Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD: Selected Papers from the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford ... Society (Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies) 9783034322584, 9781787070301, 9781787070318, 9781787070295, 3034322585

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James Moreton Wakeley read Classics at Cambridge before moving to study Later Roman History at Lincoln College, Oxford. He is now working on a DPhil in Early Islamic History and Historiography.

ISBN 978-3-0343-2258-4 www.peterlang.com

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

Kirsty Stewart recently obtained her DPhil from the University of Oxford under the supervision of Professor Marc Lauxtermann. Her current research focuses on ecocriticism and theological naturalism.

Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD

Le monde byzantin se caractérise par de profondes mutations culturelles. Durant les siècles suivant l'adoption du christianisme, la diffusion des idées, la circulation des objets, les mouvements des peuples et le dialogue entre les identités n’ont pas cessé de métamorphoser cet empire lui-même situé au carrefour d’un grand nombre d’autres civilisations. Cet ouvrage rassemble plusieurs contributions soigneusement choisies et constitue un apport majeur à l'étude des échanges culturels dans le monde byzantin dans un cadre géographique et temporel large. Son approche interdisciplinaire et comparative présente des interventions inédites d’étudiants et de jeunes chercheurs venus du monde entier pour participer à la dix-septième conférence internationale de l’Oxford University Byzantine Society qui s’est tenue les 27 et 28 février 2015.

14 Stewart and Wakeley (eds)

Profound cultural change defined the Byzantine world. For centuries after its embrace of Christianity, exchanges of ideas, objects, peoples and identities continued to flow across an empire that found itself located at the crossroads of so many other worlds. This book brings together a selection of important contributions to the study of crosscultural exchange in the Byzantine world in its largest geographic and temporal sense. It employs an interdisciplinary and comparative approach, presenting papers first given by graduate and early career academic researchers from around the world at the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford University Byzantine Society, held on 27 and 28 February 2015.

Kirsty Stewart and James Moreton Wakeley (eds)

Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD Selected Papers from the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford University Byzantine Society

14

Peter Lang

James Moreton Wakeley read Classics at Cambridge before moving to study Later Roman History at Lincoln College, Oxford. He is now working on a DPhil in Early Islamic History and Historiography.

www.peterlang.com

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies

Kirsty Stewart recently obtained her DPhil from the University of Oxford under the supervision of Professor Marc Lauxtermann. Her current research focuses on ecocriticism and theological naturalism.

Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD

Le monde byzantin se caractérise par de profondes mutations culturelles. Durant les siècles suivant l'adoption du christianisme, la diffusion des idées, la circulation des objets, les mouvements des peuples et le dialogue entre les identités n’ont pas cessé de métamorphoser cet empire lui-même situé au carrefour d’un grand nombre d’autres civilisations. Cet ouvrage rassemble plusieurs contributions soigneusement choisies et constitue un apport majeur à l'étude des échanges culturels dans le monde byzantin dans un cadre géographique et temporel large. Son approche interdisciplinaire et comparative présente des interventions inédites d’étudiants et de jeunes chercheurs venus du monde entier pour participer à la dix-septième conférence internationale de l’Oxford University Byzantine Society qui s’est tenue les 27 et 28 février 2015.

14 Stewart and Wakeley (eds)

Profound cultural change defined the Byzantine world. For centuries after its embrace of Christianity, exchanges of ideas, objects, peoples and identities continued to flow across an empire that found itself located at the crossroads of so many other worlds. This book brings together a selection of important contributions to the study of crosscultural exchange in the Byzantine world in its largest geographic and temporal sense. It employs an interdisciplinary and comparative approach, presenting papers first given by graduate and early career academic researchers from around the world at the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford University Byzantine Society, held on 27 and 28 February 2015.

Kirsty Stewart and James Moreton Wakeley (eds)

Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD Selected Papers from the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford University Byzantine Society

14

Peter Lang

Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies Vol. 14 Edited by Andrew Louth FBA and David Ricks

PETER LANG

Oxford • Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Wien

Kirsty Stewart and James Moreton Wakeley (eds)

Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD Selected Papers from the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford University Byzantine Society

PETER LANG

Oxford • Bern • Berlin • Bruxelles • Frankfurt am Main • New York • Wien

Bibliographic information published by Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche National­biblio­ grafie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.d-nb.de. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Names: Oxford University Byzantine Society. International Graduate Conference (17th : 2015 : Oxford, England) | Stewart, Kirsty, 1985- editor of compilation. | Wakeley, James Moreton, 1989- editor of compilation. Title: Cross-cultural exchange in the Byzantine world, c. 300-1500 A.D. : selected papers from the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford University Byzantine Society / [edited by] Kirsty Stewart and James Moreton Wakeley. Description: Oxford ; New York : Peter Lang, [2016] | Series: Byzantine and Neohellenic studies ; 14 | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2016011848 | ISBN 9783034322584 (alkaline paper) Subjects: LCSH: Byzantine Empire--Relations--Congresses. | Byzantine Empire--Social life and customs--Congresses. | Byzantine Empire--Politics and government--Congresses. | Byzantine Empire--Intellectual life--Congresses. | Christianity and culture--Byzantine Empire--History--Congresses. | Intercultural communication--Byzantine Empire--History--Congresses. | Social change--Byzantine Empire--History--Congresses. Classification: LCC DF546 .O94 2016 | DDC 959.5/02--dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2016011848 ISSN 1661-1187 ISBN 978-3-0343-2258-4 (print) • ISBN 978-1-78707-030-1 (ePub) ISBN 978-1-78707-031-8 (mobi) • ISBN 978-1-78707-029-5 (ePDF) © Peter Lang AG, International Academic Publishers, Bern 2016 Hochfeldstrasse 32, CH-3012 Bern, Switzerland [email protected], www.peterlang.com, www.peterlang.net All rights reserved. All parts of this publication are protected by copyright. Any utilisation outside the strict limits of the copyright law, without the permission of the publisher, is forbidden and liable to prosecution. This applies in particular to reproductions, translations, microfilming, and storage and processing in electronic retrieval systems. This publication has been peer reviewed. Printed in Germany

Contents

List of Figures 

ix

Editors’ Foreword

xi

Prefacexv Part I  Political Exchange

1

James Moreton Wakeley

1 Exchanging Identities on the Eastern Frontier: The Early Arab Conquests from the Byzantine Sources

3

Maximilian C. G. Lau

2 Multilateral Co-Operation in the Black Sea in the Late Eleventh and Early Twelfth Centuries: The Case for an Alliance between Byzantium, Kiev and Georgia

19

Zuzana Černáková

3 Remembering a Cross-Cultural Encounter: The Representations of the Byzantine General Tatikios in Twelfth-Century France

37

Part II  Theological Interactions

51

Elizabeth Buchanan

4 From Hermit Saint to Patron of Weavers and Medieval Wild Man: The Reception of Saint Onuphrius in the West

53

vi Joseph Grabau

5 Gregory Nazianzen’s use of Negative Theology in Oration 38 (‘On the Nativity’)

69

Sihong Lin

6 ‘Never had there been such happy times’: Byzantine Rome and the Making of the Anglo-Saxon Church, c.640–68085 Karen Hamada

7 ‘Unity’ in Christ: Christological Basis for Church Unity in the Theology of Nersēs Šnorhali

101

Jeffrey Brubaker

8  Nuncii or Legati: What makes a Papal Representative in 1234?

115

Part III  Cultural Correspondence

129

Katie Sykes

9 Holy Bodies, Holy Relics: The Evolution of Late Antique Hagiographical Topoi in the Patericon of the Kievan Caves Monastery131 Valeria Flavia Lovato

10 Hellenising Cato? A Short Survey of the Concepts of Greekness, Romanity and Barbarity in John Tzetzes’ Work and Thought

143

Tristan Schmidt

11 Protective and Fierce: The Emperor as a Lion in Contact with Foreigners and his Subjects in Twelfth- and Early Thirteenth-Century Byzantine Court Literature

159



vii

Pietro Pirrone

12 La ‘staurothèque de Gaète’: Un témoignage de la communauté ‘grecque’ dans la principauté lombarde de Salerne?

175

Notes on Contributors

193

Index199

Figures

Maximilian C. G. Lau – ‘Multilateral Co-Operation in the Black Sea in the Late Eleventh and Early Twelfth Centuries: The Case for an Alliance between Byzantium, Kiev and Georgia’ Figure 2.1

Powers and rulers of the Black Sea, early twelfth century.

21

Elizabeth Buchanan – ‘From Hermit Saint to Patron of Weavers and Medieval Wild Man: The Reception of Saint Onuphrius in the West’ Figure 4.1 Figure 4.2 Figure 4.3

Saint Onuphrius (German, 1480–1500), used with permission of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 61 Albrecht Dürer (1504), Saint John the Baptist and Saint Onuphrius, used with permission of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 63 Madonna con il Bambino tra i sainti Giovanni Battisti ed Onofrio (late fifteenth to early sixteenth century), used with permission of the Musei Civici di Vicenza. 65

Pietro Pirrone – ‘La “staurothèque de Gaète”: Un témoignage de la communauté “grecque” dans la principauté lombarde de Salerne?’ Figure 12.1

Figure 12.2

Staurothèque de Gaète. Recto. Jésus-Christ flanqué de la Vierge et saint Jean l’Évangéliste. Au-dessus de la croix: l’archange Michel. Au-dessous: le crâne d’Adam (photo Lino Sorabella – Museo Diocesano di Gaeta). 178 Staurothèque de Gaète. Verso. Vierge entourée par saint Théodore Stratélate, saint Georges, saint Démétrius, saint Jean le Baptiste (photo Lino Sorabella – Museo Diocesano di Gaeta). 179

x Figures

Figure 12.3 Figure 12.4 Figure 12.5

San Giovanni a Piro et Gaeta: emplacement géographique (schéma auteur). Staurothèque de Gaète: piédestal triangulaire en bronze commandé par le cardinal Tommaso De Vio (photo Lino Sorabella – Museo Diocesano Gaeta). Les thébaïdes monastiques italo-grecques aux alentours de San Giovanni a Piro (schéma auteur).

180 186 188

Editors’ Foreword

What is today the Oxford University Byzantine Society’s (OUBS) International Graduate Conference began as a small, one-day, Oxfordonly affair designed to give graduate students the chance to present their research to an audience of their peers. From humble beginnings, the conference’s scope has grown to embrace ever more participants from around the world, making the conference the highest profile, annual event for graduate and early career researchers working on all aspects of Late Antiquity and Byzantine Studies. The seventeenth conference took place in February 2015. It lasted for two days and involved forty-eight speakers from twenty-six universities and fourteen countries, including places as far afield as Turkey, Canada and Japan. The conference may well owe its success to the hard work of many people, but it draws its strength and sense of purpose from this evergrowing community of Late Antiquarians and Byzantinists who are willing to share ideas, and to discuss and present their work. It is an academic community that has found itself at the cutting edge of ancient and early medieval scholarship over recent years, and one to which the OUBS has been proud to contribute many active members. The innovative insights brought forth, and exciting arguments voiced, at successive OUBS conferences demanded publication. This ambitious task was first taken on by Maximilian C. G. Lau, Caterina Franchi and Morgan Di Rodi, the editors of Landscapes of Power: Selected Papers from the XVth Oxford University Byzantine Society International Graduate Conference, also published by Peter Lang. The volume has entered hundreds of libraries around the world, contains papers relevant to several sub-disciplines and added to the already respectable reputation of the OUBS. This new volume hopes to emulate that success. The theme of the seventeenth conference, Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD, was perfectly suited to the OUBS’ aim of approaching the Late Antique and Byzantine world in the broadest

xii

Editors’ Foreword

possible sense. The papers delivered at the conference demonstrated how what was once seen as a niche field actually connects to so many others, and the important, inter-disciplinary historical, literary, artistic and theological questions that its study can address. The conference thereby spoke to the increasing trend among historians to replace traditional boundaries with a broader understanding of the Late Antique and medieval world as a place of wide-ranging and deep connections. This volume, therefore, represents more than a compilation of several individual contributions to the field. As a collective endeavour, it stands as yet more evidence of the exciting developments in, and increasing complexity of, the discipline of Late Antique and Byzantine Studies, inheriting the legacy of the labours of world-renowned scholars like Averil Cameron and her insights on contemporary scholarly trends, expressed in her recent book Byzantine Matters. The editors are indebted to many people for making both the conference, and this volume, possible. First and foremost, we would like to thank Andrew Small, the President of the OUBS (2014–2015) for his part in planning the conference and for all of his hard work in making it a successful and enjoyable event. It was an achievement of which to be proud. It would have been impossible, however, without the generous support of Dr Peter Frankopan and the Oxford Centre for Byzantine Research; Professor Bryan Ward-Perkins and the Oxford Centre for Late Antiquity, and the History Faculty of the University of Oxford. The preparation and running of the conference would similarly have bordered on the inconceivable without the kind assistance of Nicholas Matheou, Theofili Kampianaki, Miranda Williams, Sydney Taylor, David Barritt, Aleksander Paradziński, Elizabeth Buchanan, Kristina Terpoy, Anya Raisharma, Joric Stolic, Maximilian C. G. Lau, Jakub Sypiański, Caterina Franchi, Nick Evans, Marta Paccani, Sihong Lin, Christopher McCann, Michael Stawpert, Matthew Kinlock, Ed Coghill and Lidia Zanetti Domingues. Miranda Williams, Sydney Taylor and Michael Stawpert deserve additional thanks for helping with the selection of papers and the proofreading of this volume. We would also like to express our gratitude to Lucy Melville, Liam Morris and Jasmin Allousch at Peter Lang, for being so keen to bring a further OUBS volume to publication and for all of their encouragement and support through the editorial process. Abby-Eléonore Thouvenin, a friend

Editors’ Foreword

xiii

of one of the editors, likewise merits thanks for allowing herself to be drafted to write the French translation of the publicity material, and for providing further invaluable Francophone linguistic support. Finally, we would like to express our deepest gratitude to Professor Marc D. Lauxtermann, the Senior Member of the OUBS, both for his delivery of the closing address of the conference and for writing the introduction to this volume. We hope, above all, that this collection of papers will do justice to the hard work of the authors and eventually come to number as one among a series of well-known, and well-respected, OUBS publications. Kirsty Louisa Stewart and James Moreton Wakeley Oxford, 2016

Preface

This is the third year in a row that the annual International Graduate Conference organised by the Oxford University Byzantine Society attracted so many stellar performances that not publishing the proceedings would have been a waste of human capital on a scale not seen since the Dark Blues lost to the Light Blues in the 2015 Boat Race. (This is a figure of speech. They did not.) The theme of the conference, held on 27 and 28 February 2015, was ‘cross-cultural exchange in the Byzantine world, c.300–1500’, and as living proof of how truly cross-cultural the graduate conference has become, there were scholars from fourteen different countries: the UK, Belgium, France, Germany, Hungary, Italy, Poland, Slovakia, Switzerland, Turkey, Ukraine, Japan, the USA and Canada. The number of nationalities could even have been fifteen if Scotland had voted for independence some months earlier. Or sixteen if you count my presence, but being something of a cross-cultural mishmash myself, I am reminded of Rimbaud’s dictum: ‘Je est un autre’ (which is a form of negative theology – see below). More importantly, and more to the point, what does ‘cross-cultural exchange’ really mean? We all have some sense of belonging to a certain culture, and belonging in itself is a form of demarcation. The lines are drawn up, the boundaries are set and the alien, the not-us, sits right across the border. However, the problem with boundaries and borders is that they are not stable. They are always shifting. And there are always subtle cross-overs, gradually changing the terrain, almost imperceptibly making our familiar faces less recognisable and our homes less accommodating and comforting. As time goes by, we grow more and more alien to ourselves. Then there is the problem of ‘culture’. I am not referring to the wellknown problem of there being so many different definitions of ‘culture’ (164 in the year 1952, and the clock is ticking) that the term itself has become unmanageable. No, the problem is that there are potentially so many ways in which individuals are organised that the whole concept of a homogeneous and unitary culture is highly problematic, to say the least. In each

xvi Preface

society there are multiple fault lines running right through it and dividing it asunder: gender, race, family, clan, ties of friendship, class, distribution of wealth, sexual orientation, religion, morality, political persuasions, personal predilections, etc. My culture is not yours, and your culture is not that of the person sitting next to you, though you may share a common language and a common nationality. What ‘culture’ does the unemployed blokeish miner from Yorkshire share with the metropolitan homosexual working in the City? Are they even living in the same country? The answer is that, though their worlds may be wide apart, they are aware of each other’s existence through the media and, perhaps, even through personal contacts. And in the process of getting to know each other, they may change their views: the miner getting more open to alternative lifestyles, the gay banker gaining a better understanding of what poverty means on a day-to-day basis. Cultural selfhoods are not impenetrable. They constantly interact. And there is therefore a lot of cross-cultural exchange within any given society. Byzantium is no exception. Handbooks will tell you that Byzantine culture is characterised by three dominant forces: Roman law and institutions, Greek paideia and Christianity. Here, too, the obsession with issues of ‘identity’, as if the richness of human experience can be reduced to a single concept, has led to gross exaggerations, with a strong focus, in the past, on the supposed Greekness of the Byzantines or their steadfast Orthodox beliefs, and, nowadays, on their Roman allegiances. We love our labels. As always, reality is far more interesting than any set of platitudes can express. Take for instance the paper by Valeria Flavia Lovato in this volume, in which she rightly argues against previous interpretations of passages in Tzetzes that deal with Cato the Elder. Rather than downplaying any antiGreekness in Cato, as Kaldellis had suggested, or willfully misrepresenting Plutarch’s account of Cato, as Xenofontos had argued, what Tzetzes does in these passages is defend his own educational programme. It has nothing to do with ‘Greekness’, ‘Romanitas’ or even ‘paideia’ in general; it’s all personal, it’s all about Tzetzes teaching and writing and finding in Cato a kindred spirit. If we are to believe him, there are even physical and psychological similarities: ‘Palamedes, Cato the Elder and Tzetzes (…) | are

Preface

xvii

thin, have blue-grey eyes, are gold-skinned and have red curly hair, | being totally alike, as regards both physical and moral qualities (…). | The only difference between them and myself is their slowness to wrath, | provided that the historical accounts do not lie’. He does not mention Palamedes because he is a ‘Greek’, nor Cato because he is a ‘Roman’, but because the three of them share a common interest in educating and recording the events of the past. And the ‘barbarians’ trying to stop Tzetzes from doing exactly this are not foreigners, but fellow Byzantines. To use the slogan of the 1960s, the personal is political. Likewise, what becomes clear from Pietro Pirrone’s contribution to this volume, a study of the tenth-century ‘Staurotheke of Gaeta’, is that it does not matter whether this luxury object had been commissioned by the Lombards of Salerno, the Greeks of Cilento or the Amalfitans. Any of these three peoples may have imported it from Constantinople. They literally share common ground. So it is not a matter of one specific identity vs other competing identities. If there is a binary opposition, it is between far-away Constantinople – another world, alluring but alien – and the local experiences the inhabitants of this region have in common. In other words, for this particular cross-cultural exchange to materialise in the form of a staurotheca imported from a foreign place, there must already have been a lot of local cross-breeding and cross-culturing. Quite a number of studies in this volume deal with the reception of Byzantium in neighbouring cultures and/or later times. Elizabeth Buchanan sketches the afterlife of Onuphrius, a Byzantine saint who would not have identified himself as Byzantine. A hermit in the Thebaid, St Onuphrius was destined to become, through the intermediary of both his Life and the Travels of St Paphnoutios, the patron saint of the weavers and one of the medieval ‘wild men’: a curious mixture of the domestic and the surreal, a figure at once recognisable and forbiddingly strange. Another case of reception in later times in which horror and awe seem to converge, is that of the Patericon of the Caves Monastery (in Kiev). As Katie Sykes explains, this Russian Patericon takes ascetic mortification to extremes by exalting the physical ‘dryness’ of the saints before their deaths: in a way, they are turned into living relics, with their anorexic bodies, bare bones and fleshless skeletons signifying sanctity.

xviii Preface

One of the more curious instances of ‘othering’ is the posthumous fame of Tatikios, a top-ranking officer in the reign of Alexios I Komnenos, who accompanied the forces of the First Crusade and left them at Antioch. According to the sources in Latin, Tatikios’ departure was yet another act of Byzantine perfidy, once again showing that one could not trust these treacherous, spineless, cowardly, arrogant Graeculi. But according to contemporary sources in vernacular French, the same Tatikios was a chivalrous knight, a true hero who bravely fought at the side of the crusaders. As Zuzana Černáková shows in her insightful paper, one of the reasons for this striking discrepancy is genre: epics and chansons de geste inspire other expectations than ‘authoritative’ historical accounts which, more often than not, serve a political agenda. Equally important, however, is the ambiguity inherent to encounters with the cultural ‘other’ in times of crisis: are they to be trusted or feared? Things will not have been different on the crusaders’ march to Antioch: some will have been suspicious of Tatikios while others will have admired his courage and chivalry in conduct. Perspectives may well differ from person to person, and truth is hard to come by. A number of studies in this volume focus on international networks and seek to establish the variegated patterns of diplomacy and policymaking in the Mediterranean and beyond. Sihong Lin offers an in-depth study of the diplomatic and ecclesiastic contacts between the papacy and the Anglo-Saxon church in the seventh century, with particular emphasis on the anti-monothelete network behind the scenes. He looks at two keyplayers in extending the power of Rome over the local church: Wilfrid of York and Theodore of Tarsus, and argues that their actions can all be tied to political events in Rome and the wider Mediterranean. James Moreton Wakeley argues against the current trend to lend credence to the (usually much later) Arab sources on the rise of early Islam. In his view, these triumphal accounts tend to oversimplify the reality on the ground and overlook the socio-political dynamics in the Near East at the time of the Arab Conquests. Boundaries are by definition blurred, cross-overs occur all the time, and identities are not as stable as these accounts wish us to believe. The spectacular military developments in the 630s should therefore be studied within the framework of frontier studies.

Preface

xix

Maximilian C. G. Lau looks at the political constellation in the Black Sea region around the year 1100, a period in which the regional powers – Byzantium, Hungary, Kievan Rus, Georgia – had a common interest in warding off the ‘nomadic threat’: Pechenegs, Cumans, Turkic tribes. It transpires from his analysis of military actions, diplomatic contacts and marriage alliances that the Black Sea powers are likely to have pursued a multilateral strategy against the steppe nomads which, in the case of the Pechenegs, paid off: in the course of the twelfth century they will disappear from the historical record, their distant memory lingering on in a religious festival that celebrated their defeat along the shores of the Black Sea. Politics and religion are ideological bedfellows in Byzantium, so there is always a political dimension to theological rapprochements, such as the debate between representatives of the pope and the patriarchate in 1234. As Jeffrey Brubaker elucidates in his paper, the significance of this interchurch meeting hinges on the question of the diplomatic status of these representatives: were the friars simply messengers (nuncios), or had they been authorised to negotiate on behalf of the pope as legates? As the latter would have meant de facto recognition of the patriarchate in exile, and the former a waste of time and effort for the Empire of Nicaea, both parties kept the status of the friars deliberately vague so as to create space for dialogue. Another theological rapprochement, that between Armenia and Constantinople, is the topic of Karen Hamada’s astute paper in which she discusses the Christological views of Nersēs Šnorhali, the Armenian katholikos who between 1165 and 1173 corresponded with Manuel I Komnenos and the then patriarch with the aim of uniting the two churches. As she argues, though Nersēs was willing to go a long way to find a compromise, he strenuously defended the one-nature position of the Armenian Church, which he viewed as ‘the unity of humanity and divinity’. Giving that up would have been a bridge too far. Reading the volume from cover to cover, there is a sense of a dialogue between identity and alterity. Or is it a painful clash? We live in a time of gated communities, strict border controls, identity policies, hysterical fear of migrants, insular and isolationist irredentism of the worst sort, a lack of openness and compromise, social media open only to those who agree and conform to the majority view, no-platforming sub-cultures and failing

xx Preface

democratic structures. To quote a fellow medievalist, ‘All borders – the lines and symbols on a map, the fretwork of walls and fences on the ground, and the often complex enmeshments by which we organise our lives – are explanations of identity. We construct borders, literally and figuratively, to fortify our sense of who we are; and we cross them in search of who we might become. They are philosophies of space, credibility contests, latitudes of neurosis, signatures to the social contract, soothing containments, scars’. I have saved two papers until last because, on the surface, they do not seem to engage with the theme of cross-cultural exchange; but once you delve deeper, they do. The first is by Tristan Schmidt. He discusses the varied metaphorical uses of the lion as a symbol for imperial power: the emperor confronts his enemies and attacks them as a voracious feline predator; the emperor is the ruler of mankind just as the lion is the ruler of animals; the emperor and his people live peacefully together as lion and domestic animals. Here we see that a single image (the emperor as lion) may have plural meanings, depending on perspective and cultural location. And this semantic plurality opens up a broad field of comparison. The other paper is by Joseph Grabau, who analyses the concept of negative theology in Gregory of Nazianzos’ majestic Oration 38. The passages in which Gregory dwells on God’s transcendence and unknowability establish him as a transitory thinker, combining various strands of Platonic philosophy and Christian mysticism into a luminous cross-over of ideas in an age that is ready for change. Grabau views him as a mediator in between worlds, both a traditionalist and an innovator. Negative theology is a radical affirmation of the otherness of God: it stresses His oneness so different from ours, His ultimate being that falls outside human categories and is therefore unfathomable. God is beyond borders. So while in Schmidt’s paper oneness disintegrates into a plurality of meanings, in Grabau’s it is so alien that it is beyond meaning. Crosscultural exchange is what happens when oneness and otherness meet and, intrigued by one another, try to find a way of communicating in whatever medium is available. It presupposes an openness of mind and acceptance of difference, a willingness to engage in dialogue and think outside the box. It prefers cultural hybridity and fluidity of meaning to the fixity of identitybased narratives. It questions established orthodoxies and single truths. It

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methodically and meticulously checks facts, but also has a penchant for the counter-factual as an alternative model of explanation. It understands that, as Einstein put it in an interview, ‘Imagination is more important than knowledge. Knowledge is limited; imagination encircles the world’. And it loves graduate conferences. There were forty-eight speakers at the conference, and even more people attending. Making a selection of the best papers, as the editors of this volume have done, is an honourable endeavour and a laudable pursuit, though it will have been a difficult task to choose from among so many exciting and brilliant papers. But what the volume unfortunately cannot but dimly convey are the lively discussions and heated exchanges of opinion in the conference hall; the personal contacts and conversations during the breaks and over dinner; the networking before and after the conference. This is a useful reminder that cross-cultural exchange in Byzantium and beyond has a much broader compass than written records and remnants of material culture alone. Most of the contacts will have taken place on a personal level, with people meeting and talking, making friends and falling out with each other, exchanging ideas, sharing experiences, selling and buying, cracking jokes, chit-chatting and jaw-jawing. Humans talk. Marc D. Lauxtermann Bywater and Sotheby Professor of Byzantine and Modern Greek Language and Literature at the University of Oxford

Part I

Political Exchange

James Moreton Wakeley

1 Exchanging Identities on the Eastern Frontier: The Early Arab Conquests from the Byzantine Sources

abstract This article questions what seems to be a renewed, even an exclusive emphasis on ‘Islam’ as the factor explaining the success of the Arab Conquests of the seventh century AD, by recourse to the Byzantine sources. It demonstrates how such sources both question and undermine the religiously inspired narratives of the Islamic historical tradition by casting the outbreak of the Arab Conquests in Palestine primarily as a failure of Roman frontier policy. The Byzantine sources, though as late as many sources in the Islamic tradition, are, significantly, shown to rely on reports written soon after the events they describe: a reason to prefer them to the oral recollections underpinning the work of the ‘Abbāsid historians. And so Rustam said to him: ‘What brought you and what do you want?’ The man said: ‘We have come to seek that promised by God (mau’ūd allah) … Your land and your sons and your blood, if you refuse to embrace Islam.’ Rustam said: ‘And if you are killed before this?’ The man replied: ‘As part of God’s promise, anyone of us killed before this He will send to Paradise (ldkalahu al-janna) and He will fulfil for who is left of us what I have said to you. Of that we are certain’. Rustam said: ‘So have we been placed in your hands?’ The man replied: ‘Poor Rustam! Indeed your deeds have done this to you and so God has made you submit because of them (fa-aslamakum allah bihā). And let not what you see around you beguile you, for indeed arrayed against you are not human beings but irrevocable fate (fa-innaka laisat tujāwala alinas innamā tujāwala al-qaḍa’)’. (al-Ṭabarī, History of the Prophets and Kings, 2254)1

1

M. J. de Goeje, ed., Annales quos scripsit Abu Djafar Mohammed ibn Djarir at-Tabari (Leiden: Brill, 1879–1901). This and all other following translations are my own.

4

James Moreton Wakeley

And Rustam’s fate was soon upon him. In 636 AD, at the Battle of al-Qādisiyyah, Rustam, a Sasanian aristocrat, and the cream of the Persian army perished upon the swords of men for whom God was one, and for whom Muḥammad was his Prophet and slave. God certainly seemed to be on the Muslims’ side in this year, the fourteenth since Muḥammad had left Mecca for Medina. At about the same time that the remnants of the Sasanian army were fleeing headlong into the Iranian interior, the other ancient empire to hold sway over the Near East, Rome, saw half a millennium of imperial power pass as swiftly as the sand-storm that blinded the legionaries’ eyes at the Yarmouk. The old order of the ancient world was no more. United in a manner wholly unprecedented by a revelation delivered directly from the mouth of God, the Arab tribes rode out of the desert to give earthly reality to their God’s divine universality. None could stand against them. What, after all, could the two old empires do to prevent the fulfilment of ‘irrevocable fate’ (al-qaḍa’)? That, at least, seems to be the salient message of the Islamic historical tradition and the explanatory framework that has influenced much Western scholarship on the Arab Conquests.2 It is wise, however, to exercise a profound degree of scepticism towards the causal scheme suggested by medieval Muslim historians like al-Ṭabarī. His voluminous collection of material on the history of the Islamic umma – thirty-nine volumes in English translation – is no smooth, coherent narrative presenting the implications of impartially analysed, pristine source material. Rather, the History of the Prophets and Kings is more a layered collection of often contradictory individual stories (akhbār) gathered from originally oral sources, collated on paper almost two hundred years after the life of Muḥammad and the early conquests. The late nature of medieval Islamic historiography is significant beyond the usual reservations that should be applied to a source retelling events 2

See Hugh Kennedy, The Prophet and the Age of the Caliphates: The Islamic Near East from the Sixth to the Eleventh Century (London: Longman, 1986), 50–81 for an example of the general acceptance of the Islamic tradition by a modern Western scholar.

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centuries before the lifetime of the author. It is clear that the oral medium through which many akhbār passed allowed history to be shaped in a way suited not only to competing factional interests, but also to the more general assumptions of a society that was becoming more intensely Islamic.3 Viewed from the triumphant minarets of ‘Abbāsid Baghdad, and transmitted through the pen of an eclectic Islamic scholar like al-Ṭabarī, how else could the early conquests be understood, if not as the actions of Muslims guided by God and as committed to their faith as Rustam’s religiously exemplary interlocutor? Questioning the accuracy of the Islamic sources is hardly without precedent. Ever since the late nineteenth century, Western scholarship has been well aware of the considerable difficulties, inaccuracies, and fabrications inherent not only in Islamic history, tār’īkh, but also in the traditions attributed to the Prophet (ḥadīth). Recognition of the limitations of the Islamic sources prompted Michael Cook and Patricia Crone to devise a new and controversial account of Islamic origins in their 1977 book, Hagarism.4 Far from rising out of the Ḥijāz as a faith fully formed by a man recognised in his lifetime as the last of God’s prophets, Islam was presented as a Messianic Jewish movement that only gradually came to see itself as a separate faith. Despite the fact that Crone and Cook’s conclusions were hardly accepted as definitive, their stress on using non-Islamic sources and their emphasis on gradualism and the far more uncertain evolution of a new civilisation remains influential. Scholarship, for example, is still at pains to devise a

3

4

Jack Goody and Ian Watt, ‘The Consequences of Literacy’, in Jack Goody, ed., Literacy in Traditional Societies (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1968), 27–68, demonstrated the now widely accepted trope that oral history functions to explain the present rather than accurately to retell the past. Richard Bulliet in Conversion to Islam in the Medieval Period: An Essay in Quantitative History (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press, 1979), 80–91, makes a strong case for the ninth century being the era of the most intense conversion to Islam in Iraq. Patricia Crone and Michael Cook, Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1977).

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new terminology for the first century and a half of Islam to capture its ambiguous nature, ‘Qur’ānic’ and ‘Paleo’-Islam being recent suggestions.5 Yet comparison of the Islamic with the non-Islamic sources has also resulted in a resurgence of faith in the former. Careful analysis of the Islamic tradition with a range of more contemporary sources from different cultural traditions has shown that, with some important exceptions, the chronology of Islam’s rise and the veracity of other elements of its early formation do stand up to scrutiny. An important advocate of this approach, James Howard-Johnston, has even warned historians about being in thrall to the ‘tyrannical mistress’ of a too sceptical historiography.6 Proof of the truth of certain skeletal essentials, moreover, has bred a similar acceptance of the overall causal framework for the Arab Conquests as presented in the Islamic tradition, namely that they were the work of ‘ordered arrays of suicide fighters, endowed with extraordinary courage and daring’ who were ‘committed unto death’.7 This strikes me as a conceptual leap of faith too far as much as I find Howard-Johnston’s related insistence that the Arab Conquests ‘cannot possibly be explained in terms of ordinary historical processes’ both perplexing and bordering on the evasive.8 Sufficiently powerful though monotheistic revelation was in Late Antiquity to motivate men to striking deeds, few would accept that Islam had become the comprehensive, well-developed and unique system Howard-Johnston seems to need it to have been to unite

5

‘Qur’ānic Islam’ is the term preferred to describe Islam before c.780 by Robert Hoyland, Seeing Islam as Others Saw It: A Survey and Evaluation of Christian, Jewish, and Zoroastrian Writings on Early Islam (Princeton: Darwin Press, 1997). ‘PaleoIslam’ has been suggested by ‘Azīz al-Aẓmah, The Arabs and Islam in Late Antiquity: A Critique of Approaches to Arabic Sources (Berlin: Gerlach, 2014), vii. 6 James Howard-Johnston, Witnesses to a World Crisis: Historians and Histories of the Middle East in the Seventh Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). See 517–30 for an evaluative summary of Howard-Johnston’s argument and invaluable Quellenkritik. 7 Ibid., 451. Peter Sarris similarly attributes the success of the Arab Conquests principally to ‘zeal’ in Empires of Faith: The Fall of Rome to the Rise of Islam, 500–700 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 272–4. 8 Howard-Johnston, Witnesses, 448.

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disparate groups of Bedouin from across Arabia in such a short time solely in the cause of Holy War. Further, there are other, previously somewhat marginalised insights to be gained from a consideration of the Byzantine sources for the early Arab Conquests that challenge this overwhelming emphasis on the apparently exceptional power of Islam as a conquering ideology. They are insights that hint that the origin of the ‘Islamic’ armies was far more diverse and heterogeneous than the overriding impression to be gained from the later Islamic tradition, and insights that should redirect attention on the politics and culture of the imperial frontier. The armies that would come to humble Rome and annihilate Persia seem to have grown, at least to some extent, through the defection of Arab clients from their imperial patrons: by the exchange of one political and cultural identity for another in the volatile lands of the eastern frontier.

Federate Defection in the Chronicle of Theophanes An impression of the outbreak of the early Arab Conquests that is far more concordant with ‘ordinary historical processes’ and far less religiously inspired than the central message of the Islamic tradition emerges from a fascinating account in the Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor.9 It is worth quoting part of his entry for the year AM 6123 (630/1 AD) at length. Now some of the neighbouring Arabs were receiving small payments from the emperors for guarding the approaches to the desert (πρὸς τὸ φυλάξαι τὰ στόμια τῆς ἐρήμου). At that time, a certain eunuch arrived to distribute the wages of the soldiers, and when the Arabs came to receive their wages according to custom, the eunuch drove them away, saying, ‘The emperor can barely pay his soldiers their wages, much less these dogs (τοῖς κυσὶ τούτοις)!’ Distressed, therefore, the Arabs went over to their fellow tribesmen (ἀπῆλθον πρὸς τοὺς ὁμοφύλους), and they led them (their ‘fellow

9

J. Classen, ed., Theophanis Chronographia (Bonn: Weber, 1839–1841).

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James Moreton Wakeley tribesmen’) to the rich country of Gaza (καὶ αὐτοὶ ὡδήγησαν αὐτοὺς ἐπὶ τὴν χώραν Γάζης), which is the gateway to the desert in the direction of Mount Sinai.

This account resonates with a phenomenon well-known and well-studied in the broader historiography of the later Roman Empire: the breakdown of the frontier once Rome becomes unable or unwilling to pay her barbarian clients to be friends rather than foes.10 Given the severe financial constraints under which Rome found herself after her last great war with Persia – Theophanes records that the Emperor Heraclius was even forced to melt-down church plate to fund the war effort (Chronicle, AM 6113/620/21 AD) – it would seem that the imperial authorities were unable to fund their Arab federates. The removal of these subsidies, in a pattern seen on the Rhine and the Danube as well as on the Jordan in the previous centuries of Late Antiquity, caused the Arabs to start leaching wealth from the empire in the only other way they could: by fighting and plundering it. This instance of federate defection, however, seems to have become far more dangerous to the integrity of the empire given that Rome’s erstwhile Arab clients were able swiftly to find new allies and a new political identity. In the same year’s entry, immediately before the arrival of the eunuch, Theophanes records that an army of Saracens that he explicitly identifies with the followers of Muḥammad unsuccessfully attacked the village of Mouthos. This information allows two crucial identifications to be made. First, it would seem that the ‘fellow tribesmen’ to whom the federate forces defect, and who appear already to be raiding Palestine, are none other than warriors from the Ḥijāz, loyal to the regime established by the Prophet in Yathrib (Medina). Secondly, the village of ‘Mouthos’ would seem to be what is known in the Islamic tradition as the settlement

10 The bibliography is too extensive usefully to cite to any significant extent. Peter Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History (London: MacMillan, 2005) and Guy Halsall, Barbarian Migrations and the Roman West, 376–568 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) give differing accounts of the fall of the Roman West in which the interaction of Rome with barbarian peoples nonetheless plays a crucial role, as the Germanic barbarians progressively evolve from clients to conquerors the more Rome lacks the ability to control them.

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of Mu’ta, to be found to the south-east of the Dead Sea, which was indeed recorded as the site of an early Muslim defeat.11 Both the Islamic tradition and Theophanes concur that Mu’ta was the last significant reverse suffered by the forces loyal to the Prophet in Palestine. In the year following the federate defection, Theophanes records that the Arabs defeated a Roman force in the field outside Caesarea (AM 6124/631/32 AD) and that the next year saw the fall of Bostra, a provincial capital, as well as a host of other cities (AM 6125/632/33 AD). The defection of Rome’s Arab clients, therefore, considering that the Ḥijāzi Arabs failed to break through the frontier without them and that Theophanes explicitly attributes to the erstwhile federates an important strategic role – ‘they led them to the rich country of Gaza’ – appears to have been a pivotal factor in explaining the early success of the Arab Conquests. It is a factor that has gone all but unnoticed by contemporary Islamicists and an episode mentioned only incidentally by modern Byzantinists.12 One fundamental question remains, however. Is Theophanes’ account of events in Palestine in the early 630s reliable? The Chronicle is a boldly ambitious work of history that covers events within and beyond the borders of Rome from the reign of Diocletian to the early ninth century. Theophanes was consequently writing at a temporal, as well as a geographical, remove 11

F. Buhl, ‘Mu’ta’, in P. Bearman, T. Bianquis, C. Bosworth, E. van Donzel and W. Heinrichs, eds, Encyclopaedia of Islam: Second Edition (Leiden: Brill Online, 2012) gives a summary of the Arabic traditions for the battle. 12 Kennedy, The Prophet and the Age, for example, does not cite Theophanes, nor does Fred Donner, The Early Islamic Conquests (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1981) identify this episode despite fleetingly referring to the end of Roman subsidies to Arab tribes (100). Mark Whittow, ‘The Late Roman/Early Byzantine Near East’, in Chase Robinson, ed., The New Cambridge History of Islam (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 72–97, notes the federate defection as an intriguing coda to the collapse of Roman rule in Palestine without exploring its further ramifications (96–7). Walter Kaegi gives more attention to Theophanes: in Byzantium and the Early Arab Conquests (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 91–2, he notes the role non-payment of subsidies played in helping the invading armies strike into Gaza. In Heraclius: Emperor of Byzantium (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003), 233, however, he speaks only of local Arabs withdrawing their support for the empire, rather than playing a more active part in the conquests.

