I will concentrate on the circumstances that led to the murder of Emperor Leo V and Michael’s ascension to the throne of Byzantium. The Continuator of Theophanes informs us that when Leo the Armenian was appointed the strategos of Anatolikon, he renewed his old friendship with Michael the Amorian and made him his confidant.1 He acted as sponsor to Michael’s son, presumably Theophilos.2 After the defeat at Versinikia, when Leo was about to be proclaimed emperor, he was confused and hesitated to accept the crown, and Michael of Amorion reportedly threatened to kill him if he would not agree to become emperor.3 How shall we interpret this episode? Is it evidence of discord between Michael and Leo?4 To find the answers to these questions it is necessary to take a closer look at the texts. The Continuator of Theophanes in his usual manner offers two alternative explana-

T

This paper was prepared as a part of my project at the Institute for Advanced Study, Princeton, N.J. 1 Theophanes Continuatus, ed. I. Bekker (Bonn, 1838) (hereafter ThC), 12.10–14. 2 Iosephus Genesius, Regum Libri Quattuor, ed. A. Lesmu ¨ ller-Werner and J. Thurn (Berlin, 1978) (hereafter Genesios), 9–10.1–3. ThC, 23.22–24, 1. This presumably happened in Amorion, the capital of the Anatolikon theme, in 812 or the first half of 813. George the Monk mentions Amorion as “the birthplace (patri´da) and city of the rascal and tyrant [Theophilos]”: Georgius Monachus, Chronicon, ed. C. de Boor, corrected by P. Wirth (Stuttgart, 1978), 797.20–21. 3 Genesios, 4.39–42; ThC, 1.7, 16.15–17.5. 4 As W. T. Treadgold, “The Problem of the Marriage of the Emperor Theophilus,” GRBS 16 (1975): 325–41, esp. 337.

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tions of Leo’s behavior, placing the one that he prefers second. The first version goes like this: “either playing a role as an actor (ei“te skhnh` n ou”tw" uJpokrino´ menon), in order to have an excuse later, or . . . ” While we may disregard the second explanation—that Leo was destined by fate to rule and therefore the “mean spirit” incited Michael to threaten him, the (undoubtedly pretended) reluctance of Leo to accept the proclamation is well attested by Theophanes.5 Thus it appears that Michael was entrusted with the most important role in the drama: it was he who had to make Leo’s decision seem coerced. Only a person presumed extremely loyal is likely to be assigned such a duty. Moreover, Michael’s next words as related both by Genesios and the Continuator contain a pledge to take care of everything in order to deliver Leo safely to the palace, so that the latter would not have to worry. We can hardly expect such a statement from a person who bore the slightest grudge against the newly proclaimed emperor. So it is no surprise that Michael’s career made considerable progress during Leo’s reign, since he advanced first from count of the tent (ko´ mh" ko´ rth"), presumably of the Anatolikon theme,6 to count (turmarch) of the federates7 and subsequently to patrician and count (domestikos) of the excubitors. It is a well-established fact, however, that by the year 820 relations between Emperor Leo V and Michael, now count of the excubitors, deteriorated to the point that Michael was imprisoned and sentenced to death. Yet the circumstances of the “Conspiracy of Michael,” as presented by the sources, look somewhat strange. At some point during Leo’s reign Michael was accused of high treason but managed to fend off the accusation.8 This, as the Continuator specifies, happened when he was still the count of the federates.9 Since Michael was by no means an eloquent man who could defend himself with the help of skilfull rhetoric, the charges against him must have been particularly ill-founded, which is also confirmed by his subsequent promotion to domestikos of the excubitors, a very important position in the palace guard.10 At the same time his relatives occupied such key posts as papias (supervisor of the palace)11 and the count of the Opsikion theme.12 Then our historians again offer us two versions, which are clearly distinguishable in Genesios but blurred in the Continuator. One is that Leo simply envied (baskai´nwn) Michael and therefore wanted to put him to death.13 The ˜ er, Theophanes, 502.16–19. On the ritual of recusatio in connection with this episode, see J. Signes Codon El periodo del segundo Iconoclasmo en Theophanes Continuatus (Amsterdam, 1995), 72. 6 See J. B. Bury, A History of the Eastern Roman Empire from the Fall of Irene to the Accession of Basil I (A.D. 802–867), 24 n. 4. 7 ThC, 33.21. This was a very good promotion already: in Taktikon Uspenskii the turmarch of the federates is listed first among all turmarchs, while counts of the tent of the themes follow two categories behind, because the former rank belonged to spatharokandidatoi and the latter to spatharioi, with dishypatoi coming between them; see N. Oikonomide`s, Les listes de pre´se´ance byzantines du IXe et Xe sie`cle (Paris, 1972), 55.7 and 59.3. See also Cletorologion Philothei, ibid., 91.19–93.11 and note 39; 149.23 and 153.4. 8 Genesios, 15.46–48. 9 ThC, 33.21ff. Note the word to´ te. 10 See J. B. Bury, The Imperial Administrative System in the Ninth Century (London, 1911), 57. 11 Leo Grammaticus: Leonis Grammatici Chronographia, ed. I. Bekker (Bonn, 1842), 210.13. 12 Genesios, 25.48. There is a possibility (but no solid proof) that it was one and the same person named Katakylas who occupied both positions sequentially. Cf. W. T. Treadgold, The Byzantine Revival, 780–842 (Stanford, 1988), 225. 13 Genesios, 15.48–49. The Continuator has a singularly ambiguous phrase: ajll∆ e“mellen uJp∆ ojdo´ nta tou'ton e“cwn ajei` kaqa´ per diapepragme´ non iJerei'on dei'xai oujk eij" makra´ n (34.1–3). Who was having whom “under the tooth”? 5

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other version is much more colorful, so it is no wonder that both historians seem to prefer it. They say that Michael kept reviling Leo and making those threats that have already been quoted. He was repeatedly admonished to stop, but to no avail. The emperor set eavesdroppers to inform him of Michael’s utterances, and upon establishing that the latter did not give up his threats, ordered him to be arrested. Interestingly, at no point before Michael’s imprisonment do any of the sources mention conspiracy. J. B. Bury assumed that Michael “spoke doubtless these treasonable things in the presence of select friends.” 14 Now, either there was a conspiracy or there was not. In the first case it is impossible to understand why Michael was arrested alone and those “select friends” were not arrested along with him, although the emperor’s spies were among them who would undoubtedly inform Leo of those involved. On the other hand, if Leo had sufficient reasons to believe that Michael made his dangerous remarks casually, there was no conspiracy. That would also be more natural, since Michael’s activities during his reign demonstrate that he was not so incredibly stupid as to betray a conspiracy by heedless prattle. Of course, to make such speeches was not a wise thing to do anyway, but this behavior is more characteristic of a disappointed loyalist than of a sly conspirator. We must bear in mind that of the two versions the one that mentions Michael’s “unruly talk” is favorable to Leo, so the lack of direct accusations of actual plotting is highly significant. Moreover, it is by no means certain that the “second version” has to be believed at all. If in fact the first one, however unpretentious it may seem, is true, Michael’s defamation of Leo and his threats to murder or overthrow him could have been simply made up in order to justify Michael’s arrest and condemnation. Then this interpretation was presumably taken over by anti-Michael pamphlets (to be discussed below). At least one source, which I believe to be contemporary and which certainly has no sympathy for Michael II, explicitly says that he was among those prominent men whom Leo had arrested on false charges of high treason out of envy (baskai´nwn) of their bravery and talents.15 Another first-class contemporary source also seems to indicate that Michael was not initially implicated in the conspiracy: “Certain officials, having made a plot, entered the palace unopposed, as if guided by an angel, and hit him inside the church with their swords. . . . Michael was a prisoner of his, fettered with two chains, and those who had subdued the beast immediately freed him and proclaimed him emperor.” 16 This hypothesis does present some problems, but they can be resolved in a coherent and logical way. The main difficulty is: if Michael was not a part of a large conspiracy against Leo, how could he threaten his comrades to betray them to the emperor?17 Here it is worth looking at Genesios’ text more attentively. The well-known story goes as follows. Leo at night visits the papias’ quarters and discovers him sleeping on the floor while Michael sleeps in his bed. A boy servant of the papias, hiding under the bed, recognizes the emperor from his purple boots and tells everything to his master and Michael. Then Bury, History, 49. George the Monk, 788.3–10. 16 Theosterictus, “Vita Nicetae Medicii,” AASS, Aprilis, vol. 1:22–32, chap. 43, XXXIIA: Tine` " ga` r th'" ta´ xew" newteri´sante" kai` wJ" uJp∆ ajgge´ lou oJdhghqe´ nte" eijsh´ esan ajkwlu´ tw" eij" ta` basi´leia kai` ejpa´ taxan aujto` n ei“sw tou' eujkthri´ou macai´rai". . . . «Hn de` tou´ tv de´ smio" oJ Micah` l dusi`n aJlu´ sesi kateco´ meno", kai` eujqe´ w" lu´ sante" aujto` n oiJ to` n qh'ra ceirwsa´ menoi ajnhgo´ reusan basile´ a. 17 Genesios, 18.42–44; ThC, 38.12–14; Leo Grammaticus, 210.10–12; Pseudo-Symeon (Symeonis Magistri Annales, in Theophanes Continuatus, ed. Bekker, 601–760), 619.4–7, etc. 14 15

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they concoct “an ingenious plot” (boulh` n doki´mhn ejpiskeua´ zousi), namely, that Michael will ask to make a confession before his execution and in this way will communicate the plan to his comrades. The confession was supposed to be passed to one of the pious men via Theoktistos, one of Michael’s most faithful servants. This narrative strikes one as an obvious piece of fiction.18 Why did Michael need any device to communicate with his supporters, if the papias was not arrested and could perfectly well do it himself? Why did Leo let the confession be passed via Theoktistos instead of bringing the priest (or monk) to the palace in person? What is important, however, is that in Genesios the conspiracy looks very much like an improvisation, not as something prepared in advance. Especially interesting is the last phrase: ajkribologhsa´ meno" ga` r tv' Qeokti´stv oJ Micah` l ta` th'" ejpiqe´ sew", kai` diaporqmeu´ sa" krufiomu´ stw" toi'" kekoinwnhko´ sin aujtv' th'" ejne´ dra" baqei'an dia´ skeyin, ejpiscuri´zetai kat∆ aujtw'n th` n koinwni´an fwra´ sai tv' a“nakti, ei“per katamelh´ seian a“rti th'" ejgceirh´ sew". There has been no mention of any e“nedra so far, so it seems that this expression has to be understood as a prolepsis, meaning that Michael threatens those who are supposed to carry out the plan, saying that if they will not do it, he will betray to the emperor their involvement in this very plot. Michael apparently had enough loyal supporters (which by itself could be a weighty reason for Leo’s baskani´a) and could accuse them before the emperor as participants in the conspiracy even if no actual conspiracy existed before his arrest, since the very fact of receiving Theoktistos’ message already made them implicated. The option of surrendering themselves to the emperor’s mercy before Michael could betray them theoretically existed in either case, but these people obviously regarded it as unacceptable. Symeon the Logothete’s account is plainer, but contains no contradictions and therefore inspires more trust. Michael from his imprisonment informs his su´ mbouloi, among whom is his relative the papias, that he will betray them if they do not endeavor to free him, and the scheme is carried out. Again, the word su´ mbouloi does not necessarily indicate a preexisting conspiracy rather than a circle of trusted friends, whom Michael could plausibly accuse of plotting together with himself. Later he demonstrated that he knew the real value of such accusations. When captured, Thomas was ready to denounce many people as his secret supporters, but Michael easily let himself be persuaded not to believe the enemy against friends.19 Michael’s official condemnation of the murder is well known from his letter to Emperor Louis the Pious: “The Emperor Leo . . . was killed by some evildoers who organized a conspiracy against him.” 20 The true degree of Michael’s involvement might be better clarified if we can ascertain whether this was a propaganda statement for the use of ignorant foreigners or a generally proclaimed attitude which was also offered to the Byzantines themselves. In the latter case the only chance for Michael to make his propaganda even potentially credible was to do something about at least the immediate perpetrators of the assassination. Yet no one has ever doubted the fact, related by both Symeon ˜ er puts it (El periodo, 164). “Folktale,” as Signes Codon ThC, 69.16–22. The role of John Hexaboulios is probably fictitious, but the lack of reprisals against members of the aristocracy after the suppression of the revolt is fact. 20 “Michaelis et Theophili Imperatorum Constantinopolitanorum epistula ad Hludowicum Imperatorem directa,” MGH, LL, vol. 3 (Hannover, 1906–1908), Conc 2, Concilia aevi Karolingi I/II, 475–80, esp. 476.28– 29: “Leo imperator . . . a quisbusdam improbis, coniuratione in eum facta, subito occisus est.” 18 19

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the Logothete and the common source of Genesios and the Continuator of Theophanes, that it was Theophilos who executed Leo’s murderers soon after his ascension to the throne.21 Let us, however, look at a neglected testimony of an extremely valuable contemporary source published only recently, the Life of Euthymios of Sardis by the (future) patriarch Methodios, written in 831. . . . sfa´ zetai oJ qh` r para` tou' ejcqrou' kai` ejkdikhtou' aujtou⭈ ou”tw ga` r kalei'n to` n tou´ tou dia´ docon grafikw´ tata di´kaion, kaqo´ ti ejcqra´ na" eij" qa´ naton diekdikei'n aujto` n pa´ lin peira'tai ejpi´ te tou` " sunandrofo´ nou", kai` to` do´ gma aujtou'.22

. . . the beast [Leo V] was slain by his enemy and avenger, for it is right to call thus his successor in full accord with the scriptures, as he, having been hostile even to death, attempted to avenge him against his fellow murderers, as well as in regard to his doctrine.

The only possible meaning for the words diekdikei'n . . . ejpi´ te tou` " sunandrofo´ nou" seems to be that Michael II punished the murderers of Leo. Methodios, of course, had no warm feelings toward Michael who had him jailed and flogged repeatedly, so there was no reason for him to distort the facts. Is then the story of the execution of Leo’s murderers by Theophilos just another fanciful piece of literature? After all, it would not be particularly amazing, especially if we take into account the famous story of the bride-show, which looks more and more like a pure fantasy.23 We might speculate that Michael II punished only the immediate perpetrators, whereas Theophilos punished those who masterminded the plot, but that is improbable, because one of the main conspirators, Theoktistos, not only did not fall from grace but remained a high-ranking official and one of the most trusted courtiers throughout the reign of Theophilos. The passage from the Life of Euthymios (specifically the preposition sun- in the word sunandrofo´ nou") shows that Michael’s propagandistic efforts failed to convince at least some of the Byzantines, but it is no proof that Leo’s murder was planned by Michael even before his arrest rather than improvised in a desperate situation. If the actual conspiracy was organized while Michael was in jail, that indeed gave him the possibility to dissociate himself from the murder, which he obviously tried to do. One of the most important and difficult problems concerning the murder of Leo and the ascension of Michael is the following: was it a result of Michael’s personal ambitions to which a capable and energetic ruler was sacrificed,24 or was it some quite serious and widespread discontent among the Byzantine elite that brought about Leo’s end?25 We can be sure that it is the first point of view that was promoted by one of the sources of the common source of Genesios and the Continuator of Theophanes. Now, is this a biased conception reflecting some propagandistic motifs or an objective assessment of the historical reality? Several factors inspire caution as to the second possibility. First is the remark that the exiled patriarch Nikephoros allegedly made after learning about Leo’s murder: “The Roman Empire has lost a great, although impious, protecLeo Grammaticus, 214.9–215.3; Genesios, 36.82–93; ThC, 85.4–86.5. J. Gouillard, “La vie d’Euthyme de Sardes (†831),” TM 10 (1987): 1–101, esp. chap. 10.35–37, 199–201. 23 See D. Afinogenov, “The Bride-Show of Theophilos: A Note on the Sources,” Eranos 95 (1997): 10–18. 24 As, e.g., Bury, History, 54. 25 As observed by Treadgold (Revival, 225), “the sanguinary murder of this able emperor seems to have caused fewer regrets among the capital’s troops and civil servants than might have been expected.” 21 22

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tor.” 26 Here is an authentic account of this event by Nikephoros: “And what was the outcome of the designs of the Christ-fighter, who invented these things and perpetrated them, and how his undertakings ended, will be cried out loudly by the sanctuary which he both profaned and brought down while alive, and while being justly slaughtered contaminated and defiled even more with the profusion of his criminal blood, as the rascal received the retribution that his insolence toward Christ truly deserved.” 27 It is not so much the contents as the emotional charge of this piece that makes it highly improbable that Nikephoros had indeed anything good to say about Leo. This means that the common source of Genesios and the Continuator, unlike the Logothete, used, among others, a source that was biased in favor of Leo and probably hostile to Michael. Second, there is an interesting remark in the Continuator. After describing numerous vices of Michael, he says: “Yet these things, as they have been ridiculed by divine men of that time (toi'" kat∆ ejkei'no kairou' kekwmvdhme´ na qei´oi" ajndra´ si), should be left alone. For there are whole books exposing his character (ta` ejkei´nou).” 28 So this historian made use of pamphlets that were composed during Michael’s reign or shortly afterward by some Orthodox(?) ecclesiastics.29 Connecting this with the previous observation, we can surmise that there existed certain political forces within Byzantine society that opposed Michael and engaged in literary activities against him. Evidently, the murder of Leo was too convenient a subject to pass over in silence. Then the most natural thing for a critic of Michael to do was to describe Leo as positively as possible given his violent iconoclast policy. Since the emperor was dead, that could do no harm to the iconophile cause. Note that the description of Leo as a capable ruler who despite his impiety was much better than Michael did not make its way into any of the numerous contemporary hagiographic texts which uniformly portray Leo as a hateful tyrant and treat Michael as a lesser evil, though without any particular sympathy. Analysis of the accusations recorded by the Continuator against Michael’s alleged heretical practices30 points in the same direction. The list is long and looks like a product ˜ er (El periodo, 140) Genesios, 14.14–15; ThC, 30.13–15; trans. Treadgold, Revival, 225. Signes Codon does not consider the possibility that the common source of Genesios and ThC could contain traces of propagandistic material that was iconophile yet favorable to Leo. Therefore the explanations he offers are far from satisfactory (Nikephoros said this to lend more objectivity to his criticism of Leo’s iconoclasm; or because the patriarch himself played a pivotal role in his accession; or there was simply an error in the source). 27 Nikephoros, Refutatio et Eversio, ed. J. M. Featherstone, CCSG 33 (Turnhout, 1997), chap. 2.27–33: eij" o”, ti de` tv' cristoma´ cv ta` bebouleume´ na, o’" tau'ta ejpinow'n e“dra, ejperai´neto kai` eij" oi»on te´ lo" ta` ejpikeceirhme´ na ejkbe´ bhke, to` qusiasth´ rion me´ ga kekra´ xetai⭈ o’ kai` zw'n kakw'" kaqairw'n ejbebh´ lou, kai` ajnairou´ meno" ejndi´kw" tv' lu´ qrv tw'n ejnagw'n aiJma´ twn ple´ on e“crane´ te kai` katemo´ lunen, a“xia o“ntw" ta` ejpi´ceira th'" eij" Cristo` n u”brew" dexa´ meno" oJ ajlith´ rio". The editor pertinently calls this a “lurid bit”: ibid., xxv n. 40. 28 ˜ er (El periodo, 212) discards this remark as a vague reference to possibly ThC, 49.15–17. Signes Codon nonexistent sources in order to add credibility to the narrative. 29 ˜ er (ibid., 212f) follows F. Barisˇic´ (“Les sources de Ge´ne´sios et du Continuateur de The´Signes Codon ophane pour l’histoire du re`gne de Michel II (820–829),” Byzantion 31 [1961]: 257–71) in identifying the ˜ er does not take source of ThC as Sergios the Confessor. This is certainly not the only option. Signes Codon ¨pstein, Zur Erhebung des into account very serious arguments against Barisˇic´’s opinion formulated by H. Ko Thomas. Studien zum 8. und 9. Jahrhundert in Byzanz, BBA 51 (Berlin, 1983), 61–87, esp. 64 n. 24. It is also improbable that qei'oi a“ndre" referred to a layman, even if he was a confessor. 30 ThC, 48.15–49.7. 26

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of pure imagination.31 It has one important feature which comes forth prominently especially when compared with Methodios’ criticism of Michael in the Life of Euthymios. While the future patriarch denounces the emperor’s somewhat disguised iconoclasm, “the divine men” of the Continuator are completely silent on the matter of icons, although it would have been only natural to describe Michael’s hostility toward sacred images as one manifestation of his Jewish sympathies. Yet the anonymous pamphletist describes even the imitation of Kopronymos in terms that have nothing to do with icons.32 Thus the “divine men” either addressed a wider audience or wanted to avoid a situation in which Michael would look better in comparison to Leo V (which would have been inevitable, were too much stress put on the question of image worship), or probably both. The hypothesis that there were people interested in denigrating Michael at any cost and that results of their activity left traces in Genesios and especially the Continuator is further confirmed by analysis of the accounts of Thomas the Slav’s uprising given by both historians. As is well known, both historians relate the version, called “micrasiatique” by Paul Lemerle,33 which says that Thomas, who was an affable and venerable man, revolted against Michael when he learned about the gruesome murder of his old friend Leo, and endeavored to avenge him. The themes of Asia Minor joined him out of hatred for Michael. Lemerle advanced two basic theses: (1) the “Micrasiatic” version is preferable because it has no “couleur politique ou religieuse”; and (2) one should not try to combine elements from both versions, the “Micrasiatic” and the “Syrian”—they are mutually exclusive, and the second one has to be rejected as a fabrication of Michael’s official propaganda.34 The first statement, as we have seen, is not all that convincing, and the second one seems to be simply misleading. Strangely enough, some obvious absurdities of the “Micrasiatic” version did not give pause to Lemerle, for example, the remark of Genesios that Michael was hated by the entire army of Anatolikon “because of his native town, which breeds a multitude of Athingans.” 35 This implies that the soldiers of the Anatolikon theme hated Michael because he was born in the capital of that very theme! Be that as it may, it is another remark of Methodios from the same Life of Euthymios that helps solve the problem: “And because of the rebel, who had already risen against his [Michael’s] predecessor, I mean the horrible Thomas” (Kai` dia` to` n h“dh proepanasta´ nta ajpo` tou' pro` aujtou' ajnta´ rthn, Qwma'n fhmi to` n deino´ taton).36 Methodios was certainly very well informed about the events that were going on in Byzantium about eleven years before, even if he was himself in Rome at that time. He returned to Byzantium in 821, probably before Thomas reached Constantinople in December of that year, and had plenty of time to find out what had happened from the sources that were undoubtedly independent of ˜ er (El periodo, 209–11) recognizes as real only the accusation of lifting taxes on Jews. HowSignes Codon ever, even that is far from proven. 32 Therefore Barisˇic´ (“Les sources de Ge´ne´sios,” 265) is not entirely accurate when he characterizes the attitude of the Continuer’s source as “ultra-iconophile” because it explains different calamities with the emperor’s impiety. Iconoclasm is mentioned in this passage (ThC, 73.5–13), but the emperor is not. Contrariwise, icons are not mentioned when the emperor’s impiety is exposed. 33 P. Lemerle, “Thomas le Slave,” TM 1 (1965): 255–97, esp. 272. 34 Ibid., 283–84. 35 Genesios, 23.82–85. 36 “La vie d’Euthyme de Sardes,” 37.204–5. This text was not available to Lemerle. 31

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the official propaganda of the iconoclast emperors. As for his attitude toward Michael II, he is perhaps the most hostile of all hagiographers who mention this emperor, and understandably so. From the phrase quoted above we learn two important things. First, the crucial point of the “Syrian” version, namely, that Thomas rebelled against Leo, not Michael, is decisively confirmed, as it should be, since it is found in the earliest, contemporary sources.37 Second, the information of the same version that Thomas fled to the Arabs under Eirene and spent twenty-five years in the caliphate, turns out to be false, just as Lemerle maintained, because the word proepanasta´ nta to which the indirect object (meaning Leo V) is joined with the preposition ajpo´ indicates that Thomas served under Leo and then rose against him, which Methodios expresses by combining the meanings of the verbs ajfi´stasqai and ejpani´stasqai. Actually, if Thomas was the count of the federates under Leo V and if this unit had indeed been transferred back to the Anatolikon theme,38 this position was very convenient to start an uprising with the Arabs’ help, as it happened. ¨pstein,39 we are dealing with two interpretations, Thus, as has been pointed out by H. Ko pro-Michael and anti-Michael, which are both pieces of propaganda and mix up truth with fiction. To make this point clearer let us look at another anti-Michael text. In the final chapter of his second book, dedicated to Michael II, Genesios says: “Michael, . . . unjustly punishing the pious Methodios, confined him to a prison on the island of the apostle Andrew. . . . Theophilos put Euthymios, who presided over the metropolis of Sardis, to a gruesome death by flogging him with bull’s sinews.” 40 The Continuator, apparently using his pamphlets, paints a more elaborate picture. He reports that Michael punished monks in various ways and imprisoned and exiled other faithful people, and then says: “Therefore both Methodios, who after a short while ascended the patriarchal throne, and Euthymios, who then presided over the metropolis of Sardis, as they did not yield to his wish and did not renounce the veneration of images, he expelled from the City and imprisoned the divine Methodios on the island of the apostle Andrew, which is near [Cape] Acritas, whereas the blessed Euthymios he put to death through his son Theophilos, flogging him mercilessly with bull’s sinews.” 41 The other tradition on Michael, represented by George the Monk and Symeon the Logothete, does not mention these facts at all. The Acta Davidis, Symeonis et Georgii, while adhering to the pro-Michael version of the rebellion of Thomas, does describe in detail the imprisonment of Methodios. The author of this text, however, says explicitly that “this emperor [Michael II] did not wrong any of the saints except only the great and divine Methodios, . . . because he had secretly gone to Rome.” 42 This is absolutely corSuch as the Chronicle of George the Monk, probably written before 847. See D. Afinogenov, “The Date of Georgius Monachus Reconsidered,” BZ 92 (1999): 437–47. 38 J. Haldon, Byzantine Praetorians, Poikila Byzantina 3 (Bonn, 1984), 248–51. The very fact that the “micrasiatic” version of Thomas’ rebellion ascribes the position of the count of the federates to Thomas in the reign of Leo is a powerful argument in favor of Haldon’s point of view against Turner, who doubts that the ¨ B 40 (1990): transfer did take place; cf. D. Turner, “The Origins and Accession of Leo V (813–820),” JO 171–203, esp. 178. 39 ¨pstein, Zur Erhebung, 69. Ko 40 Genesios, 35.68–77. 41 ThC, 48.5–15. 42 “Acta SS. Davidis, Symeonis et Georgii,” AB 18 (1899): 209–59, esp. 237.5–8. 37

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rect. Methodios did much harm to both Leo’s and Michael’s relationship with the papacy43 and was therefore arrested for political, not ecclesiastical, reasons. As for Euthymios, we now know for certain from the Life by Methodios that the information of the Acta on his punishment by Theophilos44 is also quite accurate. Two stages of manipulation of facts are obvious from Genesios and the Continuator. The former does not actually make false statements in this case, but by adding such epithets as “unjustly” and “pious” he makes the reader think that Methodios was punished because of his faith, while the placement of the sentence on Euthymios creates an impression that Theophilos had the bishop flogged during his father’s reign.45 The Continuator’s account, while betraying the same roots as that of Genesios, is already for the most part an anti-Michael fabrication. Thus it can be reasonably assumed that the pro-Leo interpretations found in Genesios and the Continuator of Theophanes, but nowhere else, stem from anti-Michael propagandistic fiction.46 When, however, we look at the facts that are reported alongside the fabrications, the picture looks much less favorable for Michael’s predecessor. Essentially, there are two points that can be accepted as almost certain: first, the Continuator’s information that “the imperial court was full of plotters and conspirators”;47 and, second, that it was against Leo that Thomas started his rebellion. Even without calling the ghost of historical materialism from its grave, common sense compels us to look for some deeper causes for the change of power in Byzantium in 820 than the personal ambitions of Michael the Amorian. The results of the investigation in regard to the sources can be summarized as follows. The common source of Genesios and the Continuator of Theophanes used two traditions: one relatively pro-Michael and vehemently anti-Leo and the other vehemently anti-Michael and relatively pro-Leo. The first is well attested by ninth-century writings such as George the Monk and Theosteriktos. The second can be traced back to certain anti-Michael pamphlets compiled by some orthodox ecclesiastics. The Continuator, unlike Genesios, also had direct access to those pamphlets. All the testimonies that portray Michael as an ungrateful conspirator and ruthless murderer who deprived the empire of one of its best rulers for no reason but his own thirst for power can be safely attributed to the second tradition. It should be emphasized that since both traditions were iconophile while both emperors were iconoclasts, the negative factor in them far outweighed the positive one. In other words, the representatives of the first tradition did not so much like Michael as they hated Leo, and vice versa. Therefore to obtain something close to the reality we have to extract everything favorable to Leo and unfavorable to Michael from the first tradition and do exactly the opposite with the second one, then combine 43 See D. Afinogenov, Konstantinopol’skii patriarkhat i ikonoborcheskii krizis v Vizantii, 784–847 (Moscow, 1997), 83–84. 44 “Acta Davidis,” 238.5–16. Bury’s (History, 139 n. 3) cautious preference for this account was entirely justified. 45 Genesios is understood in this sense, e.g., by Treadgold, “Problem,” 336. Bury (History, 139 n. 3) is more careful. 46 This will make it superfluous to postulate an iconoclast source for all the passages in ThC and Genesios ˜ er. that paint a positive picture of Leo, as does, e.g., Signes Codon 47 ThC, 41.1. F. Winkelmann notes that “starke Kra¨fte mu ¨ ssen hinter ihm [Michael II] gestanden haben” (Quellenstudien zur herrschenden Klasse von Byzanz im 8. und 9. Jahrhundert, BBA 54 [Berlin, 1987], 78).

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the data, leaving the remaining information under deep suspicion (unless it is supported by independent sources). This simple operation, when applied to the subject of this paper, leads to the already formulated conclusions: (1) Michael Traulos was probably not implicated in a conspiracy or high treason at the moment of his arrest; and (2) Leo V was certainly assassinated because dissatisfaction of some powerful groups within the Byzantine ´elite had reached a critical point. Russian Academy of Sciences

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The Domain of Private Guilds in the Byzantine Economy, Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries GEORGE C. MANIATIS

he role of the private guilds in the late Byzantine Empire remains controversial. Three unsettled issues in particular deserve reexamination: the scope of the guilds’ sectoral activities in the capital, their presence in the provinces, and their fate after the twelfth century. Putting the role of the guilds in proper perspective is important, as it defines the degree of state control and intervention in key constituent elements of the Byzantine economy including the organization of the private sector, the production and distribution of goods, price formation, domestic and foreign competition, and the configuration of the supporting institutional framework. At issue is the reach of the long arm of the government and the entrenched view of the pervasiveness of the guild organizational form in the Byzantine economy. In addressing these issues, this study establishes criteria and draws clear distinctions among the various organizational forms in place, critically reviews long-standing theories, identifies misreadings of or unwarranted readings into narrative sources, and puts forward new hypotheses that help define more definitively the extent of the guilds’ actual involvement in the economic activity in the capital and the provinces, in light of the evolving economic and political realities of the times.

T

THE SCOPE OF PRIVATE GUILD ACTIVITIES IN THE CAPITAL The Book of the Eparch1 defined the economic activities that had to be undertaken by private enterprises mandatorily organized into guilds (susth´ mata)2 and thereby established The Book of the Eparch ( jEparciko´ n Bibli´on; hereafter BE), promulgated in 911 or 912, codified earlier decrees concerning the private guilds located in the capital. The piecemeal issue of these decrees suggests that the guild organizational structure described in the Book of the Eparch apparently existed already in the late 9th century. The Greek text was published with emendations by J. Nicole, Le Livre du Pre´fet ou l’e´dit de l’Empereur Le´on le Sage sur les corporations de Constantinople (Geneva, 1893), and was reprinted in Zepos, Jus Graecoromanum, 2:371–92. English translations are by A. E. R. Boak, “The Book of the Prefect,” Journal of Economic and Business History 1 (1929): 597–619, and E. H. Freshfield, Roman Law in the Later Roman Empire: Byzantine Guilds, Professional and Commercial (Cambridge, 1938). A recent critical edition of the Greek text and a German translation is by J. Koder, Das Eparchenbuch Leons des Weisen (Vienna, 1991), which includes a commentary on the origin of rules and regulations, the likely procedure followed for the compilation of the Book of the Eparch, and date of publication (ibid., 20–23). 2 In economic activities undertaken by firms mandatorily organized into guilds, membership was a precondition for the practice of a craft or trade. See A. P. Christophilopoulos, To´ jEparciko´ n Bibli´on Le´ onto" tou' 1

340 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY statutorily their sectoral sphere of operation in the capital. In these specified instances, the practice of a craft or trade by unorganized outsiders was prohibited.3 It would be simplistic to suggest that a mandatory guild system was instituted only to allow the parallel conduct of the same economic activities outside the purview and control of the authorities,4 Sofou' kai´ aiJ Suntecni´ai ejn Buzanti´v (Athens, 1935), 4, 36, 50; G. Mickwitz, “Die Organisationsformen zwei byzantinischer Gewerbe im X. Jahrhundert,” BZ 36 (1936): 72–74; A. D. Sideris, JIstori´a tou' oijkonomikou' bi´ou (Athens, 1950), 264; B. Mendl, “Les corporations byzantines,” BSI 22 (1961): 301–2, 304, 312–18; G. G. Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo i gosudarstvo v X–XI vv: I problemy istorii odnogo stoletiia 976–1081 gg (Byzantine society and state in the tenth and eleventh centuries: Historical problems of one century, 976–1081) (Moscow, 1977), 130, 151. However, guild membership was obligatory only for the proprietor of a business establishment or the individual running the business; craftsmen were employed as hired laborers and were denied admission. Nevertheless, the view is held that guild membership was not compulsory, and that the same crafts were also practiced outside the guild system by unorganized craftsmen. J. Nicole, “Notices de´tache´es pour servir `a la critique et l’exe´ge`se de l’e´dit de Le´on le Sage,” Livre du Pre´fet (London, 1970), 80; A. Stoeckle, ¨nfte (Leipzig, 1911), 8; H. Gehring, “Das Zunftwesen Konstantinopels im zehnSpa¨tro¨mische und byzantinische Zu ¨cher fu ¨r Nationalo¨konomie und Statistik 38 (1909): 580; Boak, “Book of the Prefect,” ten Jahrhundert,” Jahrbu 608 n. 5; G. Zoras, Le corporazioni bizantine (Rome, 1931), 172; S. Runciman, “Byzantine Trade and Industry,” in Cambridge Economic History of Europe (Cambridge, 1987), 2:154 n. 12, 156; A. P. Kazhdan, “Tsekhi i gosudarstvennye masterskie v Konstantinople v IX–X vv” (Guilds and state workshops in Constantinople in the ninth and tenth centuries), VizVrem 6 (1953): 138–39, 144, 146–47, 153; idem, Derevnia i gorod v Vizantii IX–X vv (Country and town in Byzantium in the ninth and tenth centuries) (Moscow, 1960), 334, 336, 342, 344; D. Simon, “Die byzantinischen Seidenzu ¨ nfte,” BZ 68 (1975): 36–39; P. Horden, “The Confraternities in Byzantium,” in Voluntary Religion (London, 1986), ed. W. J. Sheilds and D. Wood, 35; M. Angold, “The Shaping of the Medieval Byzantine ‘City’,” ByzF 10 (1985): 29–30; idem, The Byzantine Empire 1025–1204 (London, 1997), 94; A. Muthesius, “Byzantine Silk Industry: Lopez and Beyond,” JMedHist 19 (1993): 32. R. S. Lopez, “Silk Industry in the Byzantine Empire,” Speculum 20 (1945): 15–16, articulated this notion best: these outsiders were craftsmen and traders who could not join or had dropped out of their respective guilds because they could not afford to pay the entrance fee or underwrite their share in the collective purchase of imported materials. This hypothesis is untenable. First, as discussed in the text, the coexistence of guild-controlled and non–guild-controlled economic activities in the same sector made no sense in the state’s framework of industrial and commercial policy. Second, there is no indication in the Book of the Eparch that these groups operated outside the guild system. In fact, the practice of certain crafts by nonguild members was explicitly forbidden; see note 3. Third, these groups have been mistakenly perceived as poor: they were of servile status and hence ineligible to take part in the wholesale collective purchases (BE 7.2). Fourth, the existence of guild members unable to participate in the wholesale common purchase (BE 6.9) or of members thought of as eligible to join (BE 7.5) only confirms the varying size distribution of firms in their respective guilds and the concomitant diverse financial strength of the membership, not the existence of unorganized and needy craftsmen and traders operating outside the parameters set by the guild system. Finally, manufacturing and trading activities required adequate financial resources (self-financing, credit availability). Indeed, one of the conditions of entry was adequacy of financial means (eu“poro": BE 2.10, 8.13), which suggests that craftsmen with insufficient resources could not set up shop to begin with. Hence those who lacked the wherewithal to operate as independents had to seek employment as hired workers, while those who had the financial resources to establish themselves as independent businessmen surely could afford the one-time nominal entrance fee. Certainly, the fee levied by the guilds was not intended to forestall new entry and thereby deter competition between existing and new members, as Christophilopoulos ( jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 54) asserts. For more detail on the status of these groups, see G. C. Maniatis, “Organization, Market Structure, and Modus Operandi of the Private Silk Industry in Tenth-Century Byzantium,” DOP 53 (1999): 271–72, 279–81. 3 BE 9.6, 11.8, 12.4, 6, and 13.4. 4 Guild members were forbidden to supply raw materials and finished goods to nonguild members (BE 6.16, 7.1, 12.4, 6, 7), buy imported raw materials on behalf of influential or wealthy persons (BE 6.10, 7.1), act as procurement agents for members of another unauthorized guild, barter or purchase goods they were not authorized to handle (BE 9.6, 11.8, 12.7), or sell such materials unprocessed (BE 6.13, 7.1). The imposed restrictions aimed further to deter dissipation of supplies to low-priority uses through sales to unauthorized

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whether by noblemen,5 wealthy enterprising individuals, or small-scale traders and craftsmen, as has been argued.6 It would serve no purpose to set up an organizational structure, designate operational functions at each stage of the productive process and distribution, and enact elaborate regulations concerning admission, obligations, and conduct, only to let the assigned activities be conducted outside the guild system. Had this happened, the guild system effectively would have been scuttled. In analyzing the business organizational structure in Byzantium, it is all-important to draw a sharp distinction between the mandatory organization into guilds (susth´ mata) of persons or in minuscule quantities, thereby depriving high-priority (guild-organized) producers of adequate raw materials (BE 6.10, 13, 16, 7.5). On the other hand, the stipulation that raw materials cannot be sold to traders who intended to export them unprocessed (BE 6.16) reflects the state’s primary concern to avoid unwarranted shortages and consequent price increases. It also points to a conscious policy of exporting only finished goods from the capital, which generated employment opportunities locally and a much higher value added. In short, the purpose of these restrictions was to forestall the growth of manufacturing and trade activities outside the guild system in those sectors deemed important to the capital’s economy and welfare. Moreover, by funneling all commercial activity through a controllable setting, the emergence of monopolistic market structures and the concentration of economic power in a few hands could be thwarted. 5 It has been argued that, despite the prohibition, the nobility, in collusion with guild members, managed to have silks produced for their account or at their homes, which in turn they sold on the market. Mickwitz, “Organisationsformen,” 75–76; idem, “Un proble`me d’influence: Byzance et l’e´conomie de l’Occident me´di´eval,” Annales d’histoire ´economique et sociale 7 (1936): 27; Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 153; M. I. Siuziumov, “Remeslo i torgovlia v Konstantinopole v nachale X v.” (Crafts and trade in Constantinople at the beginning of the tenth century), VizVrem 4 (1951): 29–30; Lopez, “Silk Industry,” 16. Similarly, provision BE 16.4, which prohibits pork dealers from hiding pigs in nobles’ houses, has led to the inference that dignitaries were illicitly involved in the livestock trade: Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 30. However, the notion that the powerful would be involved in an illicit activity and that guild members would be willing to cooperate amid the ubiquitous presence of informers and the severe penalties that were inflicted is strained. The law’s cautionary provisions cannot be construed as proof of a prevalent pattern of unlawful actions by dignitaries. The very purpose of the introduction of the law was precisely to frustrate possible transgressions. Besides the powerful did not have to resort to underhanded and risky deals, flout the law, and be humiliated if caught—a virtual certainty, as illegal conduct and flagrant transgressions of the law could hardly elude the attention of the vigilant chiefs. They could openly and profitably invest their capital in silk manufacturing (or any other activity for that matter) by lending to guild members, by entering into a partnership with a guild member, or by setting up shop by sponsoring a slave. The nobility was free to exploit business opportunities, but in particular sectors they had to operate through the guild system. To be sure, the law (Basilika´ , ed. I. D. Zepos (Athens 1896–1900), 6.1.23 (hereafter Basilics) established the incompatibility of the status of high-ranking state officials with direct or indirect involvement in business. But except for the few dignitaries occupying positions of the highest authority in the capital, to whom the law was strictly referring, there were many rich persons who had purchased their dignities without corresponding obligation to discharge administrative functions. These, as well as numerous members of the powerful Byzantine aristocratic families, some among the emperor’s close relatives (oijkei´oi), were actively involved in commercial activities, particularly during and after the twelfth century. P. Lemerle, “‘Roga’ et rente d’e´tat aux Xe–XIe sie`cles,” REB 25 (1967), 77–100; A. Andre´ade`s, “De la monnaie et de la puissance d’achat des me´taux pre´cieux dans l’empire byzantin,” Byzantion 1 (1924), 105; Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 164– 68; A. E. Laiou-Thomadakis, “The Byzantine Economy in the Mediterranean Trade System; Thirteenth– Fifteenth Centuries,” DOP 34/35 (1980–81), 188, 199, 201, 204–5, 212, 220–21; A. E. Laiou, “The Greek merchant of the Palaeologan period: A collective portrait,” in eadem, Gender, Society and Economic Life in Byzantium. Variorum Reprints (Hampshire, 1992), VIII, 105, 108, 112–13; J.-C. Cheynet, Pouvoir et contestations `a Byzance (963–1210) (Paris, 1990), 296; idem, “De´valuation des dignite´s et de´valuation mone´taire dans la seconde moitie´ du XIe sie`cle,” Byzantion 53 (1983), 453–54, 457–58, 477; M. Hendy, “The Economy: A Brief Survey,” in Byzantine Studies, ed. S. Vryonis Jr., (New Rochelle, New York, 1992), 146. 6 The authors that hold this view are cited in notes 2, 5, and 23.

342 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY manufacturing and trade establishments operating in designated sectors, because the state felt it needed to supervise their activities closely,7 and the voluntary associations (swmatei'a) of craftsmen and traders and societies (su´ llogoi) of professionals and charities,8 whose activities the state had no particular interest in regulating. Guilds were official organizations instituted by the state and under its direct control, effected through the eparch and the chiefs he appointed. Fundamentally, the state’s organs enforced the government’s economic policy and the stipulated rules of business conduct; they did not act as stewards of the professional interests of the guild members.9 Associations and societies, on the other hand, were independent, self-governed organizations initiated and formed by their own members and run by elected members and their own instituted bylaws. Voluntary associations could be established in the provinces as well,10 but mandatory guilds operated only in the capital and only in a limited number of designated economic activities.11 The Book of the Eparch deals exclusively with the organizations that operated in the capital. It sets forth the rules governing the society (su´ llogo") of the notaries, a quasijudicial body subjected to singular entrance requirements, numerus clausus on mem7 To be able to keep a check on the guilds, the eparch appointed their chiefs (BE 5.1, 14.1, 2). Stockle, ¨nfte, 84; Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 47–48, 49 and n. 1; S. Runciman, Byzantine CivByzantische Zu ilization (London, 1933), 175; Boak, “The Book of the Prefect,” 599; Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 39; and N. Oikonomide`s, “Entrepreneurs,” in The Byzantines, ed. G. Cavallo (Chicago, 1997), 155, maintain that the chiefs of the guilds, though official organs of the state, were chosen from among their members. However, this is true only for the society (su´ llogo") of the notaries (BE 1.22) who, because of their legal training, distinct quasijudicial function, and high ethical standards were subject to a different set of rules. This ad hoc procedure of selecting their chief cannot be applied by analogy to the other guilds, which were involved in totally unrelated industrial and trade activities. In dealing with the guilds proper (susth´ mata), the Book of the Eparch nowhere indicates that the chiefs were chosen from among the guild members or alludes to the process of their selection. This is understandable, as the authorities could not trust active guild members to perform their duties impartially because of their vested interests. 8 E.g., kolle´ gion tw'n penh´ twn: Basilics, 60.32.3 scholium; welfare societies: Georgius Cedrinus, ed. I. Bekker, vol. 2 (Bonn, 1839), 641; Ph. Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o" kai´ Politismo´ ", 6 vols. in 7 pts. (Athens, 1948–57), 2A:80 n. 4, 102. 9 Cf. Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 38; idem, “Zhth´ mata tina´ ejk tou' jEparcikou' Bibli´ou,” JEllhnika´ 11(1939): 134; Boak, “The Book of the Prefect,” 597–98; Mendl, “Les corporations byzantines,” 318; G. `s, Ostrogorsky, History of the Byzantine State (Oxford, 1968), 254; Runciman, “Byzantine Trade,” 154; E. France ´ tudes Byzantines, 1961 “La disparition des corporations byzantines,” in Actes du XIIe Congre`s International d’ E (Belgrade, 1964), 2:97; Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 134, 140–41, 147–48, 151. Contra: C. M. Macri, L’Organisation de l’e´conomie urbaine dans Byzance sous la dynastie de Mace´doine (867–1057) (Paris, 1925), 73–74; P. Charanis, “On the Social Structure of the Later Roman Empire,” Byzantion 17 (1946), 50; Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 144; A. Anre´ade`s, “Byzance, paradis du monopole et du privile`ge,” Byzantion 9 (1934), 172. G. Mickwitz, ¨nfte und ihre Bedeutung bei der Entstehung des Zunftwesen (Helsinki, 1936), 207–23, Die Kartellfunktionen der Zu 228–31, 234, and esp. 229. Mickwitz (229) argues that, besides the protection of the public from gouging in foodstuffs, the law, actually initiated by the traders themselves, aimed to thwart all competition among members or from outside and thereby safeguard the guilds’ monopolies. The statutory monopolies granted the guilds hardly served the interests of the state. For a refutation of this latter notion, that the state wished to advance the interests of the members of the guilds, see Maniatis, “Private Silk Industry,” 269–70, 303–19, 323–26. 10 Basilics, 54.16.16. 11 The only craftsmen required to be organized into guilds (susth´ mata) were the jewelers (BE 2), those involved in silk manufacturing (BE 4–8), the candlemakers (BE 11), the soapmakers (BE 12), and the tanners and saddlers (BE 14). See also note 25 below.

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bership admissions, and a special procedure for the selection of their chief exclusively from their members (BE 1. 1–26). The society of notaries could hardly be classified as a guild qua guild, as its constitution and special functions set it apart from the guilds proper, which were involved in unrelated activities. The Book of the Eparch also designates occupations whose activities were deemed vital for the local economy or essential to the provisioning of the city that were required to be organized into guilds (susth´ mata). Furthermore, it alludes to several crafts in the construction industry, referred to generically as contractors without any mention of their being organized into guilds,12 some of which may have been voluntarily organized into informal groups or formal associations (swmatei'a).13 12 The provisions of the Book of the Eparch regarding the construction trades (BE 22.1–4) simply reiterate earlier provisions of common law outlining the responsibility of these groups in the exercise of their craft: CIC, Dig 6.1.39, 11.6.7, 19.2.51; CIC, CI 8.12.8, Basilics, 15.1.39, 20.1.22. These provisions stipulate the course of action to be taken when, having made an agreement and received earnest money, craftsmen quit their undertaking to begin another before the former is completed; the responsibility of employers who, having contracted craftsmen for a project, fail to provide them with the necessary materials and thus force them to abandon their work; and the steps to be taken to resolve disputes over fair compensation or reprehensible conduct of the parties, including remedial action. Also, to ensure fulfillment of contractual obligations and exclude the involvement of third parties in ongoing work, contractors and craftsmen were forbidden to enter into an agreement with one another to complete work already in progress. Synopsis Basilicorum, T. 8.1. That the Book of the Eparch does not refer to these crafts as guilds is not an accident. In fact, the tenor of the relevant provisions of the Book of the Eparch strongly suggests that they were not organized into guilds and that their activities were not monitored by the state. Cf. Sideris, JIstori´a, 227; Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 16, 18, 19, 23; P. Schreiner, “Die Organisation byzantinischer Kaufleute und Handwerker,” in ¨hgeschichtlichen Zeit in Mittel- und Nordeuropa (Go ¨ttingen, Untersuchungen zu Handel und Verkehr der vor- und fru 1989), 4:52; I. P. Medvedev, Problema manufaktury v trudakh klassikov marxisma-leninisma i vopros o tak nazyvaemoi vizantiiskoi manifakture. V. I. Lenin, i problemy istorii (The problem of manufacture in the studies of classics of Marxism and Leninism, and the question of Byzantine manufacture. V. I. Lenin and problems of his¨nfte, 54, and Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, tory) (Leningrad, 1970), 402. Stoeckle, Byzantinische Zu 92, maintain that our present knowledge does not allow us to accept or reject the notion that the con¨lger, Aus den Schatzkammern des struction workers were organized into guilds. On the other hand, F. Do Heiligen Berges (Munich, 1948), 269, believes that this was a well-regulated guild-type (Zunftordnung) organization. Gehring, “Zunftwesen,” 580, Zoras, Corporazioni bizantine, 203, Macri, Organisation, 106–7, and Kazhdan, Derevnia, 366, also maintain that the building trades had adopted guild organizational forms. Certainly, the mere mention of construction trades in the Book of the Eparch does not mean that they were organized into guilds, as stated by N. Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires grecs et latins `a Constantinople (XIIIe–XVe sie`cles) (Paris, 1979), 112 n. 242. Also, his view (ibid., 111–12) that the construction workers in the capital and in Thessalonike formed “une organisation corporative,” i.e., a guild, headed by a chief (prwtomai?stwr) during the 13th and 14th centuries, is untenable, as construction workers traditionally formed small gangs headed by a leading technician. Inferring the existence of a guild organizational structure from a designation pertaining to foremen of crews is hardly conclusive. See also note 13 below. Finally, his assertion (ibid., 112) that all construction workers and joiners residing in the capital were subject to the authority of the palace’s steward (palatofu´ lax) needs to be qualified. Only those who had undertaken to offer their services (oiJ dhlwqe´ nte") fell under his jurisdiction. C. N. Sathas, Bibliotheca graeca medii aevi (Venice, 1877), 6:649. 13 The notion that the building trades, whether in the capital or in the provinces, were not organized into mandatory guilds (susth´ mata) in the 10th century is strengthened by the absence of historical precedent. Thus the Declaration of the association of building craftsmen in Sardis to the city’s imperial magistrate as early as A.D. 459, prompted by frequent complaints of unfinished work, outlines the obligations of the employers and craftsmen and sets forth the commitment of the association of builders and artisans to complete the work left unfinished and pay for damages in case of nonperformance out of the association’s funds,

344 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY A large number of craftsmen were involved in a wide spectrum of manufacturing activities of the artisanal type in the capital,14 working singly or with a few helpers or apprentices and without extensive division of labor. Articles were produced for the most part one at a time, with individual variations, often to the requirements of a particular customer. The craftsmen sold their products themselves or through middlemen (e.g., grocers)15 under conditions of atomistic competition, and hence there was no particular concern that they might act in concert and thereby exploit the consumer; their lines of production did not include prohibited articles; and their dealings and infractions fell under the common law.16 In these circumstances, close state supervision would be pointless. The same holds for the numerous small traders.17 Besides, their limited number per craft and small turnover would hardly justify their induction into countless mandatory guilds (susth´ mata) and the concomitant inordinate augmentation of the requisite bureaucracy to oversee their activities. The state therefore had no compelling reason to enjoin this multitude of craftsmen and traders to organize themselves into guilds, and this explains why there is no reference to them in the Book of the Eparch.18 Rather, the state allowed these unorganized crafts to form voluntary associations (swmatei'a), usually in fields designated by law and provided their members qualified,19 if they thought that this provided the hired craftsmen belonged to the association. For the text and commentary, see W. H. Buckler, “Labor Disputes in the Province of Asia Minor,” in Anatolian Studies Presented to W. M. Ramsay (Manchester, 1923), 36–45. Buckler (41) maintains that this is the earliest example known of a trade union. However, the condition that the craftsmen involved should be “one of us” in order for the association to take action suggests that not all craftsmen in the building trades were organized, and that those organized more likely had formed a voluntary association of a cooperative nature (swmatei'on) rather than a trade union. Similar provisions are found in CIC, CI 6.62.5, 11.10.5. Incidentally, the Book of the Eparch contains no provision for collective obligation for indemnification. In the same vein, Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 19, points out that in the hagiographic literature of the 8th through the 10th century itinerant builders are described as hired workers organized into artels. Litavrin also maintains that the builders referred to in the Book of the Eparch formed cooperative associations (artels): Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 130. 14 An incomplete list of more than fifty crafts are enumerated in Basilics, 54.6.6 and BE 22.1. For additional crafts and trades, see Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 2A:179–243; Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 100–103; Schreiner, “Organisation,” 59 and n. 74. Important industries located in the capital or its outskirts, e.g., metalworking, woodworking, glassmaking, woolen and linen, pottery, grain milling, and building materials, operated outside the guild regime. 15 BE 13.1. 16 The relevant provisions include: Basilics, 20.1.22 scholium, 10.4.16[4], 60.22.6, 60.44.2, 19.10.68, 19.10.17, 10.3.1, 2; Ecloga, 15.25, 16.30, Synopsis Minor, M.4, E.45, ⌸.18, 42; Synopsis Basilicorum, ⌬.37.3, ⌸.24.3, 5; Peira, 38.29, 30; Attaleiates, Ponema, 11.2,7; Hexabiblos, 3.3.70, 3.3.19 and scholium, 3.3.72, 6.15.7, 6.14.12, 13, 16. The unorganized craftsmen were also under the eparch’s jurisdiction: JO e“parco" ejxousi´an e“cei ejpi` pa'si toi'" susthmatikoi'" kai` ijdiw´ ta" te´ cnhn oiJandh´ pote metercome´ nou": Ecloga Basilicorum, 2.2 in K. E. Zachariae von Lingenthal, Geschichte des griechisch-ro¨mischen Rechts (Berlin, 1892), 36f n. 311; oiJ tw'n tecnw'n tv' ejpa´ rcv th'" po´ lew" uJpo´ keintai: Peira, 51.29. Cf. also N. Oikonomide`s, “L’e´volution de l’organisation administrative de l’empire byzantin au XIe sie`cle (1025–1118),” TM 6 (1976): 133. If so, the provisions of the Book of the Eparch pertaining to business conduct (cited in notes 123–26 below) in all probability were applicable to them as well. 17 See note 25 below. 18 Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 18, and Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 138, Derevnia, 308, also maintain that the bulk of the crafts were not organized into guilds. 19 In the capital, associations (swmatei'a) were registered with the eparch, and their activities fell under his jurisdiction: Pa´ nta ta` ejn Kwnstantinopo´ lei swmatei'a . . . tv' ejpa´ rcv th'" po´ lew" uJpokei´sqwsan (Basilics, 6.4.13; Synopsis Basilicorum, A.66.32). In the provinces, jurisdiction over associations was assigned to the local authorities. Entry was conditioned on evidence presented by the association to the competent authorities about the

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vehicle served their purposes. Conceivably, some crafts had formed associations, particularly those that felt that their being organized could advance or protect their interests in dealings with state authorities, help solve problems they faced in the practice of their craft or profession (e.g., shipowners, shipwrights),20 or impress self-discipline and probity among fellow craftsmen.21 The upshot is that there were many crafts whose practice did not require their induction into a mandatory guild organizational structure and whose compulsory enrollment into guilds not only would have served no purpose but also would have been impractical. Whether or not there were other guilds not included in the Book of the Eparch has been much debated. Some argue that, based on our present knowledge, it is not possible to give a definitive answer to this question.22 Others maintain that there were crafts that were not organized into guilds,23 while many assert that the Book of the Eparch does not age, gender, and technical proficiency of the candidate (Basilics, 54.16.16). The registration of the associations facilitated the task of the authorities in repairing the walls of the city, recruiting combatants for its defense, fighting fires, arranging for the participation of their heads or members in official ceremonies and processions, and in keeping an eye on their political activities, as gatherings having political character were not permitted (Basilics, 60.32.1 and scholia; Synopsis Basilicorum, ⌺.12.2). The guild organization also was a convenient vehicle for the discharge of public services in times of emergency: e”kaston tou´ twn tw'n susthma´ twn fula´ xei th´ n po´ lin ejn kairv' ejpidhmi´a" ejcqrw'n (Constantine Porphyrogennetos, De Cerimoniis Aulae Byzantinae, ed. I. Reske (Bonn, 1829), 449. See also, S. Vryonis Jr., “Byzantine Dhmokrati´a and the Guilds in the Eleventh Century,” DOP 17 (1963), 300; Schreiner, “Organisation,” 47–48, 58. 20 It is telling that the Book of the Eparch does not include the gold and silver embroiderers among the silk guilds of the capital, as it does not deal with the wool and linen weavers or the smiths, despite the importance of their respective crafts. Cf. Mickwitz, Kartellfunktionen, 226; D. Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium before the Fourth Crusade,” BZ 84/85 (1991–92): 463. Similarly, the shipowners’ guild (navicularii), so important, among other things, for the empire’s trade and so prominent in earlier periods, also is not mentioned in the Book of the Eparch. Apparently, their guild had disappeared by the 7th century: “the shipowners were comparatively free agents, plying the seas for their own personal gain”: Charanis, “Social Structure,” 49, and the sources cited therein; A. R. Lewis, Naval Power and Trade in the Mediterranean, A.D. 500–1100 (Princeton, N.J., 1951), 40, 82–83. Contra: M. I. Siuziumov, Kniga Eparkha (The Book of the Eparch) (Sverdlovsk, 1949), 114–15; Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 132, 148–49. To be sure, in times of emergency the state requisitioned ships, as it did pack animals, supplies, or services, whether the persons affected were organized into guilds (e.g., the saddlers, BE 14.1) or not. But this is hardly tantamount to their activities being “regulated,” because the provisioning of the capital was one of the deepest concerns of the central government, as has been suggested: Charanis, ibid., 49–50; G. I. Bratianu, “La question de l’approvisionnement de Constantinople `a l’e´poque byzantine et ottomane,” Byzantion 5 (1929–30): 91; J. Durliat, “L’approvisionnement de Constantinople,” in Constantinople and Its Hinterland, ed. C. Mango and G. Dagron (Aldershot, 1995), 22, 29. In normal times the government could (and did) employ the services of the shipowners on a contractual basis which obviated the need for direct control of their activities. 21 Such mandated or voluntary commitments (see note 19) necessitated some form of organization of the members of a craft, be it a mandatory guild or a voluntary association. Thus, since they were not enjoined by law to form a guild, the coppersmiths apparently were organized into an association (swmatei'on) in order to fulfill their obligation to watch each other because they were collectively liable for the transgressions of any one of them: eJno` " ptai´santo" tw'n calke´ wn, eij" pa´ nta" oJ ki´nduno" a“rcetai, wJ" ojfei´lonta" ajllh´ lou" kataskopei'n” (Basilics, 54.17). 22 ¨nfte, 8; Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 8 n. 4; Koder, Eparchenbuch, 23, Stoeckle, Byzantinische Zu ¨ B 41 (1991): 114. 33; idem, “Delikt und Strafe im Eparchenbuch,” JO 23 Nicole, Livre du Pre´fet, 11–12; Gehring, “Zunftwesen,” 580; S. Lampros, JIstori´a th'" JElla´ do" (Athens, 1898), 4:262–63; H. Monnier, Les Novelles de Le´on le Sage (Paris, 1923), 60 n. 4; Sideris, JIstori´a, 264, 267–68; Runciman, “Byzantine Trade,” 154 n. 12; Mendl, “Corporations,” 303; Angold, “Medieval Byzantine ‘City,’” 29; Kazhdan, Derevnia, 308, 334; idem, “Tsekhi,” 138; Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 18–19; W. Treadgold, A History of the Byzantine State and Society (Stanford, Calif., 1997), 574.

346 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY exhaust the existing guilds in the capital as the guild system was far-reaching.24 But as already shown, there was no compelling reason for every single craft or trade to be organized into a compulsory guild (su´ sthma).25 On the other hand, it is unlikely that economic activities the state was keen on regulating would have been left out of the compilation of edicts included in the Book of the Eparch. Besides, crafts engaged in activities that could not be entrusted to the private sector (e.g., minting, weaponry, high-quality silk manufacturing for the exclusive use of the court) were mentioned in legal texts and narrative sources, and the respective craftsmen worked in imperial workshops.26 The notion that the guild system was pervasive is born of the failure to put the regulatory system into proper perspective.27 24 ´ tudes byzantines (Paris, 1905), 143; Mendl, “Corporations,” Nicole, Le Livre du Pre´fet, 3, 11; Ch. Diehl, E 303; Zoras, Corporazioni bizantine, 153, 207; Macri, Organisation, 33; Sideris, JIstori´a, 269; Boak, “The Book of the Prefect,” 599; Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 137–38; Ostrogorsky, History, 253–54; Freshfield, Roman Law, xii–xiii; Schreiner, “Organisation,” 51; S. Vryonis Jr., “Guilds,” DOP 17 (1963): 297 n. 26; A. Toynbee, Constantine Porphyrogenitus and His World (London, 1973), 41; Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 148–49; Mickwitz, Kartellfunktionen, 226, 230. Mickwitz (229) maintains that only guilds dealing with basic staples and those whose monopoly rights the state wished to protect were included in the Book of the Eparch. He explains the omission of, in his view, other important guilds from the Book of the Eparch as follows: they were not interested in establishing monopolies; they did not seem as threatening as the guild of the construction workers; or their activities did not affect consumer welfare (ibid., 229–30). 25 A number of basic staples were handled by guilds: bread (BE 18), fish (BE 17), meat (BE 15), wine (BE 19), groceries and hardware (BE 13), for which the Book of the Eparch did not fix wholesale or retail prices but only capped profit margins. On the implications of this policy for the price formation process, see below, pp. 356, n. 34, ll. 26–30; 361, ll. 17–21; 365; ll. 9–12 and Maniatis, “Private Silk Industry,” 311 and n. 180. Yet many trades dealing in heavily marketed basic consumer goods of equal importance to the public, such as milk, eggs, fruits, vegetables, clothing, medicines, firewood, shoes, furniture, utensils, timber, bricks, tiles, and lime, remained unorganized. This suggests two things: the guild system was confined to activities the state was keenly interested in keeping in check; and the guild system and the regulatory restrictions were not as pervasive as has been thought (see note 27 below). J. Koder observes that there is no mention of guilds dealing in milk, eggs, fruits, and vegetables in the Book of the Eparch (he also includes dairy products, e.g., cheese and butter; but these products were handled by the grocers’ guild, BE 13.1): jEpagge´ lmata scetika´ me´ to´ n ejpisitismo´ sto´ jEparciko´ Bibli´o,” in JH kaqhmerinh´ zwh´ oto´ Buza´ ntio. Tome´ " kai´ sune´ ceia sth´ n eJllhnistikh´ kai´ rwmai¨kh´ para´ dosh. A⬘ Dieqne´ " Sumpo´ sio, 1988 (Athens, 1989), 366. Not surprisingly, Koder attributes the omission to the fact that the sale of these goods took place in fora “without the intermediation of any special organization” (ibid.), implying the absence of a guild organizational structure dealing with perishable commodities marketed largely by a multitude of small traders, many of them itinerant. In fact, citing narrative sources, Koder states that the monasteries of the capital produced fruits which they sold at very high prices: jEpagge´ lmata,” ibid., which is suggestive of the absence of price controls. For the provisioning of the capital with fresh vegetables and their great variety, see Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 2A:208–9; J. Koder, “Fresh Vegetables for the Capital,” in Mango and Dagron, Constantinople and Its Hinterland (as above, note 20), 49–56. Interestingly, although Kazhdan argues that handicraftsmen (ceirote´ cnai) did not have their own guilds (“Tsekhi,” 138; Derevnia, 308), relying on the chronicle of Pseudo-Symeon, ed. E. Weber, CSHB (Bonn, 1838), 616, he argues that the designation presbu´ tero" tou' tsaggari´ou suggests the existence of a shoemakers’ guild. But, as already indicated, it would be unrealistic to assume that the state would be interested in overseeing the doings of a slew of cobblers. 26 Basilics, 57.9.1, 56.16.1,2, 19.71, 19.1.84; Synopsis Basilicorum, O. 7.1; Theodori Scutariotae Additamenta, in Georgii Acropolitae, Opera, ed. A. Heisenberg (Leipzig, 1903), 1:285; Macri, Organisation, 14–18; Andre´ade`s, “Byzance, paradis du monopole,” 177; Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 26–28; Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 150–53 and the sources cited therein; idem, Derevnia, 338–42; J. W. Thompson, Economic and Social History of the Middle Ages (New York, 1928), 168; Runciman, “Byzantine Trade,” 151, 153. 27 The following sweeping, albeit unsubstantiated, statements are indicative. “Free trade and free production were unknown in the Byzantine Empire”: A. A. Vasiliev, History of the Byzantine Empire (Madison, Wisc.,

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In this context, it has been further argued that, in the legal texts, for example, the Basilics, the Book of the Eparch, the Peira, and in the writings of the chroniclers, the terms su´ llogo", eJtairei´a, swmatei'on, su´ sthma, ejrgasthriakoi´, and oiJ tw'n banau´ swn tecnw'n all refer to guilds (susth´ mata), and all these entities, however labeled, comprised the vast guild system of the capital.28 Thus, the argument goes, Basilics 11.1.14 “equates eJtairei´a with su´ sthma and kolle´ gion”; Basilics 8.2.101 “equates eJtairei´a with su´ sthma and swmatei'on.” 29 The assertion that the statutes lump together and equate diverse and clearly distinguishable organizational forms is inaccurate, stretched, and misleading. It derives from a misperception of the provisions of the law and overlooks the animus and the fine legal differences between them all, and particularly the fundamental difference between the mandatory guild (su´ sthma), the voluntary association (swmatei'on), and such a private business entity as the partnership (eJtairei´a). When the law stipulates that ouj pa'sin ejfei'tai poiei'n eJtairei´a" h‘ susth´ mata h‘ swmatei'a (no one may establish a partnership, a guild, or an association),30 it certainly did not mean to imply that these organizational forms are legally and functionally identical, but rather that they can only be used in those activities as defined by the law (ajpo` no´ mou bebaiwqe´ ntwn) in the private sector (e.g., bakeries) or the public domain (e.g., saltworks). The fact that the chroniclers paid no attention to such subtle legal distinctions, used descriptive terms loosely or interchangeably, or lumped together the organizational structure of the entire business community under the word “guild” is no proof that all crafts, particularly those of the banau´ swn tecnw'n or 1958), 1:344. “There was no economic freedom in Byzantium, everything was regulated”: R. Guerdan, Byzantium, Its Triumph and Tragedy (New York, 1958), 88. “[T]he larger part of the ordinances included in the Book of the Eparch was aimed at limiting competition between guilds and also among members of the same guild”: Lopez, “Silk Industry,” 18. “[W]hen the executive power of the state was at its height, . . . control [by the eparch] was far-reaching in the extreme. . . . The fact that even notaries, money-changers and goldsmiths were organized in special corporations shows how far-reaching the Byzantine guild system was. . . . The government regulated the amount of goods to be bought, supervised their quality and fixed a buying and market price”: Ostrogorsky, History, 253–54. 28 Vryonis, “Guilds,” 293–94, 295 and nn. 16–18, 19a, 304, 306 and n. 66, 309 n. 84, 310 and n. 91, 311 and nn. 98 and 101, 312–13 and nn. 104–8, 114. The chroniclers cited by Vryonis are Attaleiates, Theophanes, Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos, Kedrenos, Psellos, Zonaras, and Bryennios. Choniates could be added to the list: Nicetae Choniatae, Historia, ed. E. Weber (Bonn, 1835), 305. M. F. Hendy, Studies in the Byzantine Monetary Economy c. 300–1450 (Cambridge, 1985), 572; Koder, Eparchenbuch, 67–68; and Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 132, concur with the view that all these entities are lumped together. 29 Vryonis, “Guilds,” 313 n. 110. 30 Basilics, 8.2.101; Synopsis Basilicorum, ⌺.12.1. It is noteworthy that, under the rubric of eJtairei'ai, and koinwni´ai were subsumed commercial undertakings and an array of property relations governed by civil law: Basilics, 11.1.14, 12.1.1–89, 12.2.1–36, 82, 12.3.1–13; Rhodian Sea Law, 21, 28, 32, in Zepos, Jus Graecoromanum, 2:100–1; W. Ashburner, The Rhodian Sea Law (Oxford, 1909), ccxxxiv, ccxxxvii, ccxli–ccxliv; Attaleiates, Ponema, 6.1–5; Peira, 21.1–7; Prochiron Auctum, 20.1–29, 21.1, 7, 10, 11, 27; Epanagoge Aucta, 25.1–20, 26.1–4; Synopsis Minor, K.1–3; Hexabiblos, 3.3.10.5–9; contractors (ejklh´ ptore") of public or private works, state concessions (e.g., exploitation of saltworks), and concessionaires or farmers responsible for tax collections: Synopsis Basilicorum, ⌺.12.1; and mandatory partnerships: e.g., when an owner’s waterfront property (qala´ ttio" nomh´ ) was short of the prescribed length and hence insufficient for the establishment of an integral fixed net fishery, and the owners of the contiguous properties could not agree voluntarily to form a joint operation (a conventional koinwni´a), then a mandatory koinwni´a had to be formed in which the neighboring owners could not refuse to participate (Novel 102 of Leo VI, still in force in the 14th century). For details, see G. C. Maniatis, “Organizational Setup and Functioning of the Fish Market in Tenth-Century Constantinople,” DOP 54 (2000): 14–18.