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from the early Arab Conquests broadly comparable to that, which is generally held to undermine the utility of the first written accounts of the Islamic historical tradition. Yet Theophanes’ scope, as well as the remarkable lack of stylistic uniformity in his language, demonstrates that the Chronicle is far more than the product of one man or a single source and should ‘best be viewed as a file of extracts borrowed from earlier sources’.13 Study of Theophanes, therefore, is essentially the study of the menagerie of earlier written material that was collated, edited, paraphrased or even simply transcribed into a single document.14 It is accordingly likely that earlier, more intrinsically reliable accounts are readily discoverable within the Chronicle, preserved in a written medium far more stable and far less open to the kind of presentist revision to which the Arabic oral accounts were prone. Theophanes gives a clear indication concerning from whom he received such a collection of earlier material. The Chronicle’s preface reveals that Theophanes’ project of writing a history was not the result of his own invention and intellectual drive, but a commission bequeathed to him by a friend, George, the synkellos of Tarasios, Patriarch of Constantinople (784–806). George had already completed a chronicle that stretched from The Creation to Diocletian and is reported to have also gathered material to continue the chronicle to his own age.15 He however died before he could do so, leaving the task to Theophanes, to whom he left not only his completed work, but also the materials (ἀφορμὰς) for its continuation. Theophanes may admit to consulting material beyond what he received from George, but the thoroughness with which George pursued his intellectual endeavour – evident in the half of his chronicle that bears his name – and Theophanes’ reported, as well as admitted, lack of advanced learning,

Cyril Mango and Roger Scott, trans, The Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor: Byzantine and Near Eastern History AD 284–813 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997), lxxiv. 14 Mango and Scott present a list of twenty potential underlying sources, which they describe as ‘neither exhaustive nor certain’ in ibid., lxxiv–lxxxviii. 15 Alden Mosshammer, ed., Georgii Syncelli Ecloga Chronographica (Leipzig: Teubner, 1984). 13

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implies that most of ‘The “Chronicle of Theophanes” is in fact a lightlytouched final version of George’s work’.16 George, importantly, had spent a considerable amount of time working and living in Palestine. He was probably based at the Old Lavra of St Chariton near Tekoa, less than twenty kilometres south of Jerusalem.17 It is therefore unsurprising that Eastern sources are thought to have made a great contribution to his work and consequently to Theophanes’ Chronicle, not least the lost annalistic history attributed to Theophilus of Edessa. This history, indeed, is generally thought to underpin most of what Theophanes preserves for the years between 630 and the mid-eighth century, something that explains the detail that the Chronicle offers for Eastern affairs.18 Other later historians as well as Theophanes also relied on Theophilus, a progeny that allows an essence of the original to be reconstructed. Interestingly, Theophanes’ account of the defection of Rome’s Arab clients is not to be found in Theophilus’ other dependents.19 It is a unique nugget of information descended from at least one other source. It is, of course, impossible definitely to identify from where this report originated. Various vague attributions are possible.20 It is both tempting and

16

Theodore the Studite’s panegyric on Theophanes, for instance, records that he was ‘unacquainted with deep wisdom’ (ἄπειρος ὤν τῆς μωρανθείσης σοφίας). Stephanos Efthymiadis, ‘Le panégyrique de S. Théophane Le Confesseur par S. Théodore Stoudite (BHG 1729b): Edition critique du texte intégral’, Analecta Bollandiana 111 (1993), 259–90. 17 For a reconstruction of George’s life, see William Adler and Paul Tuffin, trans, The Chronography of George Synkellos: A Byzantine Chronicle of Universal History from the Creation (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), xxix–lxxxviii. 18 Robert Hoyland, Theophilus of Edessa’s Chronicle and the Circulation of Historical Knowledge in Late Antiquity and Early Islam (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2011), 10, suggests that Theophanes is dependent on a version of Theophilus to c.740. Mango and Scott, Chronicle, extend this dependency to c.780. 19 Hoyland, Theophilus of Edessa’s Chronicle, 90–4, for a comparison of material descended from Theophilus treating the early conquests in Palestine. 20 Hoyland, for example, sees two separate ‘Greek reports’ – one on the defection, one on Mu’ta – and an Arabic account lying behind the year’s entry (ibid., 92). He does not speculate from where the ‘Greek reports’ may have come.

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plausible, however, to suggest that the account of the defection of the Arab federates accurately preserves an essentially eyewitness report contemporary to the events it describes. This, it is significant to recognise, would make the account verifiable in a way, and to a degree, impossible for the akhbār of the Islamic historical tradition. First, the report is inherently plausible. Compensating for the end of Roman subsidies by raiding was common federate practice on all of Rome’s frontiers in Late Antiquity, as has already been noted. Secondly, the preface of George’s Chronography reveals a particular interest in capturing the history of Islam, noticeable and perhaps unusual in a Byzantine churchman. He closes his statement of intent for the Chronography by announcing, ‘I shall describe, as far as I am able, the covenant abominable to Christ and our people, that which the tents of the Idumaeans and the Ishmaelites brought forth’ (τὴν κατὰ Χριστοῦ καὶ τοῦ γένους ἡμῶν θεοβδέλυκτον διαθήκην, ἥν διέθετο τὰ σκηνώματα τῶν Ἰδουμαίων καὶ οἱ Ἰσμαηλῖται … διαγράψω κατὰ δύναμιν). One can imagine, therefore, that George would have been keen to unearth and transmit any fascinating little local tale concerning the ascent of Arab power that he could find. Thirdly, he lived in what may have been a perfect location for discovering such accounts: a monastery in southern Palestine whose seventh-century brethren would have experienced the Arab Conquests at first hand. It is hardly impossible, therefore, that the report of the defection of Roman federates in Theophanes’ Chronicle is taken from an eyewitness monastic account dating to the 630s.21

21

Leif Petersen in Siege Warfare and Military Organisation in the Successor States (400– 800 AD): Byzantium, the West and Islam (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 430, seems also to have come essentially to the same conclusion – ‘probably dates back to a near-contemporary account’ – without explaining why or how.

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The Collapse of the Frontier in Nicephorus’ Short History Further reason to have faith in the veracity of Theophanes’ account is provided by the other Byzantine source to cover the period, the Short History of the Patriarch Nicephorus.22 The Short History should not necessarily be discounted as a source for the rise of Islam, even though the material may be slight and the range far more narrowly Byzantine than that of Theophanes.23 Shortly after telling of the Emperor Heraclius’ triumphant entry into Constantinople following his victory over the Persians (Short History, 19), Nicephorus shifts his narrative back to the Near East to set out what effectively becomes the story of the collapse of the Eastern marches to the Arabs. Part of this narrative (Short History, 20.10-15) contains an episode strikingly similar to the dynamics of collapse as related by Theophanes. For Sergius kata Niketan met his end in the following way. The Saracens, after flaying a camel, shut him up in its hide and sewed it up … The charge against him was that he had encouraged Heraclius not to permit the Saracens to engage in commerce from the Roman land and send out of the Roman state the 30 lbs. of gold which they normally achieved through trade; and for this reason they began to cause ruin to the Roman land (ἐντεῦθέν τε αὐτοὺς ἂρξαι τῇ Ῥωμαίων λυμαίνεσθαι χώρᾳ).

Again, there appears to be a clear causal relationship between the end of some kind of Roman cash-flow to neighbouring Arab tribes and Arab attacks on the Roman provinces. Nicephorus may be less detailed than Theophanes and seems to describe the breakdown of a trade relationship rather than the collapse of an arrangement with federates contracted for military service, but the essential concordance is undeniable.24 As was Cyril Mango, ed., Nikephoros Patriarch of Constantinople Short History (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1990). 23 Hoyland, Seeing Islam, 434, for a statement on the limited nature of Nicephorus as a source for Islamic origins. 24 There is also no real difference between the underlying reasons for stopping subsidies and banning trade. The shortness of cash the eunuch claims the state is suffering in Theophanes, which prevents the payment of subsidies, would ultimately have been the product of a shortage of bullion. 22

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the case in the Chronicle of Theophanes, some of the Arabs whom history would describe as the fanatical soldiers of Islam come across less as religiously inspired ‘ordered arrays of suicide fighters’, more as partially Romanised frontiersmen with a wholly materialistic grudge against certain imperial officials. Another similarity that the Short History shares with Theophanes’ Chronicle is the important likelihood that a seventh-century source contemporary to the events described hides just beneath the surface of Nicephorus’ late eighth-century text.25 In some respects, the Short History is an odd document. It appears to be unfinished and falls into two seemingly self-contained sections, offering a continuous narrative beginning with a summary of the usurpation and reign of Phocas, then entirely omitting the reign of Constans II (641–668) – the circumstances of his death get a brief mention (Short History, 33) – only finally to give another century of narrative, closing with the marriage of Leo IV to Eirene in 769. The peculiar nature of the Short History perhaps explains this disjointed structure. The high calibre of the Greek, combined with a generally profane concentration on the high politics of state, demonstrate that Nicephorus was writing a selfconsciously classicising history. It was perhaps intended as a continuation of Theophylact Simocatta.26 The literary, rather than solely historical, imperatives that drove the composition of the text, combined with the fact of the two neat sections, imply that Nicephorus did little more than artistically paraphrase two earlier vulgar Greek sources into a higher style.27 Considering that the first section ends in 641, and the fact that, from the immediate aftermath of the fall of Phocas in 610 (Short History, 2), events move along in chronological progression, the suggestion that the source of the first section is some kind of ‘Constantinopolitan chronicle’ covering most of the first half of

25 Mango, Nikephoros, 8–12, settles on the 780s as the likely period of the text’s composition based upon internal criticism and knowledge of Nicephorus’ career. 26 Howard-Johnston, Witnesses, 242, 237–63 for a broader analysis. 27 It should, however, be noted that Mango, Nikephorus, 12–13, argues that the first paragraph of the first section descends from a third source, John of Antioch.

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the seventh century, has received general acceptance.28 Nicephorus makes no citation or even allusion to the potential nature of this source – so as to maintain a pretence to the Classical ideal of autopsy – but its apparent thirty-year span does not make a single hand covering events in a single author’s lifetime unlikely. It is, therefore, quite reasonable to suggest that the dramatic account of the death of Sergius kata Niketan, and the ensuing Arab attacks, were written down within months of taking place, having reached Constantinople as a macabre and fascinating eyewitness account of the deteriorating situation in the East that the chronicle’s author could not ignore. This implication is significant beyond the actual proximity to seventhcentury events that it would suggest of Nicephorus’ later text. Principally, it offers further proof for the mutual independence of the source traditions behind Theophanes’ and Nicephorus’ histories.29 This consequently suggests that the collapse of relations between Rome and her Arab clients in the aftermath of the last great war with Persia was a serious, even widespread phenomenon, as two different versions of essentially the same kind of event reached two separate authors independently. The breakdown of Rome’s network of federate alliances on the Palestinian marches must indeed have been perceived as important at the time, as word of it crossed the seas to reach Nicephorus’ chronicler in Constantinople. Taken together, Nicephorus, and the detailed evidence from the local, contemporary Palestinian account preserved in Theophanes, appear to paint a picture of a frontier in crisis. Rome’s fiscal weakness saw the strength of its erstwhile Arab clients turned against her, at precisely the time in which developments in the Ḥijāz had the ability to set off a reaction among the disparate, disenchanted elements of the imperial marches that could fatally undermine the already battered established order.

28 Ibid., 14. Howard-Johnston, Witnesses, 248, for agreement. 29 Mango, Nikephorus, 12, notes that there seems to have been no contact between the work of both authors, even though they were contemporaries of one another, and suggests that this may be because of the iconodule colouring of both texts, which would have advised their authors and later possessors against circulation until 843.

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Conclusions The historiography of the Arab Conquests of the seventh century, even to some extent the self-consciously subversive work of Crone and others, has generally tended to assume that, whatever they may have believed, the men who fought in the armies that invaded the imperial provinces hailed from inner Arabia.30 This supposition seems to speak to another, deeper, preconception, namely that group identities are immanent and immutable: that the manpower behind such watershed movements as the seventh-century conquests could not have come from inside the imperial territories as such territories’ inhabitants would have been ‘Romans’ or ‘Persians’. Yet the evidence from the Chronicle of Theophanes and Nicephorus’ Short History fatally challenges this assumption. It may be difficult to determine to what extent Rome had managed to re-create the kind of federate networks in north Arabia that she possessed in the previous century, given that the empire was tentatively trying to re-impose its authority on lands that had been lost to Persia for two decades. The fact that the Islamic tradition, as well as Theophanes and Nicephorus, records Rome recruiting from Arab tribes, however, strongly suggests that the re-creation of federate arrangements had moved beyond merely making initial approaches.31 By the early 630s, some Arab warriors would consequently have been integrated into Roman administrative and military structures in a manner recalling those to which their grandfathers may have been accustomed. The defection of such imperial Arab clients, therefore, who could formerly have appeared in the sources as ‘Roman soldiers’, shows just how mercurial political and

30 Carole Hillenbrand, ‘Muhammad and the Rise of Islam’, in Paul Fouracre, ed., The New Cambridge Medieval History I, c. 500–700 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 317–45 (esp. 325) provides an example additional to those already cited. 31 Donner, The Early Islamic Conquests, 102–11, uses the Islamic sources to survey the response of various north Arabian tribes to Muḥammad. A number, like the Judhām and Syrian Lakhm, are said to have fought for the Roman Empire, a memory that suggests that the re-imposition of Roman control in the region after the defeat of Persia went hand-in-hand with the re-creation of federate structures.

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even cultural identities were in the contestable space of the imperial frontier, especially in the wake of the last Persian War. This insight places the phenomenon of cultural exchange, even cultural transfusion, at the forefront of a profound moment of historical change. If the incentives were compelling enough to men caught between the world of the Roman Empire and the ‘barbarian’ world beyond, cultures could be crossed and the seeds of new, long-lasting identities sown. Such a tendency for the ‘frontier’ to act less as a zone of separation between distinct cultural and political units and more as a zone of interaction, and the forge for the hammering of old identities into new identities, is a well-established analytical tool for explaining the fall of the Western Roman Empire in the fifth century and the rise of the ‘Germanic’ successor states.32 An emphasis on the frontier is increasingly found in studies on the wider Arabian world on the cusp of Islam, but a deeper awareness of the ways in which the nature of the frontier shaped the Arab Conquests remains fully to be developed.33 Finally, if nothing else, the seventh-century accounts preserved in Theophanes and Nicephorus shed a crucial light on the motivations behind the conquests. Modern historians should indeed beware becoming seduced by the rhetoric of Holy War that resonates throughout the Islamic tradition. At least some of the soldiers who fought in the ‘Islamic’ armies did so not because they were the agents of ‘irrevocable fate’, spurred-on by the peculiar power of the revelation of Muḥammad, but merely because Rome could no longer pay them.

32

33

Christopher Whittaker, Frontiers of the Roman Empire: A Social and Economic Study (Baltimore, MD: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1994) represented an influential development in Roman frontier studies whose insights help to underpin the stress on shifting identity that dominates much modern work on the ‘Germanic’ invasions. Greg Fisher, Between Empires: Arabs, Romans and Sasanians in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) is an important contribution to the prologue to the rise of Islam, but Fisher does not explore the Arab Conquests themselves.

Maximilian C. G. Lau

2 Multilateral Co-Operation in the Black Sea in the Late Eleventh and Early Twelfth Centuries: The Case for an Alliance between Byzantium, Kiev and Georgia

abstract Unlike the Mediterranean, few studies exist that examine the Black Sea world as a whole, particularly for the late eleventh and twelfth centuries. Such an oversight is particularly surprising as this period saw the contemporaneous reigns of monarchs who are all acclaimed as conquerors or restorers of their nations. All of these monarchs faced the same enemies: Pechenegs, Cumans and the Seljuk Turks. Using this as a touchstone to evaluate crosscultural exchange across the Black Sea world, it can be seen that military campaigns were conducted against the Turks and steppe nomads by these monarchs at the same time as significant diplomatic marriages. Together with other evidence, this correlation implies co-ordination, and thus this paper will advocate that the changed political order of this period facilitated increased co-operation across the Black Sea. In particular, though the comparatively weakened state of Byzantium faced grievous challenges, this new order brought new opportunities for multilateral action from which the Black Sea nations all sought to profit, perhaps accounting for a measure of the success of these monarchs.

Though many studies have sought to examine developments across the Mediterranean as a whole, far fewer exist for the Black Sea, and particularly for the late eleventh and twelfth centuries.1 Such an oversight is particularly surprising as this period saw the contemporaneous reigns of monarchs who are all acclaimed as conquerors or restorers of their nations: Alexios I and John II Komnenos of Byzantium, Coloman and Stephen II of Hungary,

1

King’s recent work skips straight from Basil II in the early eleventh to the fall of Constantinople in 1204: Charles King, The Black Sea: A History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), 77–81.

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Vladimir II Monomakh of Kiev and David IV of Georgia. Comparing these monarchs is limited by the fact that sources focus almost entirely upon glorifying or vilifying a specific ruler, rarely mentioning the deeds of contemporaries, and historical studies have tended to follow the sources in this regard, touching on another ruler only when a specific bilateral event occurred. All of these monarchs did, however, face the same threats: the nomadic tribes of Pechenegs and Cumans of the steppe, and indeed the Seljuk Turks both in Anatolia and further East, who were a constant source of raids and even full blown invasion, as Byzantium in particular discovered to its cost in the crises of empire before and during Alexios’ reign.2 Using this as a touchstone to evaluate cross-cultural exchange across the Black Sea world in this period (Figure 2.1), it can be seen that military campaigns were conducted against the Turks and steppe nomads by these monarchs at the same time as significant diplomatic marriages. Together with a few other tantalising pieces of evidence, this correlation implies co-ordination, and thus this paper will advocate that the changed political order of the late eleventh and early twelfth century facilitated increased co-operation across the Black Sea. In particular, though the comparatively weakened state of Byzantium faced grievous challenges, this new order brought new opportunities for multilateral action from which the Black Sea nations all sought to profit. In fact, this co-operation may account for a measure of the success of these monarchs.

2

Though much ink has been spilled concerning the significance of the Battle of Manzikert in 1071, and in particular Peter Frankopan has put forward the idea that when Alexios came to power in 1081 Anatolia was still in Byzantine hands, the fact of Turkish occupation of much of Asia Minor prior to the First Crusade is testament to the damage such enemies could do to any of the Black Sea nations. For an outline of these events see: Peter Frankopan, The First Crusade: The Call from the East (London: The Bodley Head, 2012), 42–86.

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Figure 2.1.  Powers and rulers of the Black Sea, early twelfth century.

The roots of this new multilateralism lay in the rising power of many Black Sea nations, and in the declining power of Byzantium. For Emperor Alexios I Komnenos, this new order held both promise and increased danger, as his initiatives at once provided new options for countering threats, and yet taking these options brought more problems. Illustrating the connectedness of the Black Sea, the marriage of his heir, the future John II, to the Hungarian princess Piroska Árpád was the product of a long chain of diplomatic steps and missteps back to the early days of Alexios’ reign.3 To deal with Pecheneg incursions in 1083, after diplomacy failed Alexios allied himself to the Cumans, who helped him win the Battle of

3

What follows in the next paragraph is an outline of the research published in Maximilian C. G. Lau, ‘Empress of the West’, Saint Piroska 880: Holiness and Power in Komnenian Constantinople (Budapest: Central European University Press, 2015) [Forthcoming].

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Leuvonion in 1091.4 However, some Cuman tribes turned on Alexios in 1095 and though Alexios may have attempted a pro-Cuman policy by arranging the marriage of his son Andronikos with Volodarovna of Tmutorokan, daughter of the Cuman’s main Rus ally, Prince Volodar Rostislavich of Premsyl in 1104, this not only failed to prevent further Cuman raids in 1114, but also led to Volodar’s enemies, Prince Vladimir II Monomakh of Kiev and King Coloman of Hungary, turning against Alexios.5 Vladimir and Coloman had been allied against Volodar since 1099, and after this established their own marriage ties, which may have led to both Rus raids

4

5

Anna Komnene, Annae Comnenae Alexias, D. R. Reinsch and A Kambylis, eds (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2001), 8.4-8.6, 243–53 [henceforth referenced as ‘Anna Komnene’]; Ioannis Zonarae Epitome Historiarum libri XIII–XVIII, CSHB 49, Vol III, T. Büttner-Wobst, ed. (Leipzig 1897), 18.22, 740 [henceforth referenced as ‘Zonaras’]; Frankopan, The First Crusade, 37–8. 1095 Raids: Anna Komnene, 10.1-4, 281–95; Zonaras, 18.23, 744; Alexandru Madgearu, Byzantine Military Organization on the Danube, 10th–12th Centuries (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 142. 1114 Raids: Anna Komnene, 14.8, 454–6; Madgearu, Organization on the Danube, 144. Marriage: Повесть временных лет 1, D. S. Likhachev, ed., V. P. Adrianova-Peretts, red. (Moscow: Изд-во Академии͡а наук СССР, 1950 [henceforth referenced as PVL]), 185; Полное собрание русских летописей, I, K. N. Serbin, ed. (Leningrad: Изд-во Академии͡а наук СССР, 1977 [henceforth referenced as PSRL), 280; PSRL II, Aleksej Aleksandrovič Šachmatov, ed. (Moscow: Изд-во Академии͡а наук СССР, 1923), 256; Kazhdan is sceptical as to the details of this marriage, as no Byzantine source explicitly confirms it, and there has been some debate as to the identity of the groom, though Magdalino suggests that John’s brother Isaac, despite being only eleven at the time, is the most likely, in particular as Isaac’s son flees to the Rus in 1164: Paul Magdalino, Empire of Manuel I Komnenos 1143–1180 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 205. For an overview of sources and opinions see: Alexander Kazhdan, ‘Rus’-Byzantine Princely Marriages in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies Vol. 12/13, 419–20. For a standard diplomatic overview from the Rus perspective for Vladimir’s reign see: И. У. Будовнитсь, ‘Владимир Мономакх и его военнаиа доктринаь’, Исторические Записки 22 (1947), 42–100, for more recent scholarship for Alexios and the Rus see: Литаврин, Г. Г, Виэантия, Болгария, Древняя Русь (IX- начало XIIв.) (Moscow: Алетейя, 2000), 279–83 in particular.

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on Byzantine territory on the Danube, and Coloman considering a marriage alliance with Alexios’ nemesis, Bohemond of Taranto.6 This situation almost 6

Coloman, Vladimir and Bohemond: Márta Font and Monika Miklán, trans, Koloman the Learned (Szeged: Szegedi Középkorász Műhely, 2001), 73–4; Zoltan J. Kosztolnyik, The dynastic policy of the Árpáds, Géza I to Emery (1074–1204) (Boulder, CO: East European Monographs, 2006), 101–2; John Tuzson, István II (1116–1131): A chapter in medieval Hungarian history (Boulder, CO: East European Monographs, 2002), 51; Ferenc Makk, The Árpáds and the Comneni: Political relations between Hungary and Byzantium in the 12th Century (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1989), 13; Paul Stephenson, Byzantium’s Balkan Frontier: A Political Study of the Northern Balkans, 900–1204 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 148–9; Victor Spinei, The Romanians and the Turkic Nomads North of the Danube Delta from the Tenth to the Mid-Thirteenth Century. East Central and Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 450–1450 (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 124; Madgearu, Organization on the Danube, 148–9. The Rus raid goes unmentioned by Greek sources but is mentioned by several Rus Chronicles, and it has been noted by Spinei that these, together with contemporary Rus goods found in the archeology of the region, imply that prince Vladimir II Monomakh of Kiev was genuinely interested in the Danube region. The paucity of information from Anna Komnene or Zonaras about this period, plus the fact that John’s own longer conflict with the Venetians goes all but unmentioned in Greek sources, leads to a likelihood that a single expedition embarrassing to the emperor would not be referred to by Greek sources. Madgearu, Organization on the Danube, 144; V. Spinei, The Romanians and the Turkic Nomads, 124–5; for the Rus expedition see: PVL I, 176, 201; ‘Ипатіевская летопись’, PSRL II, 7–8; ‘Летопись по Bоскресенскому списку’, PSRL VII (St Petersburg: Typography of Edward Pratts, 1856), 24; ‘Густинская летопись’, PSRL II, 291; ‘Летописный сборникъ, именуемый Патрі-а ршею или Hиконовскою летописью I’, PSRL IX (St Petersburg: Typography of Edward Pratts, 1862), 150 (where the events are dated to 1117); for the material culture findings see: I. Barnea, ‘Byzance, Kiev et l’Orient sur le Bas-Danube du Xe au XIIe siècle’, Nouvelles études d’histoire (Bucharest, 1955), 173–7; V. B. Perkhavko, ‘Russia’s trade with Byzantium’s Danubian provinces in the eleventhtwelfth centuries’, in I. Ševčenko and G. G. Litavrin, eds, Acts XVIIIth International Congress of Byzantine Studies, Selected Papers: Main and Communications, Moscow, 1991, II (Shepherdstown, 1996), 13–18. Victor Spinei’s work has been critiqued to an unusually scathing degree, with one review opening with: ‘why this book has been translated into English and published by an academic press is inexplicable’, see N. Berend, ‘Review of Victor Spinei, The Romanians and the Turkic Nomads North of the Danube Delta from the Tenth to the Mid-Thirteenth Century: East Central and Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 450–1450 (Brill: Leiden, 2009)’, The Medieval Review 1

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led to a nightmare Kievan-Hungarian-Norman alliance against Byzantium, which Alexios seems to have only prevented by allowing Coloman free reign to invade Dalmatia, jeopardising his Venetian alliance, and marrying his heir to Piroska, symbolically betrothed on campaign against the Normans.7 Overall, Alexios’ policies were either overly short-sighted in failing to appreciate the effect overtures to the Cumans would have on others, or at least flawed policies that prioritised the elimination of the Pechenegs over other concerns. This was in addition to the tribal nature of the Cumans which meant that one treaty would not guarantee imperial security.8 Alexios’ weakness in comparison to previous emperors, and thus the near parity in status and resources between the emperor and contemporary rulers, had thus led to the empire and its rivals looking around for allies, as none of them could go it alone, and each had something to gain from coalition against either each other, or their nomadic enemies. The shift from Byzantine hegemony to a more multi-polar political order created

7 8

(2012), 545, though even she does admit the detailed political history of the region is useful, being a collation of information from various more competent scholars. Spinei’s response to this is however equally pursuant, defending his analysis well, even if he also implies Berend is a Stalinist commissar, see V. Spinei, . For my purposes I only use the less controversial aspects of his work and see no need to get involved in their feud. Betrothal: Sathas Anonymous, Μεσαιωνικὴ βιβλιοθήκη, K. Sathas, ed. (Venice: Typois tou Chronou, 1894), 181–2. Both Rus sources and Al-Idrisi reference that at some point during the twelfth century the Cumans ceased to be under a single leadership, implying they had been more than a loose alliance of tribes under a strong chieftain, and had divided into at least the ‘Black Cumans’ and ‘White Cumans’ – labels that Curta points out reflect Al-Idrisi’s scholarly approach more than political reality, but which do imply political disunity. Hungarian sources place the ‘Black Cumans’ in the steppes to the east of the Carpathians, which may also be the ‘Savage Cumans’ referenced in Rus sources opposed to the other Cumans. Al-Idrisi, Géographie d’Édrisi, P. A. Jaubert, trans. (Paris, 1840), 400–1; Florin Curta, Southeastern Europe in the Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 311–12; V. Spinei, Ultimele valuri migratoare la nordul Mării Negre și al Dunării de Jos (Iași, 1996), 125–6; P. B. Golden, ‘The Polovcii Dikii’, Harvard Ukrainian Studies, Vols 3 and 4 (1979–1980), 296–309.

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a situation where its actors were proactively looking for alliance and cooperation in a way that had been far less necessary before, as the decline of the empire had opened up new opportunities for advantage against the challenges these polities, and their rivals, faced. To take marriages as an example, Maria of Alania had been the first foreign empress since Eirene the Khazar had married Constantine V in 732, and yet from Piroska-Eirene to 1204 all but the usurping Emperor Alexios III Angelos’ wife Euphrosyne Doukaina Kamatera were foreigners, and a similar pattern can be seen in other royal courts. The international order that was the inheritance of John II Komnenos and his contemporaries therefore brought with it a freshly connected Black Sea world, and it is perhaps no accident that the shared Christianity of these nations made them more naturally allies against the threat of their shared Seljuk, Cuman and Pecheneg enemies. The most important member of this new order for John was the resurgent Georgia under King David IV ‘the Builder’. As the twelfth century began David conquered Kakheti, and with the defeat of a Seljuk invasion in 1105 at the Battle of Ertzukhi he embarked on a series of campaigns to capture the key fortresses and towns of Samshvilde, Rustavi, Gishi and Lori between 1110 and 1118, before turning to a campaign against one of the Cuman tribes at the time of Alexios’ death.9 It was this moment that initially inspired this paper: Zonaras reports that as Alexios died, David’s ambassadors were in Constantinople and were among the first to acclaim John as the new emperor.10 No specific reason is given by Zonaras for their intriguing presence, but they had already 9

10

‘Life of David, King of Kings’, in S. Qaukhchishvili, ed. and Katherine Vivian, trans., The Georgian Chronicle: The Period of Giorgi Lasha (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1991), 19–20, 26, 28; P. B. Golden, ‘The Turkic people and Caucasia’, in Ronald Grigor Suny, ed., Transcaucasia, Nationalism and Social Change: Essays in the History of Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia (Ann Arbor: University of Michagan Press, 1983), 59; idem, ‘Cumanica I: The Qipcaqs in Georgia’, Archivum Eurasiae Medii Aevi 4 (1984), 57–64; idem, ‘Nomads in a Sedentary World: The case of pre-Chinggisid Rus and Georgia’, in Anatoly Michailovich Khazanov and André Wink, eds, Nomads in the Sedentary World (Richmond, Surrey: Curzon, 2001), 46–51; Spinei, The Romanians and the Turkic Nomads, 128. Zonaras, 18.28, 763.

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arranged the marriage of Princess Katya of Georgia, daughter of David, together with another unnamed foreign bride from the Caucuses.11 It has been suggested that Katya married either John’s brother Isaac (a scenario which assumes he did not in fact marry the daughter of the Rus Prince Volodar of Premsyl, as Isaac’s son’s 1164 flight to the Rus suggests), or John’s heir the young Alexios, or Alexios Bryennios Doukas, the son of Anna Komnene and Nikephoros Bryennios, the latter member of the imperial family being the most likely according to the latest scholarship, while the other unnamed bride married Alexios Bryennios Doukas’ brother John in the same ceremony.12 Whoever she married however, this alliance conducted in the very last years of Alexios’ life aligned the two expansionist, ‘rebuilding’ monarchs against the Turks in Anatolia, so that both 11

12

The twelfth-century Georgian Chronicle does not mention who exactly Katya marries, only that she and her sister Tamar (who married Shirvanshah Manuchehr III of Shirvan) reflect their father’s glory by marrying the potentates of the east and west: ‘The History of David, King of Kings’, Rewriting Caucasian History: The Medieval Armenian Adaption of the Georgian Chronicles, R. W. Thomson, trans. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1996), 325; M-F. Brosset, Histoire de la Géorgie de l’Antiquité au XIXe siècle (St Petersburg: Imprimerie de l’Académie Impériale des Sciences, 1849), 360; R. Prinke, ‘Kata of Georgia’, Foundations 3 (2011), 489–502. Georgian historiography conventionally accepts Isaac as the husband, while Gautier and Sturdza argue for the young soon to be co-emperor Alexios. Varzos and Jeffreys have argued for Alexios Bryennios Doukas, principally because of the date being around 1116 means that the sons of John and the sons of Nikephoros and Anna would have had almost equal standing at court, and the Rus evidence telling us that John’s co-emperor, the young Alexios, married a Rus princess in 1122, and so unless Katya died only a few years into her marriage (of which there is no evidence), she must have married another grandson of Alexios, of whom Alexios Bryennios Doukas is the most likely. Full arguments to be found at: Zonaras, 18.28, 761; P. Gautier, ‘L’Obituaire du Typikon du Pantocrator’, REB 27 (1969), 209; Magdalino, Empire of Manuel, 205; K. Varzos, Hē genealogia tōn Komnēnōn I (Thessalonikē: Kentron Vyzantinōn Ereunōn, 1984), 308, 316–18, n. 66 for the unnamed bride; L. Garland & S. Rapp. ‘Mary “of Alania”: Woman and Empress Between Two Worlds’, in L. Garland, ed., Byzantine Women: Varieties of Experience, 800–1200 (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 121; E. Jeffreys, ‘The Sebastokratorissa Irene as Patron’, in L. Theis, M. Mullett, M. Grünbart, with G. Fingarova and M. Savage, eds, Female Founders in Byzantium and Beyond (Vienna: Böhlau Verlag, 2011/12), 179.

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Alexios’ final Philomelion campaign, and John’s opening campaign in the same region were being carried out contemporaneously with David’s own offensives westwards. This grand strategic two-pronged assault upon the Turks was to their mutual benefit. As David IV took Lori in 1118 and then continued campaigning against the Turks in western Georgia until 1120, John conquered Laodikeia and Sozopolis in 1119 and 1120, the result being that the Turks in Anatolia could not co-ordinate a response as they were fighting at both the western and eastern ends of Anatolia.13 Indeed, Ibn al-Athir relates that Constantine Gabras, governor of Trebizond and future rebel, was defeated with 5,000 men by Balak, governor of Melitene. Though uncorroborated by other accounts, if true then John did in fact directly support David in battle using troops from his remaining Eastern provinces, and an expedition to the East is not without its precedents from the eleventh century.14 Equally, similar co-operation between Byzantine and Georgian troops had occurred during the incursion of the Seljuk Ibrahim Inal into Armenia that culminated in the Battle of Kapetrou in 1048. Thus John and David may well have been reactivating an alliance forged when the Seljuks first threatened Georgia and Byzantium.15 Even discounting Gabras’ expedition, military co-ordination is even further suggested by the decision of both monarchs to reorient themselves

John Kinnamos, Ioannis Cinnami Epitome rerum ab Ioanne et Alexio Comnenis gestarum (Bonn: Weberi, 1836), 5–7; Niketas Choniates, Nicetae Choniatae Historia, J. L. van Dieten, ed. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 1975), 12–13; Ibn al-Athir, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kāmil fī’l-ta’rīkh Part 1, D. S. Richard, trans. (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 227. 14 This incident is particularly unusual as the defeat was said to have taken place at ‘the castle of Sarman in the area of Andukan’, and the only two Andukan’s known are in Ferghana, Transoxania, and at the village of Sarakhs in Khurasan, both of which are very far to the east. Though seemingly far beyond the Byzantine sphere of power projection, under Basil II an expedition went as far as Lake Urmia in Persia: C. Holmes, Basil II and the governance of the empire (976–1025) (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005), 484–5. 15 Paul Blaum, ‘Diplomacy Gone to Seed: A History of Byzantine Foreign Relations A.D. 1047–57’, The International Journal of Kurdish Studies 18 (2004), 1–56. 13

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after 1120. David marched to the Eastern Caucasus to fight first Turks and then Cumans, and John faced an invasion of nomads followed by a Serb insurrection; again, both monarchs faced similar threats and attained similar results. David was confronted by a coalition formed by the Seljuk Sultan Mahmud II, who at the tender age of sixteen consolidated the forces of his brother Tughrul of Nakhichevan, Najm ad-Din Ilghazi (who had formerly ruled an Armenian principality of Mayafariqin on the upper Tigris and had previously been offered the rule of Tblisi but refused due to fear of retribution from David), and Manuchehr III of Shirvan, who had married one of David’s other daughters but feared David might next target his own territory.16 Rather than reverse David’s successes, this coalition led to David and his son Demetrios’ greatest victory at the Battle of Didgori on 12 August 1121, where despite overwhelming odds their forces defeated the coalition, allowing David to expand his territory to include his new capital at Tblisi in 1122–1123, the emirate of Shirvan and the Caspian port of Derbent in 1124, defeating Cuman tribes en route.17 John on the other hand received word that nomadic barbarians, likened by Choniates to locusts, had crossed the Danube and had begun despoiling imperial territory.18 This invasion did not however occur without cause: in addition to the nomad desire for plunder and land, it should also be remembered that the Seljuks were just as able to carry out long distance diplomacy, and in the face of successive Byzantine and Georgian victories this would be the obvious time for them to have renewed their own nomadic connections.19 Secondly, Rus sources record that Vladimir of Kiev attempted to expel the nomads from his lands at this time, specifically ‘History of David, King of Kings’, Thomson, trans., 309–53; D. Rayfield, Edge of Empires: A History of Georgia (London: Reaktion Books, 2012), 92–3. 17 Ibid. 18 Choniates, Historia, 13; Kinnamos, Epitome, 7. 19 This is a field requiring further study, but for an overview see Abid, MuhammadAfzal, ‘The Nature of Seljuk Diplomacy’, in al-Misbāh fī al-Nahw By Nāsir al-Dīn al-Mutarrizī al-Nahwī (d. 610/1213) A Critical Edition of the Text with the Life History of the Author (Unpublished PhD Thesis: Durham University, 2010), 31–2, . 16

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mentioning Oghuz Turk, Pecheneg and Berendei tribes.20 Though the chroniclers imply this was a sudden invasion, the way John deals with it suggests that the whole affair may have been managed, possibly in coordination with Vladimir. Both Choniates and Kinnamos mention that the emperor spent a great deal of time on preparations for the expedition, with Choniates specifically saying John took a while to, ‘gather the Roman forces, equipping them with the best arms possible.’21 He then loaded his hand with more advantages, launching a diplomatic offensive to bring some of the tribes over to him through ‘feasts …/and gifts of silk garments and silver cups and basins’, with Kinnamos saying this was successful, and many changed allegiance. Choniates tells us that this policy diverted the nomads, allowing John to bring more of his forces up against them while they considered peace.22 John continued to seize every advantage regarding the battle itself: attacking on his terms in the morning twilight, while many of the chiefs still had not decided whether they were going to come over to him or not, sapping the will of the tribesmen to fight as they knew they could attain what they wanted by surrendering, and in carefully selecting the field of battle itself.23 Beroea, modern Stara Zagora, was his choice of location for over wintering, and so the battle taking place at that location meant that John had brought his opponents to him. He had also fought off major Pecheneg and Cuman invasions from Anchilalos on the Black Sea alongside his father Alexios, a place noted by Stephenson as an ideal location 20 ‘Прозна Володимеръ Береньдичи изъ Руси, а Торци и Печенези сами бежаша’ and ‘Ипатіевская летопись’, PSRL II, 8. Also: ‘Летопись по Bоскресенскому списку’, PSRL VII, 25; ‘Густинская летопись’, PSRL II, 292; ‘Холмогорская летопись’, PSRL I, 33, 42; the aforementioned controversial work by Spinei has thus suggested Monomakh’s offensive may have caused the nomadic invasion using much the same sources as those of the possible Rus invasion discussed in Chapter 1, n. 23; Spinei, The Romanians and Turkic Nomads, 126. 21 Kinnamos, Epitome, 7; Choniates, Historia, 14; Translation: O City of Byzantium, Annals of Niketas Choniates, H. J. Magoulias, trans. (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1984), 10. 22 Ibid. 23 Ibid.

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for communications with Constantinople and the lower Danube region, as well as being an impregnable fortress that blocked access to Thrace.24 This route having failed the Nomads previously, they had attempted to go further west into Bulgaria for their final invasion in 1114, but this too had been unsuccessful. Therefore Beroea, astride the only other major route through the Haemus Mountains into Thrace and Macedonia, was their only option, giving John plenty of time to acquaint himself with the battlefield and let the enemy come to him, before stealing the initiative by making the initial attack himself, in that twilight hour of April 1122.25 In addition to these indications that this ‘surprise invasion’ was remarkably well managed, as with Georgia there had been a significant, recent marriage between Byzantium and Kiev, that implied if not co-ordination, then at least that Byzantium had intelligence regarding the nomadic invasion that allowed John to make these preparations. John’s heir and, since 1119, co-emperor, the young Alexios had married Prince Vladimir’s II Monomakh of Kiev’s granddaughter Dobrodjeja Mstislavna, known as either Eupraxia, Eudokia or Eirene to Byzantium.26 Coupled with this 24 Stephenson, Byzantium’s Balkan Frontier, 104. 25 Dating from S. A. Ivanov and A. M. Lubotsky, ‘An Alanic marginal note and the exact date of John II’s battle with the Pechenegs’, Byzantinische Zeitschrift 103/2 (2011), 602. 26 See n. 12; this identification has a controversial history. Dobrodjeja may be identified with the Eudokia in the Pantokrator typikon, but equally the Rus sources refer to Dobrodjeja as Eupraxia, though these identifications are not mutually exclusive in the translation to Russian as noted by Paul Gautier, ‘L’Obituaire du Typikon du Pantocrator’, RÉB 27 (1969), 129; P. Gautier, ed. and trans., ‘Le Typikon du Christ Sauveur Pantocrator’, RÉB 32 (1974), 249; ‘Густинская летопись’, PSRL II, 292; ‘Ипат’евская летопис’, PSRL II.1, Šachmatov, Aleksej Aleksandrovič, ed. (Moscow: Изд-во Академии͡а наук СССР, 1923), 1122; Magdalino, Empire of Manuel, 206–7; Chalandon also cites an unknown Annales de Goustin who tells us that his wife Dobrodjeja was called Eirene, Ferdinand Chalandon, Jean II Comnène, 1118–1143, et Manuel I Comnène, 1143–1180, Reprint (2 Vols, New York: Burt Franklin, 1912), 13; Repeated by Barbara Hill who sees Dobrodjeja as Alexios’ first wife, Barbara Hill, Imperial Women in Byzantium 1025–1204 Power, Patronage and Ideology (Harlow: Longman, 1999), 107; Kazhdan is sceptical as to who exactly she could have married, but in the end can only discount Alexios because he supposedly married Katya of

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was the enduring Byzantine control over the Crimea, which would almost certainly have given the empire an early warning as to developments on the steppe.27 Though control over the Crimea, a marriage, and the surprising amount of preparations John was able to make are not conclusive proof of a Kiev-Byzantine alliance, such co-operation is also suggested between Kiev and Georgia only a few years before that mirrors this situation closely. The History of David relates that a Cuman horde led by Atrak (also known as Otrok) accepted a treaty to settle and fight for David the Builder, and scholars have suggested Atrak was originally driven from the steppe by one of Vladimir’s offensives.28 David was campaigning through the Daryal Pass in 1117–1118 to subdue the Ossetians to the north of his kingdom, during which he is said to have settled 40,000 Cuman families in

27

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Georgia. Accepting that Katya married Alexios Bryennios Doukas however makes the young Alexios the only possible candidate: Kazhdan, ‘Rus-Byzantine Princely Marriages’, 422–3. Noted by Litavrin: Литаврин, Болгария, Древняя Русь, 292–3. A poem written by court rhetor Theodore Prodromos for the wedding does not specifically mention the bride’s origin aside from a reference to her not being the first ‘to be given from northern lands’, and indeed he calls upon her to forget her ‘ancestral origin and kin’ and tells her to work together with her husband to ‘raise Romans’ – possibly implying an almost embarrassingly ‘barbaric’ origin of the bride as a Rus princess may represent. Theodore Prodromos: historische Gedichte, Wolfram Hörandner, ed. (Vienna: Verlag d. Österr. Akad. d. Wiss., 1974) Poem I, lines 151–61. Though the theme of Cherson is all but invisible in twelfth-century sources, the fortifications of the harbour of Cherson were rebuilt at the end of the eleventh century, while some of the eastern part of the province was occupied by the Cumans. Alexios’ and John’s various diplomatic relations and marriage alliances with Rus princes, and particularly Alexios’ engagement of John’s brother Andronikos to Volodarovna of Tmutorokan make a lot more sense when we see favourable trade relations and intelligence and management of the steppe peoples in the area as a Byzantine foreign policy priority. See Angeliki Papageorgiou, ‘Theme of Cherson (klimata)’, Encyclopedia of the Hellenic World, Black Sea, L. Spyridon, trans. , accessed 20 April 2015; J. Lazaropoulos, ‘Ἔτι σύνοψις τῶν τοῦ ἁγίου θαυμάτων μερικὴ ἐκ τῶν πλείστων’, Fontes Historiae Imperii Trapezuntini, 1, A. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, ed. (Amsterdam: Hakkert, 1965), 3, 10–118, 117. ‘History of David, King of Kings’, Thomson, trans., 325–7; Golden, ‘Turkic people and Caucasia’, 59; idem, ‘Cumanica I’, 57–64; idem, ‘Nomads in a Sedentary World’, 46–51; Spinei, Romanians and the Turkic Nomads, 128.