348 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY professions, belonged to guilds. In this respect, the interpretation of the law and differentiation between organizational forms by jurisprudence was equally infelicitous. Thus the Peira’s distinction between swmatei'on (crafts using manual work) and su´ sthma (activities involving no processing and hence no use of hands) is inoperative, as it identifies the former with manufacturing and the latter with trading.31 Clearly, the distinction and the criterion employed are in direct contradiction with the Book of the Eparch, where both crafts and trades are referred to as guilds (susth´ mata). The fundamental distinction between guilds (susth´ mata) and associations (swmatei'a) lay not in the nature of an occupation per se but rather in the state’s interest in regulating a particular economic activity, which in turn defined the mandatory or voluntary character of these organizational forms. Those crafts and trades that the state singled out for control were enjoined to take the form of guilds as a matter of legal compulsion;32 all others were allowed to form their own professional associations as they saw fit, since the state had no interest in overseeing them.33 Guilds and associations were second-tier legal entities,34 and private businesses (crafts and trades), run either by a single person (sole 31 Swmatei'on kai` su´ sthma diafe´ rei. Swmatei'on me` n ga` r ejsti` pa'sa te´ cnh, h”ti" dia` ceiro` " e“cei th` n ejrgasi´an, oi»on hJ skutotomikh` h‘ baptikh´ . Su´ sthma de` hJ mh` e“cousa dia` ceirw'n th` n ejrgasi´an, oi»on oiJ prandiopw'lai kai` oiJ metaxopra´ tai kai` oiJ loipoi´, oi”tine" aujtoi` oujk ejrga´ zontai. Peira, 51.7. Cf. Schreiner, “Organisation,” 46; P. Lemerle, Cinq ´etudes sur le XIe sie`cle byzantin (Paris, 1977), 292 n. 95. 32 Although they were not merchants stricto sensu, the corps of overseers of the livestock market (bo´ qroi) were also mandatorily organized into a guild. Their duties were to tend to the drainage and disposal of sewage; to detect and point out animal defects to would-be purchasers; to serve as appraisers, brokers, or arbiters; to find buyers for unsold animals; to recover stolen animals; and to ensure that no deals were made outside the designated market. They were expressly forbidden to trade on their own account or to belong to any other guild, and they were entitled to certain fees for services rendered. BE 21.1–10. See also Christophilopoulos, jEparcikojn Biblijon, 40 n.2, 49, 63, 89–91; J. Koder, “Die Bezeichnung bo´ qro" im ‘Eparchikon Biblion,’” in G. Prinzing and D. Simon, ed., Fest und Alltag in Byzanz (Munich, 1990), 71–76, 194–97. In view of the importance of the bo´ qroi for the orderly functioning of the livestock market, the state deemed it necessary to keep an eye on their actions, and, to do so more effectively, they were mandated to organize themselves into a guild. 33 Hence the host of artisans and craftsmen (oiJ tw'n banau´ swn tecnw'n) could not belong to “lower guilds,” as Vyronis has argued,“Guilds,” 313. 34 Litavrin maintains that guilds were created by the state as the obligatory form for engaging in a craft or trade activity in certain sectors of the economy, and that guilds are a particular variety of koinwni´a: Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 129, 151. Thus he does not establish the link between business organizational forms and the legal system, nor does he identify the fine distinctions between guilds (susth´ mata), associations (swmatei'a), partnerships (eJtairei'ai, koinwni´ai), and societies (su´ llogoi). Hence, the larger institutional and economic connections are not drawn. Rather, he emphasizes the primary objectives of the state, which were to secure the interests of the state and the fiscus (levying and collecting taxes through the unremitting control of the guilds), the fulfillment of public service obligations, and the domination and police control over the business community and the townspeople (ibid., 132, 134–35, 138–39, 143–44, 147–48, 150–55, 289). These objectives are nowhere reflected in the provisions of the Book of the Eparch. On the contrary, the thrust of the regulatory framework was geared primarily to ensuring correct business conduct. Concerning the alleged goal of price stability of basic staples (ibid., 142–43, 145), retail prices remain stable only as long as wholesale prices remain stable, since the latter were determined by market forces. Fixed profit margins do not necessarily ensure stable profits and prices: when wholesale prices rise, the profits of the retailers increase as well, because demand is inelastic and the fixed margins are calculated on a higher cost basis resulting in higher retail prices. In the same vein, Siuziumov and Kazhdan dwell upon the internal organization, functions, divergent privileges, relations with the state, the court, and the aristocracy, and the degree of independence of the state-controlled guilds, on the one hand, and voluntary associations, on the other. Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 18, 24–25, 31, 39, 41; idem, Proizvodstvennye otnosheniia v vizantiiskom gorode-emorii v period genezisa feodalizma (The

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proprietorships) or as partnerships (eJtairei'ai, koinwni´ai, suntrofi´ai),35 could belong to a guild or an association depending on the state’s designation of their activity. A typology of the relationships among the various organizational forms is presented schematically in Figure 1. In the same vein, titles of physicians cited in narrative sources have been taken as an indication that doctors in Byzantium were organized into guilds in order to guarantee the quality of their services and the reasonableness of their fees.36 The evidence adduced to support this allegation is the designation of their chief as cartoula´ rio",37 ajrci´atro",38 relations of production in the Byzantine town-emporium in the period of the genesis of feudalism), abstract of thesis (Sverdlovsk, 1953), 18, 20, cited by Kazhdan, Derevnia, 305–6 and nn. 19 and 20; Kazhdan, Derevnia, 304–8, 323, 325–26, 330–31, 336, 343–44; idem, “Tsekhi,” 143–49. However, they do not probe the key defining elements that differentiate these two organizational forms: in what instances, if at all, was it compulsory to join a guild in order to engage in a craft? How did business organizational forms mesh with the legal system? 35 Suntrofi´a was another term for partnership used during the Palaiologan period. This organizational form was employed by businessmen (which might also include foreign partners) to undertake usually business ventures of a more permanent nature. MM 2:326, 372, 373, 375, 473, 475, 481, 546; H. Hunger and K. Vogel, Ein byzantinisches Rechenbuch des 15. Jahrhunderts (Vienna, 1963), 20, nos. 9 and 10; Actes de Dionysiou. Archives de l’Athos, ed. N. Oikonomide`s (Paris, 1968), 4:92, 94, 96; Schreiner, “Organisation,” 60 n. 78; Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 69 and n. 94, 77, 112; K.-P. Matschke, “Situation, Organisation und Aktion der Fischer von Konstantinopel und Umgebung in der byzantinischen Spa¨tzeit,” Byzantinobulgarica 6 (1980): 288; idem, Die Schlacht bei Ankara und das Schicksal von Byzanz (Weimar, 1981), 149–51; Laiou-Thomadakis, “The Byzantine Economy,” 199, 201–2. Besides industrial and commercial undertakings, the contractual form of suntrofi´a was also used in an array of agricultural activities, usually for a period of one to five years. For details, see H. Gasparis, JH gh' kai´ oiJ ajgro´ te" sth´ Mesaiwnikh´ Krh´ th. I3o"–I4o" aijw'ne" (Land and farmers in medieval Crete. 13th–14th centuries) (Athens, 1977), 44, 88 n. 20, 91 n. 33, 121–23 and n. 37, 130, 168–75, 178–79, and contracts cited in pp. 388–95. A form of partnership quite distinct from the eJtairei´a (societas) is the koinopraxi´a (communio). In the latter instance, two or more persons agree to undertake a particular project or venture. Contrary to eJtairei´a which is of a more formal and lasting nature, koinopraxi´a is informal, is confined to a single undertaking, and is of limited duration. Other features differentiating these two organizational forms include the following: relations in eJtairei'ai are contractual, but not so in koinopraxi´ai; koinopraxi´ai can be terminated at will by a partner, not so by a socius; in eJtairei'ai the interests of the socii are indistinguishable, whereas in koinopraxi´ai the interests of the partners remain distinct; in eJtairei'ai action can be brought against socii by the actio pro socio, whereas in koinopraxi´ai action can be brought by the actio communi dividundo. Basilics, 12.1.1, 12.1.32 scholium, 12.1.33, Synopsis Basilicorum, K.21.1–25; Synopsis Minor, K.3; Attaleiates, Ponema, 6.5; Hexabiblos, 3.10.3. A business organizational form which resembled koinopraxi´a was the colleganza contract used in partnerships between Latin and Greek merchants. Generally, it involved a sedentary partner, who put up two-thirds of the capital, and a traveling partner, who contributed one-third of the funds and managed the business. Profits were divided equally. S. Borsari, Il dominio veneziano a Creta nel XIII secolo (Naples, 1963), 100 and n. 136; F. Thiriet, La Romanie ve´nitienne au moyen-aˆge. Le de´veloppement et l’exploitation du domaine colonial ve´nitien (XIIe–XVe sie`cles) (Paris, 1959), 48, 281; Laiou, “The Greek merchant,” 117; eadem, “Quelques observations sur l’e´conomie et la socie´te´ de Cre`te ve´nitienne (ca. 1270–ca. 1305),” in eadem, Gender, Society and Economic Life X, 188–89, 194–97; eadem, “Venetians and Byzantines: Investigation of Forms of Contact in the Fourteenth Century,” Qhsauri´smata, 22 (1992), 34–35; D. Gofas, “ jEmporike´ " ejpiceirh´ sei" JEllh´ nwn th'" Krh´ th" gu´ rw sto´ 1300,” jEpiqew´ rhsi" jEmporikou' Dikai´ou 41 (1990), 1–34. 36 P. Charanis, “Some Aspects of Daily Life in Byzantium,” in idem, Social, Economic and Political Life in the Byzantine Empire (London, 1973), XI, 67; Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 138; idem, Derevnia, 307; Siuziumov, Kniga Eparkha, 114–15; Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 148–49; H. J. Magoulias, “The Lives of the Saints as Sources of Data for the History of Byzantine Medicine in the Sixth and Seventh Centuries,” BZ 57 (1964): 128. 37 Vita S. Sampsonis, PG 115:304AB. 38 Theodore of Stoudios, PG 99:1509(B); Varia Graeca Sacra. Miracula S. Artemii, ed. A. PapadopoulosKerameus (St. Petersburg, 1909), 28, 30.

350 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY or ko´ mh".39 Perusal of the sources cited does not support this assertion. Thus the plural in the passages ijatroi` pa´ nte", kai` oiJ ou”tw kalou´ menoi cartoula´ rioi and metakalei'tai tina` tw'n cartoulari´wn is hardly descriptive of the chief of the guild, since there could not have been so many doctors bearing the same title in the same location. Also, cartoula´ rio" was the title of a state official exercising a supervisory function over the porfuropw'lai.40 Quite possibly, the designation is a reference to trained, certified, well-thought-of doctors in contradistinction to empiricists. jArci´atro" 41 was a designation conferred upon the head of the emperor’s personal physicians,42 as well as the chief physician in the capital’s hospitals43 and in the army.44 Besides, this title, changed into pro´ edro" by the end of the eleventh century and into ajktoua´ rio" after the twelfth century,45 was a generic term applied to physicians with high skills and experience, as doctors in Byzantium were ranked according to their perceived competence, the most prominent being the professors of medicine.46 Furthermore, there was sharp distinction between medically trained physicians47 and empiricists of nonprofessional status with amateurish knowledge of medicine as well as quacks of whom there were plenty, whose services were widely sought after by the populace given the shortage of doctors.48 Finally, the inference that ko´ mh" tw'n ijatrw'n is suggestive of the person in charge of the doctors’ guild,49 as being the most experienced of the lot,50 is inconclusive: the ajrci´atroi of the palace as well as the governors of the provinces were also given the title of ko´ mh" (ko´ mhte" prw´ tou ta´ gmato").51 The absence of any direct reference to doctors’ guilds in the law and the narrative sources; the fact that in the capital, let alone the provincial towns and villages, the number of practicing physicians was rather small; the lack of administrative capability and knowledge to exercise meaningful oversight over the doctors’ practice, since the practice of medicine at that time did not lend itself to conclusive review; and the constant upbraiding and mockery of doctors as incompetent, negligent, failures, providers of counL. Deubner, Kosmas und Damian. Texte und Einleitung (Leipzig, 1907), 160. See below, p. 350, ll. 6–9. 41 Magoulias, “History of Byzantine Medicine,” 128. 42 Basilics, 6.26.1, 57.5.8; G. Schlumberger, Sigillographie de l’empire byzantin (Paris, 1884), 441; L. Bre´hier, Le monde byzantin. Les institutions de l’empire byzantin (Paris, 1949), 114, 117, 126; Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 6:25. 43 T. S. Miller, “Byzantine Hospitals,” DOP 38 (1984): 55–56, 59. 44 Basilics, 57.3.5; Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 6:13. 45 Bre´hier, Institutions, 117, 126; Miller, “Byzantine Hospitals,” 58. 46 Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 6:13. Replying to a letter from the deceased Holobolos, Nikephoros Doukas Palaiologos Malakes wonders whether his former colleague was ranked among the top physicians: Mazaris’ Journey to Hades (Buffalo, N.Y., 1975), 94. Interestingly, the church found it inadmissible for clerics to become ajrci´atroi, wearing lay clothes and being in charge of secular doctors. G. A. Rhalles and M. Potles, Su´ ntagma tw'n qei´wn kai´ iJerw'n kano´ nwn (Athens, 1853), 3:344. 47 On evidence regarding the medical training and certification of Byzantine doctors, see J. Duffy, “Byzantine Medicine in the Sixth and Seventh Centuries: Aspects of Teaching and Practice,” DOP 38 (1984): 21–27; Miller, “Byzantine Hospitals,” 61; A. Hohlweg, “John Actuarius’ De Methodo Medendi: On the New Edition,” DOP 38 (1984): 124; V. Grumel, “La profession me´dicale `a Byzance `a l’e´poque des Comne`nes,” REB 7 (1949): 42–46. 48 Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 6:13–14, 23. 49 Magoulias, “History of Byzantine Medicine,” 128–29. 50 Deubner, Kosmas und Damian, 160. 51 Basilics, 6.26.1, 2, A. H. M. Jones, The Later Roman Empire, 284–602 (Oxford, 1964), 2:1012. 39 40

Legal Forms of Business Organization

Mandatory (state-designated sectors)

Voluntary (unregulated sectors)

Associations (Svmate›a)

Guilds (SustÆmata)

Sole Proprietorships

BÒyroi Partnerships ÑEtaire›ai Koinvn¤ai

Fig. 1

Sole Proprietorships

Societies (SÊllogoi, Koll°gia) Professionals Charities

Partnerships ÑEtaire›ai Koinvn¤ai Suntrof¤ai Koinopraj¤ai Colleganze

Typology of Byzantine Business Organization

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terfeit medicines, and greedy professionals charging exorbitant fees52 undermine the validity of the advanced hypothesis, and strongly suggest the nonexistence of doctors’ guilds and the absence of any state supervisory function. Very likely, in the largest cities doctors, and possibly dentists and veterinarians, had formed professional societies (su´ llogoi)—an organizational form quite distinct from that of the guild. The moral is that associating titles with chiefs of institutions can be misleading.53 THE ISSUE OF PROVINCIAL GUILD ORGANIZATIONAL STRUCTURES Some scholars hold the view that, in addition to the capital, guilds (susth´ mata) were well represented in other towns of Greece at least during the tenth to twelfth centuries, for example, Thessalonike, Thebes, Corinth, Euripos, Athens, and Andros.54 The leading argument derives from the development of the silk industry in the provinces of Greece and is based on the following notions. First, because murex purple dyes could be used only by the imperial silk workshops and the enterprises commissioned by the imperial court to produce prohibited silks, the state had to monitor and control the production and distribution of these dyestuffs. Second, the production and delivery of silks commissioned by the imperial court in the provinces was a collective obligation and had to be effected by quotas allocated among the individual producing units either by the entrepreneurs themselves or by an imperial official. Since the guild organizational structure had been proven to be one of the most effective instruments used to regulate the silk industry in the capital, there is good reason to believe this was also the case in twelfth-century 52 Supplementum ad Acta S. Lucae Iunioris, ed. E.Martini, AB 13 (1894): 106–7, 117–18; G. Podesta, “Le satire Lucianesche di Teodoro Prodromo,” Aevum 21 (1947): 12–25; Magoulias, “History of Byzantine Medicine,” 131–32; B. Baldwin, “Beyond the House Call: Doctors in Early Byzantine History and Politics,” DOP 38 (1984): 16–19; Duffy, “Byzantine Medicine,” 24–25, 27; A. Kazhdan, “The Image of the Medical Doctor in Byzantine Literature of the Tenth to the Twelfth Centuries,” DOP 38 (1984): 45–51; A. P. Kazhdan and A. Wharton Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Berkeley, Calif., 1985), 155–56. 53 Indicatively, the chiefs of the jewelers (BE 2.6) and innkeepers (BE 19.1), who were appointed by the eparch, bore the title of proestw'te". But so did persons managing a workshop, who could even be slaves, acting as agents of the principals (proestw'te" ejrgasthri´wn): Basilics, 18.1.3, 7, 18, 20; Synopsis Basilicorum, ⌼.4.1–4; Ecloga, 9.13; Prochiron Auctum, 39.8; Hexabiblos, 1.2.49. 54 ¨nfte, 3; Lopez, “Silk Industry,” Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 37–38; Stoeckle, Byzantinische Zu 23 n. 2; Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 457 and n. 25, 490–92 and n. 230, 499; P. Tivchev, “Sur les cite´s byzantines au XIe–XIIe sie`cles,” Byzantinobulgarica 1 (1962): 173; E. France`s, “La fe´odalite´ et les villes byzantines au XIIIe et au XIVe sie`cles,” BSI 16 (1955): 86; Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 111–12; Toynbee, Constantine Porphyrogenitus, 41; Laiou-Thomadakis, “The Byzantine Economy,” 209; P. Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge, 1993), 158, 167; Ostrogorsky, History, 253; A. Harvey, Economic Expansion in the Byzantine Empire, 900–1200 (Cambridge, 1989), 158; Angold, The Byzantine Empire, 284; Schreiner, “Organisation,” 51–52; A. Konstantakopoulou, “L’e´parque de Thessalonique: Les origines d’une institution administrative, VIIIe–IXe sie`cles,” in Communications grecques pre´sente´es au Ve Congre`s International ´ tudes du Sud Est-Europe´en. Belgrade: 11–17 Septembre 1984 (Athens, 1985), 161; A. Guillou, “Functionaries,” des E in Cavallo, The Byzantines (as above, note 7), 198; Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 149. Contra: Sideris, JIstori´a, 266–67, 277, 296 n. 2; K. Dieterich, “Zur Kulturgeographie und Kulturgeschichte des byzantinischen Balkanhandels,” BZ 31 (1931): 37–57; Runciman, “Byzantine Trade,” 161; G. Makris, Studien zur spa¨tbyzantinischen Schiffahrt (Genoa, 1988), 142–46. On the other hand, A. Kazhdan and G. Constable point out that we do not know whether the guild system extended to the provinces: People and Power in Byzantium (Washington, D.C., 1982), 32; Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 141.

352 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY Thebes, as well as in other manufacturing and trading centers whose economic activities the state was interested in controlling. Third, for the same reasons, a guild system could effectively be used to enforce the restrictions on the production and trade of certain types of silks to secure adequate supplies for the needs of the imperial court. Fourth, guilds existed in neighboring Athens, one of them being the purple fishermen’s guild.55 Finally, by the tenth century, the purple fishermen in the Peloponnese were already organized into a state-mandated guild (su´ sthma) along lines similar to the silk industry in the capital. This is evidenced by the exemption the purple fishermen were granted by Emperor Romanos I Lekapenos (919–944) from contributing horses to the military on the occasion of a planned expedition, along with the holders of imperial dignities, seamen, and parchment makers. Although there is no mention of guilds in the source,56 it is argued that the very enumeration of these groups and their collective exemption are suggestive of guild membership; their exemption signifies the importance of their craft to the state; and since it is unlikely that the purple fishermen kept horses, their guild was naturally exempted from this obligation. Following the same line of reasoning, the seamen and the parchment makers were very likely organized into guilds as well.57 The exemption of the purple fishermen, and of the other craftsmen for that matter, does not in itself provide convincing evidence of their being organized into guilds. First, purple shell fishing was carried on in many fishing grounds along the coast of the Peloponnese (e.g., Lakonia and Argolis), Euboea, the Aegean islands, Crete, and the Levant,58 and one would have expected that the purple fishermen operating in these places would also have been organized into guilds. Yet there is no such evidence, apparently because no such organizational form existed. Second, shell fishing took place in various noncontiguous parts of the Peloponnese shoreline, and it is unlikely that the purple fishermen were involved in the processing and marketing of the dyestuff, as these were separate activities requiring special skills and were concentrated in a few locations not very far from the fishing grounds.59 Possibly, the purple fishermen brought the shells to the nearest town where they were processed;60 but this activity may well have been undertaken by the processors themselves or by itinerant merchants who collected the shells from the fishermen and sold them to the processors. These circumstances are hardly conducive to grouping together the scattered purple fishermen and forming a guild. Besides, given the traditional functional division of labor among guilds, distinct guilds would have to Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 490–92, 499–500. Constantine Porphyrogenitus. De Administrando Imperio, ed. G. Moravcsik (Washington, D.C., 1967), 256. 57 Schreiner, “Organisation,” 51–52; Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 455–57 and n. 25. 58 Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 455–56, 481; K. M. Setton, “Athens in the Later Twelfth Century,” Speculum 19 (1944): 195–96; Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 2A:180–81, B:38–39. 59 Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 456. Large quantities of shells were required to produce tiny quantities of murex purple dye, the process of obtaining the dye was elaborate, and the processing called for a quantum of investment in production facilities. On the method of production of the dye, see D. S. Reese, “Palaikastro Shells and Bronze Age Purple-Dye Production in the Mediterranean Basin,” BSA 82 (1987): 203–4. 60 For instance, shells fished off the island of Gyaros were processed in Athens. Setton, “Athens,” 196; ´ tou tou' Cwnia´ tou ta´ Swzo´ mena, ed. S. Lampros (Groningen, 1968), vol. 2, letter 135.2; E. Micah´ l Akomina j ´gion d’Athe`nes (avant Granstrem, I. Medvedev, and D. Papachrysanthou, “Fragment d’un praktikon de la re 1204),” REB 34 (1976): 27–28; Scriptores Originum Constantinopolitanarum, ed. Th. Preger (New York, 1975), 2:254, para. 118. 55 56

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be established at each stage of production and distribution and replicated in different locations. However, the spatial distribution and small local membership of the practitioners of these crafts would have hardly justified such an elaborate, unwieldy, and costly organizational structure—state intervention would be impractical. Third, certainly the purple fishermen could not have been excused from contributing to the campaign because they did not own horses. In this instance, the horse was used as a unit of account in lieu of money, as is evidenced by the assessment of two monasteries to contribute one horse between them:61 each party would pay half the price and a horse would be bought. Fourth, there was no need to institute a mandatory guild system in the provinces to control the production and use of the murex purple dye as long as the dyestuff could not be retailed freely,62 and the sole buyers were the imperial silk workshops,63 the private workshops in the capital and in the provinces which were commissioned by the imperial court to produce large pieces of murex purple-dyed silks,64 and those private producers of very small purple-dyed pieces of silk.65 These end users procured the murex purple dye from the porfuropw'lai, who were either civil servants or licensed private vendors whose activities were closely supervised by a state official, the cartoula´ rio" tw'n porfuropwlw'n.66 Apparently, the porfuropw'lai traveled to the sites of production to buy the murex purple dye and in turn sold it to the end users. Finally, the view that a purple fishermen’s guild existed in twelfth-century Athens similar to the one in tenth-century Peloponnese67 is based on a misunderstanding of the source cited. The evidence adduced is a letter from Michael Choniates to Emperor Isaac II Angelos in 1185–86: bracei'a ga` r hJ tw'n susthma´ twn poso´ th" kai` oujd∆ aujth` koinwfelh´ ".68 However, su´ sthma in this context certainly does not mean “guild.” The archbishop complains that the city of Athens, though devastated and hence more deserving, did not benefit from the imperial generosity as much as other cities. Not only the amount of the assistance was inadequate, but the method (su´ sthma) by which it was allocated did not help the public at large, because it favored the haves rather than the have-nots.69 In sum, since the sale of murex purple dye to unauthorized silk manufacturers by the producers was prohibited and severe penalties were inflicted on transgressors, while effective control over shipments of illegally manufactured and distributed murex purple-dyed silks could be exercised at the exit and entry points by customs officers, it is hard to see the imperative for central control of the production, processing, and marketing of murex purple dye through an intricate guild organizational structure. De Administrando Imperio, 256. Mhdei`" bapte´ tw h‘ pipraske´ tw porfu´ ran. Basilics, 19.1.80; Ecloga, 16.50; Peira, 40.11.12. See also note 65 below. Inferior quality dyestuffs were imported (e.g., from Syria) and traded freely. In the capital, they were handled by the guild of the dealers in spices, medicines, and dyes (BE 5.4; 10.1). 63 B. Koutava-Delivoria, “Les ojxe´ a et les fonctionnaires nomme´s tw'n ojxe´ wn. Les sceaux et les ´etoffes pourpres de soie apre`s le 9e sie`cle,” BZ 82 (1989): 181–82. 64 E.g., Thebes: Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 488, 490–91. 65 A restriction (Basilics, 19.1.80) that Leo VI eased: Novel 80 in Zepos, Jus Graecoromanum, 1:148–49. 66 Koutava-Delivoria, “Les ´etoffes pourpres,” 181–82, table 3, no. 39 on p. 190. 67 Lopez, “Silk Industry,” 23 n. 2; Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 492 and n. 230; Magdalino, Empire, 167. 68 Lampros, Cwnia´ tou ta´ Swzo´ mena, vol. 2 letter 32.8. 69 Ibid., paras. 8 and 9. Lampros understands su´ sthma as a collection of gifts: ibid., Basilics, 54.14, p. 570. See also Lampros, ibid., Basilics, 54.15, p. 570. 61 62

354 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY Nor is the allocation among prospective producers of the production of silks commissioned by the imperial court sufficient justification for setting up a guild. The treasury could conveniently provide specifications and either invite competitive bids or negotiate with individual producers, pitting the one against the other and thereby obtaining lower prices and suitable time deliveries. Also, if the bulk of production in the provincial silk manufacturing centers consisted of middle- and low-priced silks for the domestic and external markets and there was no shortage of raw silk, as has been alleged,70 there would be no difficulty and hence no concern about filling imperial orders, which always took priority, and no apparent need to police the doings of the workshops in the silk manufacturing sector. Moreover, the fact that there was a high concentration of very skilled Jewish craftsmen involved in the intermediate and advanced stages of production of high-grade silks,71 some of whom very likely owned their workshops and operated in a vertically integrated fashion, militates against the existence of guilds in Thebes, as the participation of Jews as independent operators within the guild system was prohibited.72 Indeed, it was the very absence of guild regulations that enticed them to Thebes instead of settling down in the capital.73 More importantly, if a guild organizational structure was in force in the provinces, it surely would have been cited in the existing legislation, as it had been in the earlier centuries of the empire in important cities.74 In particular, if the Byzantines had been so keen on controlling all industrial and trade activity in the provinces through a guild organizational form, they would have to have instituted an elaborate national regulatory system. This would have entailed the development of a vast administrative apparatus and would have to take some legal form. Yet the legal texts, or the narrative sources for that matter, provide no such evidence. Furthermore, given the regional dispersion of economic activity—preponderance of villages and small towns, production in and marketing of surpluses from outlying lay and monastic domains, numerous fairs in towns and the countryside, itinerant artisans, traders, and peasants peddling their wares75 —it made no sense to institute an expansive network of guilds in the provinces. Even the few towns that had one to two thousand inhabitants76 could support only a limited number of craftsmen and traders, and these were spread over a wide range of activities—hardly an inviting situation that would have prompted the state to set up a nationwide guild organizational structure. Besides, a perennially strapped administration, having to resort Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 500. M. A. Adler, The Itinerary of Benjamin of Tudela (London, 1907), 10; J. Starr, The Jews in the Byzantine Empire, 641–1204 (Athens, 1939), 29; Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 466–67, 485–87; Angold, The Byzantine Empire, 86, 281–82. 72 The fact that dealers in raw silk in the capital were not allowed to sell to Jews (BE 6.16) is a clear indication that they could not become guild members. See also, Lopez, “Silk Industry,” 23; Muthesius, “Byzantine Silk Industry,” 10; Maniatis, “Private Silk Industry,” 280 n. 66. 73 Cf. Angold, The Byzantine Empire, 87. 74 CTh 12.1.162, 12.6.29, 13.1.9, 13.5.1, 2, 14.3.2,5,8, 14.4.9,10, 14.7.1,2, 14.8.1, Codex Justinianus 11.9.4,7, 11.17.1. 75 Actes de Lavra, ed. P. Lemerle, A. Guillou, N. Svoronos, and D. Papachrysanthou (Paris, 1970), 1:58–68; N. Svoronos, “Remarques sur les structures ´economiques de l’empire byzantin au XIe sie`cle,” TM 6 (1976): 65; Harvey, Economic Expansion, 234–41; Kazhdan, “Tsekhi,” 153–54; idem, Derevnia, 343–44 and sources cited therein; Tivchev, “Cite´s byzantines,” 159–65, 170–71, 181. 76 Harvey, Economic Expansion, 199. 70 71

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to confiscatory tax measures and epereiai, could ill-afford to sustain an expensive guild apparatus of questionable practicality. Finally, comprehensive state control over the economic activity of the provincial towns would have been difficult in practice, as rigorous implementation of rules and regulations would have necessitated a substantial degree of administrative decentralization and town autonomy in economic matters, features that were not manifest at that time. The potency of the centralized bureaucratic apparatus endured over the centuries.77 The so-called guild of the seamen in Thessalonike78 in all probability was a voluntary association (swmatei'on), as is clearly evidenced by its organizational structure: e“cousi de` kai` ijdia´ zousan ajrch` n aujtoi` [to` nautiko´ n] para` th` n th'" a“llh" po´ lew" ([the seamen] have a sui generis form of administration which is independent of that of the city).79 Such a degree of autonomy and the attendant right of self-government would be incompatible with the typical guild organizational form. Still, it has been argued that, although the guild of the seamen was not established by its members and its head was designated by the government, the guild probably was a continuation of an older organization which became more or less autonomous as the power of the central government declined during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.80 This view is unpersuasive, since autonomy implies voluntary association and self-rule effected by officials elected by the membership of the organization, not arrangements whereby an organization is set up by mandate and run, or even closely supervised, by government appointees. It has also been aptly observed in this context that nautiko` n (sometimes also referred to as paraqala´ ssioi, “coastals”)81 is an all-inclusive term encompassing all those who had anything to do with the sea, for example, shipowners, skippers, seamen, and longshoremen, and hence such a group cannot be understood as a guild.82 Nevertheless, the fact remains that this dissimilar group had formed an organization that was not subject to state control. This suggests that these heterogeneous elements had impelling reasons to organize themselves. Indeed, they were interconnected and bound together professionally; they needed to safeguard their interests, especially since they faced a corrupt judicial system that could not 77 On the centralization of the Byzantine administration and the absence of local autonomy, see Kazhdan and Constable, People and Power in Byzantium, 35, 38, 40–41, 146–47, 149–50; Guillou, “Functionaries,” 197–99; H. Ahrweiler, “Recherches sur l’administration de l’empire byzantin au IXe–XIe sie`cles,” in eadem, ´ tudes sur les structures administratives et sociales de Byzance (London, 1971), VIII, 89–91; L. Maksimovic´, The E Byzantine Provincial Administration under the Palaiologi (Amsterdam, 1988), 10–31; A. Kazhdan and A. Cutler, “Continuity and Discontinuity in Byzantine History,” Byzantion 52 (1982): 469. 78 O. Tafrali, Thessalonique au quatorzie`me siecle (Paris, 1913), 32–34; Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 4 n. 2; D. A. Zakythinos, Crise mone´taire et crise ´economique `a Byzance du XIIIe au XVe sie`cle (Athens, 1948), 45; P. Charanis, “On the Social Structure and Economic Organization of the Byzantine Empire in the Thirteenth Century and Later,” Byzantinoslavica 12 (1951), 152; idem, “Economic Factors in the Decline of the Byzantine Empire,” JEH 13 (1953): 423; Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 78, 112–13; Siuziumov, Kniga Eparkha, 114–15; Litavrin, Vizantiiskoe obshchestvo, 132, 148–49. 79 Ioannis Cantacuzeni eximperatoris historiarum libri IV, ed. J. Schopen (Bonn, 1828), 2:575. 80 P. Charanis, “Internal Strife in Byzantium during the Fourteenth Century,” Byzantion 15 (1941): 212 n. 15; idem, “Economic Organization,” 152; idem, “Economic Factors,” 423. 81 Tafrali, Thessalonique, 34. 82 Schreiner, “Organisation,” 60. M. I. Siuziumov, “Protivorechia mezhdu plebeiskimi massami i zilotami v 1342–1348 v Fessalonikakh” (Conflict between Plebes and Zealots in 1342–1348 in Thessalonike), in Abstracts of the Seventh State Conference on Byzantium in Tbilisi (Tbilisi, 1965), 35, maintains that the organization of the seamen was an association of entrepreneurs.

356 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY be trusted;83 and the strictness of the law in case of infractions (e.g., severe corporal punishment was inflicted on seamen if they quit before serving out the time they were hired for)84 called for an internal mechanism to handle disciplinary matters. Therefore, groups in competition (e.g., shipowners) or with conflicting interests (e.g., shipowners or skippers and seamen) may well have been inclined to team up voluntarily, setting up rules regarding rights, obligations, conduct, and disciplinary action, the better to advance their mutual interests and facilitate the process of conflict resolution either among themselves (e.g., wage disputes, breach of contractual obligations, dereliction of duty) or disputes with the local authorities and foreign traders.85 In addition, services rendered to the city (e.g., freight for the transport of grain) could be negotiated more profitably from a position of strength. Hence an organizational form such as an association (swmatei'on) could have conveniently served these ends86 and would have been consonant with the legal framework in place and consistent with Kantakouzenos’ comment that the seamen’s organization (he does not refer to them as being organized into a guild) enjoyed a high degree of autonomy. In short, although O. Tafrali acknowledged that the seamen’s “guild,” as he called it, was organized by the members themselves, he employed the term guild (corporation, su´ sthma) undiscerningly, as did others,87 ignoring crucial nuances among different organizational forms and thereby creating misperceptions regarding the true nature of this organization.88 As has been observed: “[i]n ports, such as Thessalonica, . . . there was no organized gild system as in the capital. When later, about the late fourteenth century, trade corporations appeared they were bodies founded by the tradesmen themselves in self-defense against the magnates.” 89 That the mandatory guild organizational structure (su´ sthma) was confined to the capital is further attested by a passage in the ordinance of Michael VIII Palaiologos issued in the mid-thirteenth century.90 The emperor commands that civilian and military authorities in the provinces ensure that merchandise is sold at fair prices: shopkeepers should not overcharge buyers, nor should they buy up edibles and potables in quantities exceeding their normal turnover in order to hoard and sell them for illicit gain (kaphleu´ ein di∆ aijscroke´ rdeian). To this end, the persons in charge should set the just selling price (dikai´an dia´ prasin) of necessities, taking into account production levels and marketable 83 Tafrali, Thessalonique, 33–34, 63, 65; Ostrogorsky, History, 503. “The law was strong and severe, but enforcement was indulgent and practice was compliant”: Kazhdan and Constable, People and Power in Byzantium, 161. 84 Tafrali, Thessalonique, 34 n. 1. 85 E.g., sometimes merchandise was not unloaded promptly, or merchants were mistreated and abused: Zakythinos, Crise mone´taire, 45. The governor of Thessalonike was accused of having appropriated money and goods from Genoese merchants: A. E. Laiou, Constantinople and the Latins (Cambridge, Mass., 1972), 72. 86 The selection of a reputable individual, especially if influential in the city’s politics, to head the association would ensure respect, bargaining power, cohesion, and impartial arbitration of disputes. 87 Vryonis, see notes 24 and 25 above; Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 4; Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 112–13. 88 L. Maksimovic´, “Charakter der Sozial-wirtschaftlichen Struktur der spa¨tbyzantinischen Stadt (13.– ¨ B 31 (1981): 161, and E. France`s, 15.Jh.),” in XVI. Internationaler Byzantinischenkongress, Wien, October 1981, JO “Ischeznovenie korporatsii v Vizantii” (The disappearance of Byzantine corporations), VizVrem 30 (1969): 47, also view the seamen’s group as an organization altogether different from a guild. 89 Runciman,“Byzantine Trade,” 161. 90 L. Burgmann and P. Magdalino, “Michael VIII on Maladministration,” Fontes Minores 6 (Frankfurt, 1984): 382.

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quantities of such goods (th` n eujfori´an tou' kairou' kai` tw'n pragma´ twn), to which both vendors and buyers must adhere with no deviations either way (kai` mh´ te uJperbai´nein [th` n dikai´an dia´ prasin] mh´ te uJposka´ zein aujth'"). Clearly, the ordinance affords the regional authorities unprecedented regulatory power over the prices of basic staples, which betokens the absence of guilds in the provinces, as such regulatory function would have already been assigned to them had they been in existence. Significantly, the ordinance does not institute a guild organizational structure for the establishment and enforcement of just prices, apparently because this was not common practice in the provinces. GUILD ACTIVITY BEYOND THE TWELFTH CENTURY The existence of guilds in Byzantium until the late twelfth century is well documented.91 However, their survival beyond the twelfth century is an issue that has yet to be resolved. Most scholars maintain that the guilds of the old order had virtually disappeared, on grounds that the rules and regulations leave no trace in late Byzantine times; no reference is made to guilds in the narrative sources during this period; competition from provincial towns diminished the importance of manufacturing in the capital; the economic institutions of the capital were transformed following the ascendancy of the Latins; and the decline of state authority resulted in the breakdown of the earlier strict controls.92 Others acknowledge the coexistence of guildlike organizational forms in particular sectors with other forms that do not fit the guild model but rather that of unions (Vereinigung) of small-scale producers, which lack the solidity and permanence of guilds;93 or recognize certain elements of guild organization but see them as residues of the disintegration of the early and middle era Byzantine corporations.94 Finally, others argue that guilds continued to exist in the thirteenth to fifteenth centuries as unofficial bodies but had adopted a western style, in the sense that their chiefs were not appointed by the government, they represented the entire membership before the authorities, and state Constantine Porphyrogennetos, De Ceremoniis, 449; Alexios I Komnenos’ Novel 23 (1098 or 1113, Zepos, Jus Graecoromanum, 1:645–46), whereby the emperor ruled that guild members (susthmatikoi´) could not take an oath in their homes; reference to the Book of the Eparch in the Tipoukeitos, 19.10.27 (end of 11th century), cited by Koder, Eparchenbuch, 39; reference to one of the litigants as bestiopratw'n oJ e“xarco" (chief of the guild of vestiopratai, i.e., traders of domestically produced silks): Sathas, Bibliotheca graeca 5: 209; mention of the Book of the Eparch in Manuel Komnenos’ Novel 55 (1148); participation of guilds in the 1182 revolt against the protosebastos Alexios Komnenos, Niketas Choniates, Historia, 305; observation of the 12th-century letterwriter I. Tzetzes, Epistulae, ed. P. A. M. Leone (Leipzig, 1972), letter 57.81–82, that the fish merchants were coerced by the eparch’s staff and the chiefs of their guilds to pay them part of their earnings; and Kekaumenos’ advice to the emperor’s attendants to place informers in every guild (eij" pa´ nta ta` susth´ mata), Strathgiko´ n, annotated modern Greek translation D. Tsougarakis (Athens, 1993), 39. 92 Charanis, “Economic Organization,” 150–52; idem, “Economic Factors,” 422–23; idem, “Internal Strife,” 212 and n. 15; G. I. Bratianu, “Nouvelles contributions `a l’e´tude de l’approvisionnement de Constantinople sous les Pale´ologues et les empereurs ottomans,” Byzantion 6 (1931): 645; France`s, “Disparition,” 93–101; idem, “L’e´tat et les me´tiers `a Byzance,” BSI 23 (1962): 248; Siuziumov, Kniga Eparkha, 10; Medvedev, Problema manufaktury, 402 ff; idem, Mistra. Ocherki istorii i kultury pozdnevizantiiskogo goroda (Mistra. Studies on the history and culture of a late Byzantine city) (Leningrad, 1973), 84; Kazhdan and Constable, People and Power in Byzantium, 32; Kazhdan and Epstein, Change in Byzantine Culture, 52; Maksimovic´, “Charakter,” 160–64; Schreiner, “Organisation,” 59–60; Makris, Studien, 142–46. 93 Matschke, Die Schlacht, 156–57. 94 A. P. Kazhdan and G. G. Litavrin, Ocherki istorii Vizantii i iuzhnykh slavian (Studies in the history of Byzantium and southern Slavs) (Moscow, 1958), 138. 91

358 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY control had eased under the influence of the Latins;95 or their endurance is inferred from provisions of the Book of the Eparch contained in compilations dating to the midfourteenth century and the second half of the sixteenth century.96 The viewpoint that guilds continued to exist in one form or another after the twelfth century in a phoenixlike rebirth unwittingly works against itself, because it slights the original purpose of the guild system and fails to appreciate the serious implications of the very changes that allegedly (and correctly) had taken place: the changes referred to are patently incompatible with a guild organizational structure. Specifically, the statutory guilds (susth´ mata) of the tenth-to-twelfth-century form had lost their earlier legal status and controlling function and had taken on an altogether different organizational form, as the state effectively had relinquished direct control over their activities formally exercised by appointing their chiefs. Even in the West, the guilds served as official organs of the town authorities in advancing their industrial and commercial policies and appointed or approved their chiefs. More importantly, the affirmed evolution signifies a radical transformation in the constitution and modus operandi of the new organizations of craftsmen and traders: they were de jure and de facto unlinked from the regulatory regime; as state regulations pertaining to the guilds’ activities were no longer applicable; participation ceased to be mandatory, and as a result these organizations were not allinclusive; the elected head of the organization did not represent or speak for all practitioners of the trade; and the titles of their representatives lost their former honorific distinction and became more mundane (e.g., prwtomakella´ rio", the representative of the butchers). These consequential developments render the guild system a hollow shell, and referring to these organizations as guilds during this period is a misnomer. Further, references to such designations as prwtomai?stwr,97 prwtomakella´ rio",98 and e“xarco"99 are no proof that these individuals were chiefs of guilds, as has been alleged.100 When undertaking major jobs, construction workers were known to organize themselves into small gangs, which usually included various skills and were headed by a master craftsman (prwtomai?stwr).101 Moreover, as already indicated, historically they had never been organized into guilds. The notion that prwtomakella´ rio" (referred to in Giacomo Badoer’s Libro dei Conti),102 and more generally the prefix prwto- suggest the existence of a hierarchical structure in the butchers’ and other craftsmens’ organizations similar to 95 Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 108–14; idem, “Entrepreneurs,” 169; Th. N. Vlachos, Die Geschichte der byzantinischen Stadt Melenikon (Cologne, 1967), 106; Angold, “Medieval Byzantine ‘City’,” 31–32, 34; idem, The Byzantine Empire, 279; Horden, “Confraternities,” 33–34; Christophilopoulos, jEparciko´ n Bibli´on, 4 and n. 2; Andre´ade`s, “Byzance, paradis du monopole,” 176; S. Runciman, Byzantine Civilization, 176; H. ´ conomies, Socie´te´s, Antoniadis-Bibicou, “De´mographie, salaires et prix `a Byzance au XIe sie`cle,” Annales: E Civilisations 27 (1972), 239 n. 107. 96 Koder, Eparchenbuch, 40, 43, 52. 97 ¨lger, Schatzkammern, 306; S. P. Lampros, Ne´ o" JEll. 10 (1913): 127. Do 98 S. Kougeas, “Notizbuch eines Beampten der Metropolis Thessalonike aus dem Anfang des XV. Jahrhunderts,” BZ 23 (1914–19), 145, para. 14; Il Libro dei Conti di Giacomo Badoer, ed. V. Dorini and T. Bertele` (Rome, 1956), 414. 99 ¨lger, Schatzkammern, 303. Do 100 Kazhdan, Derevnia, 336; Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 111–12; France`s, “Disparition,” 101. Contra: Maksimovic´, “Charakter,” 162. 101 Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 4:256. 102 Badoer, Libro dei Conti, 363, 414, 445.

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the guilds in the West103 is not conclusive. All organizations, including business entities, have to have an elemental hierarchy. Thus designations with this prefix were common for persons managing partnerships (suntrofi´ai), for example, prwtaluka´ rio", heading a business company set up to operate state-owned saltworks farmed out to the private sector,104 or church officials (e.g., prwte´ kdiko", leading advocate; prwtonota´ rio", principal notary).105 The society of the beggars in the capital was headed by a prwtoma´ gistro".106 In a status-conscious society, it is unlikely that high-ranking officials in positions of authority, such as the heads of guilds, would suddenly bear prosaic titles. A notable change had taken place: whereas before the chiefs of the guilds were government officials, now they were members of their association. The very change in provenance of the heads and in their titles is reflective of an institutional change as well. The prefix prwto- itself conveys the notion of collegiate status, that of primus inter pares. Hence the view that such designations are evidence of the existence of authoritative guild organizational forms is not persuasive. In all probability, the prwtomakella´ rio" referred to was just a spokesman for the butchers’ association. The fact that these designations appear in Thessalonike where no guilds seem ever to have existed reinforces this view. Finally, in light of the preceding arguments, the allusion to e“xarco" as being the chief of the guild dealing in perfumes, spices, and dyes in Thessalonike is not convincing either. “Exarco" was an appellation of distinction used profusely among high- and low-ranking clerics.107 The person in question was probably the prolocutor of a group of traders who had formed an informal association or was a local government inspector (Kontrollbeamter).108 On the other hand, the reference to the “guild” of notaries as proof of the continued existence of guilds109 is beside the mark, because the society (su´ llogo") of the notaries, given its sui generis constitution and functions, was not a guild proper. More importantly, the assertion that “each trade had been organized into a westernstyle guild” 110 is not persuasive either, given the fundamental differences between the western and Byzantine guilds. Unlike the practice in the West, the Byzantine guild system did not aim to maintain or raise prices through concerted action among members of the same guild, since such conduct ran counter to the procompetitive and antimonopoly tenor of the law. The Book of the Eparch did not impose price discipline to thwart intraguild competition in order to protect an individual member’s share in the total business, as is evidenced by the fact that it did not fix prices for any commodity. The Book of the Eparch set reasonable profit margins for only a few necessities and only at the retail level,111 Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 111. While the production of salt was a state monopoly, the exploitation of the saltworks was farmed out to private undertakings, usually partnerships (eJtairei'ai, suntrofi´ai). Basilics, 8.2.101; Synopsis Basilicorum, ⌺.12.1; K.-P. Matschke, Fortschritt und Reaktion in Byzanz im 14. Jahrhundert (Berlin, 1971), 134–36. Harvey, Economic Expansion, 158, asserts that the salt merchants were organized into a guild. Apparently, he mistakes suntrofi´ai for guilds. 105 Actes de Dionysiou, 93; MM, 1:440. 106 Koukoules, Buzantinw'n Bi´o", 2A:102. 107 The designation e“xarco" was used in the instance of a bishop, a teacher of the Bible, and ecclesiastical advocates and notaries. MM, 1:368–70, 390. 108 Maksimovic´, “Charakter,” 162. 109 Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 109–10; France`s, “Disparition,” 101. 110 Oikonomide`s, “Entrepreneurs,” 169. 111 See above, note 25. 103 104

360 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY which meant that the wholesale price structure of these consumer goods—the bedrock for retail price formation—was allowed to reflect the prevailing demand and supply conditions. There were no internal regulations aiming at ensuring uniformity in the scale of operations of individual industrial or commercial enterprises, since there were no restrictions on the quantity or quality of inputs and the number of workers that could be employed or on the amount and type of equipment that could be installed. New entry into the industry or trade was not legally impeded, while economic barriers to entry were low, suggesting ample opportunities to augment the ranks of the guilds. On the other hand, the exit of inefficient firms under normal competitive conditions was not hindered. Furthermore, there were no import controls to shield domestic producers from external competition, while apprehension of incipient or potential competition provided a powerful deterrent to any restrictive agreements to fix prices. Fundamentally, competition, unimpeded entry and exit, free trade, and equality of opportunity rather than equality of economic results among guild members were the foundation of the state’s industrial and trade policy, which contrasted sharply with the respective policies in the West. At the same time, some of the arguments advanced to support the view that the guilds had been eclipsed even during the twelfth century are not flawless either. In his Novel 71 (1152 or 1167), whereby he intervened to prevent clerics from occupying bankers’ stalls, Manuel I Komnenos directed that the stalls be returned to trustworthy Byzantines.112 The inference drawn from this directive—that the guilds had disappeared113 — is stretched, since the persons selected were to be presented to the eparch, who would then approve their induction into the bankers’ guild in accordance with standing procedures.114 The eparch’s approval would not have been necessary had the bankers’ guild not existed. Also, entries in Badoer’s Libro115 allude to a prwtomakella´ rio" as being concurrently involved in the wool trade. Since no guild member was allowed to practice another trade at the same time,116 some have argued that the master’s involvement in the wool trade confirms the view that the butchers’ guild, as well as all others, had virtually disintegrated,117 while others maintain that this suggests only a deviation from the status quo ante.118 Nevertheless, the fact remains that hides and pelts are by-products produced jointly in the process of obtaining the mutton and, in consequence, the butchers have to dispose of them in the marketplace. This side-activity must always have been an inseparable and essential part of the butcher’s trade and a source of revenue. In this particular instance, to increase his earnings in the face of high wool prices, the enterprising prwtomakella´ rio" apparently took one step further: instead of selling sheepskins, he clipped Zepos, Jus Graecoromanum, 1:416. Angold, The Byzantine Empire, 279. 114 BE, 3.1. 115 See above, note 102. 116 Basilics, 60.32.1. The prohibition is repeated in the Book of the Eparch: 2.1, 4.1, 7, 5.1, 6.14, 15, 8.6, 9.6, 10.1, 5, 6, 11.2, 12.4, 6, 13.1, 14.2, 15.1, 21.7. The remaining crafts dealt with by but not explicitly mentioned in the Book of the Eparch were subject to the blanket prohibition of provision, 18.5: “no one may enter the craft of another and practice both concurrently; he must choose one and give up the other, informing the eparch of his choice.” The formulation of provision 18.5 makes it abundantly clear that the simultaneous practice of two crafts infringed on the guilds’ inviolable right to practice exclusively their legally designated craft. 117 Maksimovic´, “Charakter,” 162. 118 Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 111; Schreiner, “Organisation,” 60. 112 113

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the wool and sold it separately. The small quantities involved in a few transactions in the month of July in one particular year (1438) seem to indicate that he sold only his own clip and not that of others, which certainly did not make him a “trader” in wool, in the sense that he was actively involved in buying and selling wool as his main parallel activity. It follows that this incident alone cannot be adduced as conclusive evidence that guilds had disappeared by that time, albeit the designation of prwtomakella´ rio" does signal deep market and institutional organizational changes.119 Prwtomakella´ rio" more likely was a reference to the elder of the butchers’ association or, possibly, to the largest butcher’s shop in the capital, judging from the fact that he had formed a partnership. In the same vein, during his sojourn in the capital Ibn Battuta observed that “[l]es gens de chaque profession y occupent une place distincte, et qu’ils ne partagent avec d’aucun autre me´tier,” 120 which would suggest that the rule of separation of trades was in force and, by extension, the guild organizational structure was still in effect in the fourteenth century. The argument, therefore, that “this fact alone does not justify any inference that each trade was organized and controlled by the government and that the members of one trade could not at the same time practice another trade, as was the case in the tenth century” 121 does not settle the question, since the Hexabiblos (6.14.12) repeats the prohibition of the Book of the Eparch: “no one should enter the trade of another and work at both, and . . . violators will be severely punished.” 122 Writing in the midfourteenth century, it is unlikely that the author of the Hexabiblos would have included a tenth-century provision that was out of date—the ruling surely must have been in effect. Also, the selectivity of the Hexabiblos, based on what was indispensable and useful for the dispensation of justice, suggests that the rule had not fallen into desuetude. Hence the inclusion of the one-man, one-trade rule of the Book of the Eparch in the Hexabiblos is not accidental and cannot be dismissed out of hand. The more so, since the Hexabiblos also includes other provisions of the Book of the Eparch, which set forth rules of business conduct concerning crafts and trades organized into guilds. For instance, merchants were not allowed to purchase another’s wares at a price below that agreed upon, under some pretext such as a subsequent price decline in the market;123 hoard imported commodities in times of scarcity in order to raise prices and exact unfair profits;124 bid up deceitfully the rent of another;125 or sell alloyed jewelry.126 Were these legal provisions inoperative as well? Not likely, given their importance for the orderly functioning of the markets. If the rule on the separation of trades, originally applicable only to guild members,127 was See below, 359, ll. 38–361, l. 16. Voyages d’Ibn Batoutah, ed. and trans. C. Defre´mery and B. R. Sanguinetti (Paris, 1914), 2:431. 121 Charanis, “Economic Organization,” 152. 122 See above, note 116. 123 BE 18.5; Hexabiblos, 6.14.12, 6.15.7. 124 BE 10.2, 11.3, 13.4, 20.3; Hexabiblos, 6.14.13. 125 BE 4.9, 9.4, 10.3, 11.7, 13.6, 18.5, 19.2; Hexabiblos, 6.14.12. 126 BE 2.5; Hexabiblos, 6.14.16. Interestingly, the Hexabiblos contains provisions of the Book of the Eparch pertaining to the construction trades (3.8.40–43), which were not organized into guilds, apparently because they were still in force. The Hexabiblos also includes provisions of the Basilics regarding business conduct; on puffing and fraud: Basilics, 19.10.68; Hexabiblos, 3.3.19 and scholium, 66; on coercion: Basilics, 19.10.65; Hexabiblos, 3.3.68; on concealment of defects in sales: Basilics, 19.10.1, 19.1.33 [2], 43, 19.6.9, 19.8.4, 6, 13; Hexabiblos, 3.3.57–59, 61–63. 127 Basilics, 60.32.1: eJno` " de` mo´ non ojfei´lei susth´ mato" ei«nai kai` ajnacwrei'n tw'n loipw'n. 119 120

362 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY still in force, as is likely, but the guild organizational structure had disintegrated, as is also likely, the inclusion of the rule in the Hexabiblos must be explained, particularly since no hard evidence has been produced to rationalize the disappearance of the guilds after the twelfth century. The inclusion of the provision can be explained by the proposition that jurisprudence had extended the rule to all trades in order to prevent crossovers in the expanding market of the capital—and for a good reason.128 The rule was intended to curb the vertical or horizontal integration of firms and thereby prevent enterprise growth unrelated to market demand, dominant occupancy of the market by a limited number of firms, and weakening or elimination of competition based on sheer market power—in short, monopolization or lessening of competition. Put differently, the prohibition of parallel practice or union of two trades in whatever form was an essential part of the antimonopoly legislation.129 The rule would not impede the growth of individual firms within their circle of activities, since there were no restrictions on the scale of a firm’s activity, and more efficient enterprises could increase their market share by exploiting the growth of demand and by chipping away at the shares of their less efficient competitors through price and nonprice (e.g., terms, quality) competition. The policy aim was to restrain the growth of firms in sheer size at the expense of other enterprises operating upstream, downstream, or laterally, a development that was not the outcome of genuine competition and market growth but of downright market power. Increased demand would be met by existing firms within each trade and/or new entry. In this way, market growth would be shared by as many firms as possible, while the creation of integrated multistage firms, which could have inimical effects on competition, would be thwarted. The suggested explanatory hypothesis, by stressing the antimonopoly character of the rule, not only provides legitimate grounds for broadening the application of the rule, but is also compatible with the notion that the guild system had gradually disintegrated from the thirteenth century onward, as its indispensability in instilling market discipline had weakened. Analogously, the inclusion of provisions of the Book of the Eparch, basically dealing with matters of business conduct, in the codices Genavensis and Serdicensis, compiled in the fourteenth and sixteenth centuries respectively,130 does not attest to the preservation of the guild system beyond the twelfth century, just as the inclusion of similar provisions in the Hexabiblos does not, as already pointed out. Furthermore, the admission131 that there is not even a hint in the sources of any direct impact of the Book of the Eparch on the political reality of the capital during its disappearance for two and a half centuries is telling: there was no apparent use for it in the absence of guilds to be regulated by the In this context, Bratianu, “Approvisionnement,” 645, hypothesizes that certain provisions of the Book of the Eparch pertaining to the unorganized grain dealers and bakers might have been enforced by the Palaiologoi in response to patriarch Athanasios’ pleas to emperor Andronikos II to put an end to their unconscionable practices. On Athanasios’ appeals, see below, 362, ll. 7–363, l. 10. 129 Basilics, 19.18.1; Synopsis Minor, M.4. 130 Koder, Eparchenbuch, 40, 43, 50. It should be mentioned that Koder does not address the issue of the existence of guilds after the end of the 11th century; rather, he traces the fate of the Book of the Eparch after the alleged revisions during the 11th century (ibid., 37–39, 42–57). 131 Koder, Eparchenbuch, 40. 128

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state. Also, the explanation offered for the disappearance of the Book of the Eparch132 — that during this long hiatus the guilds observed or passed down orally those provisions that were of current interest—does not square with the Byzantine administration’s legalistic bent and authoritative style in its dealings with the guilds. In short, post-twelfthcentury compilations containing provisions of the Book of the Eparch only confirm that vital rules pertaining to business behavior had become part of the common law and were applicable to all private business entities. They hardly reinforce the view about the continuity of the guild system. Further potent arguments pertaining to the erosion of the usefulness and the unworkability of the guild system can be advanced, which add support to the view that the guild system had faded out. First, the deep penetration of the capital’s market by Latin entrepreneurs, the weakening of the executive power of the government in the face of the endless power struggle between powerful rival groups and the attendant political uncertainty, and the distinct possibility that particular regulations justifying state oversight in earlier times had outlived their original purpose changed the dynamics of the market, defined new economic and political parameters, and provided an opportunity to businessmen to challenge the status quo and assert themselves. Second, the changing economic and political environment provided fertile ground for the emergence of voluntary associations (swmatei'a) along the same professional lines (not necessarily representing the entire trade), which supplanted the old guild organizational structure.133 Involuntary participation in an organizational entity headed by government appointees and cumbersome regulations, even though they did not result in the micromanagement of individual firms, have always been unwelcome and annoying to freewheeling businessmen—guild members. Finally, the preservation of competition and enforcement of market discipline was entrusted to a legal framework comprising antimonopoly legislation, antihoarding rules, the one-man, one-trade directive, and norms of business conduct ensuring fairness in business dealings, thereby assuaging a major concern of the Byzantines. The deep-seated implications of these political and economic developments need to be examined in some detail. First and foremost, the profile of the market players in the capital had changed dramatically after the twelfth century following the growing penetration of the wholesale and even manufacturing and retail markets by the Latins, who became so entrenched that they virtually controlled the commercial life of the city.134 The fact that the Latins operated outside the guild system and the eparch’s oversight, defied state rules and regulations, took advantage of commercial privileges secured by treaties, enjoyed the prerogative of extraterritoriality, had their own courts to adjudicate grievances, and at times availed of judicial powers extending to Byzantine subjects, led Ibid.; idem, “Delikt und Strafe,” 114. When John VI Kantakouzenos (1347–55) assembled the capital’s merchants, artisans, and representatives of the army and the clergy to solicit contributions for the treasury, no mention is made of chiefs of guilds. Kantacouzenos, Historiae, 3.34–41. 134 Charanis, “Economic Organization,” 149–51; idem, “Economic Factors,” 422; Lopez, “Silk Industry,” 40; Siuziumov, “Remeslo,” 35; France`s, “Disparition,” 98, 100; Angold, “Byzantine ‘City’,” 32; Oikonomide`s, “Entrepreneurs,” 165. 132 133

364 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY to the development of a dual market organization, discriminatory treatment of the two ethnic groups, unfair competition, and resentment within the indigenous business class.135 In the circumstances, state control and regulation of identical economic activities became one-sided and unfair; cooperation by disgruntled guildsmen whose commercial interests had been ignored by the state was bound to be less forthcoming, making the effective implementation of the still enforceable regulations problematic; and the institutional apparatus came to be hollow and dysfunctional. Furthermore, the increased participation of the powerful Byzantine aristocracy in commercial activities with economic ties to the Latins and the emperor, the weakening of state authority during the Palaiologan period,136 and the justified concerns of the Byzantine business community coalesced with the traditional hostility of businessmen against any form of restrictions, their grudge due to their disadvantageous competitive position and unequal treatment, and mounting pressure on the state to placate its nationals and put both communities on an equal footing, bringing about dramatic changes in the dynamics of the Byzantine economy and society. The confluence of these influential forces in turn contributed to the erosion and eventual demise of the institution of the guild, paving the way for the transition to an entirely voluntary organizational form unencumbered by central control—the association (swmatei'on), which elected its own representatives and could more effectively protect and advance its participants’ interests. As already noted, the Book of the Eparch did not fix wholesale or retail prices; it only set profit margins at the retail level for selected basic staples.137 However, setting profit margins did not preclude competition, as vendors might be inclined to accept lower than the maximum allowed margins in order to increase the volume of their sales, aiming to maximize total instead of unit profits. Besides, rules of business conduct were in the books, and, from the government’s perspective, they were enforced evenly and consistently, thereby safeguarding the consumer’s interests. On the other hand, the close supervision and reporting requirements imposed on silk manufacturing and trade—the only 135 Georgii Pachymeris de Michaele et Adronico Palaeologis libri trecedem, ed. I. Bekker (Bonn, 1835), 2:243–44; Nicephorus Gregoras, Byzantina Historia, ed. L. Schopen (Bonn, 1830), 2.841 ff; Kantacouzenos, Historiae, 3.81; The Correspondence of Athanasius I, Patriarch of Constantinople, ed. A.-M. Maffry Talbot (Washington, D.C., ´ tude,” 645; idem, “Approvisionnement,” 95–96; Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 1975), letter 93; Bratianu,“E 43–46; idem, “Entrepreneurs,” 165–69; M. E. Martin, “The Venetians in the Byzantine Empire before 1204,” ByzF 13 (1988): 209–10; J. Chrysostomides, “Venetian Commercial Privileges under the Palaeologoi,” StVen 12 (1970): 274–76, 298–311; S. Borsari, “Il commercio veneziano nell’impero bizantino nel XII secolo,” RSI 76 (1964): 982–1011; idem, “Per la storia del commercio veneziano col mondo bizantino nel XII secolo,” RSI 88 (1976): 104–26; Angold, “Byzantine ‘City,’” 26–28, 32–34; idem, The Byzantine Empire, 279–80; Laiou, “The Greek Merchant,” VIII, 112–13, 115; eadem, “The Byzantine Economy,” 215–16; D. Jacoby, “From Byzantium to Latin Romania: Continuity and Change,” Mediterranean Historical Review 4 (1989): 28, 32; Ostrogorsky, History, 389–90, 394–96; France`s, “Disparition,” 98–100; idem, “Constantinople byzantine au XIVe et XVe sie`cles,” RESEE 7 (1969): 412; Kazhdan and Constable, People and Power in Byzantium, 48–49, 139. 136 Charanis, “Internal Strife,” 208–30; Laiou, “The Greek Merchant,” 105, 108, 112–13, 119–20; eadem, “The Byzantine Economy,” 188, 199, 201, 204–5, 210–11 and n. 131, 212–13, 215, 218, 220–21, and the sources cited therein; eadem, Constantinople and the Latins, 64–72; Ostrogorsky, History, 482–83. In fact, the authority of successive emperors had already weakened during the 11th century due to the circumstances in which they gained the throne. S. Vryonis Jr., “Byzantium: The Social Basis of Decline in the Eleventh Century,” GRBS 2 (1959): 159–75; A. Harvey, “The Land and Taxation in the Reign of Alexios I Komnenos: The Evidence of Theophylakt of Ochrid,” REB 51 (1993): 140. 137 See above, note 25.

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major industry to be organized into a guild—aimed basically at preventing the production and sale of forbidden silks,138 essentially a political and not an economic objective. Yet the increased production of silks in provincial towns from the middle of the twelfth century and their ability to compete with producers in the capital diminished the importance of this industry139 and hence the need for its regulation, while the production and export of forbidden silks, even if such a concern still existed during this period which is doubtful, could be stemmed by the control exercised by customs officials. These observations suggest that, in the face of the political, economic, and social developments of the times, the rationale for maintaining a guild organizational structure in the capital was greatly attenuated. And as the role of the guilds waned over time, so did the justification for their existence. The complaints of Patriarch Athanasios to Emperor Andronikos II (late 13th century) that the grain market was cornered, that grain was illicitly exported,140 that it was often mixed with chaff and rotten grain, and that grain and bread were sold underweight and at exorbitant prices; his plea to set up a commission to supervise the procurement and distribution process to ensure honest practices in the purchase of grain and preparation of bread; the emperor’s decision that grain transport and grain dealers and bakers be closely supervised; and particularly his interest in identifying those who practiced the bakers’ trade, ascertaining their actual number, and establishing the conditions under which they bought and sold,141 has led to the conclusion that there was not even a semblance of state control over the bakers’ trade and, since this was probably also true of the other trades, the guild system had virtually ceased to exist by the end of the thirteenth century.142 An unsuccessful attempt has been made to refute this assertion on the grounds that these were times of famine, that in the circumstances the government’s decision to 138 BE 4.1–4, 8, 6.10, 12, 13, 16, 7.1, 8.1–5. The forbidden silks (kekwlume´ na), produced in imperial workshops and occasionally under contract by private manufacturers, were not tradable items. They satisfied the needs of the court and were offered as presents to high-ranking government officials and foreign dignitaries, and as tribute to hostile foreign leaders. 139 Jacoby, “Silk in Western Byzantium,” 498. Andros, Corinth, and especially Thebes produced and exported high-grade silk fabrics to the West. Jacoby, ibid., 452, 460–62, 464, 466–67, 493–97; idem, “Silk Production in the Frankish Peloponnese: The Evidence of Fourteenth-Century Surveys and Reports,” in Travellers and Officials in the Peloponnese, ed. H. A. Kalligas (Monemvasia, 1994), 48–49; Lampros, Cwnia´ tou ta´ Swzo´ mena, 2:83; Tzetzes, Epistulae, letter 71, 101–3; Pseudo-Luciano. Timarione, ed. R. Romano (Naples, 1974), 53–55; Angold, “Byzantine ‘City’,” 23–25; idem, A Byzantine Government in Exile: Government and Society under the Laskarids of Nicaea (1204–61) (Oxford, 1975), 109; G. I. Bratianu, Recherches sur le commerce ge´nois dans la Mer Noire au XIIIe sie`cle (Paris, 1929), 110–11; W. Heyd, Histoire du commerce du Levant au moyen-aˆge (Leipzig, 1936), 2:701; M. Balard, La Romanie ge´noise (XIIe–de´but du XVe sie`cle) (Rome, 1975), 723–25; Thiriet, La Romanie ve´nitienne au moyen-aˆge, 44, 49; K.-P. Matschke, “Tuchproduktion und Tuchproduzenten in Thessalonike und in anderen Sta¨dten und Regionen des spa¨ten Byzanz,” Buzantiaka´ 9 (1989): 47–86. Characteristically, in negotiations with Emperor Alexios III in 1195, the representative of the sultan of Iconium requested an annual tribute of silks made in Thebes: Niketas Choniates, Historia, 608–9. Furthermore, direct exports of silks to the West have been mentioned even during the 10th century: F. L. Ganshof, “Note sur un passage de la Vie de Saint Ge´raud d’ Aurillac,” in Me´langes N. Jorga (Paris, 1933), 305 and n. 3. 140 Since 1282, the Venetian government guaranteed traders higher than free market prices to ensure sufficient supplies of grain. Jacoby, “From Byzantium to Latin Romania,” 30. This could explain the unlawful exports of grain from the capital. 141 Talbot, Correspondence of Athanasius, letters 72, 73, 74, 93, 100, 106. 142 ´ tude,” Charanis, “Economic Organization,” 151–52; idem, “Economic Factors,” 138–39; Bratianu, “E 642–46.