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Georgia, granting them lands in exchange for serving in his armies as an alternative to battle.29 Rayfield has suggested that though Vladimir and David never met, there is evidence of diplomatic contact between them via embassies, pointing out that Rus sources also mention Vladimir opening the ‘iron gates’ (the Daryal Pass) and chasing the Cumans out of his lands, such that Vladimir and David appear to be working together against the nomads: driving them out of Kiev in order to settle them in Georgia.30 The seventeenth-century historian Paul of Aleppo indeed explicitly mentions such co-operation, supposedly drawing on now lost sources that recorded that Rus soldiers helped David transfer the Cumans to Georgia.31 This co-operation allowed David to produce what Rayfield has labelled a pax Georgiana in the North Caucasus: David divorced his Armenian wife Rusudan and married Atrak’s daughter Garandukht, while he also betrothed his youngest daughter Rusudan to Jadaros, heir to the Ossetian throne (all c.1117–1118), again demonstrating the importance of diplomatic marriages.32 Such benefits were felt by John after his victory at Beroea in 1122 as well: Kinnamos tells us that the Pechenegs served for a long time, and indeed both Greek and Latin sources mention them on multiple occasions as being

R. V. Metreveli, Некоторые вопросы внешней политики Грузии в средние века: XII в (Tblisi: Издательство Тбилисского университета, 1995), 3–25; Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 90–1. 30 For the Rus sources see above, Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 91. 31 Incorrectly called an eighteenth-century historian in Rayfield’s Edge of Empires, 91, the Paul of Aleppo reference was discovered in one version of the manuscript by Metreveli, Некоторые вопросы внешней политики Грузии в средние века, 3–25. Unfortunately no reference is made to what his exact sources were, and so this possibility of direct contact cannot be confirmed. 32 ‘History of David, King of Kings’, Thomson, trans., 325; Golden, ‘Nomads in a Sedentary World’, 46–51; Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 91–2; the arrival of Queen Rusudan in Jerusalem is preserved in a letter from praecentor Ansellus of Jerusalem to G (Gerbert of Galoni), archbishop of Paris, dated by Bautier and Rayfield to 1 August 1120, Cartulaire générale de Paris, R. de Lasteyrie, ed. (Paris: Impr. nationale, 1887), 172; Z. Avalishvili, ‘The Cross from Overseas’, Georgica, Vols II-III (1936), 3–11; G. Bautier, ‘L’envoi de la relique de la Vraie Croix à Notre-Dame de Paris en 1120’, Bibliothèque de l’école des chartes 219 (1971), 387–97. 29

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a valued part of the imperial army.33 Choniates tells us that John sent many of the nomads to settle along the Western borders of the empire, in villages still surviving to this time of writing.34 Others (such as the ones who came over to John during the winter) no doubt remained in the Paristrion, and John divided them up into smaller, more manageable groupings.35 This policy was successful enough that the Pechenegs at least seem to have completely integrated, disappearing from the historical record completely over the course of the next century with a final mention in a Rus source in 1169.36 Indeed, both the Berendei against whom Vladimir originally campaigned and many Pechenegs and Cumans settled in Kiev and Hungary themselves at this time, and though this is not revolutionary in itself as Hungary in particular had long been settling nomads by the twelfth century, the conjunction of the same process going on all around the Black Sea is striking.37 33 Kinnamos, Epitome, 8; Pecheneg troops in specific are used to capture the town of Nistrion near Shayzar in 1138, Choniates, Historia, 29; Pecheneg troops in service to either the Byzantines or the Asenids harass the armies of the Second and Third Crusades in 1147 and 1189, Odo of Deuil, De Profectione Ludovici VII in Orientem, V. Gingerick Berry, ed. (New York: W. W. Norton, 1948), 40–1 and Das Itinerarium peregrinorum: eine zeitgenössische englische Chronik zum dritten Kreuzzug in ursprünglicher Gestalt, H. E. Mayer, ed., Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores 18 (Anton Hiersemann: Stuttgart, 1962), 21; an exception is that some join in the Serbian rebellion against Manuel in 1150, but this, if anything, shows them to be firmly part of the new order rather than as an independent people. Kinnamos, Epitome, 107. 34 During fieldwork in Serbia in 2014, I passed through a village with the name of Pečenog near Kraljevo, located at 43° 46′ 0″ N, 20° 46′ 0″ E. 35 Choniates, Historia, 16. In this way John avoids a problem that afflicted the empire from the first large scale settling of foederati barbarian allies, whereby eventually the cohesive barbarian tribe always attempted to take over the land in their own right, whether Franks, Visigoths or many others. See Peter Heather, ‘The late Roman art of client management: Imperial defence in the fourth century west’, in Walter Pohl, Ian Wood and Helmut Reimitz, eds, The Transformation of Frontiers from Late Antiquity to the Carolingians (Leiden: Brill, 2001) for an overview of the problem, discussed further in the following chapters with regard to specific dealing with both Serbian and Turkish clients. 36 ‘Ипатіевская летопись’, PSRL II, 96; Spinei, Romanians and Turkic Nomads, 127. 37 Kiev: ‘Прозна Володимеръ Береньдичи изъ Руси, а Торци и Печенези сами бежаша’, and ‘Ипатіевская летопись’, PSRL II, 8. Also: ‘Летопись по

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Symbolic of this Black Sea connectedness as these rulers all settled their former nomadic foes was the introduction of the ‘festival of the Pechenegs’, a holiday noted by Choniates as still celebrated in his day.38 Ivanov and Lubotsky have produced a pioneering article on how the twelfth century was a heyday for Orthodox Christianity in Alania and the North Caucasus, with one of the major pieces of evidence being a 1275 manuscript that mentions the celebration of the feast.39 The transmission of the festival in itself proves the connectedness of the Black Sea, but the specific celebration of this victory of the empire over the nomads suggests that the Orthodox Alanians may have been commemorating their own deliverance from the Nomad threat, as Kiev and Georgia’s own victories over the nomads had occurred at the same time. This festival may therefore represent the cultural memory of a moment when the Orthodox powers of Byzantium, Kiev and Georgia had acted in concert to defeat both the Turks and the steppe nomads. The sheer

Bоскресенскому списку’, PSRL VII, 25; ‘Густинская летопись’, PSRL II, 292; ‘Холмогорская летопись’, PSRL I, 42; Spinei, Romanians and the Turkic Nomads, 126. Hungary: Göckenjan, Hansgerd, Hilfsvölker und Grenzwächter im mittelalterlichen Ungarn (Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner GmbH, 1972), 96–103; A. P. Horváth, Pechenegs, Cumans, Iasians: Steppe peoples in medieval Hungary (Budapest: Corvina, 1989), 31–8. Some Pechenegs were alleged to have become lifeguards for Stephen II, but this could be a literary trope to demonise Stephen: Simonis de Kéza, Gesta Hungarorum, L. Veszprémy and F. Schaer, eds and trans (Budapest: Central European University Press, 1999), 138–9; ‘Chronicon Pictum’, Scriptores Rerum Hungaricarum I, I. Szentpétery, ed. (Budapest: Academia litter. hungarica atque Societate histor. hungarica in parten impensarum venietibus, typographiae Reg. universitatis litter. hung. sumptibus, 1938), 419–47; Tuzson, Istvan II, 13. Berend has previously noted that Georgia, Bulgaria and Hungary saw the settling of Cumans: Nora Berend, At the Gate of Christendom Jews, Muslims and ‘Pagans’ in Medieval Hungary c.1000-c.1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), 69. 38 Choniates, Historia, 16 39 The basis of their article is an Ossetic colophon in a manuscript dated to 1275 concerning the date of ‘Pecheneg Sunday’. Their point on the Ossetic expression that literally translates as ‘to exterminate the Pechenegs’, also meaning ‘to strive, hanker, yearn for something’ is also evocative of the festival: Ivanov and Lubotsky, ‘An Alanic Marginal Note’, 602–3.

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amount of apparent coincidence regarding diplomatic marriages and military action demand an analysis of the Black Sea in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries as an interconnected world whose rulers actively pursued multilateral action against their common enemies. Sources may give the impression that John, Vladimir and David operated in a vacuum as the only instigators of events, but through comparison such a narrative cannot be sustained. Their success must therefore be reassessed as being a product of their mastery of their interconnected world and their dealings with the other political actors within that world, rather than exclusively on their own deeds. Though we have no treaty that explicitly states an alliance was formed, the case for such co-operation occurring must be reckoned with.

Zuzana Černáková

3 Remembering a Cross-Cultural Encounter: The Representations of the Byzantine General Tatikios in Twelfth-Century France

abstract This paper is dedicated to one particular inter-cultural encounter that took place during the First Crusade between the Western pilgrims and the Byzantine army officer Tatikios, who accompanied them as the emperor’s representative. It re-addresses the famous issue of his departure from the siege of Antioch from the cultural perspective. It explores various ways in which Tatikios was portrayed in twelfth-century France in order to identify the formative factors of the French public’s view of the Byzantine general. The main purpose is to demonstrate that the specific audience had access to two contradictory traditions of representation: the defamatory propaganda of Latin historiography and the laudatory image of vernacular poetry. Both interpretations are set against the probable reality of Tatikios’ relations with the crusaders. The paper finally suggests that despite a lesser number of preserved manuscripts it was the latter view that enjoyed greater influence.

The close of the eleventh century saw a cross-cultural event par excellence – the First Crusade.1 This mass migration through alien territories generated a powerful impulse for manifold interactions that involved Byzantium as one of the main parties. En route the crusaders came into contact with numerous Byzantine representatives, among others, megas primikerios Tatikios, the chief officer of the emperor’s household guard.2 Tatikios was a trusted servant and friend of Alexios I Komnenos. This must have been also one of the reasons why the emperor entrusted him with the leadership of the imperial troops that were to accompany the pilgrims to the Holy Land. 1 2

This research was funded by a grant from the Ministry of Education, Science, Research and Sport of the Slovak Republic (VEGA 1/0427/14). On the institution of megas primikerios see Rodolphe Guilland, Recherches sur les institutions Byzantines, 2 Vols (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 1967), i, 312–32.

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Despite many merits in Alexios’ service it was this particular event that brought him the greatest historical renown. However, it was not the kind of fame he would be proud of. His reputation among Westerners suffered significantly as a result of his departure from the siege of Antioch in January or early February 1098.3 The episode gave rise to many contrasting interpretations in Greek and Latin sources as well as in modern scholarship. From the beginning it was used as a political instrument in the conflict over the possession of Antioch between the Byzantine emperor and famous Norman crusader Bohemond of Taranto.4 The memory of this encounter, especially of the abandonment of allies, then found its firm place in Western texts of the following century. Consequently, it continued to influence the Latins’ perceptions of the Byzantines in a completely different spatial and temporal setting. It is the aim of the present paper to explore this literary legend of Tatikios that took root especially in the Kingdom of France and the French cultural space. The problem is approached from the point of view of the twelfth-century French audience which was exposed to images of the Byzantine general not only through the Latin histories of the crusade, but also through vernacular poetry. The purpose of my analysis is to demonstrate that the public had access to two contradictory traditions of representation that correspond with a division between the literary genres. The argument is based on thirteen texts that were either written or at least accessible in French territory in the twelfth century,5 which is understood 3

4

5

He left shortly before the battle with the coalition army led by emir Ridwan of Aleppo that took place ‘in die martis ante caput ieiunii, quinto idus februarii’, that is on Tuesday, 9 February 1098. Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolmitanorum: The Deeds of Franks and the Other Pilgrims to Jerusalem, R. Hill, ed. (London: T. Nelson, 1962), 38. Anna Komnene, Annae Comnenae Alexias: Pars prior, Prologomena et textus, D. R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, eds (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2001), 9, IV, 3, 332–3, cited hereafter as Alexias; Peter Frankopan, The First Crusade: The Call from the East (Cambridge: The Belknap Press of Harvard University, 2012), 159. The texts written in the Kingdom of France include the historical works of Raymond of Aguilers, Peter Tudebode, Baldric of Bourgueil, Robert the Monk, Guibert of Nogent, Gilo of Paris, Orderic Vitalis and the vernacular poems Chanson d’Antioche

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in a broader sense as the period between the First and the Fourth Crusades, the milestones of East-West relations. Before we proceed to the examination of Tatikios’ representation in the sources it is, however, necessary to introduce him as he appears in current historical research. Ironically, the man who played such an important role in the shaping of Westerners’ opinions of Byzantium was not himself of Byzantine origin. According to princess – historian Anna Komnene, his father was a Saracen captive, which might have implied Turkish, Arabic or other non-Christian background.6 Yet, by the time of the crusade Tatikios must have had thoroughly assimilated into Byzantine society. At least in the eyes of the crusaders he was a representative of Greek culture,7 in which he had been also raised from an early age. The Byzantine histories describe him as a loyal man and steadfast, undaunted fighter.8 Some two decades at the head of Alexios’ personal escort as well as his personal intervention against the conspiracy of Nikephoros Diogenes in 1094 account

6

7

8

and Chanson de Jérusalem. Other texts that were most probably accessible in France are the anonymous Gesta Francorum and chronicles of Albert of Aachen, William of Tyre and Gilbert of Mons. Alexias, 4, IV, 3, 127. The majority of historians accepts Brand’s theory about Turkish origin, which, certainly is the most probable as the Turks were the main enemy of the Empire when Tatikios’ father was captured by John Komnenos (father of the future emperor) during a looting incursion. Charles M. Brand, ‘The Turkish Element in Byzantium. Eleventh-Twelfth Centuries’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 43 (1989), 3. Brand’s conclusion can be also supported by the location of the family estates of the Komnenoi in Kastamon (see Paul Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos, 1143–1180 (Cambridge, New York: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 185 n. 13), that is in the vicinity of Turkish lands. Baldric of Bourgueil, The Historia Ierosolimitana of Baldric of Bourgueil, S. Biddlecombe, ed. (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2014), 43; Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, 5 Vols, M. Chibnall, ed. and trans. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1975), v, 76; William of Tyre, Willelmi Tyrensis archiepiscopi Chronicon, 2 Vols, H. B. C. Huygens, ed. (Turnholti: Brepols, 1986), i, 193 (cited hereafter as William of Tyre, Chronicon). Nikephoros Bryennios, Nicephori Bryennii Historiarum libri quattuor, P. Gautier, ed. and trans. (Bruxelles: Byzantion, 1975) 287–9; Alexias, 4, IV, 3, 127; 6, XIV, 7, 202; 11, IX, 1, 348.

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for the close relationship he had with the Byzantine ruler. By 1096 he had led numerous and usually successful military campaigns. With an exception of the great battles at Dyrrachion and Dristra that ended in a total disintegration of the emperor’s armies he had never took flight before an enemy. Nevertheless, his approach to military assignments was a careful one, compatible with the Byzantine school of tactics.9 This might have had an effect on his evaluation of the situation at Antioch in 1098. In the beginning of the year the situation of the crusading army was quite critical. The siege of the city was nowhere near a successful end and the Christians were being decimated by famine, epidemics, Turkish raids and desertions. In the midst of this utmost crisis Tatikios, who had accompanied the crusaders since June of the previous year, left the camp with an explanation that he was going to arrange supplies or even reinforcements from the Empire. However, he never came back and nor did the expected relief army. This is not a place to discuss all the mysteries that encircle circumstances and intentions of Tatikios’ departure. For such debate a reader can turn to the detailed analyses of J. Shepard, R-J. Lilie, J. France and others.10 Nevertheless, several points must be highlighted. Firstly, Tatikios as a battle-hardened professional soldier could hardly have lacked personal courage and it is hard to believe that he would impulsively flee to save his own life. Moreover, the manner of his departure (especially a calm reaction of the crusaders, Byzantine troops left in the camp and several hints

9

10

Brand, ‘The Turkish Element in Byzantium, Eleventh-Twelfth Centuries’, 3–4, 13. Basile Skoulatos, Les personnages byzantins de l’Alexiade: Analyse prosopographique et synthèse (Louvain-la-Neuve: Éditions Nauwalaerts, 1980), 287–92; Alexis G. C. Savvides, ‘Varia Byzantinoturcica II: Taticius the Turcople’, Journal of Oriental and African Studies 3–4 (1991–1992), 235–6; Guilland, Recherches sur les institutions Byzantines, i, 313–15; Paul Gautier, ‘Le synode des Blachernes (fin 1094): Étude prosopographique’, Revue des études byzantines 29 (1971), 252–4. Jonathan Shepard, ‘When Greek Meets Greek: Alexius Comnenus and Bohemond in 1097–1098’, Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 1/12 (1988), 185–276; RalphJohannes Lilie, Byzantium and the Crusader States, 1096–1204 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 16–54; John France, ‘The Departure of Tatikios from the Crusader Army’, Historical Research, 110/44 (1971), 137–47.

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to such effect in later sources)11 suggests that he left with the approval or even commission of his allies. Secondly, there is no reason to suppose that his excuse for departure was a lie, even if he had had, as some scholars believe, also other ulterior motives.12 Thirdly, we do not know whether he did his best to fulfil his promises to the Western knights, but, ultimately, it was not up to him to decide this matter. He owed his loyalty primarily to Emperor Alexios, who had also the last word in the question of further co-operation with the Christians’ army. All things considered, Tatikios’ treacherous intentions and personal responsibility for the outcome of the whole affair are at least doubtful.13 Latin historians of the twelfth century were not concerned with such thoughts. They wrote with hindsight of the conflict that arose when the crusaders appropriated the lands that were claimed by Byzantium. Such a violation of mutual agreements could only have been exculpated if the emperor broke his oath first. The Byzantine betrayal by not providing help 11

12

13

Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolmitanorum, 35; Raymond of Aguilers, Le ‘Liber’ de Raymond d’Aguilers, John Hugh Hill and Laurita L. Hill, eds (Paris: Librarie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1969), 56; Peter Tudebode, Historia de Hierosolymitano Itinere, John Hugh Hill and Laurita L. Hill, eds (Paris: Librarie Orientaliste Paul Geuthner, 1977), 70; Robert the Monk, ‘Roberti Monachi Historia Hierosolimitana’, in Recueils des historiens des croisades, historiens occidentaux III (Paris: imprimerie impériale, 1866), 782; Guibert of Nogent, Dei Gesta per Francos et cinq autres textes, R. B. C. Huygens, ed. (Turnholti: Brepols, 1996), 183–4; Baldric of Bourgueil, The Historia Ierosolimitana, 44; ‘Historia Belli Sacri (Tudebodus imitatus et continuatus)’, in Recueils des historiens des croisades, historiens occidentaux III (Paris: imprimerie impériale, 1866), 189; William of Tyre, Chronicon, i, 263; Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History, v, 76. Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the journey to Jerusalem, Susan B. Edgington, ed. and trans. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2007), 310–12. In this I second Lilie’s argumentation. Lilie, Byzantium and the Crusader States, 1096–1204, 34–5. For other possible motives see e.g. France, ‘The Departure of Tatikios from the Crusader Army’, 140–5; Shepard, ‘When Greek Meets Greek’, 212–13, 227–41, 267–9; Ralph B. Yewdale, Bohemond I, Prince of Antioch (Princeton, 1924; repr. Amsterdam: Adolph M. Hakkert, 1970), 58. This is also one of the conclusions of my recent paper ‘“Grék Tatikios” a prvá križiacka výprava’, Byzantinoslovaca 5 (2014), 205–35, which surveys in better detail the general’s life and career in order to elucidate some aspects of his role during the crusade.

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thus became the main argument on the crusaders’ side.14 It is no coincidence that Tatikios, regardless of the reality of his relationship with the Westerners, was pinned down with labels of ‘coward’ and ‘traitor’. This image appears as early as the first eyewitness accounts of the crusade. In the anonymous Gesta Francorum he is described as an ‘enemy’ who ‘remains and will remain in perjury.’15 The author also imputes his withdrawal to the fear of the approaching Turkish army from Aleppo. Other copyists and followers of the Gesta tradition reproduced this picture, some adding to the abusive commentaries, some only repeating the original wording. Especially harsh was the famous anti-Byzantine propagandist, Guibert of Nogent, whose portrayal of the Byzantine representative has a touch of caricature: ‘Tetigus16 […] was a man heavy with age; his nose had been cut on some occasion or other, and for this reason he had a golden nose.’17 Just as the author of the Gesta Francorum, Guibert states that this ‘skilled liar, compelled by fear of the Turks as well as driven by the danger of starvation’ charmed the Latin princes with honeyed promises and ‘left, not at all fearing what punishment his perjury might incur.’18 One of the twelfth-century manuscripts of another Benedictine chronicle strengthens the impression 14 15

16 17

18

John France, ‘Anna Comnena, the Alexiad, and the First Crusade’, Reading Medieval Studies 10 (1983), 26–8; Frankopan, The First Crusade, 160. ‘…inimicus […] in periurio manet et manebit.’ Gesta Francorum et aliorum Hierosolmitanorum, 35. The translation is mine. However, all subsequent translations are, unless stated otherwise, taken from established bilingual editions or separate English translations. One of the Latin versions of Tatikios’ name. Some of the other forms are Tengus, Tacius, Tatinus, Tatin and Statin. ‘Tetigus […], vir siquidem gravis evo sed naso, qua nescio occasione, deciso et ob id utens aureo…’ Guibert of Nogent, Dei Gesta per Francos et cinq autres textes, 182. Translation is that of Levine: Guibert of Nogent, The Deeds of God through the Franks: A translation of Guibert de Nogent’s Gesta Dei per Francos, R. Levine, trans. (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1997), 72. Tatikios’ cut nose is reported by several independent sources and might have stemmed from reality. Černáková, ‘“Grék Tatikios” a prvá križiacka výprava’, 221 n. 122; Frankopan, The First Crusade, 144. ‘…hinc Turcorum timore coactus, illinc famis periculo coartatus, multa mendaciorum co-ornatione politus seniores adoritur…’ Guibert of Nogent, Dei Gesta per Francos et cinq autres textes, 182 (Levine, trans., 72–3).

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of treacherous intentions by claiming that Tatikios’ men whom he had left at Antioch as a pledge of his return secretly disappeared.19 That the negative representation of Tatikios’ behaviour was not constrained to the continuators of the Anonymous is clear from the work of another participant of the crusade, canon of Le Puy and chaplain of Count Raymond of Toulouse, Raymond of Aguilers. Raymond, too, ridicules the Byzantine’s facial mutilation by calling him ‘that disfigured one’.20 After obligatory accusations of ‘perjury and betrayal of friends’,21 and of cowardly flight, he adds threats of ‘eternal shame’ and ‘God’s curse’.22 Similarly, Albert of Aachen, the Lotharingian historian whose text seems to have been independent of the previous eyewitness traditions, comments on Tatikios’ fear and dishonesty. In this he compares him to other Christian deserters: ‘Tatikios with the cut-off nose who, terror-stricken as they were, had withdrawn in false faith from the allies …’23 The same motifs can be traced also in various other chronicles of different provenance and they unquestionably dominate historical writings of the period.24 However, if we had asked about Tatikios’ character among the audience of itinerant poets we would have probably heard an entirely different account. Or more correctly, we would have had to ask not about Tatikios, 19 Baldric of Bourgueil, The Historia Ierosolimitana, 44 n.e. 20 ‘ille truncus’ Raymond of Aguilers, Le ‘Liber’ de Raymond d’Aguilers, 55. Translation in Raymond of Aguilers, Historia Francorum Qui Ceperunt Iherusalem, John Hugh Hill and Laurita L. Hill, trans (Philadelphia, PA: The American Philosophical Society, 1968), 37. 21 ‘prodicione sociorum et periurio’ Raymond of Aguilers, Le ‘Liber’ de Raymond d’Aguilers, 55 (Hill and Hill, trans, 37). 22 ‘perpetuum pudorem’, ‘cum Dei maledictione’ Raymond of Aguilers, Le ‘Liber’ de Raymond d’Aguilers, 56 (Hill and Hill, trans, 37). 23 ‘… Tatinum, quoque truncati naris qui similiter timore attonitus in falsa fide a sociis recesserat …’ Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, 310–11. 24 Tudebode, Historia de Hierosolymitano Itinere, 69; ‘Historia Belli Sacri (Tudebodus imitatus et continuatus)’, 189; Robert the Monk, ‘Roberti Monachi Historia Hierosolimitana’, 782; Baldric of Bourgueil, The Historia Ierosolimitana, 43–4; Orderic Vitalis, The Ecclesiastical History, v, 76; William of Tyre, Chronicon, i, 193, 210, 263; Gilbert of Mons, Gisleberti Chronicon Hanoniense, W. Arndt, ed. (Hannoverae: impensis bibliopolii Hahniani, 1869), 59.

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but about Estatin l’Esnasé because this is the name by which he was known in contemporary chansons de geste. A character of this name, which can be translated as Estatin ‘without a nose’ occurs in two epic poems of the so called ‘Crusade Cycle’ – the Chanson d’Antioche and Chanson de Jérusalem. The earliest known version of these poems comes from the last quarter of the twelfth century but it is very likely that at least the former evolved from a popular tradition contemporaneous or nearly contemporaneous with the crusade itself.25 It tells the story of the campaign up till the point of the capture of Antioch and it has many parallels with the crusading chronicles. As far as the representation of Tatikios is concerned, however, there are striking differences. First of all, his relationship to the emperor in the Chanson d’Antioche is that of nephew instead of mere household official. Secondly, he figures mostly in the part of the poem that is dedicated to the crusaders’ stay in Constantinople, while the historical texts do not mention him until the siege of Nicaea in Asia Minor. And thirdly, his personal traits that emerge from the context do not have anything in common with the treacherous and cowardly stereotype of the chronicles. According to the Antioche, Estatin joined the crusade from his own free will and with unselfish intentions as was proper for a Christian knight. He also helped the crusaders by provisioning them during their stay in Constantinople and it was he who took care of their crossing of the Bosphorus.26 Apparently, the author has him take credit for whatever assistance Byzantium provided during the crusade. He also has him defend the Western knights against the Byzantine emperor who has decided to destroy the army in spite of previous guarantees of safety. These are Estatin’s words addressed to his uncle: If you did them harm it would be considered as wretchedness, because you treated them from your victuals although you have not equipped nor repudiated them yet. If

The Chanson d’Antioche: An Old French Account of the First Crusade, S. B. Edgington and C. Sweetenham, trans (Farnham: Ashgate Publishing, 2011), 10–19. 26 La Chanson d’Antioche: chanson de geste du dernier quart du XIIe siècle, B. Guidot, ed. and trans. (Paris: Honoré Champion, 2011), v. 857–70, 1118–20. 25

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you do them harm, you do it to me. So be careful, Emperor, not to request anything that would bring you shame or for which I would be blamed. No matter what your wealth, [this] would not be tolerated, even if you were to lose it all.27

Estatin obviously felt obliged to protect the Westerners according to the emperor’s earlier promises. The quoted passage accounts for his strongest will to keep his honour even if it meant, as we read on in the same laisse, to confront the emperor with a sword in his hand. In another similar passage Estatin expresses his dislike for perjury: ‘… cursed be the treachery and whoever agrees with it!’28 But the most explicit contrast with the Tatikios of the chroniclers is the Antioche’s emphasis on Estatin’s courage. In the context of the siege of Nicaea he is listed among ‘the best ones who were there’.29 His name appears at the fourth place of a very long list alongside such crusading celebrities as Godfrey of Bouillon or Bohemond of Taranto. And most importantly, he bears an eloquent epithet, ‘of a lion’s heart’,30 which speaks for itself. It might be worth noting also that Antioche portrays him in the middle of the Battle of Dorylaeum.31 Nowhere in the other Western sources can we find him actually fighting with the enemy. Everything seems to testify that Estatin was not only an honourable man of his word but also a brave Christian knight. Yet, none of these arguments would be of much worth if confronted with his flight from Antioch. Incidentally, the Chanson d’Antioche has a significant omission – it does not include any reference to the Byzantine general’s departure. He is mentioned at the beginning of the siege as taking

27 ‘Si vos mal lor faisiés, ce samblerois lastés,/ Car de vostre vitaille les avés conreés,/ Si nes avés encore garnis ne desfiés./ Se vos lor faites mal, a moi le partirés.’ La Chanson d’Antioche, v. 887–94. (This and all further translations of the poem’s extracts are mine.) 28 ‘…Dehait ait traïsons et avoec qui l’otrie!’ La Chanson d’Antioche, v. 951. 29 ‘Des mellors qui la furent vos sai dire lor non…’ La Chanson d’Antioche, v. 1155. 30 ‘Estatins l’Esnasés, qui cuer ot de lïon…’ La Chanson d’Antioche, v. 1158. The same epithet is repeated in v. 2921. 31 La Chanson d’Antioche, v. 2165.

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up position next to the count of Nevers32 and then simply disappears from the story. Consequently, we have an impression of his continuous presence until the fall of the city. This is further supported by a short extract from the other Old French poem of the Crusade Cycle, the Chanson de Jérusalem whose author (or editor)33 included Estatin among the brave men who laid siege to Jerusalem in 1099: ‘Another battalion consisted of our noble knights, those from Constantinople – they were all companions. They numbered good ten thousand men brave as lions. Estatin, who had a heart of dragon, led them.’34 The evidence of the Chanson d’Antioche and Chanson de Jérusalem reveals a notable gap between the representations of Tatikios in historiography and Old French poetry. This revelation is all the more striking when taking into account a connection between the vernacular poems and the majority of crusading chronicles. (Some inter-textual links even concern the very passages that relate to Tatikios.)35 Why did not the Latin historians La Chanson d’Antioche, v. 2920–6. Just like the Chanson d’Antioche, this poem is preserved only in the version from the last quarter of the twelfth century although there might have been an earlier oral or textual tradition. In this version both originally independent poems are linked with each other and with one other poem, the Chétifs. Isabelle Weill, ‘Croisade (Cycle de la)’, in R. Bossuat, ed., Dictionnaire des lettres françaises: Le Moyen Age, rev. G. Hasenohr and M. Zink ([Paris]: [Librairie générale française], 1992), 356–7. 34 ‘Une autre esciele fisent no chevalier baron,/ Cil de Costantinoble – tot furent compaignon./ Bien furent .X. millier hardi conme lion;/ Cels conduist Estatins qui cuer ot de dragon.’ The Old French Crusade Cycle, vi: La Chanson de Jérusalem, N. R. Thorp, ed. (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 1992), v. 3130–3. (My translation.) 35 Compare for example Chanson d’Antioche, v. 1155–9 (‘…Premerains se loga Godefrois de Buillon/ et après lui Tangrés dejoste Buiemon, Estatin l’Esnasés…‘) with Albert of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, 94 (‘Vnde in prima obsidione Godefridus dux Lotharingie […] constitutus est. Boemundus […] uicinam sedem collocauit. Tancradus, tyro illustris, iuxta eundem Boemundum […] consedere decernitur. Tatinus…’) and with William of Tyre, Chronicon, i, 202 (‘De comuni ergo consilio equis portionibus ambitum dividunt, singulas singulis deputantes principibus, dominumque ducem […] ab orientali parte locant. Dominus vero Boamundus cum domino Tancredo […] partem urbis septentrionalem obtinuit…’); or Chanson d’Antioche, v. 1749–50 (‘As François renderiemes ceste bone cité/ U a l’emperëor qui l’a en vidoé.’) with Albert 32 33

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adopt the positive aspects of Tatikios’ portrayal from the Old French tradition or vice versa? And how is it possible that there are such different views of one and the same person? A missing piece that can help solve at least a part of this puzzle is the Latin verse history of Gilo of Paris, Historia vie Hierosolimitane. A short passage from this work says that ‘the fearless man of Flanders, Duke Godfrey, Robert, Stephen, Tancred, Hugh, and Statinus36 (who was without a nose but not without honour while he lived) and the other valiant men armed themselves’37 to save Bohemond and Count Raymond of Toulouse from a sudden assault of the Turks from Antioch. Gilo’s positive commentary eliminates a possibility that the chasm between chronicles and the Old French poems stems from a different period or region of origin of the texts. The clergyman of Paris, who wrote before the year 1120, possibly even in the first decade of the twelfth century, has been already associated with authors such as Guibert of Nogent or Robert the Monk who wrote around the same time in the royal domain.38 We must, therefore, look for an explanation somewhere else. One attribute that Gilo’s Historia has in common with the Old French chansons de geste and that, at the same time, distinguishes it from other Latin sources is its verse form. Although it is usually counted among historical works, it is equally often labelled as a Latin epic poem. Its form as well as parts of the content bear a strong resemblance to the vernacular genre.39 The episode of Statinus’ participation in the rescue

36 37

38 39

of Aachen, Historia Ierosolimitana, 124 (‘… claues urbis polliciti reddere in manus imperatoris Constantinopolis, sub cuius conditione urbs primitus hereditario iure seruiens habebatur…’). Another form of Tatikios’ name resembling a hybrid between Latin and Old French names. ‘… uir intrepidus Flandrensis, dux Godefridus,/ Robertus, Stephanus, Tancretius, Hugo, Statinus/ (Qui dum uiuebat naso, non laude carebat)/ Et reliqui fortes armantur…’ Gilo of Paris, The Historia Vie Hierosolimitane of Gilo of Paris and the Second Anonymous Author, C. W. Grocock and J. E. Siberry, eds and trans (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997) 114–17 (The translation is that of Grocock and Siberry, though I changed their ‘noseless, but not worthless’ to accentuate the word ‘honour’). Introduction to Gilo of Paris, The Historia Vie Hierosolimitane, xxiv. Introduction to Gilo of Paris, The Historia Vie Hierosolimitane xxiv–xxviii.

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action of the Western princes is one such example of a fictional motif, possibly inspired by the same popular tradition as the Chanson d’Antioche. (In reality, this event took place a long time after Tatikios’ departure.) This seems to confirm that the positive image of the emperor’s representative is connected to fiction, its purpose and intended audience. While the crusading chronicles had a very strong propagandist purpose, often directed against the Byzantine Empire, epic poetry, as a genre of fiction, was meant to address and amuse the French public. The latter was limited by literary rules, rhyme and demand for heroic stories rather than by necessity to defend the crusaders’ actions or to attract new reinforcements for crusader states. This greater (although not absolute) freedom from the political agenda enabled incorporation of the positive image of Tatikios into popular tradition and subsequently to the epic poetry of the twelfth century. However, if we admit this, we might also ask whether the account of the relationship between Estatin and the crusaders in the Chanson d’Antioche is not actually truer to reality than the historical narratives. It is feasible that Estatin’s character results from the poet’s need for a positive hero in contrast to the deceitful Byzantine emperor. He might have represented an ideal of Byzantine behaviour from the Western perspective. But it is probably no coincidence that of all the Byzantines that the crusaders had met during their campaign it was Tatikios who became an inspiration for this hero. He was the one who spent the most time with the pilgrims, who shared their battles, their suffering and therefore, he must have been the one with whom they had the closest relationship. Moreover, if we eliminate the later biased comments of the Latin historians, there is no definite evidence of animosity between the Westerners and the Byzantine officer until the very last months that he spent at the siege of Antioch. Whether we see Tatikios’ positive representation in fiction as the reflection of his actual friendly ties with the crusaders or settle for the theory of different function of particular genres, we can conclude that the French public could have perceived this man through two very distinct traditions. In both cases it received only a blurred picture of the real historical person and based its opinion on exaggerated information. The number of twelfthcentury chronicles and of their preserved manuscripts might suggest that the negative view of Tatikios carried the day. However, the audience of

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medieval chronicles was very limited. It included only the educated and mostly ecclesiastical part of society. On the other hand, chansons de geste were composed in language of daily use, they were sung publicly, they were not even limited to aristocratic courts and were, therefore, generally much more accessible.40 Although the twelfth-century manuscripts of Chanson d’Antioche and Chanson de Jérusalem are modest in number compared to, for example, around one hundred manuscripts of the chronicle of Robert the Monk, the poems were widely spread orally. With this in mind we must admit that they enjoyed greater influence over more layers of society than the works of contemporary historians. In the end, it is possible that in twelfth-century France the crusaders’ encounter with Tatikios, which has been a source of so many controversies, was mostly remembered only through the courageous and virtuous character of Estatin l’Esnasé.

40 Dominique Boutet, ‘La voix: mirages et présence de l’oralité au Moyen Âge’, in Frank Lestringant and Michel Zink, eds, Histoire de la France littéraire, i, Naissances, Renaissances: Moyen Âge – XVIe siècle (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 2006), 194.

Part II

Theological Interactions

Elizabeth Buchanan

4 From Hermit Saint to Patron of Weavers and Medieval Wild Man: The Reception of Saint Onuphrius in the West

abstract Saint Onuphrius was a hermit saint living in Thebes in Egypt in the fourth century AD. According to his biographer, Saint Paphnutius, he was raised in a monastery in Hermopolis before deciding to move out to the desert to live as a hermit after hearing the praises offered to the desert prophets. He then lived in the desert for over sixty years, living on fruit and herbs and wearing nothing but a circle of leaves around his waist for modesty. An angel brought him the Eucharist every week. Saint Onuphrius died very shortly after meeting Saint Paphnutius, who then buried him and listened to the angels singing as he was received into Heaven. Although the accounts of Saint Onuphrius circulated in the West shortly after they were written, representations of Saint Onuphrius did not become common in the West until after the early crusades. This paper considers the post-crusade representations of Saint Onuphrius in areas identified with Italy and Germany from the thirteenth century through to the early sixteenth century. It concludes by noting that Saint Onuphrius appealed to the Lutherans in Germany because of his personal piety unmediated by the formal Church, and that he could also appeal to staunch Catholics in Italy because of his ascetic life and defence of orthodoxy.

Introduction Last fall, I had the pleasure of translating the Life of Onuphrius from the Coptic transcription published by E. A. Wallis Budge1 as part of a Coptic reading group. One of the other members of the group shared an email with numerous representations of Saint Onuphrius from various icons, church 1

E. A. Wallis Budge, Coptic Martyrdoms in the Dialect of Upper Egypt: Coptic Texts, IV (London: British Museum, 1914), 205–24.

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decorations and paintings. I was not surprised at the Coptic representations or those of the Eastern Orthodox Church, but I was very surprised at the number of the representations of Saint Onuphrius from the medieval West. It was hard to imagine the popularity of this obscure Egyptian hermit in a place so far removed both geographically and culturally. The question that I want to explore in this paper is why Saint Onuphrius was so popular in the medieval West, and in particular in areas now identified with Italy and Germany. This question presents a case study of cultural transmission from Byzantium to the West. According to the Life of Onuphrius, the monk Paphnutius decided to wander in the desert of Egypt towards the end of the fourth century AD looking for brother monks who could teach him.2 After some adventures, he came upon Saint Onuphrius. He was terrified when he first saw Saint Onuphrius because Saint Onuphrius was naked except for a few leaves around his waist, and his hair was spread out over his body ‘like that of a leopard’. Saint Onuphrius reassured him, however, saying that he was also a man of God so they started talking. Saint Onuphrius said that he had once lived in a monastic community on the mountain of Shmoun in the Thebaid,3 which was a comfortable communal life of quiet contemplation and teaching. But many of the stories that he heard concerned the great desert prophets like Elijah and John the Baptist, who were blessed by God for their struggles against the great adversary and were served bread and water by the angels. Saint Onuphrius wanted to become like these more perfect ones, and so left the monastery to go into the desert. After several days, he met a desert monk who taught him how to live in the desert and how to fight the demons that attack the soul. When the desert monk felt that Saint Onuphrius was ready, he led him to a small hut about four days journey from the cave of the desert monk, and remained with him for a month making sure that he knew what to do. Then the desert monk left, and Saint Onuphrius did not see him again for a year, when the desert monk died and Saint Onuphrius buried him. 2 3

For an English translation, see Paphnutius, Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt and the Life of Onnophrius, translation and introduction by Tim Vivian (Kalamazoo, Michigan: Cistercian Publications, 1993). In the south of Egypt near Hermopolis (close to the modern town of El Ashmunein).