366 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY establish a commission as an organ of control is not an unusual act, and that the letters do not indicate whether the grain dealers and bakers would be supervised individually, or whether the surveillance would be effected through the guilds already in place. In short, the letters neither prove nor disprove the existence of guilds.143 The rebuttal, particularly in light of its hedging and agnostic conclusion, lacks credence for several reasons. In the first place, the fact that such egregious practices were taking place strongly suggests that the guild system was inoperative. The chief(s), being charged with the responsibility of watching over the members’ actions, would have detected and intervened to stop such reprehensible conduct.144 Second, no mention of a guild is made in the letters and, more important, no criticism is leveled against the chief(s) for dereliction of duty as would be expected, since they had primary responsibility for monitoring the members’ activities. Third, the notion that the supervision of the bakers by the commission could be entrusted to their own guild, which had been grossly ineffective and had failed to take disciplinary action against the culprits, does not make sense. Finally, if there was a bakers’ guild in place, there would be no reason to set up a new supervisory body at a higher level to oversee them. Such a decision would have been against the grain and would have undermined the existing guild organizational structure. The very institution of a new supervisory organ clearly suggests that no close official supervision was exercised over the all-important baking trade and apparently over other, less vital trades. In short, the view that guilds continued to exist beyond the twelfth century cannot be convincingly defended. CONCLUSION This study set out to investigate three unresolved issues concerning the sphere of activity of the private guilds in the Byzantine economy from the tenth to the fifteenth centuries. With regard to the guilds’ extent of economic activity in the capital, the preceding analysis suggests that their domain was rather narrowly bounded. Their sectoral sphere of operations was statutorily limited to activities viewed as vital to the local economy or essential to the provisioning of the city. Only manufacturing and trade establishments operating in state-designated sectors were mandatorily organized into guilds, because the government deemed it necessary to oversee their activities closely. By design, a multitude of business firms was left outside the state’s purview, as the authorities had no particular interest in regulating their activities: their small scale of operations would have rendered their supervision unmanageable, their lines of production did not involve prohibited articles, and they operated in a highly competitive environment. Hence their compulsory induction into an array of guilds would have served no purpose and would have been impractical. In short, there were many crafts and trades, spanning a cross section of economic activities, whose practice did not require their enrollment into the guild organizational structure. The assertion that the statutes lump together and equate such diverse and clearly Oikonomide`s, Hommes d’affaires, 108 n. 231. Certainly, there was nothing the chief(s) could do about prices, as wholesale prices were determined by market forces. They could only check on the bakers’ profit margins, which were capped, and the size of the loaf. BE 18.1, 4. See above, p. 356, ll. 19–30. 143 144

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distinguishable organizational forms as guilds (susth´ mata), associations (swmatei'a), societies (su´ llogoi, kolle´ gia), and partnerships (eJtairei'a, koinwni´ai) is inaccurate. The notion derives from a misperception of the provisions of the law and overlooks the fine legal and functional differences between all these organizational forms. Moreover, the fact that the chroniclers paid no attention to subtle legal distinctions, used terms interchangeably, or labeled the organizational structure of the entire business community as guilds is no proof that all crafts and trades belonged to guilds. In particular, a sharp distinction should be made between guilds and associations. These two organizational forms are not interchangeable. The fundamental distinction between guilds and associations lay not in the nature of an occupation but in the state’s interest in regulating a particular economic activity, which in turn defined the mandatory or voluntary character of these organizational forms. Those crafts and trades the state singled out for close supervision were mandated to form guilds; all others were free to form their own professional associations as they saw fit. Guilds and associations were upper-level legal entities—superstructures— and private businesses run by individuals or partnerships could belong to a guild or an association, depending on the state’s designation of their activity. Concerning the presence of guilds in the provinces, the arguments put forward to justify their existence are not convincing. At the same time, evidence is adduced that strongly suggests their absence from the regional economy. Besides, if the Byzantines were determined to establish rigorous control over all industrial and trade activity in the provinces through a guild organizational structure, they would have set up an elaborate national regulatory system. This would have necessitated the building up and operation of a vast and costly administrative apparatus and would have taken some legal form. Yet legislative (and narrative) sources provide no clue that such instrumentality ever existed. Given the pervasive bureaucratic officialism, it would be odd that such a mechanism would have been in operation without leaving any trace. Significantly, the one legal document pronouncing on this matter attests to the very absence of guilds in the provinces. Furthermore, few, if any, towns had developed an industrial and commercial base that could sustain the number and size of enterprises in each activity to form a critical mass that would prompt the state to set up a nationwide guild system. Finally, implementation of a comprehensive scheme of state control over the economic activity of the provinces would have entailed a high degree of town autonomy which is not evident. In sum, key decisive factors lead to the inference that the guild organization was confined to the capital. As for the survival of the guild system after the twelfth century, the minority view— that guilds continued to exist but had adopted a western style—is found wanting on several grounds. Even in the West, the guilds were organs of the city authorities, who either appointed or approved their chiefs. More importantly, unlike the practice in the West, the Byzantine guild system did not aim to fix prices or thwart intraguild competition. Profit margins were set only for a few necessities and only at the retail level, which implied that the wholesale price structure of these consumer goods was allowed to reflect market conditions. Setting profit margins did not preclude competition, as vendors could set their prices lower to increase the volume of their sales, maximizing total instead of unit profits. There were no internal regulations aiming to secure uniformity in the scale of the firms’ operations, new entry into the industry was not legally impeded, and ineffi-

368 THE DOMAIN OF PRIVATE GUILDS IN THE BYZANTINE ECONOMY cient producers were not shielded. Fundamentally, internal and external competition, unobstructed entry and exit, and equality of opportunity rather than equality of economic results were the foundation of the state’s industrial and commercial policy, which contrasted sharply with the policy objectives in the West. Further, the admission by the adherents to this view that the state effectively relinquished direct control over the guilds’ activities, formally exercised by appointing their chiefs, betokens a radical transformation in their constitution and modus operandi, which is incompatible with the typical guild organizational form and suggests a devolution into quite a different organizational form, that of a voluntary not all-inclusive association, which is further attested by the loss of the earlier honorific titles of their chiefs. Such prosaic designations as prwtomai?stwr, prwtomakella´ rio", and e“xarco" hardly substantiate the claim that these individuals were heads of guilds; rather, they are suggestive of elders of associations—primi inter pares. The notion that the guild system had gradually disintegrated from the thirteenth century onward is reinforced by evidence that it had outlived its usefulness and had become unworkable. The commercial domination of the Latins, the weak state authority in a rump empire, and the declining role of the guilds in important sectors (e.g., the silk industry) changed the dynamics of the market, defined new economic and political parameters, and enabled the indigenous business community, traditionally hostile to any form of restrictions, to challenge the status quo. Inroads into the capital’s market by the Latins, who operated outside the guild system and enjoyed commercial and legal privileges, led to market dualism, discriminatory treatment of the market players, unfair competition, and resentment within the Greek business class. As state control and regulation of the same economic activities became one-sided, cooperation, much less compliance, by the disgruntled guilds was bound to be less forthcoming, adversely affecting the implementation of regulations and rendering the guild system a hollow shell. The realization that neither price stability nor control of profit levels could be achieved in times of major demand/supply imbalances by fixing profit margins further undermined the serviceability of the guild system. In the face of these developments, and with the goals of preserving competition and enforcing market discipline entrusted to statutory provisions, the rationale for maintaining a dysfunctional guild organizational structure was greatly attenuated, the more so since the role of the guilds had waned over time. The fact that egregious practices were taking place in the all-important baking trade, and the institution of a new supervisory organ in answer to complaints, suggest that no close official supervision was exercised over the bakers, nor over other trades of lesser importance. In sum, the available evidence, such as it is, and the vicissitudes of the late empire suggest that the notion that guilds continued to exist beyond the twelfth century cannot be persuasively defended. The enabling environment was simply not there. The changing economic and political environment fostered the adoption of organizational forms that were more in tune with the times and could more effectively protect and advance the interests of the business class—the voluntary association free from state control, which eventually displaced the old guild organizational structure. Compelling circumstances shaped not only attitudes but institutions as well. Critical review of these outstanding issues reveals that the guild system was not as pervasive or enduring as had been thought—apparently it began to fade out after the

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twelfth century. This finding, coupled with the procompetitive thrust of the state’s industrial and commercial policy, suggests that the guilds played a far less determining role in the organization and operation of the economy from the tenth to the twelfth centuries than ascribed to them. The regulatory regime did not interfere with the strictly technoeconomic dimensions of the firms’ operations, thereby affording entrepreneurs ample room for independent action. As a result, state intervention did not perceptibly affect economic incentives, discourage private initiative, or impede the growth of enterprises. Once in place, the regulatory framework provided a set of nonshifting parameters that clearly defined the rules of the game and allowed guild members and those dealing with them to conduct their affairs with a considerable degree of certainty. Bethesda, Md.

This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection Washington, D.C. Issue year 2001 © 2002 Dumbarton Oaks Trustees for Harvard University Washington, D.C. Printed in the United States of America

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The Amorium Project: The 1998 Excavation Season C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL.

INTRODUCTION 1998 marked the tenth anniversary of the granting of the Amorium excavation permit by the president and government of the Republic of Turkey. The intention was to use the season to initiate a new program of excavation, conservation, and study, which would cover the next five years (1998–2002). At the same time there was a growing awareness that, although annual preliminary reports and numerous other short publications have been produced over the last ten years, efforts should now be directed toward completing the final reports on the work of the 1988–92 and 1993–97 pentads.1 Generous grants from the Trustees for The work was sponsored by the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara (BIAA) and received additional generous funding partly from Dumbarton Oaks and partly from the Friends of Amorium, among whom Cafer S. Okray, Richard and Marilyn Engle, and Robert Jewett are deserving of special mention. The project is grateful for the continued support of the Turkish authorities, especially the director and staff of the General Directorate of Monuments and Museums in Ankara, and for the help and advice provided by Cyril and Marlia Mango in Oxford. Special thanks must also go to Mr. Yusuf Ziya C ¸ elikkaya ˘), Mr. I˙ smet Gu (district governor, Emirdag ¨ ler (mayor, Em˘), Mr. Seracettin S irdag ¸ahin and Mr. Ahmet Ilaslı (Afyon Archaeological Museum), Doc¸. Dr. Ebru Parman (University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir), Dr. Hu ¨ seyin Tanrıkulu (mayor, Yukarı Piribeyli), Richard Ashton, Thomas Drew-Bear, and Stanley Ireland for their unstinting and generous support for the project. Visitors to the site during the summer included Hans Buchwald, Roger Matthews (director of the BIAA), and Klaus Rheidt, accompanied by other members of the Aizanoi excavation team. We were also very pleased to welcome Mr. and Mrs. C. Lightfoot, to¨ ztas¸ ˘ah O gether with their granddaughter Sera and Mr. Ag and Dr. Didem Oskay, all of whom showed great interest in the progress of our work. 1 For a complete bibliography to 1995, see DOP 51 (1997): 291 n. 1, with further references in DOP 52 (1998): 323 n. 1. Since 1998 the following reports have also been published: C. S. Lightfoot and Y. Mergen, “1996 Yılı Amo-

Harvard University (Dumbarton Oaks) and the British sponsors, the British Institute of rium Kazısı,” in XIX. Kazı Sonuc¸ları Toplantısı. Ankara, 26–30 Mayıs 1996, vol. 2 (Ankara, 1998), 343–66; C. S. Lightfoot et al., “The Amorium Project: The 1997 Study Season,” DOP 53 (1999): 333–49; C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium 1997,” in Anatolian Archaeology: Reports on Research Conducted in Turkey, ed. G. Coulthard and S. Hill, vol. 3 (1997 [1998]), 6–7; C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium Excavations Project 1997,” Bulletin of British Byzantine Studies 24 (1998): 36–40; C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium-Hisarcık’ın Selc¸uklu ve Osmanlı do ¨¨ niversitesi Sanat nemlerine ait yerles¸im ve arkeolojisi,” Ege U Tarihi Dergisi 9 (1998): 75–84; C. S. Lightfoot, “The Survival of Cities in Byzantine Anatolia: The Case of Amorium,” Byzantion 68 (1998): 56–71; C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium and the Afyon Region in Byzantine Times,” in Ancient Anatolia: Fifty Years’ Work by the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, ed. R. Matthews (London, 1998), 301–14; C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium 1998,” in Anatolian Archaeology: Reports on Research Conducted in Turkey, ed. G. Coulthard, vol. 4 (1998 [1999]), 11–12; C. S. Lightfoot, “The Public and Domestic Architecture of a Thematic Capital: The Archaeological Evidence from Amorium,” in H Buzantinh´ Mikra´ Asi´a (Athens, 1998), 303–20; C. S. Lightfoot and O. Karagiorgou, “Byzantine Amorion: A Provincial Capital in Asia Minor,” Arcaiologi´a 69 (December 1998): 92–96 (repr. with corrections in Arcaiologi´a 70 [March 1999]: 87–88); C. S. Lightfoot, “Amorium Excavations Project 1998,” Bulletin of British Byzantine Studies 25 (1999): 43–48; C. S. ¨ nemli bir OrtaLightfoot and Y. Mergen, “I˙¸c Anadolu’da O ˘S ¸cag ¸ehir: Amorium (An Early Mediaeval City in Central Anatolia),” Arkeoloji ve Sanat Dergisi 89 (March–April 1999): 22–31; C. S. Lightfoot and Y. Mergen, “1997 Yılı Amorium C ¸ alıs¸maları,” in XX. Kazı Sonuc¸ları Toplantısı, 25–29 Mayıs 1998–Tarsus, vol. 2 (Ankara, 1999), 525–38; C. S. Lightfoot, “Byzantine Pots in Central Turkey Puzzle Excavators,” Minerva 10.3 (May–June 1999): 7; C. S. Lightfoot, “Recent Discoveries at the Byzantine City of Amorium,” Minerva 10.5 (September–October 1999): 16–19 (see also “News” on p. 6); S. Mitchell, “Archaeology in Asia Minor 1990–98,” Archaeological Reports for 1998–1999 (1999): 181–83; H. Buchwald, Form, Style and Meaning in Byzantine Church Architecture (Aldershot-Brookfield, Vt., 1999), § VIII: Retrofit—Hallmark of Byzantine Architecture?, 10 and figs. 10–11; C. S. Lightfoot and Y. Mergen, “1998 Yılı Amorium Kazıları,” in XXI. Kazı Sonuc¸ları Toplantısı, Ankara, 24–28 Mayıs 1999 (Ankara, 2000), 143–52.

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THE AMORIUM PROJECT: 1998 EXCAVATION SEASON

Archaeology at Ankara, enabled us to work toward both these objectives in 1998. The eleventh season at Amorium produced some quite spectacular finds as well as important results that have a significant bearing on the interpretation of earlier work.2 There were three excavation areas, all in the Lower City. Two of these (in the Lower City Church and in Trench LC immediately behind the city walls near the gateway in Trench AB) were limited in scope and were intended merely to clarify and complete the work carried out in earlier seasons (Fig. A). The third trench, however, represented a new initiative, aimed at investigating more thoroughly the interior of the enclosure. Part of the enclosure’s defensive wall was excavated in 1996, while a geophysical survey of the area was undertaken in 1997.3 The results from this earlier work can now be compared with the findings obtained from the excavations in Trench XC. A major feature of the eleventh season at Amorium was the hard work put into conservation and site enhancement. Work started on the removal of the spoil heaps from Trenches TT and UU on the northern side of the Upper City mound, while all of the trenches were thoroughly cleaned and made presentable. 2 The team comprised fifteen archaeologists, conservators, and students, of whom eight were Turkish, five British, one American, and one Israeli. Their names are Dr. Eric Ivison (assistant director, College of Staten Island, ˘ır Ercan, City University of New York); Yalc¸ın Mergen, Cıg Mu ¨ cahide Koc¸ak, and I˙ rfan Yazıcı (University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir); Dr. M. Ali Kaya (Su ¨ leyman Demirel University, I˙ sparta), Dr. Hande Gu ¨ nyol, and Gu ¨ lseren Dikilitas¸ (of the I˙ stanbul Restorasyon ve Konservasyon Merkez Laboratuvarı); Yoav Arbel (University of California, San Diego); Sarah E. Lepinski (Bryn Mawr College, Pennsylvania); Betu ¨l S ¸ahin (Ankara University); Robin Wiggs and Jessica Beattie (University of Warwick); and Dr. Margaret A. V. Gill. The team was joined by the government representa˘lu of the Izmir Archaeological tive, Mrs. Jale Dedeog Museum, who kindly provided much advice, help, and support throughout the season. Finally, it is fitting to acknowledge the immense contribution made to the project by Dr. Margaret Gill. She has been a valued member of the team since 1989 and has prepared two very detailed and scholarly reports on the glass and small finds for the years 1988–97, as well as contributing several other shorter accounts of the material for the preliminary reports. She has now decided to retire in order to devote more time to her scholarly interests in the local and natural history of the Wye Valley. Her presence in future seasons will be sadly missed, not only by the team, but also by the workmen and villagers at Hisarko ¨y. 3 DOP 52 (1998): 327–28, figs. 9–15; DOP 53 (1999): 334–37, figs. B–F.

However, the Lower City Church was again the principal focus of attention. This building, whose excavation began in 1990, has supplied a wealth of information about the archaeology of Amorium and has become the main site attraction. THE LOWER CITY CHURCH (BY E.A. IVISON) The impressive structure known as the Lower City Church stands near the center of the late antique–dark age city of Amorium. Excavations since 1990 have revealed a complex structure, initially built as an aisled basilica in the late fifth century (Phase I). Following its complete destruction by fire, probably during the sack of 838, this building was radically reconstructed as a domed basilica church (Phase II). Architectural and artistic criteria have placed this reconstruction in the latter part of the ninth or first half of the tenth century. Substantial remains of an ambitious decorative program have survived from this second church. This program included the commission of sculpted architectural and liturgical fittings, as well as a cycle of monumental wall paintings and vault mosaics. The most conspicuous feature of the present ruin is the elaborate opus sectile pavement that still covers 220 m2 of the bema and naos.4 The 1998 campaign was directed toward completing the current program of excavation within the main body of the church (Fig. B). It was also hoped that state plans of the entire building as excavated to floor level, together with measured elevations of the standing structure, to the scale of 1:20 could be finished during the season. Although the discovery of a Byzantine tomb precluded the completion of plans for the narthex and north aisle, a complete plan of the marble opus sectile pavement in the naos and bema was created. A united state plan of the church is now almost a reality, revealing the full complexity and splendor of the building. Integral to this program of excavation and study has been an ongoing program of conservation of both the church’s fabric and those frescoes that remain in situ (see section below). Thanks to the help and expertise of Dr. Hande Gu ¨ nyol and Gu ¨ lseren Dikilitas¸ (of the 4

DOP 51 (1997): 292–97, figs. A–C, and 1–7.

Roman Extra-mural Suburb

AMORIUM Hisarköy

North Necropolis

Stream

1998 Tower? To Hamzahacili Gate ?

Trench ST

Gate?

Surviving Masonry

Trench TT

Gate ?

Tower?

Trench UU

Tower?

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Modern cemetery

Tower? Tower?

Upper City Stream (Acting as moat)

Walls

Tower?

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Modern Road

Rock-cut Tombs

Minaret (Alt. 926 m)

Tower?

Lower City Enclosure

Tower?

Trench G

MODERN VILLAGE

Trench XA/XB

Tower? Stream

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Trench XC

Rock-cut

Tower? Tower?

Basillica/Domed

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From Emirdag

Track Gate?

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Tumulus

Dry stream bed

Trench LC

Trench

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Tower?

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Tower?

Modern Road

To Davulga

Sketch plan of Amorium, 1988–98 (after H. Welfare, H. Dodge, and A. Wilkins, AnatSt 38 [1988]: 178, fig. 2)

Fig. B

Sketch plan of the Lower City Church (after AnaSt 46 [1996]: 93, fig. 1; redrawn by C. S. Lightfoot)

B

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Wall 22

Wall 43

Brick Vault

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Fig. C

Lower City Church, narthex tomb, section of north face (drawing by E. A. Ivison)

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Fig. D Lower City Church, narthex tomb, plan of floor after excavation (drawing by E. A. Ivison)

Fig. E

Lower City Church, narthex tomb, plan of unopened tomb (drawing by E. A. Ivison)

Fig. F

Lower City Church, narthex tomb, plan of burials (drawing by E. A. Ivison)

Lower City Wall

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Lower City fortifications, Trench LC, plan of areas 3, 4, 5, and 6 (drawing by Y. Mergen)

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Lower City enclosure, Trench XC, plan of Stratum IV (drawing by Y. Arbel)

AMORIUM 1998 Trench XBC 1

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Stone troughs

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Lower City enclosure, Trench XBC (drawing by Y. Arbel)

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Pithos

Ash

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Cavity inside Pithos

Pottery

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Fig. J

Lower City enclosure, Trench XC, section of balk within Structure 2 (drawing by Y. Mergen)

Fig. K

Fig. L

Fig. M

Copper-alloy earring (SF3896), found in Trench XBC (drawing by M. A. V. Gill )

Glass vessels (drawing by M. A. V. Gill)

Glass beads and bracelets (drawing by M. A. V. Gill)

1

Lower City Church, glass mosaic in the center of the nave floor near the west end, from the north (Neg. AM98/05/10A) (All photos by C. S. Lightfoot unless otherwise stated)

2

Lower City Church, detail of mosaic after conservation (Neg. AM98/05/08A)

3

Lower City Church, east bay of north aisle, tile floor, from the west (Neg. AM98/03/21)

4

Lower City Church, east bay of north aisle, Context 06, east doorway, from the west (Neg. AM98/02/32)

5

Baluster block (T1362), from Wall 61 in the Lower City Church (Neg. AM98/03/21)

6

Bronze hook fragment (SF3924), length as extant 6.25 cm, from under Wall 61 in the Lower City Church (Neg. AM98/06/16, photograph by I. Yazıcı)

7

Narthex tomb, west end showing vault and west wall of narthex (Neg. AM98/04/13)

8

Narthex tomb, west end showing top of vault from west wall of narthex (Neg. AM98/04/14)

9

10

Narthex tomb, north face and tile floor (Neg. AM98/04/10)

Narthex tomb, closure slabs in situ (Neg. AM98/04/01)

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12

Lower City Trench LC19, doorway, hearth, and broken pottery, viewed from the northwest balk (Neg. AM98/01/27)

Restored pots from Trench LC, three multihandled vessels found within the room and a single-handled pot found just outside it near Trench LC5 (Neg. AM98/06/30; photograph by I. Yazıcı)

13 Lower City enclosure, Structure 1 (W02) with feature (W33) in foreground (Neg. AM98/02/36, photograph by S. Lepinski)

14 Lower City enclosure, Structure 1 (W67) with remains of a brick arch at left (Neg. AM98/05/28A)

15

Lower City enclosure, Stratum VI (W84) within Structure 2 (Neg. AM98/04/35)

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17

Lower City enclosure, Trench XBC, general view from defensive wall in Trench XB/XA (Neg. AM98/05/16A)

Lower City enclosure, Wall 14 of Structure 2, showing mortar pointing at left and crude repair at right (Neg. AM98/05/29A)

18

19

Lower City enclosure, detail of plaster facing on Wall 80 of Structure 3 (Neg. AM98/05/14A)

Lower City enclosure, detail of Context 42, showing complete ox skull in situ (Neg. AM98/02/05)

20

Lower City enclosure, Structure 6; the well found later is located under the flat slab beneath the ranging pole (Neg. AM98/02/04)

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. I˙ stanbul Restorasyon ve Konservasyon Merkez Laboratuvarı), the glass mosaic in the floor of the nave (excavated in 1993) and the fresco on the wall of the south aisle (discovered in 1996) were cleaned, conserved, and consolidated (Figs. 1, 2).5 After the completion of the excavation, planning, and conservation work, a new geotextile and pumice cover was laid over the entire floor of the church. Not only will this serve to protect this unique floor, but it has also considerably improved the appearance of the ruined shell of the building. Two small-scale excavations were carried out, aimed at completing the clearance to floor level within the church. The first removed some 0.80 m of backfill and archaeological deposits remaining in a corner of the easternmost bay of the north aisle (designed A6). The second was conducted in the northern half of the narthex. The intention was to remove the remaining 0.50 m of archaeological deposits to pavement level, but this was postponed following the unexpected discovery of the Byzantine tomb.

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Excavation of this room was confined to the northeast corner, where excavation had ceased in 1991. During the 1990 and 1991 seasons the rest of the chamber had been cleared to floor level, but a 0.80 m deep triangular area of deposit had been left in the far corner of the bay between the eastern corners of Walls 28 and 57/58 (Fig. B). Excavation was therefore restricted to a small area between the north doorway and the eastern doorway leading to the northern pastophory. The account given here is a narrative of occupation history as reconstructed, starting with the earliest (lowest) deposits. The earliest structure encountered was a bed of pink opus signinum mortar (Context A6/ 11) composed of crushed brick mixed with lime mortar. This patch extended from the foot of the northern threshold between Phase I walls 7 and 9. Some scraps of marble revetment and pavement from the Phase I basilica were found still in situ in this corner.

The middle Byzantine tiled floor (Context A6/10) was preserved in a fragmentary condition (Fig. 3).6 Originally it clearly paved the entire chamber but was now broken and missing in places. It was bedded on a hard earth surface (Context A6/15). The tiles were like those encountered elsewhere in the north aisle and southern half of the narthex, being either square (0.32 ⫻ 0.32 m or 0.34 ⫻ 0.34 m) or rectangular. In the first post-Christian period (Seljuk phase, of the early 13th century), the tiled floor, already damaged, was covered with a beaten earth floor (Context A6/09) with a maximum thickness of 0.05 m. Subsequently, this earth floor was extensively burned (Context A6/08 ⫽ burned surface). This event has also been detected in the bema and the central bay of the north aisle. Indeed, it seems to be repeated throughout the building. Following the fire, a new floor of beaten earth was laid (Context A6/07), only to be burned in its turn (Context A6/06; Fig. 4). Following this second fire and standing on the burned surface of Context A6/06, and therefore postdating it, were three contemporary structures. Context A6/13 was a large fragment of a spolia door frame, laid flat at the foot of Wall 28. The stone was laid with the roughened side uppermost, and so may have served as a work surface (possibly for grinding). Context A6/03 was a semicircular wall composed of three large blocks, built across the corner formed by Wall 9. Two blocks were fossiliferous limestone pieces from the church vaults, while the third was a marble epistyle fragment of middle Byzantine date (9th–10th century). The third of these structures, Wall 61, was a low, curved wall built across the corner formed by Walls 1 and 57/58. Wall 61 stood to three courses in height and was built without mortar. One of its blocks was a marble baluster block of middle Byzantine date (T1362; Fig. 5). Both A6/03 and Wall 61 were probably used as bins for the storage or dispensing of processed crops or animal feed, as encountered elsewhere in the church. The fills of these two structures, Contexts A6/05 and A6/04 respectively, were both sterile fills of earth and rubble that produced no organic remains.

5 AnatSt 44 (1994): 109, pl. XVII(b); DOP 52 (1998): 325, fig. 3.

6 For a photograph of the floor in 1992, see AnatSt 43 (1993): pl. XXVI(b).

Excavation in the North Aisle, East Bay (A6)

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Following the installation of these features, Context A6/02 accumulated over the burned surface A6/06 to a depth of about 0.70 m and extended over the northern and eastern thresholds. This fill consisted of loose earth, rubble, brick, roof tile, crushed mortar, and stones. Given its composition, the layer cannot be attributed to the collapse of the adjacent walls, since it lacked the density of large wall blocks and vaulting material compatible with such an interpretation. This context was most likely dumped material, used to raise the surface during Seljuk reuse. The collapse of the door frames in the northern and eastern doorways also occurred during this period. That in the northern doorway was found still lying upon the threshold where it had fallen. Context A6/02 and its disturbed surface, Context A6/01, were the first contexts to be excavated and marked where excavation had ceased in 1991. Apart from sculpted pieces reused in Turkish structures, only a few notable finds were made; these included an ornamental bronze hook (SF3924; Fig. 6), of uncertain date but clearly Byzantine, that was found at the bottom of Context A6/02, under the site of Wall 61. North Narthex Excavation (A1): The Tomb Discovery and Context Excavation began in the northern half of the narthex to remove the remaining archaeological deposits over the floor. The removal of the earth and rubble layer (Context A1/12), where excavation ceased in 1992, proceeded from the edge of the 1996 south narthex excavation, in front of the steps leading up to the central west door into the naos. In the bay between Phase II Walls 22 and 43, vibration from the excavation work caused a sudden subsidence. A hole opened up in the surface of Context A1/12 and through the underlying layers, revealing a void beneath them. Closer inspection confirmed that this void was a large tomb. The tomb was sealed beneath all these layers, demonstrating that no disturbance had occurred since the tomb had been closed. Given the limited time left for excavation, it was decided to concentrate all efforts on the tomb and to complete the narthex excavation in a future season. In order to dig the tomb a trench was laid

out west of Pier 43 and running to Wall 22, enclosing the immediate area around the tomb (Fig. B). Excavation of Context A1/12 revealed a burned surface (Context A1/16) on top of an earth floor (A1/17). These same contexts have also been found in the south narthex; they date to the first phase of Seljuk use of the church in the early thirteenth century. The burned earth floor was above Context A1/18, a deep and uniform deposit of grayish-brown clay that filled the interior foundations of the late antique narthex. A date contemporary with the construction of the Phase I basilica can be assigned to this layer thanks to stratigraphy and pottery. Following construction, the narthex foundations had been backfilled with Context A1/18, burying the east and west faces of Phase I Walls 5 and 47 to the tops of their stepped-out foundation courses. Small shards of pottery and glass, exclusively of Roman and late antique date, were found in this fill. Context A1/18 had been carefully graded, eliminating almost all of the larger pieces of stone and tile, and producing a fill of fine, siltlike consistency that had become very dense and compacted. The reason for this careful backfilling may have been the need to create a stable foundation for the narthex that would not subside. The modern ground level falls away quite steeply toward the west and the site of the presumed atrium. The same may have been true in antiquity, requiring the builders to build up the walls at the west end and to use A1/18 to raise the floor level of the narthex to that of the nave of the basilica. Walls 43 and 22 of the Phase II Church, as well as the tomb, postdated layer A1/18, since they were built in cuts dug out of this fill, which continues underneath them. So firm and stable was Context A1/18 that these later builders simply cut foundation trenches to the desired width of their walls and then built up their foundations inside. This is confirmed by the external appearance of these wall foundations and the lack of any backfilled foundation trench beside them. The foundations of Walls 22 and 43, for example, have very uneven surfaces, with stones piled up irregularly and mortar poured over them. These foundations must have been built using a cut in A1/18 as a frame to support the masonry faces while under construction. Upon hardening, the mortar

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. faithfully reproduced the interior faces of the surrounding cut. The tomb was constructed in exactly the same manner, lining the interior of the excavation cut with masonry. Disturbance of context A1/18 by the middle Byzantine builders was therefore minimal, restricted to almost surgical cuts in order to accommodate their new structures. When the tomb was sealed, some of A1/18 excavated during its construction was redeposited as a shallow layer over the closure slabs. The Tomb Structure The tomb structure was designated Context A1/23 (Figs. C–E and 7– 10). It has an irregular trapezoidal plan, being wider at its western end with sides tapering toward the east. Its maximum dimensions are 2.20 m in length and 1.15 m in width. The depth of the tomb varies between 0.66 m and 0.80 m, with its floor sloping down from the east to the west end. Although the mortared brick walls are laid out horizontally, they are not vertical but incline slightly outward from top to bottom. On the north, south, and west sides of the tomb, the bottom 0.30 m of the excavation cut was not lined with masonry, leaving the face of Context A1/18 exposed (Fig. C). The upper parts of the walls and the entire eastern wall were built of coursed and mortared brick masonry. These walls were constructed in a rudimentary fashion, with brick courses following the slope of the tomb floor from the west toward the east. Of these walls the southern was the most irregular, its upper brick courses corbelling out from their foundations to overhang the floor. This feature may reflect a miscalculation by the builders, since the top of the wall had to be built out to support the irregular edges of the cover stone. The mortar used in the tomb walls was grayish and brittle, with white lime admixed with large quantities of small, gravel-sized pebbles. This mortar was applied liberally to tidy up the appearance of slapdash construction. The pointing varied between 0.02 m and 0.05 m in thickness and had been smoothed over untidy brick edges. While this mortar was still wet, large dollops had been squeezed out of the interstices, probably by the immense weight of the closure slabs resting on the tops of the walls. This excess mortar had then dripped onto the floor and the bricks placed around the foot of