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Thereafter Saint Onuphrius lived in the desert for sixty years, seeing no person until Paphnutius came. He ate the dates that grew by the hut and plants from the desert. Angels brought him the Eucharist each Saturday and Sunday. Saint Onuphrius and Paphnutius talked with each other for a day and a night, and then Saint Onuphrius died. Before he died, he asked Paphnutius to remember him and to tell the monks in Egypt about him. He also promised Paphnutius that Jesus himself would take anyone who remembered Saint Onuphrius in his prayers or with a small offering to the thousand-year feast of the Millennium. This portion of the story is particularly interesting because Paphnutius and Saint Onuphrius negotiate exactly what will suffice to trigger the saint’s promise. At first, Saint Onuphrius wanted incense to be burned, but Paphnutius told him that poor men cannot afford incense, so Saint Onuphrius agreed that it would suffice if a man fed a poor man in his name. Paphnutius also pushed back on that suggestion because poor men cannot feed themselves, far less others, so Saint Onuphrius finally said that if a man said his prayers to God three times in his name that will suffice for Jesus to take him to the Millennium feast. When Saint Onuphrius died, Paphnutius heard angels singing to welcome him into heaven, and he buried him. Paphnutius wanted to stay at the small hut that had belonged to Saint Onuphrius and take over his ministry but the date palms fell, showing him that God had other work for him. So he set off and met other saintly monks, and finally went to the great monastery at Scetis in Egypt, where his stories were written down and then read aloud to the other monks.

Transmission The author of the Life of Onuphrius is not securely known.4 There were at least eight prominent monks named Paphnutius during Late Antiquity. Tim Vivian believes that the most likely author of the Life of Onuphrius 4

Anton Voytenko, ‘Paradise Regained or Paradise Lost: The Coptic (Sahidic) Life of St Onnophrius and Egyptian Monasticism at the End of the Fourth Century’, in N.

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was either Paphnutius Kephala or Paphnutius ‘Bubalos’ (the Wild Buffalo) because the earliest sources place the author Paphnutius as an old man and venerated monk at Scetis at the end of the fourth century, and both of these men, who may be the same, met those characteristics.5 Both are also identified by Anton Voytenko as possible authors.6 There is equal uncertainty concerning when the text was written. Following from his thoughts on the likely author, Vivian believes that the text was written in the last quarter of the fourth century. Charles Williams, on the other hand, believes that it was written in the first half of the fifth century, if not later, because he believes the Life was an expansion of earlier stories about ascetics living alone near an outcropping of date palms, which are found in some versions of the Apophthegmata Patrum.7 Voytenko acknowledges the similarity in subject matter between the Life of Onuphrius and the stories of ascetic monks in the Apophthegmata Patrum, but thinks that it is at least as likely that the Apophthegmata Patrum represents a redacted version of the Life of Onuphrius as the Life of Onuphrius representing an augmented version of the stories found in the Apophthegmata Patrum.8 It is also unknown whether there was ever a hermit named Onuphrius on whom the story is based, or whether the story represents an expansion and conflation of earlier stories about various individuals who sinned and then spent long amounts of time in solitary contrition, finally earning the forgiveness of God. The origins of Saint Onuphrius, like that of Saint Mary of Egypt, are long since lost. The first wave of stories about the desert monks were transmitted to the West in the fourth century, when the Life of Anthony by Athanasius, Bosson and A. Boud’hors, eds, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta. Actes du huitième Congrès international d’études coptes: Paris, 28 juin–3 juillet 2004, Vol. 2 (Leuven and Dudley, MA: Peeters, 2007), 635–44 (here 637). 5 Vivian, Histories of the Monks of Upper Egypt, 46–50. 6 Voytenko, ‘Paradise Regained or Paradise Lost’, 637. 7 Charles Williams, Oriental affinities of the Legend of the Hairy Anchorite: The Theme of the Hairy Solitary in its Early Forms with reference to Die Lügend von Sanct Johanne Chrysostomo (Reprinted by Luther, 1537) and to other European Variant, Part II Christian (Chicago: University of Illinois, 1926), 81, 85–6. 8 Voytenko, ‘Paradise Regained or Paradise Lost’, 638.

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Patriarch of Alexandria, was written and distributed. This was followed in the fifth century by The Lausiac History of Palladius and the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, translated into Latin by Rufinus.9 An early version of the Apophthegmata Patrum, or Sayings of the Desert Fathers, was translated into Latin by the deacons Pelagius and John, each of whom later became Pope of Rome, from 556 to 561 and from 561 to 574, respectively.10 These writings were very influential in the development of Western as well as Eastern monasticism. The Life of Onuphrius was part of a subsequent wave of stories about the desert monks that reached the West. It is preserved in Greek and Latin, as well as Coptic, Arabic, Ethiopic, Georgian, Armenian and Old Slavonic.11 The earliest surviving attestations are Coptic fragments dating to the sixth and seventh centuries.12 A Coptic manuscript dated to 1004 containing the Life is found in the British Library (BL Oriental 7027).13 The story is also found in the Peregrinatio Paphnutiana, the travels of Paphnutius, which was widely circulated in the West.14 According to Voytenko, there are at least five Georgian manuscripts containing the Life, ‘four of them ([dated to the] tenth-twelfth centuries) being manuscripts of the Great Synaxarion by St Euthymius Hagioritus (of Athos).’15 A synaxarion is a compilation of hagiographies, similar to that of the martyrology of the Roman Church, used as part of religious services. A Latin copy of the Life is found in a codex from the Benevento chapter library in Italy dating to

9 Palladius, The Lausiac History of Palladius I, Cuthbert Butler, trans. and comm. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1898), 3 (on its transmission), 12–15 (on the authorship and distribution of the Historia Monachorum in Aegypto). 10 John Wortley, ed. and trans., The Anonymous Sayings of the Desert Fathers: A Select Edition and Complete English Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 2. 11 Voytenko, ‘Paradise Regained or Paradise Lost’, 635. 12 Ibid., 638. 13 Bentley Layton, Catalogue of Coptic Literary Manuscripts in the British Library Acquired Since the Year 1906 (London: British Library, 1987), 192–3. 14 Timothy Husband, The Wild Man: Medieval Myth and Symbolism (New York City: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1980), 97. 15 Voytenko. ‘Paradise Regained or Paradise Lost’, 635.

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the eleventh or twelfth century.16 The Life was compiled into Book Ia of the Latin Vitae Patrum in the second printed edition of 1478, and was widely circulated in this form.17 This text was so popular that numerous versions were made. The Jesuit scholar Heribert Rosweyde then compiled all the available literature on the early desert monks, and prepared what became the definitive version of the Vitae Patrum, which was first printed and distributed in 1616. This version also contains the Life of Onuphrius. In addition to the extant printed versions of his life, an image of Saint Onuphrius appears in a tenth-century mosaic from Faras, just south of Qasr Ibrim in what is now the Sudan, which means that his story had spread south from Egypt.18 A very interesting fresco of Saint Onuphrius from the tenth or eleventh century is found in Yilani Church in Cappadocia, now eastern Turkey. This representation shows Saint Onuphrius with breasts because of the local legends that he was originally a beautiful girl who sought the attentions of men, and then repented. God changed her into an old man to preserve her from lust.19 In addition, there is a fresco of Saint Onuphrius in the nave of the Bethlehem Church of the Nativity created in the twelfth century.20 His feast day is traditionally celebrated on 12 June for both the Eastern Orthodox and Catholic Churches.

Sulamith Brodbeck, Les saints de la Cathédrale de Monreale en Sicilie: Iconographie, hagiographie et pouvoir royal à la fin du XIIe siècle (Rome: École française de Rome, 2010), 634. 17 Williams, Oriental Affinities of the Legend of the Hairy Anchorite, 84. 18 Kazimierz Michalowski, Faras: Centre Artistique de la Nubie Chrétienne (Leiden: Nederlands Institut voor het Nabije Oosten, 1966). 19 Cecily Hennessy, Painting in Cappadocia: A Guide to the Sites and Byzantine Church Decoration (London: Cecily Hennessy, 2013), 17. 20 Gustav Kühnel, Wall Painting in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem (Berlin: Mann, 1988), 34, 84, 92–5. 16

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Reception The earliest known extant appearance of Saint Onuphrius in Western art is in a mosaic in the twelfth-century basilica of Monreale, Sicily.21 Saint Onuphrius also appears in a fresco in the cave church of Santa Maria in Rongolise, Italy, dated to the late twelfth or early thirteenth century, and in a fresco in the Monastery of Saint Neophytos in Cyprus dated to 1192.22 During the medieval period, there were numerous representations of Saint Onuphrius. Gustav Kühnel believes that the cult of Saint Onuphrius moved Westward from Byzantium in the wake of the crusades, so that the first representations of him in Western art postdate this period.23 Some of them show Saint Onuphrius with a crown because of the stories that developed in the West that he was the son of a Syrian prince.24 A church, Sant’Onofrio, was built in Trastevere in Rome in his honour in 1439. Saint Onuphrius became the co-patron saint of Palermo, Sicily, in 1650. He was the patron saint of weavers in medieval Munich and Basel; and Sicilians still pray to him to find lost items. Questions of reception are very broad, touching on literature, art and religious practice. For this reason, this paper will only consider representational art in the thirteenth through to the early sixteenth century in the areas which are now identified with Italy and Germany. According to the Index of Christian Art at Princeton University,25 there are four illuminated manuscripts from this period with images of Saint Onuphrius. There is an illuminated manuscript of the Vitae Sanctorum dated to the mid-fourteenth

21 Husband, The Wild Man, 10; Brodbeck, Les saints de la Cathédrale de Monreale en Sicilie, 632. 22 Brodbeck, Les saints de la Cathédrale de Monreale en Sicilie, 634. 23 Kühnel, Wall Painting in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 95. 24 Husband, The Wild Man, 95. 25 Found at: , accessed 18 February 2016.

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century in the Biblioteca Riccardiana in Florence;26 and an illuminated manuscript of the Vitae Patrum dated to the same period and attributed to Roberto Oderisi in the New York City Morgan Library, both with images of the life of Saint Onuphrius as described by Paphnutius.27 There is an illuminated manuscript of the Da Costa Hours attributed to Simon Bening from around 1515 in the New York City Morgan Library with an image of Saint Onuphrius wearing sackcloth kneeing before a crucifix.28 Lastly there is an illuminated manuscript of a Book of Hours from northern Spain dated from 1515 to 1520, with a strong Flemish influence containing an image of Saint Onuphrius and Saint Mary of Egypt.29 These manuscripts represent a variety of different types of documents, from collections of saints’ lives to Books of Hours, devotional books popular in the medieval Europe that contained prayers, texts and psalms. They attest to the distribution of images and stories about Saint Onuphrius in the fourteenth century through to the early sixteenth century. In addition to expensive manuscripts, books with woodblock prints had become popular because they were significantly less expensive and catered to the devout public.30 Saint Onuphrius is shown in one such woodblock print as an ascetic ‘wild man’ (Figure 4.1).

26 27 28 29 30

Biblioteca Riccardiana manuscript 1316. New York City, Morgan Library manuscript M.626. New York City, Morgan Library manuscript M.399. Baltimore, Walters Museum inventory W.420. Erwin Panofsky, The Life and Art of Albrecht Dürer, 1st Princeton Classic Ed. (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2005, repub. from 1955), 45; Henk van Os, The Art of Devotion in the Late Middle Ages in Europe 1300–1500 (London: Merrell Holberton in association with Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam, 1994), 157.

From Hermit Saint to Patron of Weavers and Medieval Wild Man

Figure 4.1.  Saint Onuphrius (German, 1480–1500), used with permission of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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The wild man was ‘a literary and artistic invention of the medieval imagination’.31 This invention combined elements of the sacred and the profane. The wild man was hairy, often irrational, and lived in the wilderness. He wore no clothes, except for his own hair and perhaps a skirt of leaves. He represented the dark side of mankind – violent, uncivilised and often insane, as well as freedom from the strictures of civilisation. Holy anchorites, or hermits, were frequently represented as ‘wild men’.32 Saint John Chrysostom, for example, was said to have sinned horribly and subjected himself to a solitary wilderness life and even temporary insanity in order to do penitence. After a long period of debasement and suffering, these penitents might be forgiven by God and returned to a more normal state. The portrayal of the roughness of his living circumstances intensified his viewer’s understanding of the degree of penance to which he subjected himself. Saint Onuphrius was often shown in the guise of a wild man.33 But Saint Onuphrius was not always depicted in quite such a fearful manner. Albrecht Dürer, for example, made both expensive and very detailed woodblocks, such as his Life of the Virgin, and simpler and less expensive ones. Among the simple woodblocks that he made between 1500 and 1505 were a set of the so-called ‘Poor Woodwork’ (Das Schlechte Holzwerk), which he was still selling in 1520.34 One of these simpler woodblocks portrays St John the Baptist and Saint Onuphrius (Figure 4.2). Although these were issued as single prints, they were likely originally

31 Husband, The Wild Man, 1. 32 Ibid., 9–10. See also Daniel Hess and Thomas Eser, The Early Dürer (Nuremberg: Verlag des Germanischen Nationalmuseums, 2012), 516–19, discussing the use of hermits in the imagery of the Late Middle Ages to evoke both fear of the wilderness and freedom from the shackles of civilisation; John Aberth, An Environmental History of the Middle Ages: The Crucible of Nature (London and New York: Routledge, 2013), 128, on the conflation of the forest and the desert with regard to early Christian desert fathers because both forest and desert represent solitude, otherworldliness and uncivilised purity. 33 Husband, The Wild Man, 96. Two other examples can be seen in the Washington National Gallery of Art, both woodblocks from mid-fifteenth-century Germany, Rosenwald collection numbers 1943.3.624 and 1943.3.623. 34 Hess and Eser, The Early Dürer, 516.

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Figure 4.2.  Albrecht Dürer (1504), Saint John the Baptist and Saint Onuphrius, used with permission of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

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intended for a ‘Salus Animae’ a devotional book which was a variant of the Book of Hours.35 Because of Dürer’s departure to Italy in 1505 and other circumstances unknown to us, this plan was never implemented. This woodblock shows us a vision of the hermit that is more civilised and perhaps romanticised. Saint Onuphrius was the subject of frescos and paintings as well. He appeared in several different aspects. For example, there is a painting in the Museo della Collegiata di Sant’Andrea, Emboli, Tuscany, Italy, attributed to Cenni di Francesco and dated to the last quarter of the fourteenth century, which depicts Saint Onuphrius with Saints Anthony and Martin of Tours, both fellow hermits.36 In another painting now in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts by Lippo d’Andrea and dated to the early fifteenth century, Saint Onuphrius is shown at the crucifixion of Christ with Saint Francis of Assisi.37 In a third painting now found in the Musei Civici di Vicenza by Bartolomeo Montagna, entitled: Madonna con il Bambino tra i sainti Giovanni Battisti ed Onofrio and dated to the late fifteenth century or early sixteenth century, Saint Onuphrius appears with the Virgin and Child along with Saint John the Baptist (Figure 4.3). This third painting is very similar to another painting now found in the Fitzwilliam Museum in Cambridge, United Kingdom, entitled: Virgin and Child between John the Baptist and Saint Onuphrius, attributed to the Neapolitan school and dated to 1507, which also depicts the Virgin and Child with Saints Onuphrius and John the Baptist.38

35 Panofsky, The Life and Art of Albrecht Dürer, 95–6. 36 Emboli, Museo della Collegiata di Sant’Andrea inventory Carocci, 15. 37 Boston Museum of Fine Arts inventory 45.514. 38 Fitzwilliam Museum inventory object number 1185.

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Figure 4.3.  Madonna con il Bambino tra i sainti Giovanni Battisti ed Onofrio (late fifteenth to early sixteenth century), used with permission of the Musei Civici di Vicenza.

So what does this mean? Saint Onuphrius draws from the background of early desert asceticism, which was very influential in Western monasticism. The lives of the great desert monks: Saints Anthony, Macarius and Pachomius, were translated into Latin very early and influenced the

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monasticism of St Benedict and others. This heritage from early Egyptian monasticism gave gravity and credibility to figures such as Saint Onuphrius. But there were more immediate factors involved in the popularity of hermit saints such as Onuphrius. The twelfth and thirteenth centuries brought an increasing emphasis on individual experiences of faith.39 This plus an increasing literacy rate brought the Book of Hours into vogue, first in royal and aristocratic circles, and then for wealthy and eventually middle class people.40 Later in the fourteenth century and into the fifteenth century, there were religious revivals and popular revulsion over the excesses of the clergy.41 By the fifteenth century, many people relied not so much on Church sacrament and ceremonial for their salvation but on personal prayer.42 Luther became convinced that salvation was possible only by individual faith. Contrary to the position of the Church, he declared that there were only two important sacraments: the Eucharist and baptism.43 Albrecht Dürer and many of his contemporaries were supporters of Luther, if not necessary the excesses of some of Luther’s followers.44 Even staunch Catholics worked to restore monastic and clerical discipline.45 The frescos at Camposanto in Pisa include three in a set: one on the Life of the Desert Fathers (also called the Thebais), one on the Triumph of Death, and a third on the Last Judgment and the Inferno, all dating to the second quarter of the fourteenth century.46 The Triumph of Death shows those who are devoted to earthly pleasures being inevitably taken by death. The Life of the Desert Fathers illustrates the peaceful ascetic life of the hermits and their regular penance. The Last Judgment and the Inferno reminds the viewer that asceticism and penance are the best protection against the Van Os, The Art of Devotion in the Late Middle Ages in Europe 1300–1500, 161–72. Ibid., 162. Ibid., 168. Craig Harbison, The Mirror of the Artist: Northern Renaissance Art in its Historical Context (London: Prentice Hall, 1995), 94. 43 Ibid., 106. 44 Panofsky, The Life and Art of Albrecht Dürer, 233. 45 Van Os, The Art of Devotion in the Late Middle Ages in Europe 1300–1500, 170. 46 See the discussion in Bernhard Ridderbos, Saint and Symbol: Images of Saint Jerome in Early Italian Art (Groninger: Bouma’s Boekhuis, 1984), 67–9. 39 40 41 42

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fires of Hell. Desert hermits thus were deemed eminently suitable for representing personal faith and sustained penance in Italy. Saint Onuphrius became a symbol of strength and virtue in the religious and ideological battles of fifteenth-century Italy and Germany. Hermit saints like Saint Onuphrius enjoyed a vogue in humanist Germany because they represented freedom from the corruption of civilisation and the perseverance to be worthy of grace.47 The author and humanist, Sebastian Brant, who wrote the Ship of Fools, also wrote four poems to Saint Onuphrius and named his eldest son after the saint. In these poems, he praised the spiritual trials and virtue of the saint, seeing him as an answer to the moral decadence that he saw around him.48 Many artists of this period, including Dürer, Montagna and Giovanni Battista Caracciolo,49 painted or etched representations of him, often with the Virgin and child or other desert saints or ascetics. Interestingly enough, Giovanni Battista Caracciolo also named a son after Saint Onuphrius (Onofrio in Italian).50 For the Lutherans, depictions of Saints Onuphrius and John the Baptist, either just the two of them or with the Holy Family, may have symbolised the two necessary sacraments: the Eucharist and baptism. Saint John the Baptist is, of course, an obvious symbol for baptism. Saint Onuphrius was both a symbol of personal piety unmediated by any organised Church, and he was served the Eucharist by angels during his time in the desert. He was thus an appropriate image for the Protestant Reformation. It is hard to tell who, if any, of the Italian artists may have sympathised with the Lutherans, although Dürer is known to have visited Giovanni Bellini during at least one of his trips to Italy and is believed to have used a painting of Job in the San Giobbe Altarpiece done by Bellini as a model

47 Larry Silver, ‘Forest Primeval: Albrecht Altdorfer and the German Wilderness Landscape’, Simiolus: Netherlands Quarterly for the History of Art 13/1 (1983), 4–43 (here 31). 48 Silver, ‘Forest Primeval’, 29; Husband, The Wild Man, 99. 49 A work entitled: ‘Sant’Onofrio a figura intera’, dated 1623 and now located in the Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica in Rome, inventory 1535. 50 Stoughton, Michael, ‘Giovanni Battista Caracciolo: New Biographical Documents’, The Burlington Magazine 120/901 (April 1978), 204–15.

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for Saint Onuphrius in his woodblock shown in this article.51 Bellini was a strong influence on Bartolomeo Montagna, whose picture is also shown in this article, so there are connections among these artists. That said, it is clear that for the Catholics, Saint Onuphrius was an ascetic with a pure relationship with God, and was therefore a model for the mendicant orders or as a rebuke to the excesses of the church. Thus he was appropriately depicted with Saints Anthony and Francis of Assisi and other saints who founded Catholic monasteries. These saints were also known for their opposition to the heretical movements of their time, and were presented as defenders of orthodoxy.52 In this way, Saint Onuphrius could appeal to both the Lutherans and to the Catholics. Saint Onuphrius, as Husband said of the medieval wild men in general, is a ‘remarkable mirror of the age in which he flourished.’53 He probably would have been happy to see that he was put in the same category as Saint John the Baptist, one of the more perfect ones. We can see that his bodily hirsuteness vanished as he became a symbol of grace in the fifteenth century. This tells us more about ourselves than him. He is, indeed, the mirror through which the people who looked at him saw themselves as more perfect ones.

Maryann Ainsworth and Joshua P. Waterman, with contributions by others, German Paintings in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1350 to 1600 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2013), 107. 52 Kühnel, Wall Painting in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, 85. 53 Husband, The Wild Man, 17. 51

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5 Gregory Nazianzen’s use of Negative Theology in Oration 38 (‘On the Nativity’)

abstract Today, there is a continued need for new scholarship on Gregory the Theologian (c.329–390 AD), in particular as a mystical author – who in his festal orations combines biblical, NeoHellenic and patristic elements in a creative, rhetorical synthesis. By bridging these cultural (and regional) gaps within a liturgical context, Gregory serves as an intermediate figure at the historical fountainhead of Byzantine religious sensibility, drawing equally and at turns from the Hebrew scriptures, early Christian theology, contemporary fourth-century trends in Greek rhetoric, and neo-Platonic ontology. I proceed by arguing: (1) Gregory has been overlooked in general studies on Christian mysticism; (2) apophaticism as religious discourse patently remains a wide-spread, developing phenomenon in the ancient world; (3) Gregory’s thirty-eighth oration typifies Late Antique, early Byzantine ‘negative theology’; (4) the Platonic elements of which are striking, yet not fully explanatory. This form of discourse, I argue, is itself a form of cross-cultural exchange.

One of the three great Cappadocian Fathers of the Eastern Church, and an architect of Byzantine liturgical theology, Gregory Nazianzus (also known as Nazianzen or Nazianzenos) has enjoyed a mixed reception in contemporary philosophical-theological studies.1 Nevertheless, together with John the Apostle and St Simeon, he is also one of three authors in the history of Christianity who received the title ‘the Theologian’ or ὁ θεολόγος in Byzantine iconography; and yet Nazianzen surprisingly receives little

1

In addition to the text of Andrew Louth that I critique below, consider also David Bradshaw, Aristotle East and West: Metaphysics and the Division of Christendom (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), who prefers to discuss the history of Byzantine theology (through the lens of Plotinus and Aristotle) with substantial reference given almost exclusively to Gregory of Nyssa and Gregory Palamas, and no extended treatment of Gregory Nazianzen.

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appreciation as a rigorous thinker, apart from his role in the Trinitarian debates immediately surrounding the First Council of Constantinople (381 AD).2 As a result, he is at times neglected in studies of spiritual theology and mysticism in favour of Gregory of Nyssa, or the third-century Church Father Origen of Alexandria – it is, instead, the younger Nyssa more often than not who receives praise for his spiritual flights of Platonic ecstasy. In the area of rhetoric, where Gregory Nazianzos shines most of all, he must often share the limelight with Basil the Great, his friend and fellow student at the University of Athens. As highly trained as the two were in rhetoric, exegesis and homiletics – an education compared by one modern author to the pedagogy demanded of any modern opera singer – it seems that Basil’s orations on the Hexaëmeron, for example, compel greater attention.3 Thus, he is fairly acknowledged as a theologian defending the same theological and political outlook as the Council, yet deserves more credit 2

3

There are, of course, exceptions here, primarily that of John McGuckin, Saint Gregory of Nazianzus: An Intellectual Biography (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2001), and see also by the same author, ‘“Perceiving Light from Light” (Oration 31.3) The Trinitarian Theology of Saint Gregory the Theologian’, Greek Orthodox Theological Review 39/1 (1994), 7–32. For other prominent works on this ancient Christian author, see: R. Ruether, Gregory of Nazianzus: Rhetor and Philosopher (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), and for the historical context of his rhetorical style, see also Susanna Elm, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzeus, and the Vision of Rome (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2012); Celica Milovanovic, ‘Sailing to Sophistopolis: Gregory of Nazianzus and Greek Declamation’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 13/2 (2005), 187–232; and Neil McLynn, ‘A Self-Made Holy Man: The Case of Gregory Nazianzen’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 6/3 (1998), 463–83. For more theological views, see for example Christos Yannaras, Elements of Faith: An Introduction to Orthodox Theology, Keith Schram, trans. (London: T&T Clark Ltd, 1991) [English translation of Αλφαβητάρι της πίστης.’ Εκδ. Δόμος. Σ, 87 (1984)] and Vladimir Lossky, The Mystical Theology of the Eastern Church (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1976) [English translation of Essai sur la théologie mystique de l’Église d’Orient (Fellowship of St Alban and St Sergius: Paris, 1944)]. See Lionel Wickham, ed., On God and Christ: The Five Theological Orations and Two Letters of Cledonius (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2002), introduction for the comparison to modern opera; Gregory Nazianzen himself notes the deep influence of his friend and colleague’s orations on the Hexäemeron, a sermon series finally completed by the former’s brother and contemporary, Gregory of Nyssa—cf.

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for his own efforts in the area of contemplative spirituality and the history of ancient (and medieval) philosophical theology, beyond the narrow constraints of his short-lived tenure as bishop of Constantinople on the eve of the meeting on Trinitarian theology.

Gregory Nazianzen’s Place in Mystical Theology One exceptional instance of the preference given to Gregory of Nyssa is that of Louth’s introduction to Christian mysticism and theology.4 As his title The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys indicates, Louth wished to trace the source of Christian ‘mystical experience’ from its origin in the Greek philosophical tradition until its final (in the world of Late Antiquity, at any rate) expression in the work of Dionysios the Areopagite. In the process, Louth makes special note of two luminaries of Alexandrian exegesis who would contribute to this tradition, Philo and Origen, both of whom together with Plotinus would re-energise Platonic spirituality. Yet in his sweeping narrative, possibly due to the fact that the author pauses to consider in addition prominent Western authors (Augustine and St John of the Cross), he nowhere takes opportunity to examine critically or at any length the role played by the theologian Gregory Nazianzen. Thus, unexplored directly is whether and to what extent Gregory the Theologian also shares the philosophical lineage traced to Plato and Plotinus, and how innovative his form of ‘spiritual’ exegesis in fact might have been, with the result that it would appear he deserves little more than a footnote in the history of mystical thought, and as if his title as ‘theologian’ were merely honorific. Yet the Theologian deserves more than that, not only in view of his lasting significance for Byzantine liturgy

4

Or. 43.67.1, in: F. Boulenger, Grégoire de Nazianze. Discours funèbres en l’honneur de son frère Césaire et de Basile de Césarée (Paris: Picard, 1908), 58–230. Andrew Louth, The Origins of the Christian Mystical Tradition: From Plato to Denys, 2nd edn (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007 [orig. 1981]).

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and monasticism, but also for the continuity of his theology with earlier Greek modes of philosophical rhetoric. What little Louth does afford to Gregory Nazianzen, however, is worth consideration; for buried in one of his (often excellent) notes, the author identifies the value of Or. 38.7 in his discussion of the twin-theme of holy ignorance and divine illumination – in other, more significant authors in the history of spirituality. Gregory’s language, of course, and its context within the oration each deserve closer attention; for the manner in which Gregory introduces this distinction, as a definitive account of the human subject’s comportment vis-à-vis divine realities, in fact brings together a masterful synthesis of biblical salvation history and neo-Platonic, patristic explanations of the sources and limits of human knowing. Moreover, in the Byzantine liturgy, which sought to establish its own, ‘sacred’ sense of rhythm and time – or, rather, to recover the human ability to see past our temporal affairs and touch the life of the triune God – such a soaring yet humble description would have been most at home, as one additional means of ‘iconic’ transport – away from the normal, temporal constraints of nature. This rupture, encouraged by Gregory’s biblical exegesis in the festal oration ‘On the Nativity’ (Oration 38), confirms a Christian vision of the kingdom of heaven as preparation for greater access reality, an alternative from the everyday experience of social structures. In so many ways, its author helped to advance the cause of later Byzantine spirituality. In particular, the doctrine of divine ‘illumination’ which Louth rightly identifies in Gregory’s text, and its special expression within the restrained language of negative theology, suggest that Nazianzen’s role in shaping post-Nicene Christianity and spirituality remains worthy of sustained consideration.

Negative or ‘Apophatic’ Theology in the History of Christian Thought Numerous studies already treat the topic of negative theology, also known as ‘apophatic’ theology, at sufficient length. In addition to Louth’s important work, other valuable authors to consult include Denys Turner and

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more recently Charles Stang, the latter of whom devotes special interest to the negative theology of Dionysius the Areopagite.5 Although Maximos the Confessor would later introduce similar elements in his theology, in fact it is with the Areopagite that the fullness of mystical/negative theology occurs, especially in his two treatises Mystical theology and On divine names. Briefly stated, Dionysian gnosiology (or epistemology) states that the capacity for human knowledge of God is directly linked with the language employed, and in this way the resources of language and cognition equally suffer, being inadequate for the task of sufficiently describing the divine ‘reality’. Western authors will come to use the phrase ‘analogy of being’ to describe how God’s relation to existence is at last only ‘analogous’ to human ways of being; while in the East, especially in the authorship of Dionysius, this distinction rests upon two modes of discourse eminently proper to mystical or symbolic theology – the cataphatic, which identifies the divine good according to human categories and means of experience, and the apophatic, more properly ‘negative’ in virtue of its effort to deny all possible human categories of the transcendent God. Seeds of this approach certainly are to be found within the Platonic tradition, and there seems to be scholarly agreement that this form of discourse appears within

5

See Denys Turner, The Darkness of God: Negativity in Christian Mysticism (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 19–49 and Charles M. Stang, Apophasis and Pseudonymity in Dionysius the Areopagite: ‘No Longer I’ (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012); see also the same author’s ‘Negative Theology from Gregory of Nyssa to Dionysius the Areopagite’, in The Wiley-Blackwell Companion to Christian Mysticism, Julia A. Lamm, ed. (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, 2013), 161–76. Louth, also, has a work devoted to this mysterious figure: Denys the Areopagite (New York: Continuum, 2001). For text, see De mystica theologia in Corpus Dionysiacum II: Pseudo-dionysius Areopagita. De coelesti hierarchia, de ecclesiastica hierarchia, de mystica theologia, epistulae [Patristische Texte und Studien 36. Berlin: De Gruyter, 1991], 141–50, G. Heil and A. M. Ritter, eds; and English translation by Paul Rorem in Colm Luibhéid, ed., Pseudo-Dionysius: The Complete Works (Mahwah, NJ: Paulist Press, 1987), 133–41.

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Christian theology even as early as Clement of Alexandria in the second century.6 In terms set forth above, the illuminated mystic benefits from both the knowledge of the ‘cataphatic’ way, as well as the presumed ignorance of the ‘apophatic’. For Gregory Nazianzen, to be sure, he will speak of a profound human ignorance of God, which in the course of the biblical narrative of salvation receives a profound revelation or ‘spark’ of illumination that flashes like lightning – yet results in a more intimate form of human-divine intimacy, self-giving and surrender which remains a form of ‘negative’ knowledge. As Dionysius would write (in the fifth century?), Gregory already anticipates the quintessential insight of mystical theology, that God is somehow both far beyond all modes of human cognition, and yet equally present within human experience in some vivid and yet mysterious way. In other words, God’s ‘being’ is totally unlike that of our own, so much so that we are right to speak of God as ‘non-being’; yet nevertheless, perhaps especially within liturgy, one may suffer occasional glimpses of heightened awareness of the divine. Other quandaries of the sort appear in a dense series of reflections, compressed by the Theologian within an explanation of the classical Christian anthropology of sin and grace, Adam and Christ, darkness and light. Thus, in Oration 38 the author clearly speaks in a register of theology and rhetoric that shows evident resemblance to the later authors Dionysios and Maximos the Confessor, perhaps in a way that is more apt than even the treatises of Gregory of Nyssa. To marshal additional evidence from Gregory Nazianzen’s other orations would serve the aim of deepening our view of his own rhetorical skill, and use of the linguistic cues of negative theology, yet I wish instead to present in short detail select passages from his Oration 38 – which I hope will make more evident the author’s affinity for the apophatic way, and his synthetic incorporation of such language within a profoundly Christian narrative on the occasion of Christ’s birth. 6

J. W. Trigg, ‘Receiving the Alpha: Negative Theology in Clement of Alexandria and its Possible Implications’, Studia Patristica 31 (1997), 540–5; and Annewies Van den Hoek, ‘The “Catechetical” School of Early Christian Alexandria and Its Philonic Heritage’, Harvard Theological Review 90 (1997), 59–87.

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Gregory Nazianzen’s Oration 38 Here, I hope only to provide an initial, summary glance at the characteristic features of Nazianzen’s apparent negative theology in the Oration 38 (‘On the Nativity’). The passage highlighted for special attention in Louth’s text is part of the Church Father’s oration delivered either at Christmas of 380 or Epiphany of 381 AD. The occasion was of course a festival – that is, a feast day – on which Gregory delivered a homily in which his prose glimmers with subtlety balanced phrasing and ornamental flourishes. In many respects, these devices come to a turning point as the author reaches section 7; for to this point, he has combined biblical references with sweeping oratory and a sense of celebrating the mystery of the Incarnation, and here he begins to speak about the sort of insight or ‘special knowledge’ reserved for the elect. A central thought of the Oration begins even from the opening flourishes of the Theologian’s prooemion, where Gregory cites the Psalm, ‘Let the heavens be glad and the earth rejoice!’ (Ps. 90:11). The author takes the distinction between heaven and earth as his starting point for a meditation on the Incarnation of Christ, and this move in turn becomes the occasion for Gregory’s thoughts about the limits of nature, including those of human reason: ‘heavenly now is earth-bound’, the author declares.7 As he proceeds, the speaker repeats himself in so many different ways, if only in order to announce clearly the paradox of the Word made flesh – Gregory explains: ‘the Laws of Nature are released; it is necessary that the higher order be fulfilled. Christ commands; let us not oppose.’8 For Maximos the Confessor, this saying will similarly provide the grounds for an extended account of the philosophy of nature, which Christ has now disrupted through his Incarnation. In Gregory’s homily, 7

8

As Nazianzen will later say, ‘the Word has become thickened’ (ὁ Λόγος παχύνεται); cf. Greg. Naz., Or 38.1-2 in Grégoire de Nazianze: Discours 38–41 (Sources Chrétiennes 358), Claudio Moreschini, ed. (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1990), 104–6 – N.B. the text of SC 358 simply reprints that of PG, which I will cite hereafter where required. Greg. Naz. Or. 38.2.

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the juxtaposition established with the harmonic rush of opening parallels creates a necessary frame of reference for the author’s later meditation in praise of the ineffability of God’s transcendence. For, as Gregory will go on to say, what is true of Creation, as the basis for all human forms of thought and experience, is true of God only by analogy or likeness. Like ‘being’ and any of the other divine names discussed by the author of the Dionysian corpus, Gregory introduces ‘time’ as a limiting feature of human experience that could never in fact apply equally to God: ‘God always was, and is, and will be; or rather, God always is. For the words ‘was’ and ‘will be’ are only dividing marks for our way of keeping time, characteristic of nature’s flux. Indeed, God is always and he gives himself this name, speaking to Moses on the mountain’.9 The difference between God and nature, for Gregory, is thus a starting point for contemplation of God in himself, what was for Nazianzen the specific domain of theology properly so-called. One must recall, however, that Gregory introduces this distinction in the context of a homily in praise of the Word made flesh, which overcomes that divide between created beings and the Creator. It is noteworthy, however, that Gregory interprets the theophany of Ex. 3:14 in view of measured time, and not in terms of ‘being’ in the manner of St Thomas Aquinas and medieval Western metaphysics. Rather, the Theologian prefers to indicate God’s eternity, or in other words his timelessness, a characteristic which is even in English grammar in fact marked by the same privation that Gregory will light upon in his litany of negations of the divine. So while ‘was’ and ‘will be’ are for Nazianzen words and indeed temporal zones that apply only to our created reality, ‘is’ alone (ὁ ὤν) truly communicates meaningfully of God – it is, even, as Gregory points out, a ‘name’ by which God reveals himself. In this respect, Gregory has a firm grasp on territory (later) covered by Dionysius. So, while it may take some conceptual work on the reader’s part in order to discern the essentially negative character of Gregory’s theological 9

Greg. Naz. Or. 38.7, PG 317B.1-5 (my translation above): Θεὸς ἦν μὲν ἀεὶ καὶ ἔστι καὶ ἔσται μᾶλλον δὲ ἔστιν ἀεί. Τὸ γὰρ ἦν καὶ ἔσται, τοῦ καθ᾿ ἡμᾶς χρόνου τμήματα καὶ τῆς ῥευστῆς φύσεως ὁ δὲ ὤν ἀεὶ καὶ τοῦτο αὐτὸς ἑαυτὸν ὀνομάζει, τῷ Μωϋσεῖ χρηματίζων ἐπὶ τοῦ ὄρους.

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speculations above, in what follows the Theologian continues with his stream of negations, often cast in the grammatical mould of the α-privative. God is ἄπειρον and ἀόριστον, ‘unbounded’ and ‘unlimited’ – he is somehow also ἄληπτον, or partially as if ‘ungraspable.’ The only notion that may be grasped, Gregory says, is that God is ἄπειρον, ‘without limit.’ Yet these negations, as much as they may be helpful in further determining the quality of Gregory’s thought as akin to that of the negative theologians, do not exhaust the depth of this passage: For he holds the whole of being, gathering it together in himself, neither beginning nor ceasing, like a kind of boundless and limitless sea of being, surpassing all thought and time and nature. He is only sketched by the mind in images, and so merely in a limited and insufficient way, not from those things that deal with him directly, but only those which are somehow ‘around him’, with separate images drawn together into one impression of the truth, fleeing before it is grasped and disappearing before properly understood, so illuminating the guiding edge of our mind and purifying us, like ‘a swift bolt of lightning that does not remain’.10

In what is perhaps surprising, Gregory explains how God is like a ‘boundless and infinite sea of being, exceeding all thought and time and nature, sketched unevenly in the mind alone’. The mind or νοός, in other words, receives only an impression (ἴνδαλμα), and moreover it is an impression or sketch of the things ‘around’ God, not those that pertain to God without mediation. The ruling faculty, or τὸ ἡγεμονικόν instead is privileged to obtain a direct insight, however fleeting and momentary, of the truth communicated to the mind by way of images and analogies. While the mind is still struggling to process the value and meaning of all symbolic

10

Greg. Naz. Or. 38.7, PG 317B5ff (my translation, last line adapted from St Gergory of Nazianzus: Festal Orations, N. V. Harrison, trans. [Yonkers, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2008]): Ὀλον γὰρ ἐν ἑαυτῷ συλλαβὼν ἔχει τὸ εἶναι, μήτε ἀρξάμενον μήτε παυσόμενον, οἷόν τι πέλαγος οὐσίας ἄπειρον καὶ ἀόριστον, πᾶσαν ὑπερεκπίπτων ἔννοιαν καὶ χρόνου καὶ φύσεως, νῷ μόνῳ σκιαγραφούμενος, καὶ τοῦτο λίαν ἀμυδρῶς καὶ μετρίως, οὐκ ἐκ τῶν κατ᾿ αὐτόν, ἀλλ᾿ ἐκ τῶν περὶ αὐτὸν, ἄλλης ἐξ ἄλλου φαντασίας συλλεγομένης εἰς ἕν τι τῆς ἀληθείας ἴνδαλμα, πρὶν κρατηθῆναι φεῦγον καὶ πρὶν νοηθῆναι διαδιδράσκον, τοσαῦτα περιλάμπων ἡμῶν τὸ ἡγεμονικόν, καὶ ταῦτα κεκαθαρμένων, ὅσα καὶ ὄψιν ἀστραπῆς τάχος οὐχ ἱσταμένης.

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language of theology, the τὸ ἡγεμονικόν becomes illuminated, and serves some purifying role (or is itself purified), even as the divine ray dissipates from vision. As a faculty of the human person, who in Gregory’s anthropology is necessarily a created, temporal being, this light-receiving aspect of the mind remains bound by the limitations of time; and yet, according to Gregory, it may somehow in the midst of ‘darkness’ have a momentary insight into the realm beyond. One may simply propose that Gregory the Theologian has an imprecise grasp of the philosophical lexicon, yet he uses the same term (τὸ ἡγεμονικόν) elsewhere in Or. 27.3. As in the present text, there Gregory attributes both epistemological and moral dimensions to the guiding faculty τὸ ἡγεμονικόν, as preliminary qualifications for the study of theology.11 Whether the author indeed has in mind a certain hierarchy of intellectual faculties, in which one enjoys a superiority of function, what is conclusive is the Theologian’s sense of humanity’s epistemological status: whether through impressions in the mind, or through a brief hint of grasping their truth, the divine light illumines human minds only in small doses.

Elements of Platonism in Oration 38 In at least three ways, however, Gregory of Nazianzus makes use of Platonic resources, and indeed may appeal to pre-Platonic philosophers as well. First, Gregory the Theologian speaks of a ‘boundless and infinite sea of being’, 11

Greg. Naz. Or. 27.3: ‘What is the right time? Whenever we are free from the mire and noise without, and our commanding faculty τὸ ἡγεμονικόν is not confused by illusory, wandering images, leading us, as it were, to mix fine script with ugly scrawling, or sweet-smelling scent with slime. We need actually “to be still” in order to know God, and when we receive the opportunity, “to judge uprightly” in theology’, in St Gregory of Nazianzus, On God and Christ: The Five Theological Orations and Two Letters to Cledonius, Frederick Williams, trans. (Crestwood, NY: SVS Press, 2002), 4; cf. Gregorius Nazianzenus: Adversus Eunomianos (orat. 27) in J. Berbel, ed., Gregor von Nazianz. Die fünf theologischen Reden (Düsseldorf: Patmos-Verlag, 1963).