375

the walls. This evidence demonstrates that the tomb was newly constructed for the intended burials, since the mortar had not yet set when the roof was sealed. At the western end of the tomb is a brick arch ca. 0.54 m deep, rising to a height of 1.04 m above the floor and 0.27 m above the level of the side walls (Fig. 7). This arch was better constructed than the side walls, having been built with radially laid bricks and carefully pointed with fine, white mortar. The exterior surface of the vault was thickly covered with mortar, while the interior had been smeared with only a thin coating (Fig. 8). The floor of the tomb inclines downward toward the west. This floor was paved with whole and half bricks laid without mortar on the cut away surface of Context A1/18 (Figs. D and 9). Only the western end of the tomb was vaulted. The eastern and central parts of the tomb were covered with two large limestone cover slabs (Figs. E and 10). That covering the eastern end was a slice from a late antique building block, while the central stone was a slab of irregular shape and uneven finish. This slab had cracked into two pieces but remained precariously in place over the tomb. Both slabs rested on the top edges of the tomb walls and were further sealed by tile fragments inserted into their interstices. The vault over the western part of the tomb rose slightly above the level of the cover slabs. Between the central cover slab and the brick arch no stone slab sealed the tomb. Here only the hardpan of the backfilled Context A1/18 sealed an area measuring 1.10 ⫻ 0.56 m, the subsidence of which had revealed the tomb’s existence. Remarkably, this compacted layer had been left suspended following the collapse of two wooden planks that had been used to close the tomb at this point. Excavation of fallen earth from Context A1/18 inside the tomb revealed two flat planks of wood (Context A1/21, nos. 1 and 2) lying parallel to one another on a north-south orientation. Like the closure slabs, the ends of the planks had originally rested on the top edges of the tomb walls. But when the wood had weakened, the southern ends of the planks had fallen into the tomb, coming to rest at the foot of the south wall. The northern ends of the planks still remained in situ on the top edge of the tomb’s

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north wall. Plank 1 lay partially on its side, slightly turned toward the east. Plank 2 lay partially underneath no. 1. Both planks were in a spongy and fragile condition. Both were subsequently removed in sections for dendrochronological analysis. Why the Byzantines might have chosen wooden planks rather than another stone cover slab to close the tomb’s entrance will be discussed below. The Burials and Funerary Furniture Removal of the cover slabs and the wooden planks revealed two undisturbed burials, designated individuals 1 and 2. Unfortunately, the bones were badly decomposed owing to dampness in the tomb, probably as a consequence of the water-retentive qualities of the surrounding Context A1/18. The collapse of the wooden planks and accompanying earth had further crushed these delicate remains. The skulls and upper parts of the bodies had completely disintegrated and were observable only as outlines of yellow-white dust and small bone fragments. Bones survived well only at the eastern end of the tomb, where feet bones and some lower leg bones remained in place. The sex, age, or cause of death will be difficult to determine from such decayed remains. But the outline of the bodies showed clearly how they had been prepared for burial and that, despite their decay, both skeletons had been articulated with no evidence of later disturbance (Fig. F). The bodies were laid out in an extended and supine position, lying parallel to one another. Their lower arms and hands were crossed over their pelvic regions. Each head had rested upon a brick fragment (Context A1/26) that served as a pillow. When placed in the tomb, both bodies were oriented east-west, with their heads to the west and their feet pointing eastward. The same dampness that had largely destroyed the bones had preserved other organic remains, however. Cleaning revealed that both bodies still lay on the remains of a wooden pallet or funerary bier (Context A1/25), which rested on the paved floor of the tomb. The two bodies lay on top of the structure, which must have been lowered into the finished tomb as the first stage of the burial procedure. The outline of the bier could still be traced from lines of reddish-brown stains in the soil and the oc-

casional fragment of wood. The iron nails that held the wooden frame together were also found in situ around the edges of the tomb. So, despite the poor preservation of the remains, the design and construction of the bier can be reconstructed with certainty. In appearance the Amorium bier must have been a low pallet, reminiscent of a bedframe, measuring approximately 2 ⫻ 1 m. The bier was roughly rectangular in shape, tapering toward the feet at the east end, and consisted of a wooden frame with transverse struts. Wood fragments indicate that this framing was cut square in section, although the transverse struts may have been flat slats. The wooden frame and struts were held together by up to fifteen iron nails. These nails measured on average 0.10 m in length and 0.015 m in width and had shafts that were square in section. They had been driven through the thickness of the wooden frame, fragments of which had been preserved owing to oxidization. The pointed end of the nail was then clawed over. The head of the nail was also clawed over and hammered down into the surface of the wood. The wooden frame was once covered with textile like a stretcher, for although this fabric had perished, it had left a black stain. No evidence of carrying poles was found in the tomb, suggesting that it was carried on the shoulders, and must have been lowered into the tomb with ropes. This must have been done before the cover slabs were put in position, since the size of the bier and the narrowness of the plank-covered opening at the west end precluded the bier’s later insertion. Inside the tomb the bier had been pushed up against the face of the southern wall. Nine square bricks and half bricks, standing on edge, had been inserted at intervals into the narrow space between the bier’s frame and the west, east, and north walls of the tomb. Some of these bricks were intact specimens, while others were broken halves. These bricks, and those in the tomb walls and floor, are typical of those used in the piers and aisle pavements of the Phase II Church. The intact bricks were square (on average between 0.32 ⫻ 0.32 m and 0.34 ⫻ 0.34 m square) and ca. 0.04– 0.05 m thick. The top surfaces of some bricks had been scored with parallel finger grooves before firing. After the wooden bier frame

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. holding these bricks in place had decayed, one of these bricks on the north side had toppled inward on top of the bier. These bricks played no structural role but must have served to stabilize the bier by wedging it in place. Biers used to exhibit the dead at the prothesis, or laying out, and to convey the body to burial, are attested in literature of the middle Byzantine period.7 To quote just a few examples: Ignatios the Deacon (d. 848) uses the word oJ ski´mpou" (usually understood as a pallet or small couch) to describe the bier used at the funeral of Patriarch Tarasios (d. 806).8 The Book of Ceremonies, compiled in the mid-tenth century, uses the grander words hJ crush` kli´nh hJ ejponomazome´ nh lu´ ph (“the golden couch, which is called that of sorrow”) to describe that used at imperial funerals.9 The term hJ kli´nh also appears in the early eleventh-century Life of St. Athanasios the Athonite (d. ca. 1003).10 In both appearance and design the Amorium bier compares well with the meaning of these words, and to my knowledge, it is the first recorded example excavated in a middle Byzantine context. Associated Objects Since the tomb was found sealed and undisturbed, the presence and positions of any objects associated with the burials were of especial interest. As in the case of most middle Byzantine tombs, however, these finds were few. No objects were found associated with individual 1. Instead, the only objects found in the tomb were associated with individual 2. A badly corroded iron bracelet was found in two pieces at the site of the left forearm or wrist. The bracelet was a circlet of iron, with the closure twist of the band on one side (SF3897; maximum dimensions: 7.1 ⫻ 6.5 cm). No other jewelry was found associated with the remains. Of greater significance for the dating of the burials was a scattered group of five copper alloy coins, also found associated with individ7 P. de Meester, Liturgia Bizantina, vol. 2.6 (Rome, 1929), 84, 96. 8 The Life of the Patriarch Tarasios by Ignatios the Deacon (BHG 1698), ed. and tr. S. Efthymiadis, Birmingham Byzantine and Ottoman Monographs 4 (Aldershot-Brookfield, Vt., 1999), 159, line 10. 9 Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos, Le livre des ce´re´monies, ed. A. Vogt (Paris, 1939), vol. 2, 84, lines 2–3. 10 L. Petit, “La Vie de S. Athanase l’Athonite,” AB 25 (1906): 77, lines 9–10.

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ual 2. The coins were recovered from a 0.05 m2 area between the site of the left shoulder and the head, close to the end of the brick pillow on the north side. The coins lay some 0.07 m above the tiled floor in a thick layer of disintegrated bone fragments. The coins were in a poor state of preservation owing to the damp conditions in the tomb, but, after cleaning and conservation expertly carried out by Dr. Hande Gu ¨ nyol, examination revealed that they were all folles of Emperor Nikephoros II Phokas.11 Nikephoros II Phokas (A.D 963–969) ; bust, facing, Obv. bearded, wearing robe and crown with cross and pendilia; in r. hand, crossscepter; in l., globe surmounted by trefoil. Much corroded, but cross-scepter visible. Rev. 1 AM98/A1–22/SF3856; AE follis, class 1; 23–21 mm; 7.2 g; 6h. From the Lower City Church, narthex tomb, find no.1 DOC 3.2: Basil I to Nicephorus III (867–1081), ed. P. Grierson (Washington, D.C. 1973; 1993), 586–87 [7.1–4]; P. Grierson Byzantine Coins (London and Berkeley, 1982), 827. Obv. Similar. Badly corroded. Rev. 2 AM98/A1–22/SF3857; AE follis, class 1(?); 25–23 mm; 7.5 g; ⫺h. From the Lower City Church, narthex tomb, find no.2 Obv. Similar. Much corroded, but bust discernible. Rev. 3 AM98/A1–22/SF3858; AE follis, class 1(?); 27–24.5 mm; 7.0 g; 6h. From the Lower City Church, narthex tomb, find no.3. Obv. As no. 1, but Rev. 4 AM98/A1–22/SF3859; AE follis, class 1; 11 The identification of the coins was carried out by Chris Lightfoot as part of his general catalogue of the numismatic material from Amorium.

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24–22 mm; 5.8 g; 6h. From the Lower City church, narthex tomb, find no.4. Obv. Similar. Badly corroded. Rev. 5 AM98/A1–22/SF3860; AE follis, class 1 (?); 27–26 mm; 8.4 g; ⫺h. From the Lower City Church, narthex tomb, find no.5 The inclusion of coins with Byzantine burials is well attested throughout the medieval period, although seldom in the numbers found in the tomb at Amorium. Most graves have been found to contain single or pairs of coins. In tombs intended for multiple burials, coins gradually accumulated over time with new interments. Although this practice probably derives from the ancient custom of “Charon’s obol,” the pagan significance was supplanted with a purely talismanic role in Christian Byzantium. Coins were reinvented as apotropaic charms to defend the Byzantine dead from the attacks of demons.12 The Date of the Tomb and Its Burials The relative chronology of the tomb structure in the stratigraphy of the narthex (and of the church as a whole) is clear. The Phase II Walls 22 and 43 were built in trenches cut into the late Roman Context A1/18. The tomb was built in the same way, but after the construction of Walls 22 and 43, since location of the tomb is predicated by these Phase II structures. The eastern wall of the tomb was in line with Pier 43 and of the same width, while the western wall and vault were built no more than 0.12 m from the undisturbed face of Wall 22. These observations give a terminus post quem for the construction of the tomb after the rebuilding of the church in the late ninth or first half of the tenth century. The coins allow an even more precise dating. Given the fact that all five coins belong to the same emperor, it may be safely assumed that the burial occurred during or soon after the reign of Nikephoros II. The tomb was thus in 12 For a detailed discussion of this custom, see E. A. Ivison, “Mortuary Practices in Byzantium: An Archaeological Contribution (c. 950–1453)” (Ph.D. diss., University of Birmingham, 1993), chap. 13.

existence by ca. 970, but when was it constructed? The evidence of the mortar dollops shows that the tomb was newly constructed when it was sealed, since the mortar had not yet set and was squeezed out of the brick courses by the weight of the closure slabs. Some of this wet mortar fell onto the upright bricks around the lower walls used to wedge the bier in position. This would suggest that the interval between construction, installation of the bier, and closure of the tomb could have been measured in days. It seems logical to assume that this occurred immediately after death since it was customary in Byzantium to perform burials within twenty-four to seventytwo hours after death. The presence of only two bodies, laid out formally side by side on a bier that stood on the clean floor of the tomb, further implies that the tomb was constructed expressly for, and even possibly at the command of, these two individuals. One may therefore conclude that the tomb and its burials were installed some time between 963 and ca. 970. Any further discussion of the chronology of the burials remains speculative. The initial impression to be drawn from the burials is that both individuals died at the same time and were buried together. Such a timely scenario would have had to have been fortuitous, since there is no evidence as yet for a sudden cause of death, such as an epidemic or violence. Nor is there any evidence that either body was later disturbed or moved aside. However, one must also consider the possibility that one of the two individuals died first, followed soon after by the other. If this was the case, then whichever of individuals 1 or 2 died first cannot now be determined. In this alternative scenario, space must have been allocated on the bier for the addition of a second body during the initial burial. Indeed, the intention to reopen the tomb may be implied by the temporary nature of the planks used to close the western end of the tomb. When one considers the easy availability of stone at Amorium, the use of wooden planks is unusual. Perhaps the custodians planned to open the tomb later to transfer the remains to another location or even to add further bodies. Regardless of whatever the original intention may have been, no later activity disturbed the burial of individuals 1 and 2.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. Why the planks were never replaced with a permanent stone lid remains a mystery. The Historical Significance of the Tomb and Its Burials The presence of a large, well-built tomb in the narthex of the Lower City Church is significant with regard to the social status of the deceased. The use of narthexes for privileged burials in the middle Byzantine period is well attested, both in the capital and in the provinces. Tenth-century burials, probably of the founder’s family, have been excavated in the narthex of the Lips North Church at Constantinople built by the protospatharios Constantine Lips.13 Burials of aristocratic patrons and their families, as well as eminent monks and clergy, are also present in large numbers in the narthexes of churches of the ninth to eleventh centuries in Cappadocia.14 Individuals 1 and 2 were buried in the narthex of what must have been one of the most imposing and lavishly adorned churches at Amorium. As is attested elsewhere, such a privilege would have been granted to only a few important people, particularly those who acted as sponsors. We may therefore conclude that the tomb’s occupants were of high status and had some significant connection with the Lower City Church, perhaps even acting as donors. At present, one can draw only general conclusions with regard to the identity of individuals 1 and 2. It is to be hoped that a thorough examination of the surviving bones may reveal information concerning the sex and age of the two individuals, although the poor preservation of the bones may well preclude such identification. The presence of the bracelet and coins associated with individual 2 cannot be used to determine gender. No epitaph or marker that may have recorded their names has been found. Individuals 1 and 2 were therefore of privileged status but remain anonymous, and the relationship between them remains uncertain. Clearly though, a bond existed between them in death as presumably in life, whether it be friendship, collegiality, blood relationship, marriage, or a spiritual bond, 13 T. Macridy, C. Mango, A. H. S. Megaw, and E. J. W. Hawkins, “The Monastery of Lips (Fenari Isa Camii) at Istanbul,” DOP 18 (1964): 272, figs. 5, 71, and 73. 14 N. Teteriatnikov, The Liturgical Planning of Byzantine Churches in Cappadocia, OCA 252 (Rome, 1996), 167–73, 179–82.

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and this was strong enough to merit their burial together. THE LOWER CITY WALLS (BY Y. MERGEN) Further exploratory work was carried out in the area designated as Trench LC within the Lower City walls northwest of the main gateway (Fig. A).15 A small trench (Trench LC6) was opened adjacent to the area where excavations had been conducted in 1996. The aim was to clarify the nature and date of the structures that have been uncovered in this sector of the Lower City since excavations started here in 1994. In addition, by clearing further sections of the city wall itself, which are better preserved here than southeast of the gateway, it was hoped to reach a clearer understanding of the relationship between the fortifications and the buildings immediately behind them. The new trench, measuring 8.6 ⫻ 4.65 m, is located southwest of Trench LC5, opened in 1996, and northwest of Trench LC4 (Fig. G). No evidence for occupation in the postByzantine period was found, although the Byzantine structures had clearly suffered considerable damage in later times, in part as a result of fairly recent stone robbing. Such activity was common at Amorium, lasting well into the twentieth century, and it is only since the excavations started in 1988 that the locals have desisted from using the site as a quarry for stone. This has led to an accumulation of soil and rubble immediately behind the wall, thus radically altering the local topography and contributing further to the destruction of the occupation layers. As a result the Byzantine structures now survive only to a height of just above floor level. Despite this, some significant evidence and important finds were recovered from the area. A floor, comprising packed earth, was uncovered in Trench LC6 at the same elevation as that found in Trench LC5. Lying on this floor, together with four coins, were found considerable quantities of broken pottery, forming the largest assemblage of associated vessels yet recovered from the site. The group provides valuable material for comparison with other 15 A full account of the work carried out in Trench LC between 1994 and 1998 is being prepared for publication in the final report.

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vessels found in Trench LC and contributes new evidence for the dating of the various structures.16 The floor clearly belongs within a room that had a stone hearth to the right of a doorway that gave access to the room from the southeast (Fig. 11). The stone threshold of this door remains in situ; there is a recessed setting for the jamb to a swinging door cut into the left side of the threshold, while marks on the surface indicate that the door opened inward from right to left. A quantity of ash was found in situ inside the hearth, indicating that it was probably still in use when abandoned. Indeed, there was considerable evidence to suggest that the room was violently destroyed and that the destruction included a serious conflagration. Scattered across the floor in front of the hearth were found amounts of carbonized grain and pulses, while charred timbers and even pieces of textile were also recovered. These items were buried apparently as a result of the collapse of the roof and mud-brick walls of the building. Closely associated with the destruction level is the broken pottery. The largest concentration of vessels was located next to the room’s southeast wall (Wall 10; Fig. G) between the doorway and the hearth. These vessels had been crushed when the wall collapsed inward but as a result many of them could be restored either completely or in large part. They are evidently all of the same type, although they vary in size and specific features. All are plain, unglazed wares, presumably meant for domestic use. So far three examples have been reconstructed and are now more or less complete, while another four vessels have been partially restored (Fig. 12).17 A considerable number of other fragments, however, remain to be pieced together. These vessels proved to be of a very unusual form, for they have multiple handles, usually seven, 16

AnatSt 46 (1996): 106 and fig. 7. Two of these were put on display in the newly installed galleries of the Afyon Archaeological Museum in 1999. Similar vessels are said to be in the Kastamonu Museum (photographs shown to Chris Lightfoot in Ankara would seem to support the truth of this report). Another example, also recorded as coming from the Arac¸ district of Kastamonu, was acquired by the Istanbul Archaeological Museums between 1937 and 1947; see I˙stanbul Arkeoloji Mu ¨zeleri Yıllıg˘ı 3 (1949): 32 and fig. 17 (this reference was kindly supplied by Marlia M. Mango). 17

arranged in two rows around the shoulder and upper body. A further oddity is that they do not have a rim and mouth in the usual way of round-bodied pots. Instead, there is a series of holes or larger apertures at the top of the vessel, matched by other small holes in the flat base. These provide openings into a tall, cylindrical chamber that has been inserted into the middle of the vessel, so resembling to some extent the inner chamber of a samovar.18 The whole construction of the vessels is thus rather complex and shows that the potters who made them were highly skilled. No two examples are exactly alike, but they must all have served a similar purpose. This, however, remains a mystery. Their placement next to the hearth may be significant, and it is tempting to suggest that they were used to heat liquids contained within the body of the vessel. Perhaps they were used in the preparation of some form of consumable; equally, it may be that they were employed in a manufacturing process. The large number of vessels found in this one spot indicates that they must have served some important function, while the fact that examples are now known from elsewhere clearly proves that they had a wide distribution and are not just a local phenomenon. A probable date for this group of vessels, the like of which had not previously been noted at Amorium, is provided by two of the four coins found on the packed earth floor. One of these (SF3775) is a copper alloy follis of class 2 belonging to the reign of Nikephoros I, while the other (SF3779) is a class 1 follis of Theophilos. The pottery would thus appear to date to the early ninth century. At the same time the numismatic evidence would seem to date the destruction of the room to 829/30, and this brings the event within the time frame of the siege in 838.19 It is hoped that samples taken for Carbon-14 and dendrochronological analysis will help to confirm this dating. The finds from Trench LC6 also shed new light on the wider occupation history of the 18 Three early Byzantine bronze authepsae have been found at Sardis; see J. C. Waldbaum, Metalwork at Sardis: The Finds through 1974 (Cambridge, Mass.-London, 1983), 92–93, nos. 520–22. 19 This would thus make it contemporary with the destruction of the triangular tower; see AnatSt 44 (1994): 110–11.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. area. It was observed, for example, that the floor of the ninth-century room is at a higher elevation than the structures, excavated in previous years to its southeast, that have been dated to the tenth and eleventh centuries.20 The explanation for this apparent anomaly must be that the area nearer the city gate was reoccupied in middle Byzantine times using some preexisting walls and structures. In addition, the modern ground level probably reflects quite accurately the contours of the area in Byzantine times. Behind the gateway the terrain slopes away quite noticeably to the south and east, while it climbs to something of a ridge just north of the excavation area. So it would appear that Trench LC contains three main occupation levels. The earliest and lowest is probably contemporary with the construction of the Lower City walls themselves. On top of these were constructed the buildings that were in use in the early ninth century and, in all likelihood, were destroyed during the sack of Amorium in 838. The final phase of occupation, covering the tenth and eleventh centuries, and terminating ca. 1067–71, saw the robbing of the fortification wall and the construction of new buildings, together with the repair and reuse of some of the less damaged structures near the gateway.21 The room exposed in Trench LC6, however, was apparently buried under such a large pile of rubble that the area was completely abandoned, only to suffer further damage as a result of later stone-robbing activity. THE LOWER CITY ENCLOSURE (BY Y. ARBEL, WITH S. LEPINSKI) Trenches XC and XBC are located approximately 300 m southeast of the Upper City mound within a large enclosure bordered by straight-sided ramparts on all sides (Fig. A).22 20 AnatSt 41 (1991): 220–22 and fig. 4; AnatSt 43 (1993): 150–51 and pl. XXVII(a–b); AnatSt 45 (1995): 120; DOP 51 (1997): 297–98. 21 AnatSt 41 (1990): 221–22, with abandonment associated with a coin hoard dated 1067–71. 22 This report is based on that written by Yoav Arbel immediately at the end of the fieldwork season. To it has been added a separate report prepared by Sarah Lepinski on the southeast area of Trench XC. It has also been extensively edited and revised by Eric Ivison and Chris Lightfoot. While the factual descriptions, sequence, and dating of the various strata remain those of Yoav Arbel and Sarah Lepinski, it was thought necessary to add some con-

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The enclosure is located near the center of the entire site and not far from the Lower City Church, which must have been one of the most important buildings in Byzantine Amorium. During the 1996 season a small part of the southeastern rampart line was excavated (Trenches XA/XB), and a fortification wall was discovered, showing that either military or significant civilian structures were placed within the enclosure.23 This assumption was supported by the results of a geophysical (resistivity and magnetometry) survey conducted in 1997, suggesting the existence there of considerable architectural remains.24 As a result it was decided to concentrate excavation efforts over the next five-year period, beginning in 1998, on this previously unexplored part of the Lower City.25 Trench XC consists of a 10 ⫻ 15 m area, on a southwest/northeast orientation, opened 5 m northwest of the 1996 Trench XB. Trench XBC represents a limited excavation to connect these two trenches. The season’s excavations revealed eight different structures and several separate walls, pits, and installations divided between seven different strata and substrata. Since both trenches are part of the same complex, separate discussion of their excavation will be avoided.26 The conclusions drawn here are tentative and to some extent speculative, since they are based on only an initial survey of the finds. Most coins have already been identified, but the metal, the glass, and especially the ceramic evidence must still be analyzed in detail; thus the dating based upon them remains open to subsequent changes and clusions to their interpretations of the various stages of occupation that are attested. 23 DOP 52 (1998): 327–28 and 331–32, figs. B–D and 9–15. 24 DOP 53 (1999): 336–37. 25 The area within the perimeter wall was used until fairly recently as a field attached to a farmhouse, now almost completely obliterated, located near the northeast end of the enclosure. The land was, therefore, in private ownership, but cordial negotiations with the relevant villagers at the beginning of the 1998 season resulted in the purchase of the whole enclosure for the Turkish Ministry of Culture. 26 Trench XC was excavated between 8 July and 3 August 1998, while Trench XBC was dug from 5 August to 10 August 1998. The work was carried out by a team of workmen, all from the village of Hisarko ¨y, supervised by Yoal Arbel and Sarah Lepinski, assisted by Mu ¨ cahide Ko¸cak, Jessica Beattie, and Robin Wiggs.

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refinement. This report presents the strata and their associated structures in reverse order of excavation, from the earliest to the latest in chronological sequence. Stratum VII Structure 1 The surviving walls of Structure 1 were some of the first features to appear in the trench, being discovered only ca. 0.30 m below the modern ground surface (Fig. H). The structure consists of Walls 02, 67, and probably also 20, all of which have been only partially exposed during the season. Wall 02 extends for 9.70 m on a northeastsouthwest course from the point where it appears from the northeast section of Trench XC to a right-angle corner with Wall 67. Its maximum preserved width is 1.10 m, although the original width remains unclear owing to the wall’s present condition. It has been exposed to a height of 1.60 m, but the base of the wall and its foundations have yet to be uncovered (Fig. 13). The builders used a combination of masonry comprising medium-sized cut stones of local limestone (averaging 0.20 ⫻ 0.30 m) with a band of brick courses, a style that can be found in several other large structures at Amorium—the triangular tower of the Lower City fortifications, the Large Building excavated in 1988–89, and the Phase I walls of the Lower City Church.27 At its northeast end the outer face is stone-lined and was probably plastered over originally. Its inner face is made up of a broad band of brick courses, reaching to the very top of the preserved height of the wall. The wall is capped with a line of limestone blocks, forming a simple architrave with a cavetto molding, bonded to the masonry below by a layer of rough mortar. Seven of the architrave blocks have been uncovered so far; six are still in situ on the wall, while the seventh had been removed and reused in later construction. The blocks show signs of both wear and damage; for example, several of their corners are broken off. The largest slab is also the best preserved and measures 1.70 m long and 0.60 m wide. Despite the variations in size, it is safe to assume that all of the blocks were carved at the same time and were intended for use as the architrave of Structure 1. The mor27

AnatSt 44 (1994): 110; AnatSt 40 (1990): 211.

tar is thickly applied and is white, with an aggregate of small flat stones and bits of broken tile and brick. Wall 02 remained in use for a far longer period of time than the building it originally served, probably until the very last stages of the Byzantine city’s occupation, as testified by the crude attempts to patch up parts of the wall where the original masonry and brick courses had been lost. A hole, cut into the edge of one of the architrave blocks and meant for the tethering of animals, is evidence for a very late adaptation of the wall, when all but the very top part was already buried. Wall 67 meets Wall 02 to form the south corner of the building with a well-built 90-degree angle, from which it runs northwest as far as the northwest section of the trench (Fig. 14). Its construction combines masonry and brick, similar to Wall 02, and further similarities exist in the brick-built inner face and the use of gritty mortar. The significant difference between the two walls is the incorporation within Wall 67 of a brick arch. The top section of the arch is missing, but to both sides several radiating layers of the arch’s springing have survived despite considerable later construction activity. Whether the arch is a single element or one of a series remains unclear. Similarly, it cannot yet be determined whether it was built to buttress or support part of the architectural composition of the wall or if it served as an arched passageway into the building. There is no trace of slabs for an architrave or other ornate architectural elements in Wall 67. A seemingly large, but poorly preserved, brick wall exposed at the northern corner of Trench XC (Wall 20) may be part of Structure 1. It runs from the northwest section of the trench toward the southeast, as if it was originally joined to Wall 02 at a 90-degree angle. That this was so is also possibly indicated by a ragged brick edge protruding from the latter wall toward Wall 20. As Wall 20 remains partly buried in both the northwest and the northeast balks of the trench, little else is presently known about it, although its style, angle, and elevation correspond well with the other two walls of Structure 1. If future excavation establishes that it belongs to this structure, it may represent the third side of a large room within the interior space, leaving only the position of its northwest wall to be determined. Later activity both within the building and

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. immediately outside its walls has obliterated much of the evidence for its original use, leaving the structure little more than a shell. However, the presence of numerous fragments of water pipes and marble floor and/or wall revetment within the building may be of significance, especially as in previous seasons no evidence for the use of water pipes at Amorium had ever been found in any of the trenches. In addition, the surface of many of the thin marble slabs is encrusted with lime scale, implying that they were used in a room (or rooms) where flowing water was present.28 The evidence hints at the presence of a bath or latrine in the immediate vicinity of Trench XC. Taking into consideration the fact that the interior face of Wall 02 and what remains of Wall 20 are made of solid brick, it is tempting to suggest that Structure 1 itself was originally an insulated bathing room.29 However, it should be noted that the layers excavated in and around the building all belong to later activity or fill later introduced and are not directly connected with the original use of the building. Consequently, no clear answer can be given at this stage to the question of the structure’s primary use beyond stating that it clearly served a public function. Likewise, until the foundation courses of Walls 02 and 67 have been reached, it is impossible to determine the exact stratigraphic position and surviving height of the building. Nevertheless, the existence of the arch in Wall 67 and of the architrave blocks on top of Wall 02 indicates that Structure 1 survives almost to the full height of an entire story, while comparanda for the masonry of Structure 1 both at Amorium and elsewhere strongly suggest that the building was constructed in the fifth to sixth centuries.30 28 Compare some of the marble revetment found in the late antique latrina at Magnesia ad Maeandrum; see O. Bingo ¨l, Magnesia on the Meander (Ankara, 1998), 59–63. 29 Compare the Baths of Zeuxippus at Constantinople, which fell into disuse in the dark ages and were subsequently converted for other uses; see ODB 1:271–72, s.v. Baths, and 3:2226, s.v. Zeuxippos, Baths of. 30 One may compare this construction technique with one commonly used at Constantinople from the late 4th through 6th centuries; see C. Mango, Byzantine Architecture (London, 1986), 9–10; J. Bardill, “The Palace of Lausus and Nearby Monuments in Constantinople: A Topographical Study,” AJA 101.1 (1997): 73–74 and fig. 4; R. M. Harrison et al., Excavations at Sarac¸hane in Istanbul, vol. 1 (Princeton, N.J., 1986), 18–26; R. B. K. Stevenson, ed., The Great Palace of the Byzantine Emperors, vol. 1 (Edinburgh, 1947), chap. 1, “The Buildings,” by G. Martiny, 3–4.