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which Claudio Moreschini points out has certain precedent in Plato’s Symposium.12 Second, the repeated use of ἄπειρον as an elevated and unassailable term for the divine of course enjoys a longstanding tradition in the Greek philosophical tradition, originating as early as the sixth-century pre-Socratic authors. However wide-ranging a path it took, the ἄπειρον reaches Gregory Nazianzen’s dynamic vocabulary with a long history of prior use, which he adapts to satisfy his own purposes in presenting a spiritual epistemology that presumes increased (yet endless?) proximity to the divine through stages of progress. Finally, as I have already indicated, there is a simultaneous process of moral purification combined with the passage toward likeness to God, and on this score again Nazianzen recapitulates earlier concerns central to Platonic moral development, evidenced in the so-called middle dialogues.13 These three elements may be observed as the Theologian closes this speculative digression by venturing to express a form of the doctrine of deification: It seems to me that insofar as it is graspable, the divine draws [us] toward itself, for what is completely ungraspable is unhoped for and unsought. Yet one wonders at the ungraspable, and one desires more intensely the object of wonder, and being desired it purifies, and purifying it makes deiform, and with those who have become such he converses as with those close to him,–I speak with vehement boldness–God is united with gods, and he is thus known, perhaps as much as he already knows those who are known to him.14

12 Plato Symposium 210d: ἀλλʼ ἐπὶ τὸ πολὺ πέλαγος τετραμμένος τοῦ καλοῦ καὶ θεωρῶν πολλοὺς καὶ καλοὺς λόγους καὶ μεγαλοπρεπεῖς τίκτῃ καὶ διανοήματα ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ ἀφθόνῳ in Platonis Opera, John Burnet, ed. (Medford, MA: Oxford University Press, 1903); ‘turning rather towards the main ocean of the beautiful may by contemplation of this bring forth in all their splendour [sic] many fair fruits of discourse and meditation in a plenteous crop of philosophy’, in Plato, Vol. 9, Harold N. Fowler, trans. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1925). 13 Of course, one may also think of Plato’s famous cave allegory, in which the ‘prisoners’ receive only a faint refraction of the light of day; see Republic 514a–520a. 14 Greg. Naz. Or. 38.7, PG 317C, 14–22, Harrison, trans., Ἐμοὶ δοκεῖν, ἵνα τῷ ληπτῷ μὲν ἕλκῃ πρὸς ἑαυτόν – τὸ γὰρ τελέως ἄληπτον, ἀνέλπιστον καὶ ἀνεπιχείρητον – τῷ δὲ ἀλήπτῳ θαυμάζεται, θαυμαζόμενον δὲ ποθῆται πλέον, ποθούμενον δὲ καθαίρῃ, καθαῖρον

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It seems that Louth’s particular assessment may indeed prove valid, since one finds here good evidence of movement from ignorance to increasing degrees of knowledge. Moreover, the Theologian imagines higher degrees of intimacy with the divine only through prolonged exposure to the intensely purifying centre of communion within the human mind. A Platonic emphasis on purity achieved through subsequent stages of growth in love, or moral development through love of beauty, resounds clearly – even if Gregory has not distinguished the nature of ascent in detail. His purpose, after all, is not to remain on this level of pure ‘abstraction’, but rather to contemplate the so-called ‘economy’ as he does in following sections, rehearsing the biblical narrative that culminates with the nativity of Christ.

Conclusion: Knowledge of God – Whether Angel or Human? Despite the negations found in abundance, one must only return to the opening lines of Nazianzen’s homily in order to recognise the simultaneous place of emphasis given to positive language that describes God in the Incarnation. In what is surely a double-reference to Gen. 1:3–4 and Jn. 1:1–5 the Theologian begins his oration by rejoicing: ‘again the darkness is dissolved, again the light is set in place’. The leitmotif continues as Gregory remarks how ‘again Egypt is punished in darkness, again the people of Israel by a pillar are illuminated.’ Finally, Nazianzen rephrases the words of the prophet Isaiah, ‘Let the people sitting in the darkness of ignorance (ἐν σκότει τῆς ἀγνοίας) see a great light of knowledge (φῶς μέγα τῆς ἐπιγνώσεως).’15 Here, Nazianzen provides an additional gloss for the

15

δὲ θεοειδεῖς ἐργάζεται, τοιούτοις δὲ γενομένοις, ὡς οἰκείοις, ἤδη προσομιλῇ – τολμᾷ τι ·νεανικὸν ὁ λόγος – Θεὸς θεοῖς ἑνούμενός τε καὶ γνωριζόμενος, καὶ τοσοῦτον ἴσως ὅσον ἤδη γινώσκει τοὺς γινωσκομένους. Greg. Naz. Or. 38.2, PG 313A: Πάλιν τὸ σκότος λύται, πάλιν τὸ φῶς ὑφίσταται, πάλιν Αἴγυπτος σκότῳ κολάζεται, πάλιν Ἰσραὴλ στύλῳ φωτίζεται. Ὁ λαὸς ὁ καθήμενος ἐν σκότει

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words darkness and light (σκότος and φῶς), so that he emphasises the one (darkness) as ‘ignorance’ and the other (light) as positive knowledge.16 That is not the end of the story, however, because the Theologian in the course of his recapitulation of the history of salvation must mention the fallibility of angels, who while ‘difficult to move’ (δυσκινήτους) are nevertheless somehow changeable and thus capable of being turned away from their divine station. The example given in this respect by Gregory is the ‘one called Lucifer on account of his brightness (διὰ τὴν λαμπρότητα), but because of his pride he became and is called darkness’.17 In direct contrast to the manner of deification mentioned in passing at Or. 38.7, which builds upon the Theologian’s allusion at Or. 38.2 to the prophet Isaiah and the Pentateuch, the one called Ἑωσφόφος and his angels suffer the terrible woe of having fallen or passed away from their knowledge of God, thereby becoming fashioners of evil ‘by their flight from the Good’ (τῇ τοῦ καλοῦ φυγῇ). Judging from this supporting passage, in conjunction with the emphasis on reason that Nazianzen finds in the economy of the created order, he presents a coherent and integral view of the rationality of the universe, under the light of its Creator.18 This measured approach, of course, remains in keeping with Gregory’s commitment to Platonic epistemology, even when he goes on to speak of God’s superabundant form of being that transcends all human categories. By making the human person more in tune with the source of all reason, goodness and depth of being, proximity to God nevertheless entails a certain form of un-knowing, what the Western medieval tradition will capture at its best. To distinguish this form of knowledge as

16 17

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τῆς ἀγνοίας ἰδέτω φῶς μέγα τῆς ἐπιγνώσεως. Τὰ ἀρχαῖα παρῆλθεν · ἰδοὺ γέγονε τὰ πάντα καινά. (Cf. Is 9:1 lxx) ὁ λαὸς ὁ πορευόμενος ἐν σκότει, ἴδετε φῶς μέγα ·οἱ κατοικοῦντες ἐν χώρᾳ καὶ σκιᾷ θανάτου, φῶς λάμψει ἐφ᾿ ὑμᾶς. In fact, the text of the Septuagint compares darkness rather to ‘death’ (Is 9.1, ‘for those dwelling in the region and darkness of death, light has shone’), with the corresponding idea that light prepares the way for life. Greg. Naz. Or. 38.9, PG 321A:15-16: Πείθει δέ με μὴ ἀκινήτους, ἀλλὰ δυσκινήτους, καὶ ὑπολαμβάνειν ταύτας καὶ λέγειν ὁ διὰ τὴν λαμπρότητα Ἑωσφόφος, σκότος διὰ τὴν ἔπαρσιν καὶ γενόμενος καὶ λεγόμενος, αἵ τε ὑπ᾿ αὐτὸν ἀποστατικαὶ δυνάμεις, δημιουγοὶ τῆς κακίας τῇ τοῦ καλοῦ φυγῇ, καὶ ἡμῖν πρόξενοι. Greg. Naz. Or. 38.8-13.

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‘learned ignorance’ in contrast to the ignorance brought on by disobedience, sin and death, is a key task of the mystical theologian. In presenting the case of Lucifer and his like company, Gregory holds up a counterexample against which to view his positive doctrine of the soul’s flight to the god beyond all time and being and finite reality, in whose embrace both recognition and total abandon are key witnesses. The spiritual quest of the human family, according to Gregory the Theologian, is thus to be one from the darkness of ignorance to the light of knowledge, even if that final mode of knowing is something that transcends ordinary intellectual functions of the mind. In this way, Gregory Nazianzen moves past the time-honoured edifice of Greek thought in order to penetrate the mystery of knowing and being known, in a way expressed also by the Psalms and his own contemporaries even in the West.19 He thus combines glowing rhetoric with his account of cognitive and emotional experience of the sacred, to the point of describing that union of natures as ‘God made one with and known by gods, as much as perhaps he knows those who are known’.20 Surely the language here is forceful enough that Gregory deserves credit for his role in shaping the heritage of Byzantine Christian mysticism? In his distinct form of intuitive reasoning, Gregory identifies the source and goal of human intellectual ‘desire’, the God who transforms, animates and fulfils the human mind as the seat of personality and wisdom. Because this brilliant reality also transcends every operation of the soul, and in view of Gregory’s consistent restrained language, I have identified his mode of discourse as ‘negative theology’ – a claim, perhaps, which deserves further clarification. To appreciate this rhetorical feature within the many orations delivered by the Theologian would require a more detailed study of the precise emphasis on knowledge, divine revelation, God’s manifestation in Christ, and the superabundant ecstasy of unknowing in each of them, and as an entire corpus. For the moment, I think it may be safe to say that E.g. Ps 139:13 – the same can be found in Augustine conf. 3.11, CCL 27, 33: ‘you were nearer than my inmost parts, and higher than my highest’ (my translation). 20 Greg. Naz. 38.7, PG 317C, 20–2, Θεὸς θεοῖς ἑνούμενός τε καὶ γνωριζόμενος, καὶ τοσοῦτον ἴσως ὅσον ἤδη γινώσκει τοὺς γινωσκομένος. 19

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Gregory’s various points of contact with forms of thought and religious symbolism beyond his own corner of the Mediterranean world should demonstrate his role as an agent of cultural formation. In other words, as much as he may rely upon the Cappadocian milieu for inspiration and support, including the common heritage of Origen of Alexandria, Gregory the Theologian must be engaged as a mediator who stood at the end of a long fourth century, shaping and transmitting a synthesis of Greek philosophical rhetoric and biblical theology within a liturgical context that would itself remain a permanent fixture of the Byzantine world.

Sihong Lin

6 ‘Never had there been such happy times’: Byzantine Rome and the Making of the Anglo-Saxon Church, c.640–680

abstract The seventh century was a time of crisis for the Byzantine Empire. One cause was the religious furore over monotheletism, a controversy that also drew in individuals from beyond imperial borders. This paper focuses in particular on the experiences of those who travelled to and from Anglo-Saxon England over the course of this dispute. Pilgrims, such as Wilfrid and Benedict Biscop, visited Rome and brought back Roman relics and customs, whilst the Cilician Theodore of Tarsus rose to become the archbishop of Canterbury and the North African Hadrian his right-hand man. Significantly, these prominent figures in the Anglo-Saxon church can all be tied to political events in Rome. Although the Byzantines and the Anglo-Saxons were geographically distant from each other, they nonetheless still lived in the same tumultuous world and it is the contention here that imperial politics played an important role in the development of the Anglo-Saxon church.

For the Venerable Bede, the eighth-century Northumbrian historian writing at the edge of Western Christendom, the seventh century was a golden age for the Anglo-Saxon church. Men he greatly admired dominated both learning and ecclesiastical politics, and Theodore of Tarsus’ appointment by the pope to the See of Canterbury in 668 only strengthened further the link between England and Rome. With the help of this energetic archbishop, England became a hub of learning, transforming the Anglo-Saxon world, however briefly, into the intellectual ‘light of the West’.1 In Bede’s

1

Jane Stevenson, The ‘Laterculus Malalianus’ and the School of Archbishop Theodore (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 3.

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words, ‘never had there been such happy times since the English first came to Britain’.2 Contemporaries in Byzantium on the other hand would have had very different opinions about the seventh century. With the beginning of the Arab Conquests in the 630s, Byzantium lost all of its Eastern, and most prosperous, territories to the rising caliphate. Being only eleven years old upon his accession in 641, Constans II was also beset by internal unrest from the start, having to face both ambitious generals and monks raging against the monothelete ‘heresy’, a policy Constans had inherited from his grandfather Heraclius. The city of Rome became a bastion for Eastern dissidents and it is likely that the revolts in North Africa in 647 and in Italy in 652 can be directly tied to the actions of the papacy. This of course could not be left unpunished and from 653 onwards imperial control was reasserted; the ringleaders of Western sedition were brought to Constantinople for trial, whilst a more pliable pope was imposed on Rome.3 Although a measure of stability, both at home and abroad, was restored by the emperor over the next decade, a renewed crisis beckoned in the 660s and by 668 an Arab army was at the gates of Constantinople.4 These events on the surface had very little impact on the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms, which in the 650s were not even uniformly Christian. Yet it was individuals who visited Rome in this crucial period, such as Wilfrid of York and Theodore of Tarsus, who loom large in any narrative of the early Anglo-Saxon church. These men had been heartily welcomed when they visited Rome by papal bureaucrats who were not just local functionaries, but were all also subjects of the emperor. Throughout the seventh century the papacy was an integral part of the empire ruled from Constantinople, despite its occasional treason, and it is from this angle that Wilfrid and Theodore’s time in Rome should be considered as well.

2 Bede, Ecclesiastical History of the English People, 4.2, Bertram Colgrave and Roger Mynors, eds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1969), 334–5. 3 Phil Booth, Crisis of Empire: Doctrine and Dissent at the End of Late Antiquity (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 2013), 278–320. 4 Marek Jankowiak, ‘The First Arab Siege of Constantinople’, Travaux et Mémoires 17 (2013), 237–320.

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This is a path that has already explored by some scholars. Bernhard Bischoff and Michael Lapidge’s magisterial work on Theodore of Tarsus, for instance, has clearly demonstrated the intellectual legacy the Cilician bequeathed to the Anglo-Saxons and sketched out an outline of his biography, a position that has since been strengthened by recent work on Wilfrid of York’s continental connections and further analysis of the writings produced at the school of Canterbury.5 By taking such a broad approach, it is clear that the crisis of empire in the East had repercussions far beyond imperial borders. Indeed, it would appear that linguistic and political boundaries meant very little to these travellers. Instead, their personal contacts and influence facilitated the spread of doctrines and arguments across Europe, even between places as unlikely as Northumbria and Palestine. The city of Rome was uniquely placed to strengthen these connections. Papal resistance against monotheletism had after all been a co-operative project with a group of Eastern monks who saw in Old Rome a potent ally against the ‘heresy’ of New Rome. This resistance was most prominently led by Maximus the Confessor, a Palestinian monk now known as one of the most influential Greek patristic writers of this period.6 His campaign was not just over abstract doctrines, but was a battle that had tangible consequences for the health of the empire; for many, victory would only come when Constantinople had once again embraced ‘orthodoxy’.7 Aside from instigating revolts by secular officials in the Byzantine West, support was also sought from churches in Palestine, North Africa, Cyprus, and Francia, with the message being particularly well received by a new

Bernhard Bischoff and Michael Lapidge, Biblical Commentaries from the Canterbury School of Theodore and Hadrian (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994); Nicholas Higham, ed., Wilfrid: Abbot, Bishop, Saint; Papers from the 1300th Anniversary Conferences (Donington: Shaun Tyas, 2013); Stevenson, ‘Laterculus Malalianus’, and Michael Lapidge, ed., Archbishop Theodore (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995). 6 Pauline Allen, ‘Life and Times of Maximus the Confessor’, in Pauline Allen and Bronwen Neil, eds, The Oxford Handbook of Maximus the Confessor (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 3–18. 7 Booth, Crisis of Empire, 289. 5

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generation of Frankish bishops who now looked to Rome for inspiration.8 By 649, Pope Martin I was confident enough to use the Lateran Synod to openly condemn the Eastern patriarchs who had assented to the imperial formulation; even if the emperor was not directly attacked, it was nevertheless a blow against imperial authority.9 After Martin’s arrest in 653, a new pope, Eugenius, was imposed by the authorities, yet the people of Rome, or rather the bureaucrats and monks who had been so influential over the previous decades, soon turned against the new appointee, dramatically forcing the pope to abandon his policy of reconciliation.10 It was this atmosphere of resentment and long-term unrest that a young pilgrim named Wilfrid found himself in when he arrived in the city. He was one of the first Anglo-Saxons to travel to Rome and would later become a powerful bishop with a less than ideal career of frequent conflicts with authority and repeated exiles, a life emblematic of a new generation of Anglo-Saxons who were brought up in a world that was becoming more and more Christian. Naturally, it is important to first note that there are essentially only two main sources for Wilfrid’s life, a hagiography written by one of his followers, Stephen, and the still favourable but more selective account provided by Bede.11 Both sources are invaluable, but they were nevertheless products of the eighth century and were affected by later events, most prominently the political tensions between different Northumbrian monastic communities.12 Stephen in particular deliberately framed the bishop as a holy man using imageries from biblical texts and contemporary history in order to secure Wilfrid’s legacy, so his words 8 Ibid., 261, and Catherine Cubitt, ‘St Wilfrid: A Man for his Times’, in Higham, ed., Wilfrid, 325. 9 Acts of the Lateran Synod, 390–1, Richard Price, trans. (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2014), 384. 10 Book of Pontiffs, 77, Raymond Davis, trans. (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2010), 69. 11 Stephen, Life of Wilfrid, Bertram Colgrave, ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1927), and Bede, Ecclesiastical History, Colgrave and Mynors, eds. 12 Walter Goffart, The Narrators of Barbarian History, A.D. 550–800: Jordanes, Gregory of Tours, Bede, and Paul the Deacon (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1988), 235–328.

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certainly should not be seen as accurate representations of events decades earlier.13 It is fortunate then that there has been a renewed interest in the career of this Northumbrian saint in recent years, both in rethinking the chronology and in reassessing the value of Stephen’s words, thus providing this paper with a firm foundation on which to add further nuance to our understanding of Wilfrid’s intellectual and cultural milieu.14 Wilfrid had set off for Rome in the early 650s as a teenager and arrived sometime between 654 and 661, though an earlier date is more likely.15 Wilfrid had already spent several months in Lyons beforehand, in the process befriending the local bishop.16 As a result, the Frankish model of episcopal leadership is generally recognised as having had a prominent influence on Wilfrid, but these developments in Francia did not occur in isolation.17 Wilfrid’s patron at this stage, Annemundus of Lyons, was educated in the same place as Eligius and Audoin, both prominent in the Frankish church’s response to monotheletism, with the former bishop even being sent to Rome to reaffirm Frankish orthodoxy. Another bishop within their circle, Amandus, had received a personal letter from Pope Martin along with the Acts of the Lateran Synod, further linking the Roman conflict with the world of Wilfrid.18 As Wilfrid had reached Lyons soon after the synod, it is likely that even at this early stage of his career Wilfrid was already familiar with the rhetoric and methods of the anti-monotheletes, whose loyalty to the Council of Chalcedon and support for papal preeminence surely meshed well with the Anglo-Saxons’ respect for the papacy, and most likely journeyed to Rome in the aftermath of the city’s return to anti-monotheletism under Eugenius.

Trent Foley, Images of Sanctity in Eddius Stephanus’ Life of Bishop Wilfrid, an Early English Saint’s Life (Lewiston: Edwin Mellen Press, 1992); see also Alan Thacker, ‘Wilfrid, his Cult and his Biographer’, in Higham, ed., Wilfrid, 3–16. 14 See the numerous contributions in Higham, ed., Wilfrid. 15 Cubitt, ‘St Wilfrid’, 326 and 342. 16 Stephen, Life of Wilfrid, 4, Colgrave, ed., 10–11. 17 Paul Fouracre, ‘Wilfrid and the Continent’, in Higham, ed., Wilfrid, 187–91. 18 Cubitt, ‘St Wilfrid’, 323–5. 13

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Soon after his arrival Wilfrid befriended a priest who taught him the local customs and even secured for the Anglo-Saxon an audience with an unnamed pope.19 This friend has been identified as the archdeacon Boniface, one of a triumvirate of papal officials who governed the city in the pope’s absence and a prominent anti-monothelete within the administration. As Boniface was more likely to have gained this prominent position after Eugenius’ volte-face than before, it is perhaps possible to further narrow down the range of possible dates for Wilfrid’s arrival.20 In any case, this meeting with such a powerful man could not have been an accident and would indicate that Wilfrid was a great deal more important than his life so far would suggest.21 As one of the first Anglo-Saxon pilgrims to visit Rome and one sponsored by a royal house that had been favoured by the papacy over the previous half-century, it was certainly understandable for local officials to lavish attention on the young pilgrim. Benedict Biscop, Wilfrid’s travelling companion for part of the journey, had already planned to travel to Rome before Wilfrid was added to his entourage with royal support, and it has been recently suggested Benedict acted as a sort of emissary between Rome and the Anglo-Saxons throughout his life.22 Given Wilfrid’s ability to ingratiate himself with the nobility from his youth (even if he was frequently unable to retain their favour), a political role for his pilgrimage is also a striking possibility. This would have been helpful for the papacy as well, for in the aftermath of Martin’s detainment it was surely politically prudent to once again reaffirm Rome’s connections with the West, all the more so when Frankish bishops had been so receptive to efforts only a few years earlier. Pope Vitalian, Eugenius’ successor, would likewise maintain this connection with Francia, so Boniface’s friendship

19 Stephen, Life of St Wilfrid, 5, Colgrave, ed., 10–12. 20 Richard Pollard, ‘A Cooperative Correspondence: The Letters of Gregory the Great’, in Bronwen Neil and Matthew Dal Santo, eds, A Companion to Gregory the Great (Leiden: Brill, 2013), 308. 21 Éamonn Ó Carragáin, The City of Rome and the World of Bede ( Jarrow: St Paul’s Church, 1994), 9. 22 Stephen, Life of Wilfrid, 3, Colgrave, ed., 8–9; Ian Wood, ‘The Continental Journeys of Wilfrid and Biscop’, in Higham, ed., Wilfrid, 208–9.

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with Wilfrid can be viewed in the same light, as a distinctly political move by the papal bureaucracy to cement its authority beyond the empire at a time of weakness.23 When Wilfrid finally returned to Northumbria in the early 660s, he became a fiercely pro-Roman figure in a kingdom where Irish and British influences could still be felt, with his Roman tastes even extending to the architecture of his monasteries.24 His beliefs were vindicated in 664 at the Synod of Whitby, where King Oswiu of Northumbria ruled that Roman customs regarding Easter were to be followed, rather than the Irish method used previously, with Wilfrid playing a prominent role as a proponent for the Roman cause.25 This now newly ascendant priest, soon to be appointed a bishop, and his followers maintained the same hardline stand on heresy as the papacy for the rest of his life. Deviations from orthodoxy were seen as matters of paramount importance, as in the Byzantine Empire, and inseparable from events in the secular world. Surely then there is little to separate the outspoken Wilfrid, who had attached himself to the royal family of Northumbria and through them gained secular recognition of Roman primacy in England, from the premier Byzantine dissident of this period, Maximus the Confessor, and his attachment to the exarch in North Africa and his use of the papacy as a vehicle for his doctrines.26 As a noble from a recently Christianised Germanic society, Wilfrid has often been seen as the ideal example of an aristocratic bishop playing at politics, being almost expected to conform to the traditional image of an open-handed patron with an armed retinue.27 But when examined in context of his formative years in Rome, his life was remarkably similar to the equally tumultuous careers of the anti-monothelete monks. Pope Vitalian, Letters 7–9, Jacques-Paul Migne, ed., Patrologia Latina 87 (Paris, 1863), 1006–8; Constant Mews, ‘Gregory the Great, the Rule of Benedict and Roman Liturgy: The Evolution of a Legend’, Journal of Medieval History 37/2 (2011), 131–2. 24 Richard Bailey, ‘St Wilfrid – A European Anglo-Saxon’, in Higham, ed., Wilfrid, 119. 25 Stephen, Life of Wilfrid, 10, Colgrave, ed., 20–3. 26 Booth, Crisis of Empire, 289. 27 Patrick Wormald, ‘Bede, Beowulf, and the Conversion of the Anglo-Saxon Aristocracy’, in Stephen Baxter, ed., The Times of Bede: Studies in Early English Christian Society and Its Historian (Malden, MA: Blackwell, 2006), 54–5. 23

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Wilfrid’s band of companions would be repeatedly exiled and their loyalties questioned by both kings and fellow monastics, much like what Maximus and his disciples had experienced.28 In the process, Wilfrid proselytised amongst pagans and built up relations with the Frankish church, acting as an Anglo-Saxon bishop just as comfortable on the Continent as in his native Northumbria.29 He was a pioneer within his church, someone who embraced the ideas he found elsewhere and sought to incorporate them, with mixed success, into Anglo-Saxon England; a career that would look very familiar to scholars of the crisis in Byzantium. After all, Maximus and his teachers, particularly John Moschus, had reacted in a similar way to the turmoil of the Persian War (603–628) and began to preach a pan-Mediterranean vision of Christianity inclusive of both their native Greek-speaking East and the Latin West as well, culminating eventually in Maximus’ doctrinal alliance with the papacy against the emperor.30 Based on the evidence, it is the contention here that his positive experience as a pilgrim to the city, along with the possible anti-monothelete political exchanges it was a part of, had exposed him to new mechanisms for enforcing orthodoxy, which sanctioned the use of force if necessary. Ecclesiastical co-operation with secular society was generally beneficial for both spheres, especially so in England where land ownership was intrinsically linked to political power, making the church’s relationship with royalty, the ultimate proprietor of all land, a key test of their relevance in their world.31 Unlike in Byzantium, Christianity in England, especially the Roman brand promoted by Wilfrid, had yet to penetrate beyond royal centres and the nobility, which meant that his goals could only be advanced with the help of those in power and so necessitated an adaption of the Roman strategy for his own context. This is also of course applicable to a more cynical reading of Wilfrid as a political operator who used secular

28 Aldhelm, Letter 12, Michael Lapidge and Michael Herren, trans (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 1979), 168–70. 29 Stephen, Life of Wilfrid, 13, 26, and 28, Colgrave, ed., 26–9, 52–3, 54–7. 30 Booth, Crisis of Empire, 120. 31 David Kirby, ‘Northumbria in the Time of Wilfrid’, in David Kirby, ed., Saint Wilfrid at Hexham (Newcastle-upon-Tyne: Oriel Press, 1974), 11.

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support to build a monastic empire, but the example of Maximus from the opposite side of European Christendom provides an important counterpoint, as the Palestinian monk was just as adroit in both defying secular authorities and in arranging alliances with them when appropriate. Despite the cultural and geographical distance between Wilfrid and Maximus, their social circles nonetheless intersected and their lives of tribulation and political infighting are, at the very least, illustrative of a parallel pattern in two very different contexts. Crucially, the Synod of Whitby also marked a turning point for the relationship between kings and bishops. After the synod, no further recorded church councils would feature such a decisive intervention from the king; although in later councils kings were still influential, decisions were at least in principle made solely by the attending ecclesiastics.32 The influence of Theodore of Tarsus is often seen as the key factor here and rightfully so, as Theodore had used his position as the archbishop of Canterbury to reassert episcopal primacy over ecclesiastical issues, a position that mirrored the words of Maximus and his followers, who had explicitly denied the emperor’s power to intervene in doctrinal disputes.33 Unlike Wilfrid, Theodore had also been personally involved in the monothelete controversy, which provides yet another crucial link between England and the events in Rome. Theodore of Tarsus was born in Cilicia in 602 and, after studying at Antioch and Constantinople, we next encounter the future archbishop in Rome in 649 as one of the signatories of the Acts of the Lateran Synod. Theodore’s importance within the anti-monothelete movement is further attested to in a papal letter from 680, in which he was described as an expert on this matter.34 There is no source for what happened to this remarkable monk between 649 and his appointment to Canterbury in 668, but the twists and turns of papal politics in the intervening period helpfully Catherine Cubitt, Anglo-Saxon Church Councils c.650-c.850 (London: Leicester University Press, 1995), 5. 33 Record of the Trial of Maximus the Confessor, 4, Pauline Allen and Bronwen Neil, eds (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), 54–5. 34 Bischoff and Lapidge, Biblical Commentaries, 5–80. 32

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illustrate a number of competing tensions within the city Theodore resided in, tensions that may well have helped to shape Theodore’s world-view. Eugenius’ dubious loyalty to both monotheletism and anti-monotheletism has already been discussed, but his successor, Vitalian, continued to hold similarly complex views, even as the emperor turned his eyes to the West. Though damned by later sources as a fratricidal tyrant, Constans II was in fact an able ruler who did much to stabilise Byzantium, particularly when the caliphate descended into civil war in 656. From then on, Constans rallied his forces and reconsolidated his regime’s hold on his diminished empire. By 663 Constans had even moved the court to Sicily and personally entered Rome to assert his authority, the first emperor to do so for nearly two centuries.35 This was part of a larger project to use Western resources to prepare for a naval assault against the caliphate, but Constans’ unprecedented stay in Italy had its consequences far beyond the Mediterranean as well.36 This was made clear in Bede’s description of Theodore’s appointment. After the Anglo-Saxon candidate sent to Rome had died of the plague, Pope Vitalian first selected Hadrian, a North African abbot who had already been on multiple embassies to Francia on behalf of the emperor. Indeed, on his later journey to England in 668 he would even be detained by a Frankish mayor, Ebroin, who suspected that he was involved in an imperial plot along with the Anglo-Saxons against the Franks.37 Although there is little else to say about this obscure event, Ebroin’s paranoia was certainly justified: Constans was based in Italy and had conducted campaigns against the Lombards and the Slavs in the 660s, meaning that the neighbouring Franks were inevitably drawn into the calculations of the emperor. Bede then recorded that Hadrian put forward Theodore as an alternative candidate, which in the context of his service to the emperor can be seen as a pro-imperial suggestion to remove a potential troublemaker, one with a history of dissent, from Rome. Significantly, Bede also recorded Book of Pontiffs, 78, Davis, trans., 69–70. Peter Sarris, Empires of Faith: The Fall of Rome to the Rise of Islam, 500–700 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), 286–92. 37 Bede, Ecclesiastical History, 4.1, Colgrave and Mynors, eds, 329–33. 35 36

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that Hadrian was to be sent along with Theodore to ensure that he did not introduce any Greek customs to the Anglo-Saxon church, which has conventionally been read as a veiled warning against monotheletism.38 This is however unlikely to be correct, since Theodore had in fact stood against this ‘heresy’. To better understand this passage, it is important to place Bede’s words in their Mediterranean context, as his simple description obscured how complex Roman attitudes to monotheletism remained under Vitalian. Far from an imperial loyalist, the pope would in fact re-open the debate on monotheletism after Constans’ death in 668 and refuse to accept the synodical letter of Patriarch John V of Constantinople, an act that led to the removal of Vitalian’s name from the diptychs by the patriarchs of Constantinople and Antioch.39 The reason for Vitalian’s change of heart was possibly the grant of additional privileges to Ravenna in 666, with which Rome had been engaged in battles of jurisdiction since the time of Justinian.40 Whilst Constans was still in Sicily, Vitalian was no doubt unable to openly defy the emperor and so perhaps instead considered a more subtle approach to opposing Constans, such as through appointing a known dissident to an important pro-papal position, which had the added advantage of further binding the West to the papacy. In other words, although there were anti-monothelete forces at work in 667, it was not directed at Theodore, but instead at Constans. Intriguingly, during Theodore’s journey to Canterbury he was welcomed by Agilbert, a Frankish bishop who had stood on Wilfrid’s, and thus Rome’s, side at the Synod of Whitby, In addition to this, Agilbert was related to Audoin, one of the bishops who had supported Rome’s anti-monothelete stance.41 Hadrian, according to Bede, had also separately 38 Ibid. 39 Friedhelm Winkelmann, Der monenergetisch-monotheletische Streit (Frankfurt am Main: Peter Lang, 2001), 278, and Jankowiak, ‘Siege of Constantinople’, 284. 40 Agnellus, Book of Pontiffs of Ravenna, 110, Deborah Deliyannis, trans. (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2004), 227. 41 Paul Fouracre, ‘The Origins of the Carolingian Attempt to Regulate the Cult of Saints’, in James Howard-Johnston and Paul Hayward, eds, The Cult of Saints in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Essays on the Contribution of Peter Brown (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1999), 158.

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visited two other bishops, one a proponent of monastic reform, the other one of Agilbert’s relatives, individuals who can, based on their acquaintances, be similarly inferred to be friends of the pro-Roman circle identified already.42 Once again, Theodore and Wilfrid’s careers were bound together well before the former’s arrival at England, both by their shared admiration for Rome and by a network, albeit a shadowy one, that had seemingly promoted the papacy’s interests on both sides of the English Channel. From this perspective, it is surely preferable to see Theodore’s appointment as a move more reflective of the long-term struggle for Roman pre-eminence within the empire than the papacy’s desire to placate the emperor by exiling the Cilician to an unimportant island. This vindicates Bede’s attitude against the Greek ‘heresy’, even if his reconstruction of the events is incorrect. This in turn may change our perspective of Hadrian, who can, as a result, be seen as an imperial ambassador who had turned against the emperor in light of his failures, resulting in his support for Theodore. Other previously loyal dissidents were certainly active in Italy, for in 668 the Arabs besieged Constantinople; Constans’ inaction in Sicily whilst his capital was surrounded must have seemed illogical to many of his subordinates. Although it is impossible to directly link the two events, the siege must have contributed to the decision by a cabal of high officials to assassinate Constans in July that year.43 Theodore had been chosen near the end of 667, precisely when an Arab army had encamped itself at Chalcedon opposite Constantinople, and left Rome in May the next year before the end of the siege. He and Hadrian therefore must have left Italy with heavy hearts, for they were leaving a world that was crumbling before their eyes. Yet there was reason for hope as well in the West for these pro-Roman monks. England and Francia had both stayed loyal to the papacy, with Wilfrid’s actions at the Synod of Whitby being a particularly good example. Combined with the presence of a network of supportive Merovingian bishops, the papacy’s status in the West had in fact remained stable even after the heady days of 649.

42 Wood, ‘Wilfrid and Biscop’, 205. 43 Jankowiak, ‘Siege of Constantinople’, 307–9.

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As already noted, Theodore’s arrival in England had a profound impact on the Anglo-Saxon church. Wilfrid had been reliant on the whims of secular patrons and was promptly deposed from his bishopric when he fell from favour; the new archbishop on the other hand was able to use his spiritual authority to restore Wilfrid.44 These two pro-Roman figures then acted in concert in the decade after 669, with Wilfrid beginning properly his campaign to popularise Roman customs, whether by introducing new Roman liturgical feasts or by expanding his monastic empire across England.45 Furthermore, Wilfrid would never again be recorded as acting as the religious face of a secular patron as he did previously at Whitby. Rather, he was now depicted as a royal advisor and who often acted independently of royal interests. His reforms and quarrels had, along with Theodore’s authority in the south, created a new status quo and gradually removed the more brazen influence the aristocracy possessed over the Anglo-Saxon church, which now had a power-base of its own, both in terms of land ownership and in terms of the influence wielded by powerful bishops, who in turn derived their legitimacy from the church’s association with the papacy. When Wilfrid’s relations with Theodore finally turned sour in the late 670s, it is remarkable again how relevant their experiences in Rome were. Theodore favoured a more pragmatic approach to former schismatics, perhaps due to his experiences of the cultural diversity within Christendom, and is seen today as the leader of the moderate faction in the Anglo-Saxon church, accepting some Irish traditions but subordinating them to Roman rules. Men with Irish links, such as Chad, who had replaced Wilfrid when he was deposed in 666, were still being appointed to bishoprics, strengthening the moderates within the church rather than the hardline ‘Wilfridians’.46 Wilfrid was of course not so taken with these pragmatic decisions, having inherited a less compromising view of Roman authority. Theodore’s pragmatism was thus questionable to Wilfrid both for his lenient treatment of perceived ‘heretics’ and for his claims to Roman 44 Stephen, Life of Wilfrid, 15, Colgrave, ed., 32–3. 45 Sarah Foot, ‘Wilfrid’s Monastic Empire’, and Éamonn Ó Carragáin and Alan Thacker, ‘Wilfrid in Rome’, in Higham, ed., Wilfrid, 29–33, 221–2. 46 Clare Stancliffe, Bede, Wilfrid and the Irish ( Jarrow: St Paul’s Church, 2003), 16–17.

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orthodoxy. When he was deposed for a second time in 678, Wilfrid’s vast bishopric centred at York was dismembered by Theodore, marking the last straw for this turbulent priest’s view of the archbishop.47 This plan to remove him meant that it was no longer possible for Wilfrid to tolerate Canterbury’s sympathetic stance on the Irish, as Theodore selected moderate candidates to be appointed to the bishoprics carved out from that of York. This added a doctrinal dimension to Wilfrid’s personal appeal to the pope in 679, which is generally considered to be out of personal interest. Although Wilfrid’s efforts ultimately proved to be futile, it has been suggested recently that Theodore’s emissaries and the deposed bishop had in fact reached a compromise in Rome in 680, one that restored to an extent Wilfrid’s episcopal powers and furthered Theodore’s programme to reorganise the Anglo-Saxon church; this was surely a likely possibility given how both individuals had deeply respected Roman authority.48 The deal however came to nothing, as the Northumbrian king refused to return Wilfrid to his see. Nevertheless, the fact that two Anglo-Saxon delegations in Rome were hammering out a deal on the eve of the Sixth Ecumenical Council is surely notable. Wilfrid even attended the Roman synod that preceded the imperial repudiation of monotheletism in 680, describing himself as the bishop of the northern British Isles.49 This is evidence not only for Wilfrid’s high opinion of himself, but is also indicative of a nugget of truth in the papacy’s claim to universal authority. Seventhcentury Rome, though much diminished, still had a profound impact on those who visited the city and its partisans fought tooth and nail to extend the influence of Roman Christianity, whether in Canterbury or in Constantinople. In a telling passage reviewing the important work of Michael Lapidge on Theodore of Tarsus, Bernice Kaczynski noted that:

47 Stephen, Life of Wilfrid, 24, Colgrave, ed., 48–51. 48 Cubitt, ‘St Wilfrid’, 329. 49 Bede, Ecclesiastical History, 5.19, Colgrave and Mynors, eds, 525.

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Lapidge may be correct in his assertion that students of Anglo-Saxon England will need to learn more about the Eastern empire, but for Byzantinists, the Anglo-Saxon mission probably remains an ephemeral event.50

Given the connections discussed here, this paper contends that the Byzantines were unlikely to have considered papal efforts in the West to be ‘ephemeral’. After all, Rome was still governed by Constantinople and its actions in the West were striking in demonstrating its insubordination against the emperor. By the end of this period, the same individuals who had been in close contact with key papal officials stood at the centre of the Anglo-Saxon church, which is surely more indicative of their ability to move smoothly between Byzantine and non-Byzantine worlds than of this period being an ‘age of division’, as the seventh century has so often been characterised.51 From the career of Theodore, it is possible to trace one disillusioned Cilician monk’s journey from being a signatory of the treasonous Acts of the Lateran Council of 649 to becoming a renowned archbishop of Canterbury. From the life of Hadrian, imperial diplomatic efforts in Francia and clues to how England was still relevant to the political calculations of the papacy come to light. Lastly, by studying the world of Wilfrid it is possible to show how Roman defiance in the 640s and the 650s shaped ecclesiastical politics in England, as Rome was the centre of his ecclesial ideology and its struggles had deeply affected the young pilgrim. The Byzantine Empire did not exist in a vacuum and its inhabitants, particularly those associated with the papacy, were aware of and interacted with their Western neighbours. The rise of Islam dominates our understanding of this period, but it is nonetheless important for Byzantinists to be aware of its consequences for the West as well, even in somewhere as far away and obscure as England.

50 Bernice Kaczynski, ‘Review Article: The Seventh-Century School of Canterbury: England and the Continent in Perspective’, The Journal of Medieval Latin 8 (1998), 214. 51 Sarris, Empires of Faith, 275–306, 377–8.

Karen Hamada

7 ‘Unity’ in Christ: Christological Basis for Church Unity in the Theology of Nersēs Šnorhali

abstract This article is devoted to the study of the Christology of Nersēs Šnorhali, or Saint Nersēs the Gracious, who played an important role in the negotiations for Armeno-Byzantine church union from 1165 to 1173. The aim of the author is to investigate Nersēs’ view on the Christological problem of the unity of humanity and divinity, not only as an object of a dogmatic controversy, but also as a key concept of his scientific and philosophical understandings of reality. The first part of the article describes the political and ideological motives, which led Nersēs to the project of church union with the Byzantines. The second and main part is dedicated to the analysis of Nersēs’ writings on related matters, especially his letters addressed to the Byzantines.

Introduction This paper focuses on a Christological issue, discussed in negotiations for Armeno-Byzantine religious union from 1165 to 1173 between the Armenian Catholicos Nersēs Šnorhali, or Saint Nersēs the Gracious, and the Emperor Manuel I Komnenos. Nersēs Šnorhali’s letters sent to the Emperor and the Patriarch of Constantinople concerning church union are considered to be among the best apologetic works in the Armenian Church. Nersēs, although rooted in the anti-Chalcedonian tradition, recognised the validity of the Chalcedonian doctrine about the two natures that are ‘inconfusedly, unchangeably, indivisibly, inseparably’ united in one hypostasis.1 On the 1

Philip Schaff, Bibliotheca symbolica ecclesiæ universalis: The creeds of Christendom, with a history and critical notes, Vol. 2 (New York: Harper & Brothers, 1881), 62.