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Structure 1 may, therefore, be a survivor from the late antique city, which was extensively reused and adapted during the middle Byzantine period. Stratum VI Reached at the close of 1998 excavations, Stratum VI is represented by a single wall (Wall 84) within Structure 2 and by two deep fill layers (Contexts 73 and 97) that produced a ceramic assemblage distinctly different from and seemingly earlier than that recovered from the later layers exposed above it. The top of Wall 84 (running northwestsoutheast) appeared at an elevation of 929.87 m, a level that corresponds to the lowest foundation courses of Structure 2, one of three buildings associated with Stratum IV, which is discussed in detail below (Fig. H). Measuring 0.70 m wide, Wall 84 is a sturdy, well-built feature, despite the fact that it is made of irregular and roughly cut stone masonry (Fig. 15). The full extent and nature of Wall 84 is not yet known, nor has its stratum been reached. Its northwest end was covered by a thick layer of debris and rough mortar, possibly the remains of a floor laid in the later Structure 2, while its other end remains buried within the trench’s section. Nonetheless, the relative elevation of Wall 84, together with its different dimensions and style, makes an earlier dating more than probable. To summarize, the stratigraphy suggests the following conclusions. (1) Wall 84 lies beneath Structure 2, which clearly predates the last phase of Byzantine Amorium in the late eleventh century by some considerable time. (2) Attached to the southwest face of Wall 84, under the fill inside Structure 2, excavation reached a clearly defined burned layer (Context 97). This layer may relate to the destruction of the building of which Wall 84 was a part. (3) The nature of the building of which Wall 84 formed part cannot be ascertained because of its poor state of preservation, although its appearance befits a public, rather than domestic, structure. The building may have been destroyed by fire, after which it was partially dismantled and buried. Wall 84 and Context 97 may, therefore, be regarded as belonging to one of the earliest phases in Trenches XC and XBC. It remains unclear, however, whether Wall 84 was constructed as

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early as Structure 1, tentatively assigned to the fifth to sixth centuries (see above). Further excavation beneath Structure 2 may clarify the date and function of the building represented by Wall 84. Stratum V Excavations in 1996 had revealed three stone troughs in Trench XB; in 1998 a fourth was excavated in Trench XBC. These four troughs were laid out end to end, in a line oriented northwest to southeast, running from Trench XA to Trench XBC (Fig. 16). The troughs stood against the east face of an unmortared rubble wall, on the same orientation, which was partially robbed away. A fifth trough (Context 79), measuring approximately 0.90 m long and 0.10 m wide, was also uncovered this year in Trench XC. This trough lies at a lower elevation, but it clearly follows the same alignment as the other four, and so probably belongs to the same construction. The function of these shallow troughs remains uncertain, but they may have been used to dispense water. Only the upper surfaces of the trough (Context 79) were excavated, and the surface upon which it stood was not reached. The basin of the trough was broken, and its interior was filled with rubble. This rubble may be attributed to the collapse of Wall 88, which stood adjacent to the trough, on a northeast-southwest orientation. The uppermost surviving course of Wall 88 was exposed, showing that it was constructed of unmortared cobblestones, rubble, and spolia, including a late antique slab fragment incised with a Latin cross. Context 74, which lay over and around Wall 88 and the trough, consisted of orange clay, probably from the wall’s collapsed mud-brick superstructure. It may be noted that a similar layer of tumbled mud-brick was uncovered in 1996 next to the trough that is partially buried beneath the enclosure fortification wall in Trench XB.31 The comparable Contexts 93 and 89, which lay beneath Context 74 to the east and west of Wall 88, may also have been associated with this col31 The impression is thus gained that some buildings made of mud-brick existed in the area immediately inside the circuit wall of the enclosure. A parallel may also have been found in Trench LC6, where collapsed layers of mudbrick are visible in the section. It was, of course, common for Turkish town houses to be built of mud-brick until the late 19th century.

lapse.32 Further excavation is needed to determine whether Wall 88 formed part of a larger structure, but it may represent a return of the wall exposed in Trench XB, as suggested by the alignment of the troughs. If so, the line of troughs presumably flanked a street or an open area to the east. The line of troughs is clearly an important feature for the chronology of this part of the site. These troughs flanked an open area of undetermined dimensions, perhaps a courtyard or a street, which was later buried beneath the foundations of the enclosure fortification wall. Two late seventh-century coins were found within Context 74, the layer of collapsed mud-brick and debris that covered the remnants of Wall 88, and the trough (Context 79). A Carbon-14 sample retrieved from a sealed pit adjacent to the trough in Trench XA ( just outside the enclosure wall) provided a date between A.D. 395–720 and A.D. 735–760.33 This evidence, together with the pottery and glass assemblages from these contexts, would appear to suggest a date for Stratum V in the dark ages rather than in the middle Byzantine period. This evidence also demonstrates that the enclosure wall was erected after the end of Stratum V, for the enclosure wall not only buried the remains of Stratum V, but was also built on a completely different orientation (northeast-southwest) to the previous urban pattern, implying that a radical transformation had taken place. Stratum IV Three major structures can be associated with this level. Structure 1 was adapted for reuse, while Structures 2 and 3 were apparently new developments with similar styles of construction and relative elevations (Fig. H). Although these structures probably served different purposes, their general layout leaves us in no doubt that they formed part of a single complex. They also represent the principal occupation phase as yet identified in the trenches, although all three structures were reused in the periods of Strata III and II. 32 One may note the discovery of a follis of Constans II (SF3832) in Context 89, a surface layer associated with Context 88. 33 DOP 53 (1999): 337.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. Structure 2 This structure is the best preserved feature in both trenches. Three of its surrounding walls have been exposed, as well as a possible connection to another contemporary structure, identified as Wall 15, which is little known at this stage. The structure is possibly a square but more likely a rectangular building, built with a southwest-northeast alignment. Its northwest wall has been completely excavated, while the northeast and southwest have been only partially cleared. The southeast wall remains buried beyond the trench. The foundations of Structure 2 are 1 m thick, but the interior faces of the superstructure are stepped back some 0.40 m, thus reducing the thickness of the upper walls to 0.60 m. This superstructure is further strengthened by engaged half-piers in the corners of the room that extend the full width of the foundation. The massive nature of this construction strongly suggests that Structure 2 had more than one story. Structure 2 has a mortared rubble core faced with roughly dressed blocks of limestone (blocks on average ca. 0.30 ⫻ 0.50 m). These blocks are bonded with coarse white mortar, which is applied liberally throughout. Mortar impressions of a brick course, now destroyed, are visible on the topmost surviving surface of the walls. This evidence, together with large quantities of brick found adjacent to the structure, strongly suggests that alternating courses of brick and stone were used in the superstructure. Attention had also been paid to the aesthetics of the structure’s exterior. The exterior face of Wall 14 partially preserved a thin mortar facing that had been incised with lines in imitation of square and rectangular ashlar blocks (Fig. 17). Structure 2 could be entered from at least two sides. Entrances were found both in the southwest wall (Wall 51) and between two parts of the northeast wall (Walls 03 and 15). These doorways roughly face each other, although minor differences exist in their dimensions; the northeast entrance is 1 m wide, while that on the southwest side measures 1.10 m across. Although part of the northeast side of Structure 2, Wall 15 was clearly originally part of an adjacent building or a different section of the same structure. From its meeting point with Structure 2, serving as part of the northeast entrance, this wall projects on a north-

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northeast course but disappears after only ca. 1 m owing to later dismantling or robbing. Together with Wall 06 in Trench XBC (Fig. I), it creates a corner to a vanished room or structure immediately north of Structure 2. Despite the obtuse angle that it forms with the entrance and Wall 03 of Structure 2, the foundations of both walls are keyed together in a manner that indicates that they belong to the same phase. The dismantling of Wall 15 provides a sectioned view of the Stratum IV wall, revealing outer faces of block masonry with a core of rubble and fieldstones mixed with a large amount of coarse white mortar. Although excavation reached the foundations on the interior of Structure 2 and despite the evidence of the entrances, no clear sign of any earthen or flagged floor was found (Fig. J). Deep fill layers containing typical waste materials, such as broken bricks and tiles, scattered pottery, animal bones, as well as nails and fragments of glass and bronze artifacts, were excavated from the foundations to the uppermost architectural elevations (Contexts 07, 41, 70, 73, 78, 87, and 91) with little to distinguish between them. The amount of rubbish within the structure is smaller than that found in the layer of fill outside it, but the nature of the material is similar. Although no earth, tile, or stone floors could be detected in the sections, a mass of stone debris topped by hard mortar, partly covering Wall 84 of Stratum V, was found at the level of Structure 2’s foundations. This feature covers roughly a third of the excavated interior space of the building, forming an irregular shape that runs southwestnortheast in front of Wall 14. The dense and hard matrix of this feature, as well as the mass of rubble underneath, makes the possibility of mistaken removal of surrounding parts during excavation highly unlikely. In addition, the feature’s elevation and fragmentary appearance precludes its identification as part of a floor belonging to Structure 2. The possibility exists, however, that this rubble and mortar mass was utilized as support for a floor of a more ephemeral nature, perhaps of removable tiles or wooden planks, that was later entirely removed.34 34 In this respect one may compare the so-called “Large Building” that was excavated in 1988 and 1989. Here, too, no trace was found of interior floors; see AnatSt 39 (1989): 172. The fugitive nature of floors in tile or mortar has

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The following conclusions may be drawn regarding Structure 2. (1) The building is aligned with Structure 1 and stands in close proximity to it, with only a narrow passage, measuring 1.30 m wide, between them. The construction of Structure 2 on the same alignment as Structure 1 implies that the latter was still an important feature of the site and that its walls still stood to a significant height. Although excavation within Structure 1 did not reach below the level of Stratum IV, it can be assumed that its first story was already partially buried, since the foundation of Structure 2 stood at a much higher elevation and is clearly a much later construction. Both buildings formed part of a larger complex of structures that combined both new and earlier architectural elements, the latter presumably having undergone some alteration and refurbishment. (2) Structure 2’s solid walls and massive foundations point to the likelihood that it had more than one story. As such it may have had the appearance of a tower or multistory block. Later activity has left little to help in establishing a credible identity in either Structure 1 or 2 in the period of Stratum IV, and so these questions must remain open. Structure 3 The limited exposure of this building gives little indication of its form and function. Structure 3 shares the same relative elevation as Structure 2 and was built up against Structure 1. The single wall so far uncovered (Wall 80) abuts Wall 67 of Structure 1 at a 90-degree angle ca. 1.60 m northwest of the corner of Structure 1, and then continues toward the southwest until it disappears into the southwest balk of the trench. Its maximum length, as exposed, is 5.10 m, and it has a width of 0.70 m. Owing to the extensive use of this part of the trench in later occupation phases, Wall 80 is poorly preserved at this level, and only fragments of its northwest face remain. Apart from a short gap, the southeast face of Wall 80 is in a better state of preservation. Like Structure 2, Wall 80 is well constructed of limestone blocks with a rubble and mortar core. At a distance of 3.90 m from its been noted elsewhere; see e.g., DOP 51 (1997): 299, Trench TT; DOP 52 (1998): 328 and fig. B, Trench XB; and the fragment of floor found in 1998 at the northeast end of Trench XBC (Fig. I).

corner with Wall 67, the thickness of Wall 80 increases from 0.70 to 1.30 m, creating a shallow recess some 0.60 m deep, the corner of which partially preserves a fine plaster facing (Fig. 18). This plaster had been smoothed and decorated with incised squares imitating ashlar blocks. This decoration is reminiscent of the treatment on the outer face of Wall 14 of Structure 2, although in the case of Wall 80 the workmanship is finer and more careful. No comparable example for this type of wall facing has yet come to light elsewhere at Amorium. To conclude, the evidence implies that Structures 1–3 belong to the same complex of buildings in use during the period of Stratum IV. The masonry of Structures 2 and 3 is closely comparable to that of the enclosure wall itself, and all these structures share a common northeast-southwest alignment, implying a relationship between them.35 As discussed above, the enclosure wall postdates the eighth-century occupation associated with the troughs, and its construction marked a radical departure from the previous urban pattern. No precise date is yet fixed for the fortified complex, but its construction certainly stamped a new identity on this part of the Lower City. The extensive nature of this transformation may even imply that the enclosure was built following the sack of 838, which has been attested elsewhere in the Lower City. If so, then this fortified area, located outside the defenses of the renewed Upper City, may have served a military function, perhaps as a base for the thematic forces after the reconstruction of Amorium.36 Stratum III Neither Structure 2 nor 3 shows any signs of violent destruction, nor indeed does this phase of Structure 1. No ash or burned layers were found, nor was there any evidence of collapse debris, containing small finds that might be associated with a violent event. Rather, the evidence points to a process of slow decay owing 35 Compare the masonry of the inner face of the enclosure wall as exposed in 1996; Lightfoot, “The Public and Domestic Architecture,” 320 fig. 11. 36 DOP 52 (1998): 328 and 335; Lightfoot, “The Public and Domestic Architecture,” 309.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. to poor maintenance or simple neglect. Nevertheless, the next major phase marks a significant change in the nature of occupation in the area, which included the end of the public use of the principal structures found in Stratum IV. Stratum III represents a far humbler phase of occupation characterized as one of smallscale industrial activity. While the main walls of the principal buildings were left at least partially standing, other walls that were now deemed unnecessary were dismantled and removed, and fill was brought in to level debris and pits for the forming of new floor surfaces. Likewise there is a marked difference between Stratum III and the later Stratum II both in terms of their elevations and with regard to the general appearance of the area. Stratum III, although probably utilizing building material from the earlier strata, displays a good level of workmanship and construction; its installations are basic but neat. The surfaces are hardpacked and even, and an effort was made to maintain a clear spatial division between different zones of production or activity. Stratum III appears in both trenches, XBC and XC, although there was a clearer distinction from Stratum IIb in the larger Trench XC. Evidence for small-scale industrial production was found mainly in the western half of Trench XC. In the northwest sector, evidence for industrial activity was detected, although no installations relating to the production process itself were found. The southeast part of Trench XC includes three phases of surfaces, pits, and installations associated with the long rubble wall (Wall 33; see above) as well as with the secondary use of structures from Stratum IV. All three phases correspond roughly in elevation as well as general layout and character, and, despite some obvious alterations during the stratum’s time frame, they constitute parts of a single, general phase of occupation. Stratum III/SE Excavation revealed a rubble wall, Wall 33, oriented southwest to northeast, the western end of which abutted (and so postdated) Wall 03 of Structure 2. The area between Structures 1 and 2 was thus divided into two unequal segments by Wall 33. That on the southern side of Wall 33 may have been substantially higher than the narrower area to the north, but the western portion of the area

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north of Wall 33 was disturbed, and a good surface layer in this area was not detected. This may be explained by the construction of a possible step or ledge (W99) that spans a distance of 1.30 m between the northern face of Wall 33 where it abuts Wall 03 and the southern face Wall 02. This line of stones was therefore inserted at some point after the construction of Structure 2 in Stratum IV (Fig. H). The impression that both Walls 33 and 99 served as some sort of terrace wall that created a passage at a lower elevation in front of Structure 1 is strengthened by the accumulation of material (Contexts 90 and 86) found on the other side of these walls. These contexts produced two late seventh-century coins.37 The higher elevation of the living surfaces south of Wall 33 is also indicated by the modifications made to Structure 2. The original threshold of the northeast entrance was blocked with a rough stone-faced wall, constructed in a style that corresponds to other features in Stratum III, although it is also possible that this alteration was made during Stratum II. This may have represented not a complete blocking of the doorway but rather a raising of the threshold to match the surrounding ground level.38 Meanwhile, on the north side of Wall 33 a shallow pit, Context 42, was dug down through Context 74 onto the top surface of Wall 88. An entire ox skull had been deposited in this pit (Fig. 19), but the skull was by no means the only animal remains found in Stratum III/SE. In fact, large quantities of animal bones were recovered on both sides of Wall 33. At a later date Wall 33 was also extended eastward (Fig. 13). The new section of wall follows a gentle curve and is of poorer workmanship than the rest of Wall 33. Nevertheless, since at the east end it is buried below Wall 25 of Structure 5 belonging to Stratum II, its construction must be placed within Stratum III. Stratum III/W In spite of the correspondence in elevation between the Stratum III activity and the rather dense architectural re37 A follis (SF3831), dating to the first year of Constans II’s reign, and a half follis (SF3834) with a triangular flan, reminiscent of issues of Justinian II; compare DOC 2.2:586 (21a–b, 24, and 25). 38 Two doorways in the Large Building excavated in 1988 were similarly blocked and reopened with a higher threshold; see AnatSt 39 (1989): 172 and pl. XLVI(b).

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mains from the following stratum, evidence of the former can be clearly distinguished in the western sector of the trench. Evidence for industrial production, mainly in the form of scattered lumps of vitreous slag, has been found in many different areas of the site.39 The discovery in this part of Trench XC of a hearth shows that some of the actual production took place here. The two-part hearth (Context 92) was found over a hard-packed surface made of dense soil mixed with decayed mud-brick material. Vitreous slag was found scattered over this surface, with a shallow but distinct accumulation of ash in the southwest part. The production hearth had a semicircular shape (0.90 m in diameter) and extended as far as the exterior face of Wall 14, while a roughly square feature resembling an uneven stone platform (measuring 1 ⫻ 1.10 m) was located nearby to the west. A number of large rim fragments from pithoi were found near the square feature and may have served for its delineation. While large bits of slag, broken bricks, and stones were found to a depth of 10–15 cm in the circular hearth, the square feature had only slag remains adhering to its surface. The surrounding floor surface practically disappears northeast of the hearth. Production waste, including slag and ash mixed with broken brick and tile, was concentrated here (Context 95) alongside a deep layer of soft gray-green material (Context 98), which was left unexcavated this season. This layer may represent some form of industrial residue, but it is different from other concentrations of waste that have been found. An alternative interpretation may point to this layer as being a dump of unused raw materials. Also noted in the area near the hearth was an unusual concentration of windowpane fragments. Although such fragments were found throughout the trench, this area was distinguished by the sheer number of fragments, their relatively large size, and their proportion compared to the other glass finds (vessel and bracelet fragments, etc.). Discarded brick fragments were common in this sector of the trench; they are found not 39 It is hoped to carry out the analysis of examples of slag in the near future in order to ascertain the nature of this industrial activity.

only within the production waste but also over large parts of the general layer. The fragments found within the waste may have served a secondary use as part of the hearth structure, just as ancient bricks have been used until modern times for other open-air fire-related installations such as bread ovens. The vulnerability of the bricks to the intense heat of the furnace would demand their frequent replacement. While shattered fragments could be discarded along with the slag, new bricks could be readily found, for they are in abundant supply at Amorium. Broken bricks and tiles were also used extensively for sealing or capping parts of the industrial layers, particularly old concentrations of production waste. A particularly dense concentration of brick (Context 76) was exposed to the northeast over just such a pile of industrial waste (Context 95). Placed carefully and evenly, it leveled the ground over the waste, raising it to a similar elevation as the general surface and hearth to the southwest. Situated between the surviving Stratum IV Structures 1, 2, and 3, the area now used for industrial production does not appear to have required much new building. As can be seen at the western corner of Structure 2, patching work was carried out where necessary (Fig. 17). The only wall clearly added is Wall 82, seemingly a short retaining wall or step leading from here to the slightly higher ground of the open areas in the southeast sector of Stratum III. The step is neatly placed between the corner of Walls 02 and 67 of the Stratum IV Structure 1 and Wall 14 of Structure 2 of the same stratum. Another wall that possibly belongs to this industrial area is Wall 81, two sections of which were exposed running on a northeastsouthwest alignment underneath the Stratum IIb occupation near the western corner of the trench. Although the wall is clearly earlier than Stratum IIb, its width (0.70 m) and quality of construction make its relationship to Stratum III uncertain. Stratum III/NW The large number of vitreous slag deposits and dense concentrations of ash found in the northwest sector of the trench suggest that, like the western sector, this area was used for industrial activity during the Stratum III phase, although no clear evidence of

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. actual production was discovered. The remains here included a pit sunk within a floor surface of packed earth with related retaining walls and an ash layer. Although remains from both subphases of Stratum II were found in close proximity (both horizontally and vertically) to these features, it was not difficult to distinguish the two strata as a result of the evidence provided by the western sector of the trench as described above. The packed earth surface was of irregular shape and measured roughly 2 ⫻ 1.50 m. Its builders saved themselves the trouble of leveling the accumulation of debris by building a small retaining wall (Wall 102) that helped elevate the designated surface over its uneven environment (Context 56) by some 0.30–0.40 m. The floor was partially covered by a thin layer of fine ash. The pit (Context 23) is located roughly in the center of the floor. It has a rectangular shape, with rounded corners, measuring 0.90 ⫻ 0.60 m and reaching a maximum depth of 0.65 m. Its rim, lined with mud-brick, was slightly elevated above the surface of the floor, while its inner edges and floor are lined partially with stone but mostly with mud-brick or clay. Large lumps of vitreous slag were found on top of the pit, although the pit itself hardly contained any, for its fill comprised mainly broken brick, stone, some pottery shards (including pithoi fragments), and earth mixed with ash. Although contemporaneous with the industrial activity in the area, the main function of the pit seems to have been the disposal of waste material. Adjacent to the pit to the northeast was an ash layer (Context 49) 0.20 m deep and stretching 3.50 m further to the northeast. This ash layer constitutes another concentration of waste, although it possibly represents one that is earlier than the industrial phase since no slag was found here, whereas large quantities of broken pottery and animal bones were present. A plastered floor on a similar level as the elevated surface described above was laid over part of this ash layer to the southeast, while to the northwest it bordered another raised stone platform, supporting a rectangular structure (Context 54, measuring 3.20 ⫻ 0.60 m), possibly used for storage. The platform protruded ca. 0.50 m northwest of the installation wall (Wall 101).

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Both the raised surface related to the pit and the southwest part of the ash layer are flanked to the northwest by a 0.20 m high retaining wall (Wall 47), running roughly northeast to southwest and disappearing at the point where it meets the plaster floor. Wall 47 supports a platform made of carelessly arranged small fieldstones mixed with a packing of earth, and, despite its rough construction, it survived probably to its full extent. In Stratum III the public function of the area is replaced with localized industrial and, possibly, domestic activity. The abandoned buildings of Stratum IV, especially Structure 1, were partly gutted, while their outer walls remained to be incorporated into the new layout. Few new walls were added, but considerable attention was given to the construction of those that were. The precise nature of the industrial activity has not yet been ascertained; several different crafts may have been represented, as befits the character of an area of small-scale workshops. Although part of the complex remains unexcavated, it is unlikely to have been much larger than what has already been uncovered. Since it lies beneath the last stage of the site’s occupation in the late eleventh century, Stratum III can probably be dated somewhere between the middle of the tenth and the early eleventh century. Stratum II Stratum II represents the last phase of Byzantine occupation at Amorium before the abandonment of the site in the late eleventh century. Structures 4–7 can be associated with this phase, while the area bounded by Wall 02 of Structure 1, Wall 03 of Structure 2, and Walls 25, 24, and 29 of Structure 5 apparently served as an open area (Fig. H). The division of Stratum II into two subphases, Stratum II(a) and II(b), results from the appearance of a small number of building elements overlying others, all of which clearly belong to the same general phase of occupation. The time difference between Stratum IIa and Stratum IIb is probably small, since most structures of this stratum were roughly built and easy to dismantle or readapt as circumstances demanded. Of the two subphases, the earlier, Stratum II(b), is far more evident, and it is

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likely that most of its structures continued to be used at the later and final stage of occupation in Stratum II(a). Stratum II(b) Structure 4 Although roughly built, this is the most complex structure discovered in the trench, and more of it probably still remains unexcavated in the sections. Structure 4 had at least three parts. In the northeast area of the trench it comprised an unusual stone-filled feature (Context 18), measuring 2 ⫻ 2 m. This feature was divided internally into two unequal rectangular shapes, also densely packed with stones. Their use could not be determined. Structure 4 made much use of building materials (principally stone) robbed from Wall 02, indicating that this major wall had fallen into disrepair by that time. The spolia included at least one architrave block that had been removed from the top of the adjacent Wall 02 of Structure 1 and incorporated into Structure 4. Two walls connect Structure 4 to other elements: Wall 09 to a yet undiscovered building in the northwest section and Wall 62 to at least two rooms at the southwest end. While Wall 09 may belong to the earlier Stratum III and here is probably in secondary use, there is no doubt that the rooms to the southwest are contemporary with Context 18. While the northwest room is partly buried in the northwest section, the southwest room, measuring 2 ⫻ 2.40 m, was completely excavated. Its walls used fieldstones combined with spolia blocks from earlier buildings. The standard of construction is generally poor. Fill placed over the earlier production area separates this phase from Strata III, and it is clear that the new building had no connection with the earlier industrial activity. Additional buildings may have been associated with Structure 5, as suggested by the remains of a wall (Wall 64, possibly forming a corner), 1 m south of the south corner of the southwest room. This room had a packed earth floor, while the remains of a staircase, leading to an upper story, were found in the west corner. Structure 5 This feature, of which only part was excavated, is situated at the southeast end of Trench XC. Structure 5 was built partially

over the demolished remains of the eastern extension of Wall 33, which had been buried beneath Contexts 72 and 77, a thick layer of orange mud-brick and tile fragments. The bottom of Context 72 was at approximately the same height as the top of the projecting foundation course on the eastern face of Wall 03. The eastern extension to Wall 33 had also been partially robbed away (Context 51). Structure 5 was of poor construction, using as building material spolia blocks and architectural elements as well as at least one large stone basin together with fieldstones. It probably represents an area of domestic occupation (Fig. 20).40 The structure’s internal dimensions are 1.80 m from southeast to northwest, while 1.50 m was exposed of its width. The rest of Structure 5 remains buried in the northeast balk of the trench. A possible entrance was detected at Wall 28, although the gap may represent a missing part of this particularly crude wall, of which only a reused architectural slab (possibly an architrave block) and an overturned stone basin remain in situ. Within the structure there was a packed earth floor (Context 21). A layer of fill, ca. 0.30–0.40 m deep, rich in domestic refuse material such as animal bones, broken bricks, scattered ash, and pottery shards, separates it from the nearest Stratum III surface below. No significant small finds were discovered in or around Structure 5. What seems to be the beginning of another wall on a southeast orientation, running from the structure’s south corner, disappears after ca. 0.40 m. Remains of a wall (Wall 27) oriented north-south were also discovered on a similar elevation to Structure 5, ca. 1 m to the southwest, but no other evidence connects them. 40 On a brief visit to Amorium in November 1998, Chris Lightfoot was shown a well lying close to W28 and situated between W25 and the trench balk. This feature had first ˘it, during one of been noticed by the site guard, Bilal Eryig his regular tours of inspection around the site. It had been concealed below a flat limestone slab, used as a capping stone on top of the circular wellhead. The well, still containing water at a depth of some 6–8 m, was stone lined, and a cursory inspection showed that at least the upper courses of this lining comprised architectural fragments (a baluster post was immediately recognizable). Structure 5 would thus appear to be an open-air enclosure, the walls (W28, W25, and W 24) serving to separate the well from the large open area to the southwest.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. Structure 6 This was a single room of small dimensions, measuring 1.20 ⫻ 1.40 m, the northeast wall of which was completely missing. The walls (Walls 31, 29, and 30) on the southeast, northwest, and southwest sides were built of relatively small fieldstones (with an average size of 0.15 ⫻ 0.25 m) and survived in places (Wall 31) up to five courses in height. The room had a packed earth floor (Context 36), which produced no significant finds. Part of the structure remains buried in the northwest section. The total disappearance of the northeast wall was probably due to the reuse of its stones for the construction of Structure 8 of Stratum II(a), which was built directly over Structure 6. Structure 7 Located in the west corner of the excavated area, Structure 7 comprised a small, crudely built, irregularly shaped building or installation, of which two walls were exposed. One of these (Wall 100) followed a slightly curved course forming the southeast limit of the structure, while the other (Wall 71) ran in a straight line from southeast to northwest along its northeast side. The interior so far exposed measured 0.80 ⫻ 1.40 m and contained no significant finds. No evidence has been found to suggest the precise use of Structure 7, but it may have served as a small storage area or animal pen. The floor was made of tightly packed stones, most probably the surviving top course of the west part of Wall 81, described above in Stratum III. Stratum II(a) Very few changes occurred between the previous substratum and Stratum II(a), and it is likely that most of the earlier structures and installations remained in use in this final phase of occupation. Among the alterations and additions made at this time, the most notable is probably the partial dismantling and burial of the Stratum II(b) Structure 6, over which the only well-defined structure of Stratum II(a) was built. This was Structure 8, measuring 2 m square and divided into two rectangular units (Contexts 08 and 17).41 Its walls were con41 SF3766, identified as a signed follis of Constantine X (1059–67), was found in Context 08.

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structed mainly of small fieldstones, surviving to the height of a single course. It seems unlikely that they could support a substantial superstructure. Both units had floors of packed earth and produced no significant finds. No clear indication was found as to the building’s purpose. All other elements attributed to this stratum could also be part of Stratum II(b), but their situation, construction style, and elevation suggest a slightly later date. One such feature is Wall 60, measuring 1.40 m in length and comprising a line of seven stones built over installation Context 54. Another is a surviving patch of floor surface, made of rough mortar and measuring 1.20 ⫻ 0.80 m, that was exposed near the northeast section of Trench XBC (Context 04). The only other surface that can be attributed to this stratum was found near the northeast section of Trench XC (Context 19). Made of packed earth and clay mixed with small pieces of brick, it was found overlying the remains of Structure 5 belonging to Stratum II(b). To the southeast it bordered an ash layer (Context 10), possibly the traces of destroyed pits. One surviving pit (Context 16), measuring 0.80 ⫻ 0.50 m, was found dug into this surface near where it borders on the layer of ashy soil. Apart from ash and burned materials, nothing was found within the 0.24 m deep feature. One wall (Wall 83), found between the two rooms of Structure 4, may also belong to this later phase, Stratum II(a), since part of it seems to be built over Wall 63, which is definitely part of the original Stratum IIb construction. However, since Wall 83 fits well in the overall plan of Structure 4, it is more likely to be a feature belonging to Stratum II(b). The poor preservation of Wall 62, which has an almost identical alignment to Wall 83, may point to the possibility that Wall 83 replaced Wall 62 at an intermediate stage in the lifetime of the structure. Assuming that the structure continued to function throughout both phases of Stratum II, this alteration may have coincided with Stratum IIa. The part of Trench XC that lies between Structures 1 and 2 continued to be used as an open area during the final phase of occupation. To the south side of Wall 33 a number of

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living surfaces (Contexts 44, 52, and 37), dotted with circular pits (Contexts 45, 46, and 53), were excavated. Stratum II: Fill layers Thick layers of fill, which appeared shortly after the removal of the topsoil, were encountered in Trenches XC and XBC. Two types of fill were noted: (1) An earth fill, mixed with deep layers of reddishbrown soil and clay, densely packed with typical domestic rubbish such as animal bones, nails, pottery shards, broken brick and tile, glass fragments, and pieces of bronze or copper objects. This type of fill appears in all of Trench XC apart from the northwest sector and across the whole of Trench XBC. (2) A dense fill, made up of layers of stones and rubble, containing little soil and relatively few finds in comparison with the first type of fill. This fill was found mainly in the northwest part of Trench XC. Both types of fill seem to have been intentionally introduced, as there are no considerable ruins or higher ground in the close vicinity from which the fill might have been washed in over a prolonged period of time. Pockets of air found between the stones in the fill in the northwest sector would seem to support this hypothesis since natural wash-in would in all likelihood have filled the gaps with soil. The purpose of this activity may have been leveling of the ruin field within the enclosure for agricultural use in fairly recent times.42 To conclude, after periods of public and industrial activity, Stratum II presents a picture of domestic occupation, with a clear change in use and construction methods. The structures belonging to both subphases are built with only basic attention to the sturdiness of the buildings, and none to aesthetic considera42 An elderly villager is recorded as saying that not so many years ago the interior of the enclosure contained a number of upstanding blocks of masonry. He was able to point to some large limestone blocks, lying beside the modern track near the Lower City Church, which had been removed from the enclosure in order to make the ground there more suitable for plowing. Sadly, it has as yet proved impossible to trace any photographs of the site taken in the first half of the 20th century that might have shown how substantial the standing ruins of Amorium were less than 50–60 years ago. However, the villager’s testimony goes some way to prove the hypothesis that the upper layers of fill in Trenches XC and XBC were deposited deliberately in order to turn the area into a viable piece of agricultural land.

tions. This does not necessarily imply an economic decline, but it does show that the area was adapted for more modest purposes. This makes a striking contrast not only to the affluent nature of Stratum IV but also to the humbler but well-planned and dynamic Stratum III. Stratum II represents the final phase of occupation before the Byzantine abandonment of Amorium. The evidence of coins and other finds clearly indicates that this occurred in the late eleventh century—the recovery of a signed follis of Constantine X (SF3766) from Context 8 in Stratum II(a) inside Structure 8 is, perhaps, particularly telling. There is no sign that the abandonment was unduly precipitate or accompanied by violent destruction. Indeed, the fact that the capping stone was carefully placed over the wellhead in Structure 5 suggests not only that the inhabitants made an orderly withdrawal from the site but also that some may even have hoped to return to Amorium at a future date. The Byzantine disaster at Manzikert in 1071, however, heralded a long period of unsettled and insecure conditions in central Anatolia that precluded a return to normal life at Amorium. Neither in Trench XC nor in any other part of the site has any evidence been found for later (12th century) Byzantine occupation. Stratum I This represents the first layers of topsoil, disturbed probably through agricultural activity, as well as by the use of the enclosure for pasturage and passage until modern times. No post-Byzantine structures or installations were found, although ancient building stones, parts of architectural elements, and scattered pottery, glass fragments, and bones were mixed in the topsoil. The only significant object from this stratum was an eighteenth-century Ottoman silver coin (SF3762, from Context 04 in Trench XC), but no other objects from the Turkish period(s) were encountered, reinforcing the impression gained from the excavation of Trench XA/XB in 1996 that the enclosure was not occupied after the late eleventh century.43

43

DOP 52 (1998): 327–28, 331–32, and 335.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. Trenches XC and XBC: Summary of the Finds Substantial amounts of pottery, glass, and animal bone were recovered, but most of this material has undergone only preliminary processing. The majority of the pottery shards may be attributed to the latest, tenth- and eleventh-century phases, containing a large amount of mixed fill, although several deeper contexts produced earlier material where the assemblages were less disturbed and more consistent. This was particularly noticeable with the glass finds, many of which were recovered as large fragments.44 In addition, an intact miniature perfume bottle was found in the industrial ashy surface of Stratum III (Context 76). Lamp fragments from Trench XC totaled twenty-seven, of which eighteen were moldmade and nine wheelmade. A further three wheelmade fragments were found in the subsoil of Trench XBC. The latter type has been found elsewhere across the site, usually associated with middle Byzantine contexts, whereas the mold-made examples probably date no later than the mid-seventh century.45 The domestic animals identified from the bones were sheep and/or goats, cattle, chickens, and, less 44 Margaret Gill, while working on the final report on the glass finds for 1993–97, made a preliminary inspection of the glass found in 1998, as a result of which she prepared a brief report on selected items. It is hoped that the rest of the material will be studied during the 2000 season by Yrd. Doc¸. Dr. Yelda Olcay of the Dept. of Art History, University of Anatolia, Eskis¸ehir. 45 No fewer than nine moldmade examples came from a single layer (Context 91), excavated at the level of the interior foundations of Structure 2. One of these (SF3878) may be identified as part of the discus and shoulder of a lamp of Type XXII; compare D. M. Bailey, A Catalogue of the Lamps in the British Museum, vol. 3. Roman Provincial Lamps (London, 1988), 399, no. Q3232 (quoting another example recorded from Phrygia by Haspels; see C. H. E. Haspels, Phrygie. Exploration arche´ologique, vol. 3. La cite´ de Midas. Ce´ramique et trouvailles diverses (Paris, 1951), 8, 15, 87, and pl. 36,c,4). Likewise, two handle fragments (SF3771 and SF3809) from contexts immediately outside W14 of Structure 2 are clearly recognizable as belonging to the same type; compare Bailey, Provincial Lamps, 399, no. Q3231 and pl. 115; J. W. Hayes, Excavations at Sara¸chane in Istanbul, vol. 2. The Pottery (Princeton, N.J, 1992), 87–88, nos. 89–94 and pl. 23. Bailey regarded such lamps as products of the Balkans, where many examples have indeed been recorded. However, Hayes has shown that they are also commonly found at Constantinople, and it may only be our lack of published examples from Asia Minor that has given an unbalanced view of the distribution of this type of lamp. Indeed, Hayes associated it (his Type 11) with a class of “Asia Minor” lamps with similar handle treatment; see Hayes, Sarac¸hane, 83 and footnote 25.

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frequently, dogs.46 The remains of horses, donkeys, domesticated pigs, and cats are also probably among the finds. Several wild boar tusks were recovered, indicating that hunting was both a popular pastime and an important supplement to the diet in middle Byzantine times. A few scattered fish bones were found near the Stratum III pit (Context 23).47 Bronze and copper objects were usually found in a broken state and were difficult to identify; one remarkable exception was a copper alloy earring (Fig. K) that was recovered in excellent condition from Trench XBC.48 Iron nails of various types and sizes were found in abundance, probably representing all that remains of wooden planks and timbers used for a variety of purposes. Of the sixteen coins recovered from Trench XC, two date to the eleventh century, one to the tenth, two to the ninth (both are folles of Theophilos), and seven belong to the seventh century. Three remain unidentified, while the final coin is the Ottoman stray mentioned above. In addition, two anonymous folles were recovered from Trench XBC. An intriguing but small group of finds is made up of shells, including six examples of freshwater bivalve shells and two Mediterranean murex shells (from Contexts 11 and 68).49 Another murex shell was recovered in 1996 from Trench XA, immediately outside the enclosure.50 It is unclear to what use the murex examples were put at Amorium, but it would 46 The presence of large dogs at Amorium is also attested by paw marks left on bricks before they were fired; see, e.g., bricks B012, B124, B157, B158, B193, B210, and B215, recorded in 1997, and DOP 53 (1999): 345. 47 These presumably belong to freshwater fish. It is still possible to obtain fish from the small nearby lake at Pınarbas¸ı, one of the headwaters of the Sangarios River, and cooked fish is a regular item on the menu in the cafe-cumteahouse in Hamzahacili. 48 AM98/XBC02/SF3896; max. dimensions 4.6 cm and 3.6 cm. Simple hoop of wire, circular in section, with a hook at one end and a loop at the other. Around part of the ring is woven another fine wire in an intricate pattern of small loops. Several similar earrings have been found at Corinth and dated to the 11th–12th centuries; see G. R. Davidson, Corinth XII. The Minor Objects (Princeton, N.J., 1952), 250, 252–53, nos. 2025–29 and pl. 108 (with refs.). 49 AM98/XC11/SF3801: water-worn columella of Murex trunculus, L. 3.44 cm; AM98/XC68/SF3799: Murex brandaris, L. 5.25 cm. These identifications have been kindly made, based on digital images, by Dr. David S. Reese of the Field Museum of Natural History, Chicago. The project gratefully acknowledges Dr. Reese’s assistance. 50 AM96/XA18/SF3685: intact Murex brandaris L. 6.30 cm.