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other hand, despite his positive attitude towards Chalcedonian Christology, he also made great efforts to protect the Armenian tradition of the confession of faith, which includes the expression ‘one nature’ as the result of the unity of two opposite natures: the divine and human natures of Christ, the Incarnate Word of God. As a result of his ‘pro-Chalcedonian’ attitude, Nersēs’ Christological position has been a controversial topic in scholarship. The Greek and Syriac sources, which mention that Nersēs accepted the Chalcedonian creed and promised the Greeks that he would cease using the expression ‘one nature’, suggest that Nersēs changed his Christological view as a result of his discussions with the Byzantines. However, L. Zēk῾iean, who refers to the Christological arguments of Nersēs written before the negotiations with the Byzantine emperor, insists that his Christological view was consistent: his Christology was based on the doctrine of ‘one nature of the Incarnate Word’ as stated in the traditional Armenian confession of faith, but at the same time he recognised the Chalcedonian Christology as a valid expression for the mystical unity of the Incarnate Word.2 This view of Zēk῾iean is supported by other academics.3

2 3

Լեւոն Զէքիեան, Համամիութենական տրամախօսութիւն մը ԺԲ դարուն. Հայագիտական մատենաշար ‘Բազմավէպ’ No. 13 (Վենետիկ: Ս. Ղազարի տպարան, 1978). H. Khatchadourian, whose article was published in the same year as Zēk῾iean’s book, compared Nersēs’ Christological arguments with those of Armenian theologians preceding him and reached the same conclusion as Zēk῾iean. See Hrant Katchadourian, ‘The Christology of St Nerses Shnorhali in Dialogue with Byzantium’, Miscellanea Francescana 78 (1978), 413–39. A. Stone supports Zēk῾iean’s theory that Nersēs retained his original Christological position after the theological discussion with the Byzantines. See Andrew F. Stone, ‘Nerses IV “The Gracious”, Manuel I Komnenos, the atriarch Michael III Anchialos and negotiations for church union between Byzantium and the Armenian church, 1165–1173’, Jahrbuch der Österreichischen Byzantinistik 55 (2005), 191–208. Aram K’ēshishean, who published the English translation of the epistles of Nersēs, insists that he sought to provide a ‘broader perspective to embrace both anti- and pro-Chalcedonian christological positions’. Aram K’ēshishean, Catholicos of Cilicia, Saint Nersēs the Gracious and Church Unity. Armeno-Greek Church Relations (1165–1173) (Antelias: Armenian Catholicosate of Cilicia, 2010), 84–5.

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As proved by studies like that of Zēk῾iean, it is certain that in spite of his ‘pro-Chalcedonian’ attitude Nersēs consistently upheld the traditional Armenian doctrine of Christology. The aim of this article, therefore, is not to present a new point of view concerning Nersēs’ Christological position, but to explore Nersēs’ Christological views in a broader context than the dogmatic controversy. We shall try to reveal the profound and multi-layered meaning of the key phrase of Nersēs’ Christology ‘one nature of the Incarnate Word’, based on the investigation of documents concerning the religious debate and other writings by him.

Process of Negotiation Before discussing the main theme of this research, it would be useful to take a brief overview of the process of negotiation for religious union between the Armenians and Byzantines and its political and ideological background. Reunion with non-Chalcedonian Churches had been a salient issue for the Byzantine Empire. Since the seventh century, when Emperor Heraclius attempted a reunion on the basis of monothelitism, there had been several rounds of negotiations between Byzantines and Armenians to unite their churches. However, in the eleventh century, the schism between Rome and Constantinople, the emergence of the Seljuq Dynasty, and the expansion of Roman Catholicism as a result of the Crusades radically changed the ethno-confessional power balance in Anatolia and the matter of church union in the Christian East had entered a new phase. The project of union, undertaken by Manuel I and Nersēs Šnorhali, was quite noteworthy because it involved face-to-face theological debates, in which Greek, Armenian and even Syrian theologians participated, with a view to creating an allChristian alliance. According to Armenian historiography, the negotiations began with a letter written by Nersēs in 1165, at the request of Byzantine protostrator Alexios Axouch, who was sent to Cilicia as a governor. It seems that Manuel, who is known for his efforts to achieve reunion with the Roman

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Catholic Church and also for conducting several theological debates during his reign, became interested in the idea of union with the Armenians. The emperor started direct correspondence with Nersēs and sent a magistros, Theorianos, to discuss theological differences between the Greek Orthodox and Armenian Churches. In 1170 and 1172 Theorianos visited Nersēs in the city of Hṙomkla, where the See of the Catholicos was located at that time. Records of the proceedings of this debate have survived, together with the Greek version of one of the letters sent by Nersēs to Manuel.4 The letters sent by Nersēs and the Armenian versions of the replies from the emperor and the patriarch were edited as part of a compilation by Nersēs Lambronac‘i, a pupil and grandnephew of Nersēs Šnorhali, who succeeded him in the role of negotiator for union after his death.5 These documents show that Nersēs Šnorhali undertook this project with great enthusiasm. There are multiple motives for his involvement in efforts to bring about union.

Political Background First, the political situation of Cilician Armenians seems to have been an important short-term motive for church union. As mentioned above, the problem of Greek-Armenian church union was officially or unofficially discussed several times. Those examples show that union was pursued mainly to advance the political interests of the Byzantine Empire and sometimes of the Armenians. A. Bozoyan, who presented the dialogue

Θεωριανοῦ ὀρθδόξου διάλεξις πρὸς τὸν καθολικὸν τῶν Ἀρμενίων: Jacques Paul Migne, ed., Patrologiae Cursus Completus Series Graeca, Vol. 133 (Paris: Imprimerie Catholique, 1864), 119–297. 5 ‘Պատճառ խնդրոյ միաբանութեան Թագաւորին Հռոմոց Մանուէլի եւ Սրբոց Կաթողիկոսայն Հայոց Ներսիսի ի Գրիգորի թուղթքն զոր գրեալն առ միմեանս’, Ներսէս Շնորհալի, Ընդհանրական թուղթք սրբոյն Ներսեսի Շնորհալւոյ (Երուսաղեմ: տպ. Ս Հակոբյանց, 1871), 87–199. 4

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for church union in the twelfth century as diplomatic negotiations between the Armenians and the Byzantines, pointed out several reasons for their rapprochement.6 First, it was necessary for the Byzantines to keep the Armenians as an ally for defending the eastern border of the empire and Armenian princes expected military support from the Byzantines when their territory was invaded by other Armenians supported by crusader princes or Turkic atabegs. Secondly, the Armenian inhabitants under Byzantine rule occasionally suffered from harassment by their neighbours, that is, Orthodox Christians who considered them as heretics and the Church union was supposed to be a measure to protect the Armenians by confirming the inclusion of the Armenian Church within the ecclesiastical system of the Orthodox Church.7 On the other hand, Abraham Terian emphasises Nersēs’ role as a ‘reconciler and peacemaker in the Cilician Armenian society’ and insists that these negotiations should be seen as a part of his efforts to mediate in the conflict between two Armenian princely families, the anti-Byzantine Rubenids and the pro-Byzantine Het‘umids.8 After the mass migration of Armenians from the Caucasus to Cilicia in the eleventh century, there had been a continuous conflict between these two Armenian noble families.9 In the middle of the twelfth century, T‘oros II of the Rubenids, who established control over Cilicia, reconciled with the Het‘umids by marrying his daughter to a son of Ošin, the Het‘umid Lord of Lambron. However, after

6 7

8 9

Ազատ Բոզոյան, ‘Հայ-բյուզանդական դիվանագիտական հարաբերությունները XII դարի 60-70-ական թվականներին’, Պատմաբանասիրական հանդես 2 (1981), 151. I. Augé reinforces Bozoyan’s theory by investigating the Greek-Armenian relations in the late eleventh century and twelfth century. See Isabelle Augé, Églises en dialogue: Arméniens et Byzantins dans la seconde moitié du XIIe siècle, Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, Vol. 633; Subsidia, t. 124 (Louvain: Peeters, 2011), 7–21. Abraham Terian, ‘To Byzantium with Love: The Overtures of Saint Nerses the Gracious’, in Rechard G. Hovanissian and Simon Payaslian, eds, Armenian Cilicia (Costa Mesa, CA: Mazda Publishers, 2008), 131–2 (here 150). For the history of the Cilician Armenians, see Կիրակոս Գանձակեցի, Պատմութիւն Հայոց (Երևան: ՀՍՍՀ ԳԱԱ հրատ., 1961) and Սմբատ Սպարապետ, Տարեգիրք (Վենետիկ: Ս. Ղազար, 1956).

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the death of T‘oros, his brother Mleh invaded Cilicia with the support of the atabeg of Aleppo and killed Ruben II, the infant son of T‘oros in 1170 in order to seize control of this region. As Nersēs’ niece was a wife of Ošin, and their sons were under his protection as wards, he had enough reason for seeking an alliance with the Byzantine Empire for the protection of his relatives from Mleh and the Muslim army. The second motive for union is, in comparison with the first one, more ideological and long-term. The Cilician period is often called the age of the ‘Armenian Renaissance’, which is usually understood to refer to the rapid development of culture and sciences during this period. However, one can understand the word ‘renaissance’ or ‘revival’ in its more literal sense, if one takes into consideration the historical consciousness of Nersēs and his kinsmen, many of whom were high-ranking members of the Church hierarchy. Starting from Catholicos Grigor II Vkayasēr (Gregory the Martyrophile, 1066–1105), all Cilician Catholicoi were from the Pahlavuni family, who claimed to be direct descendants of Grigor Lusaworič‘ (Gregory the Illuminator), the Catholicos from the Arsacid family who Christianised the ancient Armenian Kingdom and became the founder of the Armenian Church. Although it is not our concern to check all of the records to verify their lineage from Sahak Part‘ew, the last Catholicos descended from Grigor Lusaworič‘, it is at least clear that Nersēs was convinced that he was a successor of Grigor and his descendants. When he was a young man, Nersēs wrote Vipasanut‘iwn (Epic), the historical epic of the Armenian people from ancient times to his era. Here he directly connects the ancient Catholicoi from Grigor Lusaworič‘ to Sahak Part‘ew with his own ancestors, Grigor Magistros, Grigor II, and Barseł I, not only by blood relationship, but also by their spiritual virtues and contributions to the unity of the Armenian people and the Church.10 As Jean-Pierre Mahé points out, regardless of the low reliability of this genealogy, the claim of descent from the Lusaworič‘ had ideological importance for the Pahlavuni Catholicoi, who intended to restore the unity of Armenian people and the ecumenical unity of the whole of 10

Ներսես Շնորհալի, Վիպասանութիւն (Երևան: ՀՍՍՀ ԳԱԱ հրատ., 1981), 106–9.

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Christendom, both of which were considered to have existed in the era of their great ancestors.11 The intention of restoring communion with other Christians consistently motivated the Catholicoi from the Pahlavuni family like Grigor II and Grigor III (the elder brother of Nersēs), who are known for their active approach to the Greek, Syrian and Latin Churches. Nersēs was no exception to this unionistic tendency. The desire for revival of ‘unity’ with the Ecumenical Church, which was truly believed to be the symbol of the ‘golden age’ of the Armenian Church, could have provided an ideological motivation for Nersēs to be involved in the negotiations for union with the Byzantines.

Christological Basis for Church Union in Nersēs Šnorhali’s Theology Nersēs’ political and ideological background provides an explanation for his determination to bring about church union. However, it does not mean that the problem of theological differences, especially that of the Christological argument, was of secondary importance in his unionistic view. During the negotiation process, in spite of his conciliatory attitude towards Chalcedonian doctrine, Nersēs makes a strong effort to protect the Armenian Christological formula, ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate’ as ‘unity of divinity and humanity’.12 Here the Christological views of Nersēs and their importance for his activities should be discussed through investigation of his writings.

11 12

Jean-Pierre Mahé, ‘Préface par Jean-Pierre Mahé’, Augé, Églises en dialogue, v–viii. For the texts of the Creeds generally used in the Armenian Church, see Շահե արք. Աճենյան ‘Հավատո հանգանակ’, Հովհաննես Այվազյան, գլխ-խմբագիր, Քրիստոնյա Հայաստան հանրագիտարան (Երևան: Հայկական հանրագիտարանի գլուխավոր խմբագրություն, 2002), 576–7.

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Although Nersēs avoids using the expression ‘one nature’ as carefully as possible in his letters to the Greeks, in his texts written before the negotiations, the idea of ‘one nature’ clearly appears. For example, in his prayer poem Ban hawatoy (Words of faith) he describes it as follows: And we believe in the unity (of divine and human natures), which does not alter either nature, The same Son, who is from the Father, became a son born from a mother. And we say his nature is one, because of the indescribable mixture.13

As we see here, Nersēs believes that professing the idea of ‘one nature’ does not go against the concept of Christ as God-man. From this point of view, he recognises the validity of the Chalcedonian creed as the expression for confessing that Christ is truly God and man. Meanwhile, during the negotiation process, he persistently tries to persuade the Greeks to recognise the Armenians’ belief in ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate as unity of divinity and humanity’ according to their tradition. In his first letter he says: We use the expression ‘one nature’ to refer to nothing other than the inseparable and indescribable unity of Logos and body. And also we do not refuse to say ‘two natures’ when it indicates not separation (of two natures) as Nestorius says, but unmingled natures, (as refutation) against the heretics Eutyches and Appolinaris.14

And in the second letter: Thanks to those (words of our fathers) on the path of the truth which leads to God we righteously and freely choose the double testimony of words, – to say ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate’ according to Cyril of Alexandria as an expression of the indescribable unity (of divine and human natures), or ‘two (natures)’ according to Gregory the Theologian, as an expression of the imperishable and immutable existence of natures – divinity and humanity.15

13 14 15

Ներսէս Շնորհալի, Բանք չափաւ (Վենետիկ: Ս. Ղազար, 1830), 177–8. All the qutations from the Armenian texts are taranslated by the author. Ներսէս Շնորհալի, Ընդհանրական Թուղթք, 96. Ibid., 149.

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Nersēs also suggested this compromise formula in a debate with Theorianos,16 but met with an adamant refusal. Theorianos tried to point out the errors of the Armenians in the usage of theological terms such as ‘nature (bnut‘iwn, φύσις)’, ‘hypostasis (anǰnaworut‘iwn, ὑπόστασις)’ and ‘person (dēmk‘, πρόσωπον)’ based on the writings of the Church Fathers and insisted that the Armenians misunderstood the words of Cyril of Alexandria, ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate’. It seems that the explanation of the Greek scholar at least convinced Nersēs to recognise that Chalcedonian Christology is based on the teachings of the Church Fathers, not that of Nestorius. However, it was not so easy to persuade him to abandon the traditional Armenian doctrine. A question has to be asked here: why was the Chalcedonian formula ‘two natures, one hypostasis’ not sufficient for Nersēs and why did he adhere to the expression ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate?’ Of course, as a diplomatic strategy, it is not surprising to seek a treaty on equal terms and to try to extract a concession from the other party. However, investigating the Christological views of Nersēs, it becomes clear that the idea of the ‘one nature’ was the fundamental principle underlying his way of thinking. Here we have to take into consideration that Christology is not only about a logical definition of Christ, but also provides the basis for the salvation of human beings and all the other God-created beings. In the tradition of Armenian apologetics, this soteriological aspect of Christology has been emphasised in the process of justifying the expression of the ‘one nature’. Concerning the Incarnation and unity of divinity and humanity, Nersēs argues that at the moment of Incarnation, the human nature of Christ, the same nature as ours, corrupted because of the fall of Adam, becomes pure and innocent through the unity with his divinity. He uses the analogy of metal which becomes refined and purified after being combined with fire.17 From this soteriological point of view, ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate’ is interpreted not as divine nature, which totally absorbs and nullifies human nature, but the ‘nature of a divinised human being’, purified and completed by unity with divine nature. Meanwhile, the idea 16 Migne, PG 133, 240–5. 17 Ներսէս Շնորհալի, Ընդհանրական Թուղթք, 89.

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of ‘completion of human nature’ in Christ shows that our human nature can also be completed in co-operation with God in accordance with the statement of Athanasius of Alexandria that ‘He (Christ) became human to make us (humans) God’.18 Such a Christological view, which interprets the attainment of ‘one nature’ as the supreme goal of human beings, is more or less common among theologians. In particular, the concept of theosis, which appears in the works of Gregory of Nazianzus, exerted a great influence on Nersēs’ Christology. However, it is particular to Nersēs that the principle of unity also plays a role as a basis for his anthropological and cosmological views. As a talented poet, Nersēs wrote a large number of works in verse on a variety of themes: theological, historical and even scientific ones. Even in works not directly related to theology, the ‘unity’ of divinity and humanity appears as the key concept. As we can see in the words quoted from Ban hawatoy in the Armenian Christological description, the word ‘mixture (xaṙnumn, or its verbal form xaṙnel)’ often appears as the expression of the unity of divinity and humanity in Christ, together with the word ‘unity (miaworut‘iwn)’. It is also used as a cosmological term, which means a combination of two contrary elements that comprise the one harmonious world. In Nersēs’ scientific poem Yałags erkni ew zarduc‘ nora, ‘About heaven and its ornaments’, written in 1161, the word ‘mixture’ appears in both senses. This unique poem takes the form of narration in the first person by Heaven personified. Heaven proudly describes himself as the first creation of God, and boasts of his brilliant ‘ornaments’, that is, celestial bodies. Heaven also explains the formation of the material world under him. Here the word ‘mixture’ is used to refer to the combination of humidity and the elements, which forms the whole earthly world. However, the latter half of the poem reveals that the majesty of Heaven is just a veil which hides the greater mystery of the

18 ‘Αὐτὸς γὰρ ἐνηνθρώπησεν, ἵνα ἡμεῖς θεοποιηθῶμεν […]’. See Athanasius’ On The Incarnation, 54.3. Archibald Robertson, ed., Athanasius De Incarnatione: St Athanasius, On The Incarnation (London: David Nutt, 2nd edn, 1893), 82. In his first letter to the emperor, Nersēs repeatedly refers to Athanasius.

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Creator, and praises the miracle of Incarnation, saying ‘In the Virgin, God and human mixed (xaṙnec‘aw) anew.’19 As Nersēs argues, referring to the words of Paul, this poem teaches readers to ‘see the Creator through the created beings’.20 One can see Nersēs’ understanding of the relationship between the Creator and created beings that lies behind the miraculous and great things in the created world, the greater miracle of the Creator is hidden as the origin which makes them exist. According to this principle, mixture or unity of divinity and humanity in Christ is considered not only as a future goal as seen in the soteriological interpretation, but also as the origin and cause of the formation of all created beings. This principle is also seen in the anthropology of Nersēs. In his apologetics for the doctrine of the ‘one nature’ of Christ, he often explains it by analogy with the unity of body and soul in human beings. According to Nersēs, the human soul and body have contrary natures, but in one person it unites as one nature, and the unity of divinity and humanity in Christ, although it is much greater than is the case with the union in a human being, can be partially understood in the same way. This analogy of unity of the human body and soul is not an original idea of his, but Nersēs repeatedly uses it, not only because it is an intuitively understandable explanation, but also because, as already mentioned above, unity in Christ is considered by Nersēs as the origin of the formation of created beings. It may seem paradoxical, but a human being, although consisting of the two contrary natures of body and soul, exists as one, because the miracle of unity between divinity and humanity is working as the source of unity, combining contrary natures into one, and at the same time, the existence of each human being as one person testifies to the miraculous unity and oneness of divinity and humanity in Christ’s Incarnation.

Ներսես Շնորհալի, Յաղագս երկնի և զարդուց նորա; Հանելուկներ; Ողբ Եդեսիոյ (Երևան: Հայաստան, 1968), 31. 20 Ibid., 29. This phrase is based on the words of St Paul ‘Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made.’ (Rom. 1.20) 19

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In addition to the parallel between Nersēs’ Christological and anthropological understanding, it is necessary to refer also to his ecclesiology. In line with St Paul’s concept of the Church as Christ’s body, Christology is often connected to ecclesiology in theological discussions. It is worth mentioning that in Nersēs’ writings the Christological principle of unity appears as a motive for the unity of the Christian Church. In a letter to the emperor, Nersēs wrote the following: And we believed that this task (of union) is not that of human, but of divine and supreme providence. Because the highest nature (of Christ) lowered itself to the level of our (nature), in order to exalt us. The filler of all abandoned His glory for a moment in order to fill up our emptiness by His fullness. Following this example, you, who are abundant in everything, desire poverty to go into communion with us (who are) in indigence.21

The word ‘providence (tntesut‘iwn), which corresponds to the Greek word οἰκονομία, indicates the divine will for salvation of created beings, and in the narrowest sense, the Incarnation through which the Word of God willingly becomes man to release human beings from sin. Nersēs here draws a parallel between the unity of divinity and humanity and the union of the Greek and Armenian Churches. It is not just a rhetorical expression that honours the emperor and shows his own modesty, but also a very typical attitude on the part of Nersēs to understand the unity of Christ as the cause of the unity of created beings. From such a point of view, it can be supposed that the Christological concept of Nersēs Šnorhali, expressed as ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate as unity of humanity and divinity’ is also regarded as a principle uniting churches as one.

21

Ներսէս Շնորհալի, Ընդհանրական Թուղթք, 145.

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Conclusion From this brief investigation of the Christological views of Nersēs Šnorhali we can conclude that the expression ‘one nature of the Word Incarnate as the unity of humanity and divinity’ was deeply internalised by Nersēs Šnorhali as the principle behind his way of thinking and became his theoretical motivation for religious union. The most striking feature of his Christology is its comprehensiveness, which enables him to integrate various understandings of reality. For further study of the theological discussions of Nersēs, the Christological arguments should not be considered as an outcome of ossified dogmatism, but as an intellectual frontier, where cosmology, anthropology, ecclesiology and all kinds of scientific and philosophical thoughts of that period were brought together.

Jeffrey Brubaker

8  Nuncii or Legati: What makes a Papal Representative in 1234?

abstract Steven Runciman categorised the belief that a dispute can be settled by debate among ‘the unhappy delusions of mankind.’ Such debates continued between East and West following the Fourth Crusade’s capture of Constantinople in 1204. The best documented of these meetings is the disputatio of 1234 between four Latin friars representing Pope Gregory IX, and the Byzantine clergy of Nicaea, under Patriarch Germanos II. Understanding the status of these friars as papal representatives is a necessary first step for explaining the outcome of the disputatio in 1234. Were they merely messengers of the pope, or were they papal legates, endowed by Gregory IX with the authority to speak on behalf of the Roman Church? Through analysis of their report, and other sources for the disputatio, this study will seek to clarify the status of the friars in 1234, and in so doing gain a greater insight into the outcome of that meeting.

In 1234 a group of Latin friars arrived in the city of Nicaea to begin a series of theological discussions designed to bring about a union of the Western Roman and Eastern Greek Churches. The discussions, or disputatio, were the result of a rather amicable correspondence between Pope Gregory IX and Patriarch Germanos II, culminating in the arrival of the four friars – two Franciscan and two Dominican – who represented the Roman pontiff. Unfortunately, despite the positive outlook at the start of the meetings, the negotiations failed to bring about the desired union. The status of these friars as papal envoys is of tremendous importance for understanding why the disputatio progressed the way it did, as well as what the two sides expected from the meeting. If they were simple diplomatic messengers, or nuncii, we might better understand why the disputatio did not succeed in healing the schism of the Churches. Such messengers would not be empowered to negotiate in the name of the pope, and thus would be incapable of satisfying the demands of their hosts. However, if the friars

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were ambassadors of the pope, in other words, if they were legates entrusted to speak on his behalf about diverse and complex theological matters, the implications for the failure of the meeting change. We would have to consider that Gregory IX was not willing to concede ground to the position of the Greek Church, therefore allowing us to more easily explain why the meeting failed to bring about a reunification. This study will seek to clarify the status of the friars who argued the Latin position at the disputatio with the Greek Church in 1234, and in so doing gain a greater insight into the outcome and significance of that meeting. Before we analyse the disputatio itself, it is necessary to explain the context of the 1234 meeting. The history of the schism between the Greek and Roman Churches is a difficult subject to quantify. Historians cannot seem to agree on the details. Even the dating of the schism is in dispute. Many argue that the division of the Churches began with Photios in the 860s, while others look to the mutual excommunications of pope and patriarch in 1054, or even later.1 A single underlying cause is also difficult to identify. Some point to theological differences, while others suggest that an ideology of church hierarchy is to blame.2 Suffice it to say that gradually, between 1

2

The problem of dating the schism is discussed at length by J. Erickson, ‘Leavened and Unleavened: Some Theological Implications of the Schism of 1054’, St Vladimir’s Theological Quarterly 14 (1970), 155–6. See also M. Kaplan, ‘La place du schism de 1054 dans les relations entre Byzance, Rome et l’Italie’, Byzantinoslavica 54 (1993), 29–36; J. Meyendorff, The Christian East and the Rise of the Papacy: The Church 1071–1453 A.D. (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 1994), 105; T. Kolbaba, ‘The legacy of Humbert and Cerularius: Traditions of the schism of 1054 in Byzantine texts and manuscripts of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries’, in C. Dendrios, ed., Porphyrogenita: Essays on the history and literature of Byzantium and the Latin East in honour of Julian Chrysostomides (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 47–62, esp. 51–8; F. Chrysos, ‘1054: Schism?’, Cristianita d’Occidente e cristianita d’Oriente (Spoleto, 2004), 547–67; A. Louth, Greek East and Latin West: The Church AD 681–1071 (Crestwood, NY: St Vladimir’s Seminary Press, 2007), 305–18. P. Lemerle, ‘L’Orthodoxie byzantine et l’oecumenisme medieval: Les origins du “schism” des Eglises’, Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Bude 2 (1965), 228–46; J. Gill, ‘Innocent III and the Greeks: Aggressor or Apostle?’, in D. Baker, ed., Relations between East and West in the Middle Ages (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1973), 95–108; M. Smith, And Taking Bread … Cerularius and the Azyme Controversy

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the ninth and eleventh centuries, it became increasingly obvious that the two Churches had diverged in several areas of doctrine and practice. This divergence became evermore apparent during the Crusades, when increased contact between East and West brought such differences to the forefront.3 The period following the Fourth Crusade witnessed the occupation of Constantinople by Latin forces from 1204 to 1261 and has often been described as one of ‘exile’ for the Byzantine government.4 It appears that both the leaders of the crusade and the popes had hoped that the conquest of the Byzantine capital would bring about a union of the Churches, but this was not the case.5 Continued ecclesiastical fragmentation mirrored that which developed in the political sphere. The confused situation that arose after 1204 initially produced numerous claimants to the Byzantine imperial heritage, but by the 1230s, and certainly by the 1240s, it was increasingly apparent that the foremost threat to the Latin Empire of Constantinople was the so-called Empire of Nicaea.6 While the crusaders and Venetians

3 4

5

6

of 1054 (Paris: Beauchesne, 1978); A. Papadakis, ‘Byzantine perceptions of the Latin West’, Greek Orthodox Theological Review 36 (1991), 231–42; J. Likoudis, Ending the Byzantine Greek Schism (New Rochelle, NJ: Catholics United for Faith, 1992); H. Chadwick, East and West, the making of a rift in the church: From apostolic times until the council of Florence (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003). This is especially the conclusion of S. Runciman, A History of the Crusades, Vol. 3 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1955), 131; S. Runciman, The Eastern Schism (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1955), 102. H. Ahrweiler, ‘L’Experience niceenne’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers 29 (1975), 21–40; M. Angold, A Byzantine government in exile: Government and society under the Laskarids of Nicaea 1204–1261 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975); D. Angelov, Imperial ideology and political thought in Byzantium, 1204–1330 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007). Baldwin I, the first Latin Emperor in Constantinople, called on the pope to pursue a reunion of the Churches following the Fourth Crusade, O. Hageneder, ed., Die Register Innocenz’ III, 7/152 (Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1997), 261 (lines 5–28). Pope Innocent III frequently expressed his hope that the conquest of Constantinople in 1204 would restore union to the Churches, Hageneder, Die Register Innocenz’ III, 7/153, 263 (lines 25–9); Hageneder, Die Register Innocenz’ III, 7/203, 355 (lines 27–356, line 2). The best account Nicaean expansion in the Balkans is found in the history of George Akropolites, Historia, A. Heisenberg and P. Wirth, eds, in Georgii Acropolitae Opera,

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established a Latin emperor and patriarch in Constantinople, a Greek emperor and patriarch carried on in Nicaea. Circumstances worsened for the Latin empire with the rise of the second Byzantine emperor in Nicaea, John III Vatatzes, who adopted a much more hostile policy towards Latin Constantinople than did his predecessor. After signing a treaty that essentially ended the presence of the Latin empire in Anatolia in 1225,7 Vatatzes appears to have cut off all diplomatic ties with the Latins for nearly a decade. The cold shoulder from the emperor in Nicaea, along with the ever-deteriorating situation of the Latin empire, clearly made the regime in Constantinople nervous. The friars who took part in the negotiations of 1234 indicate that powerful elements in Constantinople exerted enormous influence over them both before and during the negotiations of 1234,8 indicating how much of a threat Vatatzes posed towards Constantinople, and the anxiety this provoked.9 Thus we must understand that the meeting carried significant diplomatic as well as theological weight. It was an opportunity to engage in peaceful dialogue between the Latin and Byzantine Empires, but it was also an occasion for addressing religious schism.

7 8

9

Vol. 1 (Stuttgart: in aedibus B. G. Teubneri, 1978), 65 (line 4)–67 (line 25). For the status of Nicaea as the foremost threat to Latin Constantinople, see J. Gill, Byzantium and the Papacy (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1979), 35; D. Nicol, The Despotate of Epiros (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1957), 144–7; D. Korobeinikov, Byzantium and the Turks in the Thirteenth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 40–80; N. Chrissis, Crusading in Frankish Greece: A study of ByzantineWestern relations and attitudes, 1204–1282 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), 57–133. George Akropolites, Historia, Heisenberg and Wirth, eds, 38 (lines 6–11); B. Hendrickx, ed., Regestes des empereurs latins de Constantinople (1204–1261/1272), No. 145 (Thessalonike: Kentro Vyzantinon Ereunon, 1988), 107–8. Benedict of Arezzo and Jacob of Russano, two influential Franciscans in Constantinople, urged the friars to carry on the negotiations. See H. Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum seu relatio apocrisariorum Gregorii IX de gestis Nicaeae in Bithynia et Nymphaeae in Lydia 1234’, Archivum franciscanum historicum 12 (1919), Ch. 16, 445 (line 34)-446 (line 3). For the friars’ description of the desperate situation in Latin Constantinople, see Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 16, 446 (lines 7–17).

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A key source for the disputatio is a report written by the friars who took part in the proceedings.10 This report was written for Gregory IX, and contains a great deal of information about the diplomacy between the papacy, Latin Constantinople, and Nicaea, as well an engrossing discussion of the doctrinal issues. Two theological problems would dominate the disputatio – the procession of the Holy Spirit (the famous filioque issue) and the question of what type of bread to use for the Eucharist (leavened or unleavened). The disputatio took place in two phases, first in Nicaea, and then at Nymphaion, a favorite residence of Vatatzes.11 The meetings did not end well. According to the report of the friars, their last words to their Greek hosts before fleeing for their lives were: ‘We found you heretics and excommunicates, and heretics and excommunicates we leave you.’12 To this the Greeks responded ‘you are the heretics!’13 Despite the dismal ending, we must consider that both the Greek and Latin participants seem to have held a positive outlook at the beginning of the meetings. The stakes for the friars, after all, were high. Their mission held tremendous implications for both the Roman Church as well as the Latin empire. Better understanding their precise position as papal representatives is therefore vital for understanding how their mission might have succeeded. Unfortunately, the potential success of the disputatio of 1234 has not been a common theme in modern scholarship. A number of historians have engaged in an analysis of this meeting, nearly all with a decidedly negative outlook. Over ninety years ago Louis Brehier described the history of attempts at church union as ‘one of continued mortification,

10 11

12 13

Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, 418–70. R. Macrides, George Akropolites, The History (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), 87–8; S. Cağaptay, ‘How Western is it? The Palace at Nymphaion and its Architectural Setting’, in Change in the Byzantine World in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (Istanbul: Vehbi Koç Vakfi, 2010), 357–62. Quia invenimus vos hereticos et excommunicatos, pro hereticis et excommunicatis vos relinquimus, Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 28, 463 (lines 37–9). Inmo vos estis heretici, Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 28, 464 (line 1).

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repeated checks, [and] perpetual failures.’14 Current scholarship has not been inclined to challenge that paradigm. John Doran has argued that ‘there was no prospect of a union of the Churches because each had a fundamentally different conception of the nature of ecclesiastical authority.’15 John Langdon agrees, stating that the discussion in 1234 ‘only served to exacerbate the seemingly irreconcilable differences between the Roman Catholic and Byzantine Orthodox Churches.’16 An impressive study by Joseph Munitiz determined that the difficulty in translating such complex theological issues from Latin into Greek, and then back again, proved too much for the ecclesiasts who met in 1234. He starkly concludes that ‘the Greeks did not know Latin, nor the Latins Greek.’17 Perhaps the most damning diagnosis comes from Michael Angold, who has commented that the disputatio was simply ‘doomed from the start.’18 Each of these scholars have taken the position that neither the Greeks nor the Latins genuinely expected to bring about a union of the Churches in 1234, and that both parties were merely putting on a show. Only Bernard Stolte has taken issue with the view that all such negotiations were ‘doomed to fail’, pointing to real political developments that could possibly have resulted from a successful meeting in 1234.19 None of these historians, however, have definitively addressed the status of the friars who represented the pope before the patriarch and his assembled clergy. It has become commonplace to refer to them simply as ‘the friars,’

14 L. Brehier, ‘Attempts at reunion of the Greek and Latin Churches’, in Cambridge Medieval History, Vol. 4 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1923), 594. 15 J. Doran, ‘Rites and wrongs: the Latin mission to Nicaea, 1234’, Studies in Church History 32 (1996), 131. 16 J. Langdon, ‘Byzantium in Anatolian exile: Imperial Vicegerency Reaffirmed during Byzantino-Papal discussions at Nicaea and Nymphaion, 1234’, Byzantinische Forschungen 20 (1994), 199. 17 J. Munitiz, ‘A Reappraisal of Blemmydes First Discussion with the Latins’, Byzantinoslavica 51 (1990), 21. 18 Angold, A Byzantine Government in Exile, 15. 19 B. Stolte, ‘Vatatzes versus Baldwin: the case of the sovereignty of Constantinople’, in V. van Aalst and K. Ciggaar, eds, The Latin Empire: Some Contributions (Hernen: Bredius Foundation, 1990), 127.

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thus avoiding the issue entirely. Most have accepted their status as nuncii,20 but no one has attempted to qualify this label. The task of identifying a nuncio vs a legate is made easier by the criteria provided by Donald Queller and Richard Schmutz.21 Both insist that we must be wary of applying modern diplomatic terms to medieval subjects.22 The term ‘ambassador’ is particularly hazardous because modern implications of the office did not apply in the thirteenth century. Queller defines nuncio as a mere messenger or ceremonial representative with no power to negotiate on behalf of his principal.23 A nuncio conveyed the will of his principal, but could not commit him to new agreements.24 A famous example of a nuncio overstepping his authority can be found in the well20 C. Foss, Nicaea: A Byzantine capital and its praises: with the speeches of Theodore Laskaris, in praise of the great city of Nicaea, and, Theodore Metochites, Nicene oration (Brookline, MA: Hellenic College Press, 1996), 66, refers to the friars as papal legates. 21 Other terms in both Greek and Latin did exist that might more aptly describe the office of the friars in 1234. D. Queller, ‘Thirteenth-century diplomatic envoys: “Nuncii” and “Procuratores”’, Speculum 35 (1960), 198, describes the office of procurator, a diplomatic representative with less of a ceremonial function, but capable of negotiating on behalf of his principal. Byzantine authors of the thirteenth century sometimes employ the term πρέσβεύς to describe a foreign representative. See George Akropolites, Historia, Heisenberg and Wirth, eds, 53 (line 1), 57 (line 6); Nicholas Mesarites, Der Bericht des Nikolaos Mesarites uber die politischen und kirchlichen Ereignisse des Jahres 1214, A. Heisenberg, ed., in ‘Neue Quellen zur Geschichte des lateinischen Kaisertums und der Kirchenunion. III’, in Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-philologische und historische Klasse, Abh. 3 (Munich, 1923), 19 (line 9), 21 (lines 32–3), 34 (line 8); Gregoras, Nikephoros, Byzantina Historia, Vol. 1, L. Schopen, ed. (Bonn: Impensis Ed. Weberi, 1829), 29 (line 16). However, we never find the term procurator or πρέσβεύς in the context of the friars during the disputatio of 1234. One alternative that does appear, apocrisarios, is discussed below. 22 D. Queller, The Office of Ambassador in the Middle Ages (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1967), ix; R. Schmutz, ‘Medieval papal representatives, legates, nuncios, and judges-delegate’, Studia Gratiana 15 (1972), 443. 23 Queller, ‘Thirteenth-century diplomatic envoys’, 198, 200, adds that they are more like human letters, referring to them as ‘speaking letters’, simply conveying messages and only committing his principal to agreements already understood by the latter. 24 Queller, The Office of Ambassador in the Middle Ages, 225.

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known account of Liudprand of Cremona. In 968, Liudprand was sent to Constantinople as an envoy of Otto I. There he met with the Byzantine emperor Nikephoros II Phokas, who pointed out that a previous nuntius from the West, Dominic the Venetian, had made promises on behalf of his principal that Otto I did not keep.25 The legate, by contrast, appears to have had more dynamic and nuanced authority than the nuncio. Schmutz defines the legate as ‘a proctorial agent who exercised papal authority in the ordinary, ecclesiastical administration and, under special mandate, in diplomacy.’26 He adds that the key to identifying a legate vs a nuncio is best achieved via their mandate – usually included in a letter given to the one who received the representative, showing his credentials.27 In the absence of a mandate, however, Schmutz suggests looking to the ‘characteristic kinds of activity authorized by mandates’ to indicate the presence of a legate proper.28 Thus, if the envoy acted as though he had the authority to negotiate, we must consider whether or not such authority had been granted by his principal, perhaps in verbal instructions. How do these criteria help us to understand the situation of the friars in 1234? The first question we must ask is: did the friars have a mandate? We do have a letter from Gregory IX to Germanos II, in which the pope recommends the four friars for their pious character and knowledge of the scriptures.29 The letter never explicitly states that status of the friars, but the pope does explain the purpose of their mission – to discuss and explain the problems that arise from ecclesiastical debate.30 ‘We decided to send [the friars] to you, so that you may decide to deal faithfully and discuss amicably

Liudprand of Cremona, Legatio, in P. Chiesa, ed., Antapodosis; Homelia paschalis; Historia Ottonis; Relatio de Legatione Constantinopolitana (Turnhout: Brepols, 1998), Ch. 31, 200 (lines 496)–201 (line 500). 26 Schmutz, ‘Medieval papal representatives’, 444. 27 Ibid., 445. 28 Ibid., 456. 29 A. Tautu, ed., Acta Honorii III (1216–1227) et Gregorii IX (1227–1241), No. 193 (Vatican: Typis polyglottis vaticanis, 1950), 266–8. 30 Tautu, Acta Honorii III et Gregorii IX, No. 193, 267 (line 30)-268 (line 19). 25

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with them concerning all matters in question.’31 The friars confirm this purpose in their report, clarifying in a meeting with the patriarch that they ‘had not been sent to defend the tenets and practices of the Roman Church, but rather to have a friendly debate’ about Greek doubts.32 The letter from Gregory IX makes no mention of a mandate allowing the friars to negotiate, or bind their principal to specific agreements. The letter appears to be recommending the friars to the patriarch as nuncii. The friars provide yet more evidence that they should be classified as nuncii. Their report states that, on the first day after their arrival, immediately after delivering the letter from the pope, Germanos II asked them ‘whether they were legates of the lord Pope, and whether they wished to accept the honour due to legates?’33 To this the friars answered that they were simplices nuncios, ‘simple messengers’, and that they did not wish to claim the honours due to legates.34 The patriarch determined that even the lowliest messenger of the pope deserved ‘great reverence and respect.’35 On the face of it, this exchange seems to have settled the matter. The letter of recommendation from Gregory IX and the report of the friars both attest that the papal envoys in 1234 held the position of nuncii, and therefore no one with legatine powers was present to negotiate on behalf of the pope. This evidence has been enough to satisfy previous historians who

Ad te duximus destinandos, ut si cum eis de omnibus, quae in quaestionem veniunt, tractare fideliter et socialiter conferre decreveris, Tautu, Acta Honorii III et Gregorii IX, No. 193, 267 (lines 4–6). 32 Non missi sumus ad disputandum vobiscum super aliquo articulo fidei, de quo ambigat Ecclesia Romana vel nos, sed ut vobiscum amicabilem collationem habeamus super dubitabilibus vestris, Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 3, 429 (lines 21–3). 33 utrum essemus legati domini Pape, et honorem legatis debitum vellemus recipere, Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 2, 428 (lines 27–8). 34 respondimus protestantes nos simplices nuncios esse. Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 2, 428 (lines 28–9). 35 magnam reverentiam et honorem, Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 2, 429 (lines 4–5). 31

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investigated the disputatio,36 none of them, however, have delved deeper into the report of the friars to clarify or corroborate their statement. According to their report on the disputatio, on the first day immediately following the patriarch’s question about whether they were nuncii or legati, Germanos II sought to clarify the intention of the friars’ mission, and specifically the measure of their authority as papal envoys. That the question itself was put forward indicates that the Byzantines at Nicaea were concerned that only nuncii had been sent to meet with them, expecting, it seems, to have received legates. They almost certainly considered it necessary for a more authoritative figure to be present to address the problems at hand. The friars responded as follows: ‘The tenor of the letters from our lord the Pope will make known to you sufficiently our authority; and this we add, whatever we will successfully negotiate will be considered ratified and pleasing by the Roman Church.’37 This response by the friars immediately calls into question the previous statement about their status. Simple messengers – simplices nuncios – would not have been granted the authority to make such a claim. They would not have possessed the authority to negotiate on the pope’s behalf, nor could they have expected an agreement to be ‘ratified’ without his approval. Indeed the letter of recommendation from Gregory IX states that the purpose of the friars’ mission to Nicaea was to discuss, engage in friendly debate, and not make new agreements. The friars’ response to the question concerning their authority, however, was the response of a legate. Let us recall the criteria put forth by Schmutz for identifying a papal legate. He urges us to look first at the mandate, which we found in the letter of recommendation from Gregory IX, indicating the status of nuncii for the friars. However, Schmutz also encourages us to look at the ‘characteristic

36 37

Doran, ‘Rites and wrongs in 1234’, 135; Chadwick, East and West, the making of a rift in the church, 238; Schmutz, ‘Medieval papal representatives’, 444, all point to the fact that the friars identify themselves as nuncios. Potestatem nostrum tenor litterarum domini Pape vobis satis notificabit; et hoc addimus, quod quicquid super isto negotio bene fecerimus, ratum habebit et gratum Ecclesia Romana, Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 3, 429 (lines 16–19).

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kinds of activity’ for a legate. The response by the friars to the question of their authority certainly fits this activity.38 There is more evidence that puts the friars’ own claims about their status as nuncii into doubt. One of the more intriguing documents contained within the report of the friars is a treatise describing the Greek position on the filioque clause and the procession of the Holy Spirit. The treatise was authored by Nikephoros Blemmydes, one of the most celebrated philosophers of his day, who was present at the disputatio. He was selected to respond to the Latin position on the procession issue, doing so in a written document. The friars report that the document was read to them, after which they proceeded to translate the work into Latin. This translation found its way into their report.39 We are fortunate that the original Greek of the text has also survived, allowing us to compare the original to the friars’ translation.40 This comparison reveals some interesting details. Blemmydes responds to the friars’ questions on the procession issue at the start of the document, addressing the envoys as οἱ τιμιώτατοι ἀποκρισιάριοι τοῦ ἁγιωτάτου Πάπα.41 The friars translate this into Latin with the words honorabiles legati sanctissimi Pape.42 Blemmydes calls the friars apokrisarioi, and the friars, in their translation, call themselves legates. How do we reconcile this anomaly? We ought first to consider how the Byzantines used the word apokrisarioi, and why they employed it to refer to the friars. Apokrisarios, according to Lampe’s Patristic Greek Lexicon, can be used to indicate either a messenger or a legate.43 Paul Magdalino finds numerous examples of apokrisarioi representing bishops, including the pope, going back to the fifth or sixth centuries.44 Humbert of Silva Candida served Pope Leo IX as an apokrisarios in 1054, 38 Schmutz, ‘Medieval papal representatives’, 456. 39 Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 11, 438 (line 42). 40 For the Greek text, see M. Stavrou, ed., Oeuvres theologiques: Introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes, tome 1 (Paris: Cerf, 2007), 184–205. 41 Stavrou, Oeuvres theologiques, Vol. 1, 184 (lines 1–2). 42 Golubovich, ‘Disputatio Latinorum et Graecorum’, Ch. 11, 438 (line 1). 43 G. Lampe, A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1961), 198. 44 P. Magdalino, ‘Apokrisarios’, in A. Kazhdan, ed., Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991), 136.

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in the events leading to the so-called ‘Great Schism.’45 The Byzantine historian and author, George Akropolites, served as an apokrisarios to the Second Council of Lyons in 1274.46 Otto of Freising identifies a group of apokrisarioi representing John II Komnenos in an embassy to Conrad III in the twelfth century.47 It seems perfectly suitable, therefore, that Blemmydes would use the term to refer to the friars as papal representatives, but what is strange is that the friars would translate the word apokrisarioi as legati. They had already professed their position as nuncii, clarifying that they were not legates. Were they simply using what they thought was the best translation? Why did they not attempt to correct the Greek document in translation? Does the fact that Blemmydes used the term apokrisarioi to describe the friars mean that the Byzantines still felt that the envoys were legates, despite their protestations earlier in the disputatio, or does the fact that the friars let the comment pass mean that they really did see themselves as legates and forgot their earlier humility on that occasion? Any attempt to answer these questions must again rely on the how the Byzantines themselves referred to the different offices of papal representatives. It is useful, therefore, to compare the friars as papal envoys to the papal legates sent to the Latin Empire of Constantinople. We know of four such legates dispatched to Latin Constantinople between the Fourth Crusade in 1204 and the disputatio in 1234. One of the more well-known is Pelagius, Cardinal Bishop of Albano. Before his service in the Fifth Crusade, Pelagius acted as papal legate to the Latin empire from 1213 to 1215.48 George 45 Advenientibus a Domino papa Leone nono apocrisariis sanctae Romanae sedis, Humberto scilicet cardinali episcopo Silvae Candidae, PL 143, 1001; T. Kolbaba, ‘On the closing of the churches and the rebaptism of Latins: Greek perfidy or Latin slander?’ Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies, 29/1 (2005), 40. 46 V. Laurent, ed., Regestes des actes du Patriarcat de Constantinople I/4: 1208 à 1309, No. 1409 (Paris: Institut Français d’Études Byzantines, 1971), 203. 47 Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici I imperatoris auctoribus Ottone episcopo et Ragewino praeposito Frisingensibus, R. Wilmans, ed., MGH, Scriptores 20 (Hannover, 1868), 363 (line 4). 48 The service of Cardinal Pelagius as papal legate was noted by Byzantine contemporaries, Mesarites, Neue Quellen, Vol. 3, Heisenberg, ed., 15–25; George Akropolites, Historia, Heisenberg and Wirth, eds, 29–30; See also F. Van Tricht, The Latin Renovatio of

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Akropolites, the most important Byzantine author for the period, famously comments that Pelagius claimed for himself some of the same privileges held by the pope, including the red-dyed shoes.49 In introducing the mission of Pelagius, Akropolites refers to him as λεγάτον, legate.50 This suggests that Nikephoros Blemmydes, a contemporary of Akropolites, was being purposefully vague when he used the term apokrisarioi to describe the friars. He seems to have been uncertain of the friars’ diplomatic status, and thus left the matter open to interpretation. By translating apokrisarioi into legati, the friars may be giving us a glimpse at a hidden reality. Such evidence leaves us in a difficult position. The friars profess to be simplices nuncios, but also lay claim to the power to negotiate. The Byzantines refer to them with the more ambiguous title of apokrisarioi, while the friars themselves employ the more definitive translation of legates. The criteria put forth by Queller and Schmutz for identifying medieval diplomatic officials appears inadequate in the context of the disputatio of 1234. In order to avoid an inconclusive result, we must consider other possibilities. We know that the papacy sent numerous legates to the Latin empire, fully empowered to act on their behalf.51 The representatives the Byzantium: The Empire of Constantinople (1204–1228), P. Longbottom, trans. (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 314–15; M. Angold, ‘After the Fourth Crusade: The Greek rump states and the recovery of Byzantium’, in The Cambridge History of the Byzantine Empire, c. 500–1492 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 735, 743; K. Setton, The Papacy and the Levant (1204–1571), Vol. 1 (Philadelphia, PA: American Philosophical Society, 1976), 42; J. Longnon, L’Empire latin de Constantinople et la principauté de Morée (Paris: Payot, 1949), 145; Gill, Byzantium and the Papacy, 39–42. 49 George Akropolites, Historia, Heisenberg and Wirth, eds, 29 (lines 12–18). 50 Ibid., 29 (line 14). 51 Gill, Byzantium and the Papacy, 76, comments that a papal legate was in Constantinople almost continuously from 1206 to 1226. These included Peter Capuano, Benedict of St Susanna, Pelagius of Albano, John Colonna. For more on these, see J. Richard, ‘The establishment of the Latin church in the empire of Constantinople’, in B. Arbel, B. Hamilton and D. Jacoby, eds, Latins and Greeks in the Eastern Mediterranean after 1204 (London: Cass, 1989), 47; M. Kordoses, Southern Greece under the Franks (1204–1262): A study of the Greek population and the Orthodox Church under the Frankish dominion (Ioannina: University of Ionnanina, 1987), 62; Van Tricht, The Latin Renovatio of Byzantium, 314–16.

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pope sent to Nicaea and Nymphaion in 1234, however, were something different. They made claim to powers of legates, but their recommendation from Gregory IX says otherwise. It is also interesting that all the legates sent to Constantinople in this period were Cardinals, while the representatives to the Empire of Nicaea were mere friars. Although Schmutz warns against allowing ecclesiastical status to determine what we might call ‘ambassadorial’ function,52 we must consider that the rank of the officials representing the papacy to the Greek Church in 1234, as well as the ambiguity of their status as representatives, might have been a conscious choice of the pope. The friars were, after all, the first representatives sent to Nicaea directly from Rome in the years after the Fourth Crusade.53 Sending cardinals with the full authority of legates would have been a de facto recognition of the Empire of Nicaea and the Byzantine Church at a time when the papacy officially considered the Byzantine state in rebellion against the Latin authority in Constantinople, and the Eastern Church in schism.54 We must conclude, therefore, that the friars of 1234 were not simplices nuncios, but ‘extraordinarios nuncios’, specially authorised by Gregory IX to speak on his behalf, but maintaining the official status of messengers out of political and diplomatic necessity.

52 53

Schmutz, ‘Medieval papal representatives’, 456. Pelagius, the papal legate in Constantinople, had sent envoys to meet with Theodore I Laskaris in 1215, Mesarites, Nicholas, Die Unionsverhandlungen vom 30. August 1206; Patriarchenwahl und Kaiserkronung in Nikaia 1208, A. Heisenberg, ed., in ‘Neue Quellen zur Geschichte des lateinischen Kaisertums und der Kirchenunion. II’, in Sitzungsberichte der Bayerischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophischphilologische und historische Klasse, Abh. 2 (Munich, 1923), 22 (lines 15–32). 54 Chrissis, Crusading in Frankish Greece, 95–6.

Part III

Cultural Correspondence

Katie Sykes

9 Holy Bodies, Holy Relics: The Evolution of Late Antique Hagiographical Topoi in the Patericon of the Kievan Caves Monastery

abstract This paper considers the adoption and adaptation of Late Antique Christian topoi concerning the bodies of holy ascetics in the medieval Kievan text known as the Patericon of the Kievan Caves Monastery. There exist numerous similarities between representations of holy bodies in Late Antique Christian hagiography and the hagiography of medieval Rus, but I focus on a concept which evolves significantly in the process of cultural translation to Rus: the notion of ‘dryness’ as a desirable attribute of the ascetic body. The ‘dry’ body in the Patericon, I submit, possesses some suggestive parallels to Rus conceptions of the holy relic: both are ideally desiccated yet intact and, vitally, pure and incorrupt. The body of the severe ascetic thus comes to resemble a living relic, providing a vivid example of the reinterpretation of two central Christian concepts, the holy ascetic body and the holy relic, in the culture of Rus.

Distance, whether geographical, temporal or cultural, need be no impediment to the flow of ideas. This paper will consider the transmission of concepts over about 900 years and over thousands of miles, between the Late Antique Christian world and medieval Kiev. Its focus will be on textual depictions of the holy bodies of ascetics in the medieval Kievan text known as the Patericon of the Caves Monastery.1 The compilers of the Patericon are heavily indebted to Late Antique hagiography for the topoi they use 1

The edition used is L. A. Olshevskaia and S. N. Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki (Moscow: Nauka, 1999), 7–80, which is based on a late fifteenth- or early sixteenthcentury copy of an early fourteenth-century manuscript. English translations are taken from Muriel Heppell, trans., The Paterik of the Kievan Caves Monastery (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), and modified when necessary (Heppell’s translation is based on a different redaction and so contains some different readings).

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to convey the very bodily suffering and glorification of the holy ascetics of Kiev’s Caves Monastery. However, these topoi are not simply adopted indiscriminately into Rus religious writing. Rather, topoi adopted into Rus writing and used to describe the living bodies of holy ascetics interact with, and are subtly reworked by contact with, other elements of the religious culture of Rus, notably Rus conceptions of the holy relic. In this way, they are subject to continued evolution within their new cultural context, as this paper will demonstrate. Rus, the medieval polity which spanned parts of modern-day Western Russia, Ukraine and Belarus, was converted to Christianity in the late tenth century under the auspices of the Byzantine Empire. By the mideleventh century, Kiev, perhaps the most culturally vibrant urban centre of Rus, was a flourishing Christian town with a cathedral dedicated to the Holy Wisdom and modelled on Constantinople’s Hagia Sophia. In the centuries following the conversion, Rus received numerous Slavonic translations of earlier, mostly Late Antique, Christian texts. Among these were Lives of ascetic saints such as Antony the Great and Lives of founders of monasteries (Sabas, Euthymios, etc.) as well as a number of paterica.2 From its beginnings in the eleventh century, native Rus hagiography was profoundly influenced by these texts in terms of its structure, style and treatment of themes. The Patericon of the Caves Monastery is among the most colourful of all extant Rus hagiographical texts. The Kievan Caves Monastery, founded in the eleventh century, was one of the first and most influential monasteries in Rus. As is so often the case for Rus texts, the monastery’s Patericon exists only in manuscripts dating from the fifteenth century or later, but it is generally considered to have been compiled in the mid-thirteenth century by Simon, bishop of Vladimir-Suzdal, an alumnus of the Caves, along with Polikarp, Simon’s spiritual son, also a monk of the Caves.3 However, the Patericon also draws on earlier material, some of it dating to the eleventh century. It is composed mainly of short tales of particularly outstanding 2 3

See Muriel Heppell, ‘Slavonic Translations of Early Byzantine Ascetical Literature’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 5 (1954), 86–100. See Heppell, trans., The Paterik, xxiii–xxix.

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members of the Caves, but it also includes a series of six tales about the evolution of the Caves Monastery and the building of its first stone church, as well as, in many redactions, a full-length Life of Feodosii, one of the first hegumens of the Caves.4 Evidently, the Patericon of the Caves possesses some similarities to the Late Antique paterica, but it is also substantially different from them, particularly in terms of its varied content and its exclusive focus on a single monastery. This question of the extent of the Patericon’s similarity to the Late Antique paterica has generated some debate, but little consensus.5 This said, the aspect of the text which this paper focuses on, the Caves Patericon’s depiction of holy ascetic bodies, is very clearly influenced by earlier Christian hagiographical topoi. Fundamentally, the body in the Patericon is a means of attaining holiness, as it is in Late Antique hagiography. Ascetic exercises such as fasting, labour and self-mutilation make use of the body in the ascetic’s struggle for holiness. Although not every Caves monk is portrayed as a severe ascetic, all follow the Desert Fathers in valuing fasting and continence. The mortification of the flesh is a practice which the Patericon mentions less often, but which is not uncommon. Feodosii, the humble and beloved hegumen of the Caves, wears a hair shirt and chains in his youth.6 The monk Ioann buries himself up to the waist 4 5

6

For a detailed analysis of the manuscripts and redactions of the Patericon, see Olshevskaia and Travnikov, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 253–315. See Heppell, ‘Slavonic Translations’; cf. Richard Pope, ‘O kharaktere i stepeni vlianiia vizantiiskoi literatury na originalnuiu literaturu iuzhnykh i vostochnykh slavian: diskussiia i metodologiia’, in Victor Terras, ed., American Contributions to the Seventh International Congress of Slavists, 3 Vols (The Hague: Mouton, 1973), ii, 469–93, for an analysis which emphasises the differences between the Kievan Caves Patericon and Late Antique paterica. The edition in Drevnerusskie pateriki does not contain the Life of Feodosii. Another recent edition, L. A. Dmitriev, ed., ‘Kievo-Pecherskii paterik’, in L. A. Dmitriev and D. S. Likhachev, eds, Pamiatniki literatury Drevnei Rusi: XII vek (Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1980), 413–522, omits the Life for reasons of space. See instead Nestor, ‘Zhitie Feodosiia Pecherskogo’, O. V. Tvorogov, ed., in L. A. Dmitriev and D. S. Likhachev, eds, Pamiatniki literatury Drevnei Rusi: XI-nachalo XII veka (Moscow: Khudozhestvennaia literatura, 1978), 314. For a translation, see Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 31.

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in the ground in an attempt to subdue his passions.7 Finally, in an unusual and very literal form of imitatio Christi, another monk, named Evstraatii, accepts crucifixion at the hands of Jews, but miraculously survives and returns to the Caves, to great rejoicing amongst his brethren.8 However, the body is not simply an object of ascetic exercises. In Rus hagiography as in the hagiography of Late Antiquity, the body is also a sign by which an ascetic’s spiritual progress can be measured. The idea that the body can be meaningful is no modern theoretical imposition. Rather, it is a concept which Athanasios very clearly espouses in his Life of Anthony. Writing of Anthony, he states that ‘from his soul’s joy he also had a cheerful face, and from the movements of his body one could sense and perceive the makeup of his soul.’9 This conception of the body as the outward sign of an ascetic’s inner, spiritual equilibrium reappears in the Life of Feodosii, the only full-length Life included in the Patericon. Even when fasting, Feodosii’s face remains ‘cheerful’, a mirror reflecting his spiritual joy: ‘They never saw him doleful or downcast at dinner with the brethren, but he always had a bright face and was comforted by God’s grace.’10 The image of the holy body illuminated by the light of God is another topos which was adopted into the hagiography of Rus. The face of Abba Pambo of the Apophthegmata Patrum shines with the light of God and Adam, the first 7 8 9

10

See Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 47; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 160. See Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 24; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 124. ‘[…] ἀπὸ τῆς χαρᾶς τῆς ψυχῆς ἱλαρὸν ἔχειν καὶ τὸ πρόσωπον, καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν τοῦ σώματος κινημάτων αἰσθέσθαι καὶ νοεῖν τὴν τῆς ψυχῆς κατάστασιν.’ Athanasios of Alexandria, ‘Vita et conversatio S.P.N. Antonii’, in J. P. Migne, ed., Patrologia Graeca, 161 Vols (Paris: Imprimerie Catholique, 1857–1866), xxvi (1857), 940. Translation is my own, made with reference to Athanasios of Alexandra, The Life of Anthony: The Coptic Life and the Greek Life, Tim Vivan and Apostolos N. Athnassakis, trans (Kalamazoo, MI: Cistercian Publications, 2003), 201. ‘И николиже его бѣ видѣти дряхла или съньзъшася на обѣдѣ сѣдяща съ братиею, нъ вьсегда весело лице имуща и благодатию Божиею бѣ утѣшаяся.’ Nestor, ‘Zhitie Feodosiia Pecherskogo’, in Dmitriev and Likhachev, eds, Pamiatniki literatury Drevnei Rusi: XI-nachalo XII veka, 362. Translation from Paul Hollingsworth, The Hagiography of Kievan Rus (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 73.

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man: ‘They said of Abba Pambo that, just as Moses’ face became glorious when he took on the image of the glory of Adam, so also the face of Abba Pambo shone like lightning.’11 Ioann of the Patericon is similarly portrayed as illuminated by ‘divine light’, ‘свѣт божественый’, after his ordeal in the pit in which he buries himself.12 In terms of their depictions of bodies, then, Late Antique hagiography and the Kievan Caves Patericon share some essential similarities. Firstly, bodies are both tools for attaining holiness and, more importantly for the purposes of this paper, mirrors of the soul. Secondly, the meanings conveyed by particular bodily states – a cheerful countenance, for example, or divine illumination –often remained quite stable in the process of their cultural translation from Late Antiquity to Rus. In what follows, I will consider some of the differences between Late Antique and medieval Kievan depictions of ascetic bodies. These differences are often the result of developments by which earlier Christian ideas evolve and emphases shift. When texts and ideas are subject to translation into another language, and also to a broader kind of translatio, a ‘bringing over’ into another culture and society, they are subject to change. Meanings shift; concepts are understood differently; ideas are enthusiastically accepted or ignored. A good deal of the work done on the culture of Rus either explicitly or implicitly makes use of this paradigm or one similar to it.13 The Patericon is a fruitful place to look for such creative misunderstandings and changes of emphasis. One such development in the portrayal of ascetic bodies is vividly exemplified in the tales of Nikon and Ioann, two of the strictest of the Caves’ ascetics, both referred to as ‘многотьрпѣливыи’, ‘long-suffering’ or

11 ‘Ἐλεγον περὶ τοῦ ὰββᾶ Παμβὼ ὅτι ὡς ἔλαβε Μωυσῆς τὴν εἰκόνα τῆς δόξης Ἀδὰμ, ὅτε ἐδοξάσθη τὸ πρόσοπον αὐτοῦ· οὕτως καὶ τοῦ ἀββᾶ Παμβὼ ὡς ἀστραπὴ ἔλαμπε τὸ πρόσοπων. ‘Apophthegmata Patrum’, in J. P. Migne, ed., Patrologia Graeca, 161 Vols (Paris: Imprimerie Catholique, 1857–1866), lxv (1864), 372. Translation is my own. 12 Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 48; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 161. 13 For an example of the use of the concept of cultural (mis)translation from Byzantine to Rus (and indeed to Russian), see Simon Franklin, Byzantium-Rus-Russia: Studies in the Translation of Christian Culture (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002).

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‘much-enduring’.14 Nikon submits meekly to torture and capture by the Cumans. After three years he is miraculously rescued and transported to the Caves, his wounds still dripping with blood and his body covered with pus.15 At the end of his tale, we are told that he received the epithet Сухий, ‘the Dry One’. The reason for this is explained in a succinct and revealing passage: ‘This Nikon is called “The Dry” in [y]our calendar: his body had shrivelled up from loss of blood and suppurating wounds.’16 Nikon is said to have ‘oozed blood’ (истекъ кровию) and ‘become covered in suppurations from his wounds’ (изгнивъ от ранъ), and so to have ‘dried out’ (исхну). In other words, he attains to the praiseworthy state of ‘dryness’ by the quite literal expulsion of blood and pus from his body. The tale of Ioann recounts a similar process. Ioann spends thirty years living a strict ascetic life, fasting for long periods and wearing chains. When, in desperation, he buries himself in a pit in an attempt to conquer his passions, his members are twice described as being ‘on fire’: ‘My legs, which were in the pit, began to burn from the bottom, so that my veins contracted and my bones rattled. The flames reached my belly and my limbs caught fire.’17 This burning is a process not of the destruction of matter, but of its refining and purification. Ioann describes himself as being ‘tried like gold’, ‘ижжен […] яко злато’, and rejoices that the pain he feels will keep him free from all impurity: ‘I forgot the intense pain and rejoiced in my

14 For the tale of Nikon, see Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 25–7; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 125–7. For the tale of Ioann, see Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 46–8; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 158–62. 15 See Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 26; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 127. 16 ‘Сий убо Никонъ “Сухий” зовется в поминании вашем: истекъ кровию и изгнивъ от ранъ, исхну’, in Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 26; translation, slightly modified, from Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 127. 17 ‘Нозѣ мои, иже в ямѣ, издну возгорѣшася, яко и жилам скорчитися и костем троскотати, уже пламению досязающю -тробы моея, и удове мои изгорѣша’, in Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 47; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 160.

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soul that I was being kept pure from defilement.’18 Joining this act of selfmortification to prayer, Ioann is finally given respite from his passions, but he continues to wear heavy irons, so that he is ‘wasted away by cold and iron’ (студению и желѣзом истанчаем).19 As in the tale of Nikon, severe asceticism joined to faith produces a body which is ‘dry’: intact, although wasted, and purified by the dramatic expulsion of impure matter, which rots, bleeds or burns away. I do not claim that the literary motif of ‘dryness’ is a Rus invention. This is certainly not the case. References to dryness as the goal of ascetic practices are scattered throughout Late Antique literature. For example, one of Ephrem the Syrian’s hymns calls ‘dryness’ the aim of fasting: ‘Hunger that eats up your flesh, offers you the bliss of Eden; thirst that drinks your veins, supplies you the sources of life; fasting that dries up your person, illuminates your countenance.’20 Even in Rus sources, the attainment of ‘dryness’ is not always represented as a dramatic and literal process, the result of the expulsion of impure matter. The writings of Kirill of Turov, the twelfth-century sermon writer and (perhaps) bishop of Turov, in modern-day Belarus, are heavily influenced by Late Antique rhetoric.21 In his commentary On the Monastic Order, Kirill instructs his flock to ‘dry up [their] blood’: ‘Have patience in your endeavours, bear patiently your afflictions, emulate the martyrs who shed their blood for Christ. Though you may not shed it on the outside, yet dry up your blood on the inside, partaking only of the barest necessities for your body.’22 Here, Kirill specifies that there is no need to 18 ‘азъ же забых болѣзнь лютую и порадовахся душею, яко та ми чиста набдѣна есть от всякоа скверны’, in Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 47; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 160. 19 Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 47; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 160. 20 Ephraim the Syrian, Hymni et Sermones, Arthur Vööbus, trans., History of Asceticism in the Syrian Orient, Volume 2: Early Monasticism in Mesopotamia and Syria (Louvain: Secretariat du Corpus SCO, 1960), 30. 21 See Ingunn Lunde, Verbal Celebrations: Kirill of Turov’s Homiletic Rhetoric and its Byzantine Sources (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2001), in particular 85–121. 22 ‘Терпелив подвизайся, всякы скорби мужскы терпя, рѣтуяся мучеником, за Христа свою излиавшим кровь. Ты же аще не извну, то внутрьюду иссуши

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shed one’s blood ‘on the outside’ in violent acts of self-mortification, but that the process of ‘drying’ one’s blood should take place ‘on the inside’, through moderate self-denial. This is in fact a dictum which many Caves monks are depicted as following, depending on ‘tears, fasting, prayer and vigils’ rather than the severe asceticism of some of their brethren.23 The concept of ‘drying out’ the body as a literal and extreme form of purification and mortification of the flesh, as in the tales of Nikon and Ioann, is therefore unusual in Christian writing both in the Late Antique world and even, to some extent, within Rus. Most often, in texts from Late Antiquity as well as in the writings of Kirill of Turov, a ‘dry’ body is one that has been subjected to control, through fasting, for example, but it is not necessarily the suffering body of an extreme ascetic. While the ‘subtraction of matter’ certainly can be a feature of textual depictions of Late Antique asceticism, as Patricia Cox Miller argues in her article ‘Desert Asceticism and the Body from Nowhere’, it is made more explicit in the admittedly very small corpus of Patericon tales of severe ascetics.24 A ‘dry’ body, in Patericon tales of ascetics, is a body from which impure substances have been quite literally removed through extreme forms of mortification of the flesh. The Patericon ascetic ends up with a body that is desiccated and wasted, but pure and whole. (The one exception to this preference for bodily integrity in holy men is found in the unusual Patericon tale of Moses the Hungarian, who is castrated by a Polish princess angered by his rejection of her advances.)25 ю, токмо нужнѣй потребѣ телеси касаяся […].’ I. P. Eremin, ed., ‘Literaturnoe nasledie Kirilla Turovskogo’, Trudy otdela drevnerusskoi literatury 12 (1956), 361. Simon Franklin, trans., Sermons and Rhetoric of Kievan Rus (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1991), 95. 23 For the chronicle reference to ‘tears, fasting, prayer and vigils’ as the foundation of life at the Caves, see Donald Ostrowski, ed., The ‘Povĕst’ vremennykh lĕt’: An Interlinear Collation and Paradosis (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003), 1257–8. 24 Patricia Cox Miller, ‘Desert Asceticism and the Body from Nowhere’, Journal of Early Christian Studies 2 (1994), 148. 25 Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 48–53; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 162–9. See also Gail Lenhoff, ‘Hellenistic Erotica and the Kiev Cave Patericon “Tale of Moses the Hungarian”’, Russian History 10 (1983), 141–53.

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Having established that the ideal ascetic body in the Patericon was dried-out, yet whole, this paper will conclude by noting some suggestive parallels between the ascetic body, as constructed in the Patericon’s tales of extreme ascetics, and the Rus relic. The relic is a particularly vivid example of a concept ‘translated’ to and accepted in Rus, but significantly altered in the process. The cult of relics was adopted early in Rus. The tale of the baptism of Vladimir under the year 988 in the Primary Chronicle describes Vladimir’s return from Kherson with the relics of St Clement and his disciple Phoebus,26 and the first indigenous Rus saints, Boris and Gleb, were said to have wonder-working relics.27 Some of the theology of relics also seems to have penetrated to Rus: Kirill of Turov warns his listeners against the idea that relics themselves could be wonder-working, and reminds them that miracles can only be worked through the grace of God.28 The complex of ideas surrounding the relic in Rus has been the focus of some revealing research. In Byzantium, a primary relic is generally a part of the dead body of a holy figure, often a bone or another piece of onceliving matter. This part stands in for the whole, and incorruption is not particularly valued.29 This conception of the nature of relics was accepted in Rus too, as the Caves Patericon demonstrates: one of the foundation narratives of the Caves relates how the bones of saints were laid in the foundations of the first Caves church.30 However, the native relic in Rus tended to look very different to a typical Byzantine relic. The Rus relic was ideally a whole body, and a body that had not been subject to corruption. Time and time again, we read in Rus texts that a holy man’s body remained 26 Ostrowski, ed., The ‘Povĕst’ vremennykh lĕt’, 901–2. 27 See the Primary Chronicle entry for 1015 in Ostrowski, ed., The ‘Povĕst’ vremennykh lĕt’, 1110–11. 28 I. P. Eremin, ed., ‘Literaturnoe nasledie Kirilla Turovskogo’, Trudy otdela drevnerusskoi literatury 11 (1955), 345–6. 29 Gail Lenhoff, ‘The Notion of “Uncorrupted Relics” in Early Russian Culture’, in Boris Gasparov and Olga Raevsky-Hughes, eds, Christianity and the Eastern Slavs: Volume 1: Slavic Cultures in the Middle Ages (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1993), 254–5. 30 See Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 12–13; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 6–8.

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whole and incorrupt after his death.31 Gail Lenhoff notes that eleven out of the fifteen native Rus saints venerated between 988 and 1318 were said to have incorrupt relics, and argues that insistence on incorruption as a prerequisite for glorification was ‘the norm among the Kievan clergy and lay population’.32 F. B. Uspenskii has noted that this preference for wholeness and incorruption is also found in medieval Scandinavian culture, which exercised considerable influence on the culture of early Rus.33 Indeed, the Caves itself had Scandinavian connections. The Patericon relates two distinct foundation myths for the Caves, one emphasising its links with Byzantium and the other recounting the role of a Scandinavian warrior known as Shimon the Varangian in the foundation of the Caves’ first stone church.34 Patericon conceptions of the nature of relics similarly seem to demonstrate both Eastern and Western influence. As I mentioned above, bones were certainly accepted as relics, as in Byzantium, and not all Caves monks were said to have incorrupt remains. The venerable Feodosii was found to have intact bones and dried-out hair, but that was the most the compiler of the account of the translation of Feodosii’s relics could say as far as the physical signs of Feodosii’s sanctity were concerned.35 Yet a parallel

See, for example, D. I. Abramovich, ed., Zhitiia sviatykh muchenikov Borisa i Gleba i sluzhby im (Petrograd: Otdelenie russkogo iazyka i slovesnosti Imperatorskoi akademii nauk, 1916), 21; and the Life of Leontii of Rostov in V. V. Kuskov, A. Grikhin, and G. Iu. Filipovskii, eds, Drevnerusskie predaniia (XI–XVI vv.) (Moscow: Sovietskaia Rossiia, 1982), 126. 32 Lenhoff, ‘The Notion of “Uncorrupted Relics”’, 257, 259. 33 F. B. Uspenskii, ‘Netlennost moshchei: opyt sopostavitelnogo analiza grecheskoi, russkoi i skandinavskoi traditsii’, in A. M. Lidov, ed., Vostochnokhristianskie relikvii = Eastern Christian Relics (Moscow: Progress-Traditsiia, 2003), 151–60. 34 See Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 12–13 and 7–10 respectively; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 6–8 and 1–5, respectively. 35 This episode is absent in the edition in Drevnerusskie pateriki. See instead ‘KievoPecherskii paterik’, Dmitriev, ed., in Dmitriev and Likhachev, eds, Pamiatniki literatury Drevnei Rusi: XII vek, 444; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 92. 31

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discourse emphasised the desirability of intact and incorrupt relics, as in the discourse on Feodor and Vasilii, whose bodies remain ‘цѣлу’, ‘whole’, after their death by torture.36 Visitors to the Caves Monastery today will still find the whole, if shrunken, bodies of saints on view in the caves which gave the monastery its name. Both Rus relics and the bodies of living ascetics, then, were ideally whole, although shrunken and dried out. Vitally, they were also both incorrupt, no longer containing any impurities. In other words, the Patericon ascetic’s body became, in text at least, a sort of living relic. This equation of living ascetic bodies with relics only makes sense in a culture in which early Christian conceptions of the relic, the ascetic body and bodily purity have all subtly changed. In Byzantium, relics tended to be parts not wholes, and incorruption was not particularly valued.37 Although Late Antique texts occasionally mention ‘dryness’ as an attribute of the ascetic body, it was neither particularly stressed nor explicitly linked to freedom from corrupting and impure bodily substances. These ideas evolved in cultural translation to Rus. Relics became whole and incorrupt bodies; strict ascetics were said to possess a body that was intact but ‘dry’, free from all impure matter. Notions of the ideal relic and the ideal ascetic body were transformed in Rus, and once transformed, they converged, with the body of the strict ascetic coming to look relic-like. In conclusion, this paper has argued that in the translation of texts and ideas concerning holy bodies from Late Antique culture to the culture of Rus, we observe both continuity and change. Fundamentally, bodies remain significant and meaningful, a locus of the sacred. However, the meanings expressed by particular bodily states were sometimes subject to change. For example, certain tales in the Patericon of the Caves stress that the perfect ascetic body is a ‘dry’ body, free from all impure bodily substances. This is an idea that was certainly known in Late Antiquity, but not emphasised

36 Olshevskaia and Travnikov, eds, Drevnerusskie pateriki, 66; Heppell, trans., The Paterik, 190. 37 Lenhoff, ‘The Notion of “Uncorrupted Relics”’, 254–5.

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to the same extent or understood in the same way as in Rus discourses on severe asceticism. Finally, subtle changes in the complex of ideas giving meaning to Christian bodies and relics led these concepts to converge, with the ascetic body resembling a living relic. In short, as is so often the case, we observe not simply a sterile transplantation of early Christian ideas to Rus, but the adaptation, reinterpretation and indeed continued evolution of these ideas in their new cultural context.

Valeria Flavia Lovato

10 Hellenising Cato? A Short Survey of the Concepts of Greekness, Romanity and Barbarity in John Tzetzes’ Work and Thought

abstract In some passages of his work, the twelfth-century Byzantine scholar John Tzetzes appears to contrast his own Hellenic refinement to Roman ‘barbarity’. This might appear incompatible with Tzetzes’ identification with Cato the Elder, the Roman censor who was renowned for his hostility to Greek culture. Some modern commentators have therefore suggested that the Byzantine scholar deliberately altered his sources so as to create a ‘Hellenised’ portrait of the Censor. Starting from Tzetzes’ identification with Cato, this paper re-examines the scholar’s standpoint towards the concepts of Greekness, Romanity and barbarity. Through a reassessment of Tzetzes’ approach to his sources, it also traces the origins of his predilection for the Censor, showing that, for the scholar, Greekness and Romanity often blend into the superior notion of paideia. Consequently, the concept of barbarity acquires a distinctive meaning, loosing its ethnical or geographical connotations to become a way to stigmatise the apaideutos.

In a much studied letter addressed to Isaac Komnenos,1 John Tzetzes2 proudly claims to be of ‘purely Greek descent’ on his father’s side, a statement he repeats in a long extract from his Histories, where he further 1

2

Epist. 6, 10, 3–6, Peter Aloisius M. Leone ed., Ioannis Tzetzae Epistulae (Leipzig: Teubner, 1972). On this letter, see Michael Grünbart, ‘Prosopographische Beiträge zum Briefcorpus des Ioannes Tzetzes’, JÖB 46 (1996), 175–226 (179–80) and, by the same author, ‘Byzantinisches Gelehrtenelend – oder: Wie meistert man seinen Alltag’, in Lars M. Hoffman, and Anuscha Monchizadeh, eds, Zwischen Polis, Provinz und Peripherie. Beiträge zur byzantinischen Geschichte und Kultur (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 2005), 415–26 (420–1). For Tzetzes’ biography, see Grünbart, ‘Byzantinisches Gelehrtenelend’, 415–26. Nikos Agiotis, ‘Tzetzes on Psellos revisited’, BZ 106/1 (2013), 1–8, has lately suggested to fix a new terminus post quem for Tzetzes’ death after 1178. In a recent article, however, Eric

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expands upon his origins.3 These passages have attracted the attention of many modern scholars4 and have sometimes been connected to other instances where Tzetzes appears to contrast Hellenic refinement to Roman ‘barbarity’.5 In the very letter where he boasts of his Greek ancestry, for example, the scholar declares that a pure Hellene like himself should under no circumstances prove to be inferior to the savage and barbaric Romans.6 In this context, Tzetzes’ identification with one of the most conservative and anti-Hellenic Roman statesmen, that is the inflexible Cato the Elder, has often been regarded as somehow inconsistent with the scholar’s views. Anthony Kaldellis, in his study devoted to Hellenism in Byzantium, was the first to try and integrate Tzetzes’ strong affinity with Cato into his general attitude towards the concepts of Greekness, Romanity and barbarity. More specifically, Kaldellis suggests that the scholar deliberately ignored his sources’ hints at Cato’s aversion towards Greek culture, thus presenting a Hellenised portrait of the Roman censor.7 This idea has Cullhed has convincingly argued in favour of the usual dating (after the mid-1160s): see Eric Cullhed, ‘Diving for pearls and Tzetzes’ death’, BZ 108/1 (2015), 53–61. 3 Hist. 5, 628–30, Peter Aloisius M. Leone ed., Ioannis Tzetzae Historiae (Napoli: Libreria Scientifica Editrice, 1968). 4 See, for example, Paul Gautier, ‘La curieuse ascendence de Jean Tzetzès’, Revue des études byzantines 28 (1970), 207–20 and Roderick Beaton, ‘Antique nation? “Hellenes” on the eve of Greek independence and in twelfth-century Byzantium’, BMGS 31/1 (2007), 76–95 (90–1). 5 Anthony Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium: The transformations of Greek identity and the reception of the classical tradition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 302–6. See also, from a somewhat different perspective, Paul Magdalino, Tradition and Transformation in Medieval Byzantium, No. 14 (Aldershot: Variorum, 1991), 11 and, by the same author, ‘The Rhetoric of Hellenism’, in Paul Magdalino, ed., The Perception of the Past in Twelfth-Century Europe (London and Rio Grande: The Hambledon Press, 1992), 139–56 (153–4). 6 Epist. 6, 9, 21–10, 6. Such a statement appears all the more significant if we keep in mind that the Byzantines used to define themselves as Romaioi (see Beaton, ‘Antique nation?’, 80, 87). A more comprehensive study should be devoted to Tzetzes’ use of the terms Hellene, Romaios and barbaros, which seems to be rather different from his contemporaries’. This paper does not aim to propose a complete analysis of the subject, focusing only on a specific aspect and on the texts connected to it. 7 Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium, 305–6.

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recently been developed by Sophia Xenophontos, in an insightful article devoted to Tzetzes’ reception of Cato.8 In what follows I would like to tackle again the complex issue of Tzetzes’ standpoint towards the concepts of Greekness, Romanity and barbarity, starting from the scholar’s much discussed identification with Cato. A reappraisal of Tzetzes’ approach to his sources will hopefully lead us to a different appreciation of the relevant texts and will help us trace the origins and the evolution of his predilection for the Roman statesman. A new evaluation of the scholar’s views and working methods will also allow us to address our main topic from a different perspective. More specifically, we will see that, at least in Tzetzes’ case, the polarity between Greekness and Romanity is not as significant as it might appear, since the two notions often seem to blend into a superior and more decisive one, that of paideia. Consequently, also the concept of barbarity can acquire a different and distinctive meaning, loosing its ethnical or geographical connotation to simply become a way to stigmatise the uneducated or apaideutos, whatever his origins. As already mentioned, Cato features in many works within Tzetzes’ oeuvre. The passage that has mostly attracted modern readers’ attention, however, is an extract from the third book of the Chiliads or Histories, a work that Tzetzes dedicated to commenting on his own Letters. In this text, entirely devoted to the Roman statesman, Tzetzes is drawing from Chapter 20 of Plutarch’s Life of Marcus Cato, as noted by Kaldellis and Xenophontos, who both stress the differences between Tzetzes’ account and his source. Since it would take too long to discuss all the instances examined by the two scholars, I will focus only on the passage that seems to have inspired Kaldellis’ interpretation and that also represents one of the main points of Xenophontos’ argument. According to Chapter 20 of the Plutarchean biography, Cato attached much importance to the education of his son, which he personally took care of. The Censor went as far as to write a historical treatise in large

8

Sophia Xenophontos, ‘“A living portrait of Cato”: Self­-fashioning and the classical past in John Tzetzes’ Chiliads’, Estudios bizantinos 2 (2014), 187–204.

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characters, in order to make it easily understandable for his child, who would have thus benefited from the study of his ancient ancestors’ deeds: καὶ τὰς ἱστορίας δὲ συγγράψαι φησὶν αὐτὸς ἰδίᾳ χειρὶ καὶ μεγάλοις γράμμασιν, ὅπως οἴκοθεν ὑπάρχοι τῷ παιδὶ πρὸς ἐμπειρίαν τῶν παλαιῶν καὶ πατρίων ὠφελεῖσθαι·9 [He wrote his Histories with his own hand and in large characters, so that his son might benefit in his own house from the teachings of his ancient ancestors’ deeds (my translation)].