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seem that they were brought to the site all the way from the Mediterranean coast during Byzantine times.51 General Conclusion The picture that has emerged from the excavations in Trenches XC and XBC shows that the area of the Lower City enclosure was occupied throughout the Byzantine period and that, although the nature of the occupation changed radically over time, it remained an integral and vigorous part of the site. There is little evidence for any burned destruction layers in the strata that have been exposed. The abandonment of Stratum II appears to have been gradual and peaceful, exemplified by the subsequent discovery of a well in the northeast area of Trench XC that seems to have been deliberately covered over, so that even today it remains serviceable. This last phase of occupation contains largely domestic buildings and other installations that made much use of earlier surviving structures and materials. It may reflect the gradual “ruralization” of the Lower City, since in middle Byzantine times the only city walls that existed were those surrounding the Upper City mound. Before the privatization of the area in the eleventh century there comes an intermediate stage, Stratum III, characterized by several small-scale industrial operations. The public buildings of Stratum IV were taken over by, or even sold off to, craftsmen engaged in manufacturing a variety of goods. It may be that they worked under state supervision, using buildings that were still owned by the state but that were now “surplus to requirements.” Certainly, it is hard to believe that the conversion of the principal structures within the Lower 51 On present evidence, most such finds are concentrated in the area of the Lower City enclosure, but one bivalve shell (SF3681), probably a freshwater variety, has been found in Trench UU on the Upper City mound. For other examples of shells found in central Anatolia, see Haspels, Phrygie, 3:101, pl. 43,b.1; P. Gries, “Shells,” in H. H. von der Osten, The Alishar Hu ¨yu ¨k Seasons of 1930– 1932, Part III (Chicago, 1937), 324–27 (including examples from Byzantine layers); D. S. Reese, “Shells at Aphrodisias,” in M. S. Joukowsky, Prehistoric Aphrodisias: An Account of the Excavations and Artifact Studies, vol. 1 (Providence, R.I.-Louvain-la-Neuve, 1986), 193–94 (examples found in Hittite to Roman-Byzantine levels).

City enclosure was carried out without the permission or acquiescence of the imperial authorities. The main occupational phase belongs to Stratum IV, which has been placed in the period before the construction of the enclosure wall. The buildings associated with this phase are impressive, substantial, and extensive. The new Structures 2 and 3 form part of a planned and integrated complex, incorporating the preexisting Structure 1, and it is clear that considerable care was taken in their construction and decoration. The lack of debris associated with these structures in Stratum IV suggests that they were not abandoned but rather reoccupied and subsequently evacuated in an orderly manner. The excavation in 1996 of part of the fortification wall surrounding the enclosure led to the proposal that the area served a military purpose in the middle Byzantine period. In the light of the evidence obtained from the excavation of Trench XC, this view can now be refined. The enclosure may originally have been constructed by (or for) the military and used as the headquarters of the army of Anatolikon theme during the late ninth and early tenth centuries. The decline in importance of the theme armies during the second half of the tenth century may be reflected at Amorium in the conversion of the buildings in the enclosure to other purposes at that time. GLASS FINDS (BY M. A. V. GILL) For the most part, glass finds from Amorium are small fragments. In the course of ten years of excavation (1988–96 and 1998), only two intact vessels have been unearthed, both small perfume bottles of almost identical shape, one from immediately outside the Lower City walls (AM90/Trench AB Fosse Context 25), the other from this season’s excavation in the enclosure at the center of the Lower City (No. 4, below). However, the glass vessel fragments recovered in 1998 from the new trench are tending to be larger, giving a clearer idea of their original forms, and significant amounts of window glass were found. The condition of these finds indicates that the contexts are less disturbed than those excavated in other trenches in previous years. A similar picture emerges from the

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. preliminary survey of the pottery, which appears more homogeneous and stratigraphically distinct than previously encountered. Selected Finds: Vessels 1. Fragment from bowl of narrow conical wineglass. Side straight, flaring; remains of bulb at top of hollow stem and pushedin base. Greenish colorless (Fig. L/1). Belongs to a vessel with an unusually narrow bowl. Probable height: 3.2 cm. AM98/ Trench XC Context 91. 2. Fragment from neck of bottle. Rim folded in, mouth flaring from cylindrical neck. Bluish green colorless (Fig. L/2). Thinwalled vessel. Probable height: 2.1 cm; estimated diameter: 3.5 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 91. 3. Fragment from neck of bottle. Rim folded in; neck funnel-shaped with slight flare at bottom. Fine self trail loosely spiraling round neck. Colorless (Fig. L/3). Thinwalled vessel. Probable height: 4.7 cm; est. diameter: 3.0 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 73. 4. Miniature lentoid bottle, intact. Rim turned in, outsplayed lip; cylindrical neck merging into flattened oval body with base snapped off at angle from pontil. Greenish blue colorless (Fig. L/4). Height: 4.1 cm; width: 1.2 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 76/Kazi Env. 33 (Afyon Museum). 5. Two fragments from lower part of a small bottle. Concave base with kick and remains of pontil wad; side convex. Bluish green (Fig. L/5). Small but heavy base, possibly from the globular body of a perfume bottle. Probable height: 2.55 cm; est. diameter: 4.0 cm. AM98/Trench LC6 Context 19. Glass Beads and Bracelets As in previous seasons, the site continues to produce a comparatively large number of glass bracelet fragments but few glass beads (Fig. M). Among the latter, however, are three of particular interest: one complete (No. 1) and two fragmentary from the same context and clearly belonging together. Made from a coil

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wound spirally around a rod and flattened front and back, each has a longitudinal perforation in which are traces of corroded copper. In the complete bead there is a greater concentration of corrosion at the wider end, suggesting that the three beads were individually hung on copper wire knotted at the bottom and suspended as a group with the largest bead between the two smaller ones forming a pendant either for a necklace or, more probably, an earring. Of the eighty-two glass bracelet fragments found, twenty-five were decorated: six with spiral twist, two with inlaid thread, and seventeen with painted patterns. The simple cable pattern on No. 5 was painted as two interlocking wavy lines, in general appearance resembling the cable on a bracelet from Trench L (F1088), although this was formed differently from a series of short scallops. On the latter bracelet the cable pattern is combined with diagonal hatching and is interrupted by a round medallion containing a “Maltese” cross. Possibly the new bracelet had a similar device at its center. The cross on No. 6 was formed in exactly the same way as that on F1088. Much of the design has been destroyed by weathering, but touches of paint further along the band indicate that the original pattern was of oval medallions framing alternately a “Maltese” cross or a cross-hatched oval. Alternating devices is a common principle of decoration on Byzantine bracelets. It occurs again on No. 7, where alternate ovals are filled with spirals, while the intervening one has apparently been left blank. This probably was intentional, but possibly it was painted with a more fugitive color that has now completely disappeared. The spiral on this bracelet with its tight coil and solid dot in the center closely resembles the spiral on another bracelet from Trench L (F785), which is one of a group of bracelets painted by the same craftsman on which spirals alternate with “St. Andrew’s” crosses with quirks between the arms. The “St. Andrew’s” cross of different form and painted by a different hand appears on No. 8. The work of this craftsman is characterized by the use of more unusually shaped rods—grooved forms, either with a single broad groove with ridges on either side, or

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with two grooves that form flanges on either side of a central ridge. In each case the surface for decoration is divided into three registers, painted with simple elements mainly in gold. Three other fragments by the same craftsman were found this year (and two in earlier seasons). On one, from Trench XC Context 12, the gold hatching is interrupted by a red “St. Andrew’s” cross with gold dots between the arms. The other two, from the same trench (Context 40), are nonjoining fragments, seemingly from the same bracelet; in one place the hatching is interrupted by a gold spiral, in another by marks resembling a percentage sign that may be all that remains of a cross with quirks. The decoration on No. 9 is well preserved and equally distinctive, so distinctive that three bracelets from earlier seasons (B5, B186, and B667) can confidently be attributed to the same hand. The signature of this craftsman seems to be the division of the band into contrasting panels separated by triple cross-lines; in one panel the patterns are purely abstract, basically wavy lines bordered by rows of dots with the reserve areas as much a part of the design as the painted, while the adjacent panel is more open, with a single motif standing out from the reserve background. The extensive use of silver, now tarnished black, gives No. 10 an unusual appearance, but the disposition of the rows of beaded and scalloped bands and dots suggests that it was also painted by the master craftsman of No. 9. Also probably the work of one man are Nos. 11 and 12; and no fewer than ten other bracelets from earlier seasons show such similarities of style and design that, if not from the same hand, they are certainly from the same workshop. The majority of these display the same form of scrolling sprigs with tendrils, and some have a framework of dotted lozenge-shaped medallions, all finely painted. However, there are one or two bracelets that seem related to this group, where the painting is cruder and the patterns seem to disintegrate. One such is No. 13, with its sketchy, hesitant painting, like a poor imitation of the finer pieces. The identification of painted bracelets belonging to the same workshop is an important piece of evidence for the cross-dating of the contexts in which they were found. The con-

temporaneity of various bracelets may also be taken as evidence for the popularity of this type of personal jewelry at a specific time in the middle Byzantine period. Certain craftsmen clearly exploited the fashion to produce large numbers of painted glass bracelets, and their products found a receptive market at Amorium. The presence of several bracelets painted by the same hand, however, could be interpreted in two ways, either to suggest that they were made by local craftsmen or to support the view that they were brought to Amorium from a production center farther afield in batches from the same workshop(s). If the latter is the case, it should be possible to recognize at other sites (such as Yumuktepe, near Mersin) examples of the work produced by these painters.52 It would also imply that the industry was well organized with an effective distribution system. The painted bracelets, with their rich and intricate ornamentation, often including gold and silver, were obviously purchased by the more affluent members of society, but it remains unclear how these items fitted into the hierarchy of Byzantine jewelry and why glass bracelets with their fragility and ephemeral nature proved so popular. Unlike metal jewelry (gold and silver bracelets are, of course, still used in certain societies as forms of disposable wealth), they had no trade-in value and had to be discarded once broken. Selected Finds: Beads and Bracelets 1. Bead. Elongated drop; oval cross section, with longitudinal perforation. Light blue (Fig. M/1). Length: 1.7 cm; width: 0.65 cm; thickness: 0.5 cm; perforation: 0.1 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 48 (found with fragments of two similar beads: P. L. 1.0 and 1.9 cm respectively). 52 ˘lu, “1993–1996 Kazı C ˘ında See G. Ko ¨rog ¸ alıs¸maları Is¸g ¨ niversitesi Sanat Tarihi Dergisi ˘’da Yumuktepe,” Ege U Ortac¸ag 9 (1998): 59–73. The excavations at Yumuktepe, directed by Prof. Dr. Veli Sevin, have produced more than five hundred bracelet fragments, most of which are painted. They were found in well-preserved Byzantine building layers, dated by means of pottery and coins to the 11th–12th centuries; see O. Tekin, “Byzantine Coins from Yumuk Tepe including a Lead Seal,” Anatolica Antiqua 6 (1998): 273–78 (of the eighteen Byzantine coins found, sixteen have been identified as anonymous or signed folles).

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. 2. Fragment of bead. Cylindrical beaded, in seven segments; round cross section with longitudinal perforation. Colorless (Fig. M/2). Probable length: 2.4 cm; diameter: 0.6 cm; perforation: 0.2–0.25 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 07. 3. Fragment of bead. Beaded with two globular segments; cross section round with longitudinal perforation. Dark blue (Fig. M/3). Probable length: 0.85 cm; diameter: 0.7 cm; perforation: 0.15 cm. AM98/Trench LC Context 14. 4. Fragment of ring. Circlet slightly oval; cross section semicircular. Greenish yellow (Fig. M/4). Probable length: 2.7 cm; width: 0.8 cm; thickness: 0.5 cm; est. diameter: 3.0 cm. AM98/Trench XBC Context 05. 5. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section semicircular, with overlapping join at one end. Light blue (Fig. M/5). Painted decoration in creamy yellow: cable pattern along center. Probable length: 4.8 cm; width: 1.1 cm; thickness: 0.45 cm; estimated diameter (not a true circle): 4.5 cm. AM98/Unstratified from Trench TT or UU. 6. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section semicircular. Green (Fig. M/6). Painted decoration in creamy white and red: remains of two oval medallions in white, one containing a white “Maltese” cross, the other a red crosshatched oval. Surface considerably weathered. Probable length: 5.4 cm; width: 1.1 cm; thickness: 0.55 cm; estimated diameter: 7.0 cm. AM98/Surface find from Upper City. 7. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section semicircular; pontil scar. Light blue (Fig. M/ 7). Painted decoration in creamy yellow: remains of three oval medallions, two filled with compact spirals, the third apparently blank. Some of surface flaked. Probable length: 3.5 cm; width: 1.0 cm; thickness: 0.5 cm; estimated diameter: 7.0 cm. AM98/Unstratified from Trench TT or UU. 8. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section grooved: broad central groove with broad ridges either side. Dark blue (Fig. M/8). Painted decoration in gold and yellow: zigzag line along groove and series

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of diagonal hatches along ridges either side in gold, interrupted by remains of a yellow “St. Andrew’s” cross. Surface heavily weathered. Probable length: 3.2 cm; width: 1.8 cm; thickness: 0.5 cm; estimated diameter: 7.0 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 36. 9. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section oval. Greenish blue (Fig. M/9). Painted decoration in creamy white: thick border lines either side, with triple cross-lines dividing center into panels; long panel filled with beaded pattern along center and wavy line edged with dots either side; shorter panel containing bird standing in profile to right, with wing displayed. Probable length: 5.4 cm; width: 0.95 cm; thickness: 0.75 cm; estimated diameter: 8.5 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 34. 10. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section semicircular. Light blue (Fig. M/10). Painted decoration in silver and scallop-edged band with row of dots in uncertain color. Surface weathered and flaked. Probable length: 2.5 cm; width: 0.95 cm; thickness: 0.5 cm; estimated diameter: 8.0 cm. AM98/Trench XBC Context 05. 11. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section rectangular. Bluish green (Fig. M/11). Painted decoration in creamy white: curvilinear pattern of spiral sprigs with tendrils, standing bird in profile to right, and double end-line. Probable length: 2.7 cm; width: 1.2 cm; thickness: 0.5 cm; estimated diameter: 7.0 cm. AM98/Unstratified from Trench TT or UU. 12. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section oval, slightly tapering. Bright blue (Fig. M/ 12). Painted decoration in creamy white: part of running “vine” pattern, with curving stem from which spirals a branching sprig with tendrils and parts of two further sprigs. Part of design smeared. Probable length: 3.2 cm; width: 0.8 cm; thickness: 0.7 cm; estimated diameter: 8.0 cm. AM98/Trench XC Context 11. 13. Fragment of bracelet. Cross section oval, with inside groove; pontil scar and fragment of wad at one end. Greenish blue (Fig. M/13). Painted decoration in creamy

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THE AMORIUM PROJECT: 1998 EXCAVATION SEASON white: cone-shaped cartouche containing scrolling sprig and parts of two others separated by single or double cross-lines. Design partly obscured by enamel weathering. Probable length: 5.7 cm; width: 0.7 cm; thickness: 0.55 cm; estimated diameter: 7.5 cm. AM98/Trench XBC Context 05. CONCLUSION

A great deal remains to be done with regard to the results obtained during the 1998 season. Much of the material has yet to be processed and analyzed, while the various finds have to be assessed in the light of their stratigraphic groupings and contexts. Nevertheless, some important advances in our understanding of the site have already been made. First, the discovery of the tomb in the narthex of the Lower City Church provided confirmation that the major Phase 2 reconstruction took place at some point before ca. 963 and probably after 838. Subsequent minor alterations and repairs to the building, including the redecoration of the walls, may thus be attributed to the eleventh century. The existence of the tomb also underlines the continued importance of the church during the middle Byzantine period. Other tombs may still await discovery in other parts of the building. Second, the recovery of a sizable group of pottery from a sealed context associated with the sudden destruction of buildings behind the Lower City walls is a significant development in the study of the Byzantine pottery at Amorium. The dating of the destruction layer to the year 838, although it is at present provisional, may allow us to refine our views on the pottery shapes and fabrics used in the late eighth and early ninth centuries. The assemblage certainly provides good evidence for a stage in the development of Byzantine common wares that was until now poorly known. Likewise, it is now possible to add a further stage to the sequence of occupation in the area immediately behind the fortifications. Previously it had been thought that this area had been left as an open space, or cordon sanitaire, separating the city walls from the area of domestic occupation, at least while the defenses remained intact and manned by soldiers of the

city garrison. It is now clear, however, that prior to 838 buildings stood immediately behind the city walls and that these suffered destruction along with the fortifications themselves. This evidence may have important implications for estimating the density and extent of occupation within the Lower City walls during the dark ages. Finally, by the very complexity of its stratigraphy and sequence of building phases, the new trench in the enclosure demonstrates that the Lower City area was occupied, at least in part, throughout the Byzantine period. After the disaster of 838 Amorium is only mentioned infrequently in the surviving literary sources.53 This silence has led one scholar to conclude in a recent publication that “after Ancyra and Amorium were sacked by the Arabs in 838, Amorium never fully recovered, though Ancyra regained much of its importance as a trading center after some rebuilding by Michael III.” 54 The archaeological evidence from the Lower City enclosure alone shows this statement to be wide of the mark and demonstrates that the excavations can provide valuable new insights into the life of the city. It is clear, for example, that some buildings (such as Structure 1) remained in use for a very long time, even if they underwent substantial alterations and were put to a variety of different uses. The other two major buildings in Stratum IV (Structure 2 and 3) and the open areas between them remained in use until the Byzantine settlement was abandoned in the late eleventh century. The excavation of Trenches XC and XBC also confirmed the findings from the work in Trench XA/XB in 1996, which showed that the enclosure was not reoccupied in the Turkish period and was subsequently turned over to agricultural use, perhaps only after ¨y was founded the modern village of Hisarko in 1892. The season’s work at Amorium was therefore very fruitful. As well as excavation, considerable progress was made on conservation, especially in the Lower City Church. While the processing of finds continued, including the conversion of existing written records for sev53 For references, see K. Belke, Tabula Imperii Byzantini, vol. 4. Galatien und Lykaonien (Vienna, 1984), 122–25. 54 W. Treadgold, A History of the Byzantine State and Society (Stanford, 1997), 573.

C. S. LIGHTFOOT, E. A. IVISON, ET AL. eral large groups of finds into a growing computer database, 1998 was also marked by two technical advances at Amorium: the use of the local telephone line to connect the project directly to e-mail and the worldwide web, and the successful introduction of digital photography, which enabled us both to create a new archive and to produce on-site illustrated reports and catalogues.55 The future thus looks promising, as Amorium continues to make important contributions to our knowledge of the nature of Byzantine urban settlement. Ankara, April 1999 Postscript In the early part of 2000 the Carbon-14 results from two ash samples taken during the 1998 season were received.56 Although they do not provide dates that match exactly the conclusions drawn in the above discussion of the stratigraphy and finds, it was felt important to publish these results. Sample 1 (AMO-117) was 55 In addition, certain practical improvements were made to the Dig House compound. The kitchen was enlarged and provided with a new tiled roof, while new spacious shelving was added to the largest of the three depots, thereby freeing up room for yet more carved stone fragments. 56 We are grateful to Professor Peter Kuniholm and the staff at the Malcolm and Carolyn Wiener Laboratory for Aegean and Near Eastern Dendrochronology, Dept. of the History of Art and Archaeology, Cornell University, Ithaca, N.Y., for their assistance, and especially to Dr. Bernd Kromer, director of the Radiometrische Altersbestimmung von Wasser und Sedimenten, Institut fu ¨ r Umweltphysik der Universita¨t, Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, Heidelberg, Germany, for processing the samples.

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excavated on 23 July 1998 in Trench LC6, Context 19 (the destruction layer; see above, p. 376), and comprised a group of small fragments of carbonized oak (Quercus sp.) with a maximum of only ten annual growth rings. It provided a conventional C-14 age of 1269⫾22 BP. The calendar calibrated results at 1 sigma give a date of 690–780 and at 2 sigma of 680– 780.57 Sample 2 (AMO-116) was collected on 1 August 1998 from Trench XC, Context 87 within Structure 2 (see above, p. 377). This sample, too, was made up of carbonized oak fragments, which provided a conventional C14 age of 1438⫾17 BP. This translates into a calendar calibrated date of 605–645 at 1 sigma and 600–660 at 2 sigma. The two samples may therefore be taken to confirm in general terms the dating sequences within Trenches LC6 and XC. Editors’ Note This report was prepared in advance of the 2000 season, the results from which may cause some of the conclusions drawn here to be modified. So, for example, Yalc¸in Mergen kindly checked some of the work carried out in Trench XC and prepared a new section drawing of the balk within Structure 2 (Fig. J). His efforts revealed the existence within Structure 2 of two earth floor surfaces that had not been apparent in 1998 (see above, p. 381). New York, November 2000 57 Calibrated using INTCAL98 and CALIB4 (Stuiver, Reimer, and Braziunas, Radiocarbon 40, 1127–51, 1998).

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LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS Dumbarton Oaks Papers 55

AASS Acta sanctorum, 71 vols. (Paris, 1863–1940) AB Analecta Bollandiana AbhKM Abhandlungen fu ¨ r die Kunde des Morgenlandes AbhMu ¨ nch, Hist.Kl. Abhandlungen der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, Historische Klasse ACO Acta conciliorum oecumenicorum, ed. E. Schwartz, 4 vols. in 27 pts. (Berlin-Leipzig, 1922–74) ActaIRNorv Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, Institutum Romanum Norvegiae AFP Archivum fratrum praedicatorum AJA American Journal of Archaeology AnatSt Anatolian Studies AnnIEOAlg Annales de l’Institut d’e´tudes orientales, Universite´ d’Algiers AnnIstNum Istituto italiano di numismatica. Annali ANSMN American Numismatic Society, Museum Notes ¨ sterreichischen] Akademie der Wissenschaften, Wien, PhilosophischAnzWien Anzeiger der [O historische Klasse jArc.Po´ nt. jArcei'on Po´ ntou ArtB Art Bulletin ArtLomb Arte lombarda AStSic Archivio storico siciliano BA Bollettino d’arte BAR British Archaeological Reports BBA Berliner byzantinistische Arbeiten BEC Bibliothe`que de l’Ecole des Chartes BHG Bibliotheca hagiographica graeca, 3d ed., ed. F. Halkin, 3 vols. (Brussels, 1957) BiblEphL Bibliotheca Ephemerides Liturgicae BMGS Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies ¨cher BNJ Byzantinisch-neugriechische Jahrbu BollGrott Bollettino della Badia greca di Grottaferrata Bonn ed. Corpus scriptorum historiae byzantinae, ed. B. G. Niebuhr et al. (Bonn, 1828–97) BSA The Annual of the British School at Athens BSCAbstr Byzantine Studies Conference, Abstracts of Papers BSl Byzantinoslavica BullComm Bullettino della Commissione archeologica comunale di Roma BullSocAntFr Bulletin de la Socie´te´ nationale des antiquaires de France ByzArch Byzantinisches Archiv

402

ABBREVIATIONS

ByzF Byzantinische Forschungen BZ Byzantinische Zeitschrift CahArch Cahiers arche´ologiques CCSG Corpus christianorum, Series graeca CCSL Corpus christianorum, Series latina CFHB Corpus fontium historiae byzantinae ChHist Church History CIC Corpus iuris civilis, 3 vols. (Berlin, 1928–29; Dublin-Zurich, 1972) CI Codex Iustinianus, ed. P. Kru ¨ ger (Berlin, 1929) Dig Digesta, ed. Th. Mommsen and P. Kru ¨ ger (Berlin, 1928) Nov Novellae, ed. F. Schoell and G. Kroll (Berlin, 1928) CIL Corpus inscriptionum latinarum, 18 vols. (Berlin, 1862–1989) ClMed Classica et mediaevalia CNA Cronica numismaticaˇ ¸si arheologicaˇ CNRS Centre national de la recherche scientifique CPG Clavis patrum graecorum, ed. M. Geerard and F. Glorie, 5 vols. (Turnhout, 1974–87) CSCO Corpus scriptorum christianorum orientalium CSEL Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum latinorum CSHB Corpus scriptorum historiae byzantinae CTh Theodosiani libri XVI cum constitutionibus Sirmondianis et leges novellae ad Theodosianum pertinentes, ed. Th. Mommsen and P. M. Meyer, 2 vols. in 3 pts. (Berlin, 1905) DHGE Dictionnaire d’histoire et de ge´ographie eccle´siastiques DOC A. R. Bellinger and P. Grierson, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection, 5 vols. (Washington, D.C., 1966–99) DOP Dumbarton Oaks Papers DOS Dumbarton Oaks Studies DSp Dictionnaire de spiritualite´ asce´tique et mystique DTC Dictionnaire de the´ologie catholique EChR Eastern Churches Review EI2 Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2d ed., vol. 1– (Leiden-London, 1960– ) EO Echos d’Orient EphL Ephemerides liturgicae GCS Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten [drei] Jahrhunderte (1897– ) GOTR Greek Orthodox Theological Review GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Hesp Hesperia HSCPh Harvard Studies in Classical Philology HTR Harvard Theological Review ILS Inscriptiones latinae selectae, ed. H. Dessau, 3 vols. in 5 pts. (Berlin, 1892–1916) IRAIK Izvestiia Russkogo arkheologicheskogo instituta v Konstantinopole IstMitt Istanbuler Mitteilungen, Deutsches Archa¨ologisches Institut, Abteilung Istanbul JA Journal asiatique JAOS Journal of the American Oriental Society ¨r Antike und Christentum jbAC Jahrbuch fu JBL Journal of Biblical Literature

ABBREVIATIONS

403

JEChrSt Journal of Early Christian Studies JEH Journal of Ecclesiastical History JHS Journal of Hellenic Studies JJS Journal of Jewish Studies JMedHist Journal of Medieval History ¨ B Jahrbuch der O ¨ sterreichischen Byzantinistik JO ¨ BG Jahrbuch der O ¨ sterreichischen Byzantinischen Gesellschaft, 17 vols. (Vienna, 1951–68) JO JRS Journal of Roman Studies JSav Journal des savants JTS Journal of Theological Studies JWarb Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes Lampe G. W. H. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1961–68) Loeb Loeb Classical Library Mansi J. D. Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, 53 vols. in 58 pts. (ParisLeipzig, 1901–27) Me´lRome Me´langes d’arche´ologie et d’histoire, Ecole franc¸aise de Rome MGH Monumenta Germaniae historica Conc Concilia LL Leges ScriptRerGerm Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum ex Monumentis Germaniae historicis separatim editi ScriptRerMerov Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum SS Scriptores MM F. Miklosich and J. Mu ¨ ller, Acta et diplomata graeca medii aevi sacra et profana, 6 vols. (Vienna, 1860–90) MUSJ Me´langes de l’Universite´ Saint-Joseph, Beyrouth ¨r ¨altere deutsche Geschichtskunde NA Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft fu NC The Numismatic Chronicle [and Journal of the Royal Numismatic Society] Ne´ o" EJ ll. Ne´ o" EJ llhnomnh´ mwn NT Novum Testamentum NZ Numismatische Zeitschrift OC Oriens christianus OCA Orientalia christiana analecta OCP Orientalia christiana periodica ODB The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, ed. A. Kazhdan et al., 3 vols. (New York-Oxford, 1991) ¨ Jh Jahreshefte des O ¨ sterreichischen Archa¨ologischen Instituts in Wien O OKS Ostkirchliche Studien OrChr Orientalia christiana OrSyr L’Orient syrien PAPS Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society PBSR Papers of the British School at Rome PG Patrologiae cursus completus, Series graeca, ed. J.-P. Migne (Paris, 1857–66) PL Patrologiae cursus completus, Series latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, 221 vols. in 222 pts. (Paris, 1844–80) PO Patrologia orientalis, ed. R. Graffin and F. Nau (Paris, 1903– ) PS Patrologia syriaca, ed. R. Graffin, 3 vols. (Paris, 1894–1926)

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ABBREVIATIONS

RACr Rivista di archeologia cristiana RBN Revue belge de numismatique RE Paulys Real-Encyclopa¨die der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, new rev. ed. by G. Wissowa [and W. Kroll] (Stuttgart, 1894–1978) REB Revue des ´etudes byzantines REG Revue des ´etudes grecques REI Revue des ´etudes islamiques RendPontAcc Atti della Pontificia accademia romana di archeologia, Rendiconti RES Revue des ´etudes slaves RESEE Revue des ´etudes sud-est europe´ennes RevBibl Revue biblique RIN Rivista italiana di numismatica e scienze affini RIS Rerum italicarum scriptores, ed. L. A. Muratori, 25 vols. in 28 pts. (Milan, 1723–51) RIS, n.s. Rerum italicarum scriptores, new series (Citta` di Castello-Bologna, 1900– ) RN Revue numismatique ROC Revue de l’Orient chre´tien ROL Revue de l’Orient latin ¨r christliche Altertumskunde und fu ¨r Kirchengeschichte RQ Ro¨mische Quartalschrift fu RSBN Rivista di studi bizantini e neoellenici RSI Rivista storica italiana RSR Revue des sciences religieuses SC Sources chre´tiennes SCN Studii ¸si cercetaˇri de numismaticaˇ SemKond Seminarium Kondakovianum SlEERev The Slavonic and East European Review ¨nzbla¨tter SM Schweizer Mu ST Studi e testi StMed Studi medievali StP Studia patristica (Papers of the International Conference on Patristic Studies) StPB Studia patristica et byzantina StVen Studi veneziani SubsHag Subsidia hagiographica ¨dostF Su ¨dost-Forschungen Su SVThQ St. Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly Synaxarium CP Synaxarium ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae. Propylaeum ad Acta sanctorum Novembris, ed. H. Delehaye (Brussels, 1902) TAPA Transactions [and Proceedings] of the American Philological Association TAPS Transactions of the American Philosophical Society Teubner Bibliotheca scriptorum Graecorum et Romanorum Teubneriana (Leipzig-Stuttgart) TheolSt Theological Studies TM Travaux et me´moires TU Texte und Untersuchungen zur Geschichte der altchristlichen Literatur (Leipzig-Berlin, 1882– ) VChr Vigiliae christianae VizVrem Vizantiiskii vremennik WByzSt Wiener byzantinistische Studien

ABBREVIATIONS YCS Yale Classical Studies Zepos, Jus Jus graecoromanum, ed. J. and P. Zepos, 8 vols. (Athens, 1931; repr. Aalen, 1962) ¨r Kirchengeschichte ZKircheng Zeitschrift fu ¨r die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der ¨alteren Kirche ZNW Zeitschrift fu ¨r Rechtsgeschichte, Romanistische Abteilung ZSavRom Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung fu

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This is an extract from:

Dumbarton Oaks Papers, No. 55 Editor: Alice-Mary Talbot Published by

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STYLE GUIDE FOR THE DUMBARTON OAKS PAPERS

M

anuscripts should be submitted in duplicate to the director of Byzantine Studies. Illustrations accompanying initial submissions should be photocopies, not originals. Changes made in an article once set into type are costly, and authors who request excessive changes will be charged for amounts above 10 percent of the initial cost of composition. They should, therefore, submit only clean and carefully revised copy, prepared according to the following style guide. A manuscript not prepared in this manner, even though accepted for publication, may be returned to its author for revision and retyping. Authors will normally receive only first (or galley) proofs for proofreading. Manuscript preparation

1. All manuscripts must be typewritten, double-spaced, with pages numbered consecutively throughout the text and footnotes. Use good-quality paper, leaving wide margins of at least one inch on all sides. Leave extra space between paragraphs only if it is required in the printed article. Footnotes should be numbered consecutively and must be double-spaced on separate sheets of paper following the text of the article. Submit the original manuscript and one clear, clean copy; retain a copy for your own record. In some cases it may be feasible to use the computer disk copy of articles in the editing process. If you have a disk copy, please submit it with the final version of your article. 2. Foreign words and abbreviations that have become current in English should not be italicized. For example, ca., ibid., passim, idem, and s.v. should not be italicized or underlined. Do not italicize Greek. 3. Follow standard American usage for spelling. Consult Webster’s Third New International Dictionary or its abridgment, Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary. Capitalization should be consistent throughout the text. For guidance in this, as well as on grammar and punctuation, use a standard reference work, preferably The Chicago Manual of Style, 14th ed. (Chicago, 1993), or W. Strunk, Jr. and E. B. White, The Elements of Style, 3rd ed. (New York, 1979). Footnotes 1. Verify all references and quotations before submitting your manuscript. Include all required facts of publication. Incomplete contributions will be returned to the author for completion. 2. In writing footnotes the author should consider completeness, clarity, and brevity, in that order. For abbreviations of commonly cited journals, series, and reference works, use the Dumbarton Oaks List of Abbreviations, available on request. The first reference to a book or article must be complete. For subsequent references use the author’s last name and a shortened form of the title; ibid. should be used sparingly. 3. All titles should be cited in the original languages, not in translation. Slavic transliterations should follow the Dumbarton Oaks system (available on request). Citations of Greek should be clearly legible.

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STYLE GUIDE

4. Examples: Books C. Diehl, Manuel d’art byzantin, 2nd ed. (Paris, 1926), 2:442–61.

1

E. Stein, Histoire du Bas-Empire (Paris, 1949), 1:77 ff.

2

Diehl, Manuel, 193 ff, fig. 90.

3

Les gestes des Chiprois, ed. G. Raynaud (Geneva, 1887).

4

Eusebios, Vita Constantini, 1.3, PG 20:914–16.

5

Stein, Bas-Empire, 1:777.

6

Articles G. Ostrogorsky, “Observations on the Aristocracy in Byzantium,” DOP 25 (1971): 1–32.

1

R. Guilland, “Ve´nalite´ et favoritisme `a Byzance,” REB 10 (1953): 35–39.

2

Ostrogorsky, “Aristocracy,” 12–14.

3

Guilland, ”Ve´nalite´,” 36.

4

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