In his Histories, Tzetzes also mentions Cato’s historical treatise. His version of the same episode, however, appears to be slightly different from Plutarch’s: Αὐτὸς αὐτῷ διδάσκαλος γίνεται τῶν πραγμάτων | Ἑλληνικῶν, Ῥωμαϊκῶν, πάσης ἁπλῶς παιδείας […]. [He himself teaches his son about the deeds | of the Greeks and the Romans, that is he bestows on him the complete paideia […] (my translation)].10

According to both Kaldellis and Xenophontos, Tzetzes is here skilfully altering his source’s account, deliberately ignoring that Cato’s work was devoted to the Roman Republic’s past and had nothing to do with Greek history. More specifically, in Xenophontos’ opinion, Tzetzes’ apparent interpolation would be part of a sophisticated strategy aimed at minimising both Cato’s strong Roman identity and his anti-Hellenism, so as to build a more suitable image of the Censor, that would fit the scholar’s own views and self-presentation.11 Despite its ingenuity, this interpretation is not entirely convincing. First of all, it appears to be based on a rather questionable perception of Tzeztes’ approach to the original text. However self-centred he might appear, Tzetzes is generally faithful to his sources, even when he is in

9 10 11

Cat. Ma. 20, 7, Konrat Ziegler, ed., Plutarchus: Vitae Parallelae, vol. I, fasc. 1. Editionem quintam curavit Hans Gärtner (München/Leipzig: Saur, 2000). Hist. 3, 113–14. Xenophontos, ‘A living portrait’, 193–4.

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disagreement with them. Furthermore, whenever he intentionally modifies their account, he explicitly signals the changes he makes, generally after criticising his predecessors for their supposed mistakes.12 Furthermore, I would like to remark that the modern reader should never assume that the ancient authors shared the same information he possesses. In this case, it is important to observe that our knowledge of Cato’s attitude towards Greek culture does not necessarily correspond to Tzetzes’. As far as we know, the scholar’s principal source on Cato was the Plutarchean biography, which is far from offering a consistent portrait of the Roman statesman, especially with regards to his notorious anti-Hellenism.13 Along with the much commented-upon chapters describing the Censor’s aversion towards Greek philosophy, it is possible to read other passages

12

13

Modern scholars often blame Tzetzes for his inaccuracies (see, for example, the rather dismissive judgement expressed by Nigel Wilson, Scholars of Byzantium: Revised Edition (London: Duckworth, 1996), 190–6). It is important to remark, however, that the ‘mistakes’ Tzetzes makes are generally the result of his imperfect recollection of the original text, which he often could not consult directly. Moreover, the scholar is extremely strict with his own oversights, which he always signals and corrects, even after a long time. For a reappraisal of Tzetzes’ accuracy and personality, see Felix Budelmann, ‘Classical commentary in Byzantium: John Tzetzes on Ancient Greek Literature’, in Roy. K. Gibson and Kristina Shuttlewoth Kraus, eds, The Classical Commentary: Histories, Practices, Theory (Leiden, New York and Cologne: Brill, 2002), 141–69 (164–7) and Maria Jagoda Luzzatto, Tzetzes lettore di Tucidide. Note autografe sul Codice Heidelberg Palatino Greco 252 (Bari: Edizioni Dedalo, 1999), 7–8 and 101. For an example of Tzetzes’ working methods see also Eric Cullhed, ‘The Blind Bard and “I”: Homeric biography and authorial personas in the twelfth century’, BMGS 38/1 (2014), 49–67 (65), who gives an interesting example of how the scholar used to criticise and duly correct his own mistakes. In another passage of his Histories (3, 157–8) Tzetzes appears to be aware that Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Cassius Dio and Diodorus also wrote about Cato. However, the Plutarchean biography remains the principal source for Tzeztes’ passages on Cato (especially when it comes to the Censor’s educational methods, as observed by both Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium, 305 and Xenophontos, ‘A living portrait’, 193). Moreover, the other authors quoted by the scholar do not seem to stress Cato’s antiHellenic attitude either. On the contrary, they generally emphasise his admirable oratory skills and his remarkable intellectual accomplishments.

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stressing Cato’s interest in different aspects of Greek culture.14 In many instances, moreover, Plutarch directly compares him to illustrious Greek intellectuals or statesmen and in one case he goes as far as to claim that Cato was commonly called ‘the Roman Demosthenes’.15 The ambivalence of the source itself, therefore, contributed to the attenuation of the Censor’s anti-Hellenic attitude, which is certainly not the most distinctive trait of the Plutarchean Cato.16 14 See for example Cat. Ma. 2,5, quoted also by Xenophontos, ‘A living portrait’, 194, who nevertheless considers this passage as ‘an isolated instance where it is conceded that there are signs of Greek influence on Cato’s works’. Yet, the Plutarchean biography is far from offering a univocal account of the Censor’s standpoint towards Hellenic culture. To cite some examples, Plutarch informs us that Cato especially admired – along with the Roman Manius Curius and the Carthaginian Hamilcar – the Greek Epaminondas, Pericles and Themistocles (Cat. Ma. 8,14), an attitude reminiscent of the spirit of Tzetzes’ Histories. Elsewhere, Cato is said to have shown a keen interest in Pythagorean philosophy (Cat. Ma. 2.3–4), another trait that must have strengthened our scholar’s affinity with the Censor. 15 Cat. Ma. 4,1. 16 The equivocal nature of the Plutarchean account ­­– along with the fact that our scholar does not seem to perfectly recall his source – is likely to be the cause of other apparent interpolations, as a scholium that Tzetzes added to his own Histories clearly demonstrates (see schol. in Hist. 3, 189: Φιλοκερδέστατος ἀφιλοχρηματώτατον τὸν ἄνδρα εἰδὼς ἐκ τῶν σταλέντων ἐκ Βρεττανίας χρημάτων αὐτῷ, ἐπείσθην τοῖς ἀσκόπως ληροῦσι, φιλοχρήματον τοῦτον εἰπεῖν οἰκονομικῶς τοὺς γεγηρακότας τῶν αὐτοῦ ἀπεμπολοῦντα βοῶν). This short note refers to a passage where Tzetzes had stigmatised Cato’s greed, a trait that – according to Xenophontos – did not belong to the Plutarchean Cato and should therefore be ascribed to a deliberate alteration of the original text by our scholar. More specifically, Xenophontos believes that, by stressing Cato’s thrift, Tzetzes intended to emphasise ‘his own freedom from money’ (Xenophontos, ‘A living portrait’, 201). In the scholium mentioned above, however, Tzetzes clearly rectifies his former criticism of Cato and blames himself for trusting an unreliable source that testified to the Censor’s greed. It is interesting to note that the untrustworthy source mentioned by Tzetzes is nothing but the Plutarchean biography itself (Cat. Ma. 4,5), that our scholar not only misunderstands (according to Plutarch, Cato used to sell his herdsmen and not his oxen!), but also promptly corrects … by quoting another passage from the same work (Cat. Ma. 2,2). What is more, Tzetzes does not perfectly recall this second passage either, since in the Plutarchean account it was Manius Curius (and not Cato) who refused the gifts offered by the Samnites (that

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As for the specific passage examined by Kaldellis and Xenophontos, we might note that Tzetzes did not find in his source any direct mention of the fact that Cato’s treatise was devoted to Roman history exclusively. Our scholar just read about a historical work devoted to the deeds accomplished by Cato’s forefathers, an expression which he probably interpreted in a broader sense, since in his perception the Romans were strictly connected to the Greeks, who could in many cases be considered to be their authentic and oldest ancestors. If to these considerations we add Tzetzes’ general faithfulness to his sources, we can conclude that his apparent alteration of the Plutarchean account is not likely to be the result of a conscious strategy of ‘Hellenisation’. Actually, the very antithesis between Romanity and Greekness does not seem to be the right key to the interpretation of this passage. Tzetzes’ supposed interpolation of the Plutarchean biography should instead be regarded as the consequence of an attitude which is typical of the scholar, namely his tendency to see and project his own reflection on the texts he read and commented upon. This is all the more evident in Cato’s case, especially if we consider the first instance where Tzetzes manifests his interest in the Censor, that is a long excursus featuring in the introduction of his Allegoriae Iliadis: Palamedes, Cato the Elder and Tzetzes […] | are thin, have blue-grey eyes, are goldskinned and have red curly hair, | being totally alike, as regards to both physical and moral qualities […]. | The only difference between them and myself is their slowness to wrath, | provided that the historical accounts do not lie (my translation).17

17

our scholar mistakes for the Britons; the same misunderstanding appears in Hist. 10, 640–63). The nature of Plutarch’s text (for its ambivalent assessment of the Censor’s frugality, see for example Cat. Ma. 5,7), along with Tzetzes’ uncertain recollection of it, seems therefore to have played a major part in the scholar’s reception of Cato and should be carefully taken into account also when discussing Tzetzes’ perception of the Censor’s anti-Hellenism. Allegoriae Iliadis, Prolegomena, 724, 727–8, 731–2 ( Jean François Boissonade, ed., Tzetzae Allegoriae Iliadis (Paris: Dumont, 1851)); cf. also Hist. 3, 173–94). For an alternative translation, see John Tzetzes, Allegories of the Iliad, Adam J. Goldwyn and Dimitra Kokkini, trans (Cambridge, MA and London: Harvard University Press 2015), 55–7, to be consulted along with Donald J. Mastronarde’s accurate review (Bryn

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From this excerpt it is clear that Tzetzes’ identification with Cato was inspired by the scholar’s perception of his striking physical resemblance to the Censor. It is not a coincidence that this text, where Tzetzes stresses his affinity to the Roman statesman for the first time, appears in the context of a gallery of portraits depicting the Greek and Trojan heroes.18 These considerations prove all the more significant if we keep in mind that Tzetzes strongly believed that specific physical features corresponded to determined moral traits. This interpretation seems to be confirmed by the fact that Plutarch’s Life of Marcus Cato, the principal source for Tzetzes’ description of the Censor, was introduced by a short epigram describing the main physical features that characterised the Roman statesman. We will not be surprised to read that Cato shared the same – quite distinctive – traits that Tzetzes ascribed himself in his self-portrait, namely reddish hair and blue-grey eyes: πυρρόν, πανδακέτην, γλαυκόμματον, οὐδὲ θανόντα Πόρκιον εἰς ἀίδην Φερσεφόνη δέχεται.19 [Red-haired, snapper and biter, his grey eyes flashing defiance, | Porcius, come to the shades, back will be thrust by their Queen. (Translation by B. Perrin)]

It is likely that Tzetzes, reading the first chapters of the Plutarchean biography, was struck by such a remarkable physical resemblance that hinted at a deeper connection between himself and the Roman statesman. We might note, by the way, that red hair and blue-grey eyes were rather peculiar physical features, that were not particularly appreciated. This might have further strengthened the affinity Tzetzes felt for the Censor.

18

19

Mawr Classical Review 2015.09.45, , accessed 21 February 2016). On this catalogue of ‘portraits’, that Tzetzes had probably drawn from Malalas, see Elizabeth and Michael Jeffreys, ‘Portraits’, in Elizabeth Jeffreys, Brian Croke and Roger Scott, eds, Studies in John Malalas (Sydney: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 1990), 231–44. Cat. Mai. 1,4.

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It is from this perspective, I believe, that we should also interpret the passage on Cato’s pedagogic methods that has attracted the attention of modern commentators. It is very likely that Tzetzes, who already felt close to Cato because of their physical resemblance, found in Chapter 20 of the Plutarchean biography another factor that seemed to strengthen his bond with the Roman statesman. As we have seen, according to Plutarch’s very words, Cato wrote a treatise devoted to the illustrious deeds of his ancestors, whose example was meant to educate the Censor’s son. Reading the Plutarchean account and interpreting it in the light of his own experience, Tzetzes must have seen in Cato’s Historiae a forerunner of his own Historiai, which was not only a commentary to his Letters, but also a miscellany of historical and mythical facts, aiming at the edification of his readers. The supposed interpolation detected by the two modern commentators, therefore, is unlikely to be part of a subtle strategy aiming at presenting a Hellenised portrait of the Roman Cato. Here Tzetzes does not seem to be thinking in terms of the antithesis opposing Greekness and Romanity. The apparent alteration of the Plutarchean account should instead be regarded as the result of Tzetzes’ projection of his own Historiai on Cato’s Historiae. Indeed, the expression ‘διδάσκαλος τῶν πραγμάτων Ἑλληνικῶν, Ῥωμαϊκῶν, πάσης ἁπλῶς παιδείας’20 that Tzetzes refers to the Censor also applies to the scholar himself. Another detail, moreover, must have contributed to strengthen Tzetzes’ identification with Cato and his work. As the Censor personally taught his son the great deeds of his ancestors, so Tzetzes was directly educated by his father, who equally recounted to him the feats of the heroes of the past.21 The network of mutual resemblances thus becomes more complex and intricate. Cato is the model underlying not only Tzetzes’ self-presentation but also his father’s. Through the education he received from his Cato-like father, the scholar became in turn a living portrait of Cato. This is the power of paideia, which moulds the young in the image of their teachers. And it is this very notion of paideia that will allow us 20 ‘teacher of the deeds accomplished by the Greeks and the Romans, that is teacher of the complete paideia’. 21 See for example Hist. 3, 159–72.

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to explain the apparently bizarre identification with a Roman censor on the part of a Byzantine scholar who elsewhere seems to contrast his pure Greekness with the barbarity of the ancient Romans. If we go back to the much studied letter where Tzetzes seems to express his contempt towards the Romans’ barbarity as opposed to Greek urbanity, we might first of all remark that this passage is part of an intricate analogy, aiming at contrasting the scholar’s own intellectual refinement with his addressee’s military expertise.22 The Romans appear to be quoted here mainly as the emblem of the fierce soldiers and their description as barbaroi seems to hint especially at their ferocious fighting technique.23 More importantly, however, we should not forget that this passage is one of the only two instances in the entire corpus of Tzetzes’ oeuvre where the scholar seems to openly criticise the Romans for their ‘barbarity’.24 22 As observed also by Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium, 303. 23 Epist. 6, 9, 12–10. 24 The other being an encomium of Saint Lucy of Syracuse, probably composed after 1158 (A. Papadopoulos-Kerameus, ed., Varia Graeca Sacra (repr. Leipzig: Zentralantiquariat der Deutschen Demokratischen Republik, 1975), 80–101; cf. also Magdalino, ‘The Fourth Kingdom’, 153). The aim of this text is the celebration of Lucy’s opposition to Paschasios, a Roman governor who wanted her to convert to paganism; nevertheless, Tzetzes seems to be especially interested in Lucy’s ancestry, which supposedly linked her to Archimedes, a figure that had always fascinated our scholar (cf. Tommaso Braccini, ‘Erudita invenzione: riflessioni sulla Piccola grande Iliade di Giovanni Tzetze’, Incontri triestini di filologia classica 9 (2009–2010), 153–73 (158–60)). After recounting that the great Marcellus had almost been defeated by Archimedes’ inventions, Tzetzes recalls that the mathematician was eventually killed by a Roman soldier (Encomium of Saint Lucy 12, 96). Probably inspired by both this detail and the parallelism that Lucy draws between herself and her ‘ancestor’, some commentators have emphasised Tzetzes’ criticism of the brutality and ignorance of Rome, to which the scholar would be opposing an alliance between Christian religion and Greek wisdom (cf. Magdalino, ‘The Fourth Kingdom’, 153–4, approvingly quoted by Kaldellis, Hellenism in Byzantium, 305). It is important to remark, however, that even in this case Tzetzes’ position is far from being unambiguous. We might note, for example, that the main reason why the scholar blames the killers of Lucy and Archimedes, namely their ignorance and aversion to the truth, is not presented as a typically ‘Roman’ trait. To be sure, as Tzetzes himself recounts in a scholium to his Carmina Iliaca, the most distressed at the news of Archimedes’

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What is even more relevant in order to understand Tzetzes’ attitude towards the concepts of Greekness and Romanity is the analysis of the following section of this same letter, which must be connected to the corresponding extract from the Histories. After claiming his Hellenic ancestry, Tzetzes declares that he owes his purely Greek bloodline to his father’s family.25 In the relevant passage of his Histories, however, the scholar informs us that it was this very ‘Greek’ father who personally took care of his education, following the example of the Roman Cato.26 As we already know, Tzetzes elsewhere implies that it was this kind of paideia that shaped him into the living portrait of the Censor. In this respect, it is also worth noting that Cato is not the only model for Tzetzes’ self-representation. As we have seen, in the same passage where he stresses for the first time his resemblance to the Roman statesman, Tzetzes emphasises his affinity to another illustrious figure, namely the Greek hero Palamedes. Actually, as we already know, the long excursus where Tzetzes states his resemblance to both Cato and Palamedes appears in the context of a list of portraits describing the heroes who fought at Troy. Our modest scholar thus inserted himself and the Censor amongst the main characters of the Homeric poems and the Epic Cycle. This consideration alone suggests that for Tzetzes a clear distinction between Greekness and Romanity did not exist. Or better, that it did not really matter, especially in this context. What really justifies the prominent role the Roman Cato plays along with the Greek Palamedes is the contribution they both gave to the development of culture and education. As Tzetzes himself emphasises in many instances, Palamedes’ most glorious accomplishment was the invention of the Greek alphabet, whereas Cato wrote a treatise

demise was the Roman Marcellus, who had him buried with the highest honours. Moreover, at the end of this same scholium, Tzetzes adds that, in his opinion, the killer of Archimedes had in turn been punished with death, probably at the hands of Marcellus himself (schol. in Carmina Iliaca II, 46a, 168–9 (Peter Aloisius M. Leone, ed., Ioannis Tzetzae Carmina Iliaca (Catania: CULC, 1995); cf. also Hist. 2, 146–51)). 25 Epist. 6, 10, 5–6. 26 Hist. 5, 615–16.

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on ancient history aimed at edifying the young. Moreover, according to the Plutarchean biography – which, as we know, was Tzetzes’ primary source – the Censor showed a deep interest in the pureness of language and the practice of rhetoric.27 In light of these considerations, we can conclude that Tzetzes saw in the Roman statesman and the Greek hero two forerunners of his own interests and pedagogic methods. To him they both represented the precursors of the superior paideia that he received from his ‘Greek’ Cato-like father and that he tried in turn to bestow on his students. In Tzetzes’ view, these considerations appear to bear more significance than any direct opposition between Greekness and Romanity, which seems to be totally absorbed by the all-encompassing concept of paideia. Finally, as anticipated, I would like to conclude by rapidly considering another antithesis, which seems to be of greater significance to Tzetzes than the contrast between Greekness and Romanity, namely the opposition between what is barbaros and what is not. As I hope to show, in this case also the notion of paideia is an essential key to the understanding of the scholar’s thought. It is important to observe that Tzetzes seems to distinguish between two different meanings of the term barbaros and the other related expressions. What we might define as the primary acception of the term has a geographical or ethnic connotation and is generally used to describe somebody or something that is perceived as foreign. When using the word barbaros in this sense, Tzetzes often appears to depend on his source’s point of view, which is either Hellenocentric or Romanocentric. Therefore, in this case, barbaros is anybody who does not belong to either of these cultures. In other cases, however, the term barbaros seems to acquire a different connotation, which is totally independent from any geographical or ethnic resonance. In these instances, Tzetzes’ use of the word appears to be much more distinctive and self-conscious, since it occurs especially when the scholar is dealing with events or situations that involve his personal experiences or beliefs.

27

Cf. for example Plut. Cat. Ma. 1,5 and 4,1.

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An example will help us clarify this second meaning of the term. In the following extract from the Histories, Tzetzes is expressing his contempt towards the representatives of what he calls the ‘new Circe’, that is a pedagogic method generally defined as ‘schedography’, which was popular in twelfth-century Byzantine schools.28 May the ignorant beasts be thrice accursed | who write barbarous and thrice barbarous books, | and that these drunkards proclaim to be experts in the art, | even though they do not write anything in compliance with it and they know nothing, | feeding on the dung of Circe’s incompetence (…). | They prefer to go on eating manure without trouble, | instead of labouring so as to feed on – as we say – the angels’ bread (my translation).29

As we can see, in this case the term barbaros does not refer to the geographical origins of the persons it denotes. The advocates of the pedagogical method criticised by Tzetzes clearly belonged to the Constantinopolitan cultural élite, as did our scholar. What Tzetzes intends to stigmatise by addressing his colleagues as barbaroi is their ignorance of the authentic techne, which – in his eyes – amounts to an utter lack of paideia. In light of these considerations, we will not be surprised to see that – in the entire corpus of Tzetzes’ work – one of the texts where the term barbaros features more frequently is another virulent invective against the contemporary educational system. I am referring to one of the Iambi the scholar composed after having been refused the post of maistor ton rhetoron that was instead assigned to one of his rivals.30 Tzetzes’ attack against the barbaroi who stole his post is a violent denunciation of the twisted form of paideia these teachers imparted to their pupils, who, having been educated according to barbaric methods, were doomed to become barbaroi.31 What is even more interesting, however, is that this second meaning of barbarity seems to Tzetzes to be much more forceful than the first

28 See Luzzatto, Tzetzes lettore, 7 and 19. 29 Hist., 10, 64–8, 75–6. 30 Luzzatto, Tzetzes lettore, 54. 31 Peter Aloisius M. Leone, ‘Ioannis Tzetzae Iambi’, Rivista di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici, n.s. 6–7 (1969–70), 127–56 (135–44; especially vv. 51–80).

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one. In his view, geographical and ethnic barriers appear to be much less significant than the bonds originating from the sharing of the same kind of education. We have observed this happening in the case of Cato and Palamedes, where the apparent antithesis between Greekness and Romanity was absorbed by the all-encompassing bond of paideia. This also appears to be true for those whom – according to the distinction made above – we could define as geographically and ethnically barbaroi, namely individuals belonging neither to the Greek nor the Roman world. The stories that Tzetzes’ father told his son, and that the scholar in turn recounted in his Histories, featured not only Greek and Roman heroes or statesmen, but also mythical and historical figures coming from lands that Greek and Roman sources generally agree to be ‘barbaric’. These characters, however, deserve a prominent role in the Histories because, as Tzetzes’ father taught his son, they too are representatives of the superior kind of paideia anticipated by Cato and Palamedes and later embodied by our scholar. This is evident in a long letter featuring in the fourth book of Tzetzes’ Histories. The scholar is here illustrating the importance of the study of the past, recounting how the stories his father used to tell him were crucial to his own education and intellectual growth. The great deeds of the heroes of the past were essential to assimilate vital values that were becoming rarer and rarer in the contemporary world.32 In order to make his argument more convincing, Tzetzes quotes some of the positive examples his father used to mention and that he later conveyed in his own Histories. As we might have expected, this long catalogue features many Greek and Roman figures; however, amongst them the Persian Darius and Cyrus also appear. What is even more significant, is the comment Tzetzes adds at the end of this list of positive paradeigmata, in order to exhort his addressee to learn from their achievements:

32

It is important to remark that, in Tzetzes’ view, not only is the authentic paideutos an expert in the many disciplines ruled by the superior principles of techne, but he also follows a precise code of behaviour in every aspect of his life.

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You are eager to appear more barbarous than the barbaroi (Καὶ γὰρ βαρβαρωδέστερος δοκεῖν βαρβάρων σπεύδεις) (…) | in your utter forgetfulness of the rules of friendship. | When the barbaros Darius went to Babylon (…) | he received from Syloson the gift of a red mantle. | Afterward, when he had become a king, | the barbaros did non forget the gift he had received | and, after having looked for him, | he makes Syloson king of Samos, | saying these very words: ‘Darius never forgets about the favours he receives’. (…) | I omit the noble Cyrus whom Xenophon writes about, | the general Abradates and all the other barbaroi | who repaid the benefits they received (πάντας βαρβάρους ἄλλους, οἵπερ ἀπεμνημόνευσαν χάριν εὐεργεσίας).33

He who does not learn from the great deeds of these – geographically and ethnically – barbaroi, Tzetzes declares, is destined to become more barbaros than they are. In the scholar’s opinion, the deepest and truly dishonourable form of barbarity does not depend on geographical or ethnic factors. What makes one thoroughly and utterly barbaros is the lack of authentic paideia. It is this sort of barbaroi that attract Tzetzes’ most violent invectives, because not only is their barbarity of an intellectual kind, but is also dangerously contagious, especially when it belongs to teachers that are doomed to transmit it to their students. Therefore, in Tzetzes’ view, even the noblest members of the Constantinopolitan élite can be more barbaroi than the kalos Cyrus. And whereas the latter deserves a prominent role amongst the great heroes featuring in the Histories, the intellectual barbaroi will not even be allowed to enter Tzetzes’ house, where only the paideutoi are welcome.34

33 Hist. 4, Epist. ad Lach, 600, 603–11, 615–17. 34 Epist. 50, 71, 9–18.

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11 Protective and Fierce: The Emperor as a Lion in Contact with Foreigners and his Subjects in Twelfth- and Early Thirteenth-Century Byzantine Court Literature

abstract This article analyses the use of lion imagery in Byzantine court literature for characterising the emperor in relation to foreigners and his own subjects. Examples from the twelfth century and early thirteenth century show that the image of the lion comprises several different symbolic aspects. First and foremost it stands for the emperor’s military role towards external enemies. A predator himself, the imperial lion protects the Byzantines against foreigners associated with ferocious beasts. He thus stands directly at the border between civilisation and wild nature. The role as king of all animals makes him a suitable model for the emperor as head of the universal world order. Moreover, it becomes clear that the descriptions of the lion-emperor facing foreign peoples were primarily meant to emphasise the emperor’s virtues, without any special interest in detailed characterisations of the foreigners on the part of the sources.

Lion Imagery in Byzantine Political Discourse ‘Σκύμνε μεγάλου λέοντος καὶ λέων ἐκ τῆς νίκης, / ἀπὸ τῶν σκιρτημάτων σου γνωστὲ καὶ τῶν ὀνύχων· / Χαῖρε θηρῶν ὀλοθρευτὰ, χαῖρε Περσῶν διώκτα, / χαῖρε μεγάλων ἀρχηγῶν ἑσπέρας καθαιρέτα, […].’1 It is with these words that

1

‘Cub of a great lion and lion of victory, / well-known by your leaps and your claws: / Hail, destroyer of the wild animals, hail, pursuer of the Persians. / Hail, overthrower of the great rulers of the west […].’ ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos, No. 2, Emmanuel Miller,

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the twelfth-century encomiast ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos addresses emperor Manuel I Komnenos. Using the image of the lion Prodromos elaborately expresses various qualities of the emperor, like his prowess, his authority and his function as protector of the empire. Being a part of a wider system of literary images commonly known at court, the lion could easily be recognised as a symbol for all these qualities by the audience. Especially with regard to foreign relations the authors at the Byzantine court made extensive use of symbolic language. In this context the lion, as a symbol deeply connected to the field of imperial or regal authority and representation found in several ancient cultures, is a very suitable literary tool. The aim of the present paper is to examine several uses of lion imagery applied to the emperor in contact with foreigners. In comparison with that, it will also present a few passages that depict the relationship between the emperor and his own subjects by means of lion imagery. This will help us to understand how the symbol of the lion functioned in Byzantine political discourse, as well as how orators and writers at court depicted foreign cultures and their own world during that period.

Courtly Writing and the View of Foreigners in the Komnenian Period The historiographical texts, chronicles, and especially the orations discussed here are all examples of political discourse with a shared interest in the emperors. Many of their authors held positions in the imperial or ecclesiastical administration or worked as professional writers for the emperor

ed., ‘Poèmes historiques’, Revue Archéologique 26 (1873), 24, 213–16. For the numbers of the poems by ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos used here see Paul Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel I Komnenos 1143–1180 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 494–500.

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and his relatives.2 Official ceremonies and private sessions in the emperor’s presence offered a stage for the encomiasts, while historiography and chronicles were also read at court, although not exclusively there.3 Concerning the encomia, Magdalino speaks of ‘official media’.4 Thus, these texts, all of which contain imperial ideology and refer to common symbol-systems familiar to courtly society, serve as a proper framework for this analysis. With regard to contemporary foreign cultures, these texts mostly describe them in terms of confrontation and threat. Especially for the Komnenian period, a significant mistrust of foreigners is evident in the sources.5 The crisis in the late eleventh century, negative experiences with Seljuks, Pechenegs and Normans from Sicily and shrinking Byzantine

2 Magdalino, Empire, 413–15, 424, 429; Herbert Hunger, Die hochsprachliche profane Literatur der Byzantiner, Vol. 1 (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1978), 69–70, 123–5; Brian Croke, ‘Uncovering Byzantium’s historiographical audience’, in Ruth Macrides, ed., History as Literature in Byzantium. Papers from the Fortieth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, University of Birmingham, April 2007 (Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate, 2010), 25–54 (see 43–4). 3 Magdalino, Empire, 414; Dimiter Angelov, Imperial Ideology and Political Thought in Byzantium, 1204–1330 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), 31–8, 49–51; Wolfram Hörandner, ‘Court poetry: Questions of motifs, structure and function’, in Elizabeth Jeffreys, ed., Rhetoric in Byzantium: Papers from the Thirty-fifth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, Exeter College, University of Oxford, March 2001 (Aldershot and Burlington: Variorum, 2003), 75–86; Croke, ‘Audience’, 46–7, 53; Hunger, Literatur, Vol. 1, 257. 4 Magdalino, Empire, 413. 5 Ewald Kislinger, ‘Von Drachen und anderem wilden Getier. Fremdenfeindlichkeit in Byzanz?’, in Irene Radová, ed., Laetae segetes iterum (Brno: Masarykova univerzita, 2008), 389–404; Wolfram Hörandner, ‘Das Bild des Anderen: Lateiner und Barbaren in der Sicht der byzantinischen Hofpoesie’, Byzantinoslavica 14 (1993), 162–8; Gill Page, Being Byzantine: Greek Identity before the Ottomans (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 68–9; Hélène Ahrweiler, L’idéologie politique de l’Empire byzantin (Paris: Press. Univ. de France, 1975), 82–3; Elizabeth Jeffreys and Michael Jeffreys, ‘The “Wild Beast from the West”: Immediate Literary Reactions in Byzantium to the Second Crusade’, in Angeliki E. Laiou and Roy Parviz Mottadeh, eds, The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium and the Muslim World (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2001), 101–16 (see 116).

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military superiority at that time are probable reasons for this attitude.6 With regard to the Latin West, Ahrweiler and Page state a growing mistrust caused by the Norman attacks in the late eleventh century and the First Crusade, followed by a ‘growing threat from outsiders’ in the twelfth century.7 Jeffreys and Jeffreys give some examples of extremely negative reactions by ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos to the Westerners who passed through Constantinople during the Second Crusade.8 Although there were, as Hörandner pointed out, positive descriptions of foreign rulers with closer relationships to the Byzantine court, these did not focus on their ethnic origin, but considered them rather as individual persons or members of a certain dynasty.9 Besides real confrontational experiences, further reasons almost certainly included long-established literary conventions. The tradition of discourse on barbarians, in particular, had a strong influence on the descriptions of foreign peoples in twelfth-century court literature, regardless of the political situation.10 Some statements within our sources might also have been influenced by literary or rather ideological conventions characteristic of the Komnenian period. On the one hand, the military ethos and the high reputation of heroism in war that prevailed amongst the Komnenian aristocracy may have caused an increase in descriptions of military conflicts in literature.11 On the other hand, the genre of panegyric in general gained

6 Kislinger, ‘Drachen’, 396–8, 401–4. 7 Page, Being, 68–9; Ahrweiler, Idéologie, 82–3. 8 Jeffreys and Jeffreys, ‘“Wild Beast”’. 9 Hörandnder, ‘Bild’, 165. 10 For the concept of barbarism in Antiquity see Yves Albert Dauge, Le Barbare. Recherches sur la conception romaine de la barbarie et de la civilisation (Brussels: Latomus, 1981). For Byzantium, see Page, Being, 42–6, 89–91; Kilian Lechner, Hellenen und Barbaren im Weltbild er Byzantiner (Munich: Dissertation 1955); Klaus E. Müller, Geschichte der antiken Ethnographie und ethnologischen Theoriebildung (Wiesbaden: Steiner 1980). 11 John W. Birkenmeier, The Development of the Komnenian Army 1081–1180 (Leiden: Brill, 2002), 214–15; Magdalino, Empire, 431; Jean-Claude Cheynet, ‘L’aristocratie byzantine (VIIIe–XIIIe siècle)’, Journal des Savants 2 (2000), 281–322 (see 285).

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popularity and was supported by the ruling dynasty.12 This probably led to a general increase in encomiastic elements beyond encomiastic poetry, including passages in historiography and chronicles showing the emperor in combat with foreign enemies, particularly as many encomiasts produced texts in several genres. All these factors led to a considerable number of examples in the twelfth-century and early thirteenth-century court literature that describe foreigners in terms of confrontation and threat. In this context the lion, as a symbol of both the emperor and military virtue, was highly suitable and thus appears quite often when foreigners are concerned. However, although one would expect mightiness and aggressiveness to be the principal features of the lion as a symbol for the emperor’s authority and military capabilities, there are other important aspects, like his position as the king of animals, or his role as guardian at the intersection between civilisation and wild nature, as the following discussion will show.

The Emperor and Foreign Cultures: The Emperor as a Fighting Lion The most common image in this context is the emperor as a lion fighting against foreign enemies, though such enemies are not described as animals themselves. The following speech by ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos was given immediately after the passage of the crusaders under Conrad III and Louis VII in 1147. Here Prodromos addresses emperor Manuel I, reminding him of the campaigns to Asia Minor and Syria by his father John II in the late 1130s and early 1140s: Σκύμνον σε τοῦ λέοντος οὐκοῦν καλέσω· Καὶ γὰρ κἀκεῖνος τὸ πρὶν ἐν Κιλικίᾳ Ἀντιοχεῦσι καὶ Κίλιξι καὶ Πέρσαις

12 Magdalino, Empire, 414.

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Tristan Schmidt τοῖς τρισὶν ἀντέπνευσε βαρβάροις μόνος, γένει τε τριττῷ συμβαλὼν οὐκ ἐκλίθη, ἀλλ’ ὀρθόπους ἦν, ὡς τετριγωνισμένος·13

Prodromos probably refers here to the campaign of 1137–1138 against Cilician-Armenia and Antioch, which was besieged by John for some time, followed by an advance of the imperial army, together with the crusaders from Antioch and Edessa, towards Aleppo, and John’s triumphal entry into Antioch thereafter.14 Despite the fact that the campaign aimed at an expansion towards Antioch and further, the situation described by Prodromos is completely defensive, with the ‘barbarians’ threatening the empire. The campaign was in reality only partially a reaction to threats from the Armenians. In this scene the whole conflict is reduced to a confrontation between the emperor and the three barbarian groups. John therefore appears as the only one capable of shielding the empire from its enemies.15 The image of the mighty lion underlines this role. This situation – the emperor being challenged by foreign peoples that threaten the empire – is quite similar to the situation in 1147 when the poem was recited. Many Byzantines considered the Second Crusade to be a severe danger, some even feared for their capital.16 By referring to Manuel as the ‘lion cub’, Prodromos places him in 13

‘I will therefore call you “cub of a lion”: / For he [ John II], too, once in Cilicia resisted / Antiochenes, Cilicians and Persians, / the three barbarians on his own; / and, as he met the tripled people in battle, he did not turn away, / but stood upright, as if on a triangular base.’ ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos, No. 20, Emmanuel Miller, ed., Recueil des historiens des croisades. Historiens grecs, Vol. 2 (Paris: Imprimerie nationale, 1881), 757, 536–40. 14 Ralph-Johannes Lilie, Byzantium and the Crusader States 1096–1204 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993), 109–38. 15 This reduction of military conflicts to a combat situation between the emperor and his enemies is quite common in Byzantine rhetoric and historiography. See, for example, John Kinnamos, Epitome, August Meinecke, ed. (Bonn: Weber, 1836), 4, 189, 2–21 where Manuel I allegedly attacks a whole Saracen army in a skirmish during the campaign of 1158 against Nur ad-Din. 16 Jeffreys and Jeffreys, ‘“Wild Beast”’; see also John Tzetzes about an aristocratic lady fearing the fulfilment of a prophecy on the fall of Constantinople during the presence

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the tradition of John II, the lion-like protector of the empire, and stylises him as Byzantium’s current saviour, possessing the same regal and heroic features as his father. Moreover, the description of the two Komnenians as a proper lion family can be understood as a means of supporting the legitimacy of Manuel as John’s successor to the throne, creating an analogy to the ‘natural’ succession from lion father to lion cub and stylising the Komnenian dynasty as the predestined ruling family, just as the lion is the king of all animals.17 There are numerous examples from several authors depicting the emperor as a lion fighting his enemies.18 This kind of depiction has a long tradition, which can already be found in Ancient Egyptian and Assyrian inscriptions, where kings are described as lions fighting against foreigners from outside.19 According to the common literary tradition, the Byzantine authors refer to these foreigners mostly by archaising collective names like ‘Persians’, ‘Celts’ or ‘Scythians’.20 Also, beyond these conventions, it becomes clear that in most cases foreign enemies are not described according to

of the crusaders in 1147: John Tzetzes, Epistolae, Pietro Leone, ed. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1972) 87–8; idem, Historiae, Pietro Leone, ed. (Naples: Lir. Scient. Ed., 1968) 369–71; Paul Magdalino, ‘Prophecies on the Fall of Constantinople’, in Angeliki E. Laiou, ed., Urbs Capta. The Fourth Crusade and its Consequences (Paris: Lethielleux, 2005), 50. 17 For Manuel’s troubles regarding his legitimacy as John’s successor, especially at the beginning of his reign, see Magdalino, Empire, 435–8, 480. 18 Theodoros Prodromos, Historische Gedichte, No. 20, Wolfram Hörandner, ed. (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1974), 25–321, 28, 320; Michael Italikos, Lettres et discours, No. 43, Paul Gautier, ed. (Paris: Inst. Français d’Etudes Byzantines, 1972), 258, 16–19; Niketas Choniates, Orationes et Epistulae, No. 7, J. L. van Dieten, ed. (Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 1972), 66, 19–23; Sergios Kolybas, V. E. Regel and N. I. Novosadskij, eds, Fontes Rerum Byzantinarum. Rhetorum saeculi XII orationes politicae, 1/16 (Leipzig: Zentralantiquariat der Deutschen Demokratischen Repubik, 1982), 280–91 (see 284, 1–6). 19 Jan Assmann, Herrschaft und Heil. Politische Theologie in Altägypten, Israel und Europa (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2000), 93–7; Billie Jean Collins, The representation of wild animals in Hittite texts (Ann Arbor, Mi.,: University Microfilms International, 1989), 39–66. 20 For the use of archaising ethnic names Hunger, Literatur, Vol. 1, 70–1; Gyula Moravcsik, Byzantinoturcica, Vol. 2 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1958), 13–17.

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individual characteristics, but rather as an anonymous crowd.21 One gets the impression that these descriptions primarily aim at providing evidence of the emperor’s prowess. The most important message is that the lion-like emperor asserts his authority over other peoples, no matter who exactly they might be. Some passages show the emperor fighting as a lion against enemies that are also depicted as animals, like in the following example from an oration by ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos. It is unclear what historic events this poem from 1151 or 1152 exactly refers to.22 In any case it praises Manuel I for military successes on the Balkans and in Asia Minor: Ὦ βασιλέων ἄριστε, μεγαλοτροπαιοῦχε, ὀφρὺν ῥηγῶν καταβαλὼν καὶ Πέρσας ἐκσοβήσας, καὶ λύκους [νῦν] Ἰλλυρικοὺς ὡς λέων ἐκφοβήσας. Βάσιν εὑροῦσα στερεὰν τὴν ῥώμην τῶν χειρῶν σου ἡ γήρει γόνυ κάμψασα καὶ σα[θρωθεῖσα] Ῥώμη ἦρεν ὑψοῦ τὸν τράχηλον, ὥσπερ σφριγῶσα νύμφη, […].23

The mention of ‘Illyrians’ probably refers to the Serbs or the Hungarians who were at war with Manuel at that time.24 For them Prodromos chooses the image of savage wolves, well known as major threats to all domestic animals, which in turn are common symbols for a civilised agrarian world.25 See also Page, Being, 91 about Niketas Choniates. For the date see Magdalino, Empire, 494. ‘Oh you, best among emperors, victorious, / who overthrows the pride of kings and scares away the Persians, / and [now] frightens the Illyrian wolves like a lion. / Finding a hold in the strength of your hands, / Roma, [ill] and bowed by age, / raised [her] neck, like a vigorous young woman […].’ ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos, No. 1, Emmanuel Miller, ed., ‘Poèmes historiques’ in Revue Archéologique 25 (1873), 252, 8–13. I want to thank Prof. Michael Jeffreys for adding from the manuscript the bracketed syllable in l. 10, which is missing in Miller’s edition. 24 Magdalino, Empire, 54–8; Ferdinand Chalandon, Les Comnène. Études sur l’empire byzantine, Vol. 2 (Paris 1912, Reprint Paris: Picard, 1960), 383–91. 25 For the opposition between nature and civilisation and the symbolic role of animals see Udo Friedrich, Menschentier und Tiermensch. Diskurse der Grenzziehung und Grenzüberschreitung im Mittelalter (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2009), 17–20, 83. 21 22 23

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Here, the contrast between foreign savagery and Byzantine civilisation is stressed even more by the ancient tradition of depicting the empire, or rather its capital, as a defenceless woman.26 An approach quite similar to that of Prodromos can be found in the imperial oration by Eustathios of Thessalonike for Manuel I from 1179, concerning the accomplishments of John II against the Seljuks: […] ἐπιτρέχων ἐκεῖνος, ὡς ἐὰν καὶ λέων προεκφοβήσῃ θηρίον, […] καὶ τὴν καθ’ ἡμῶν ἐπέλευσιν ἐστενοχώρησεν, ἵνα ὠρυομένων μὲν τῶν ἀγρίων λύκων ἀκούωμεν τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ ἀρνία ἠμεῖς, ἅ ἐκεῖνος, ὡς ἀποστόλοις θεοῦ πρέπον, ἐποίμαινεν ὄνυχος δὲ ἐμπειρώντων μὴ πεῖραν ἔχοιμεν.27

Eustathios combines the image of the lion-emperor fighting the Seljuks, represented by wild beasts, with the image of the imperial shepherd protecting his flock of sheep (the Byzantines) from savage wolves (again the Seljuks). Both previous cases reveal a certain ambivalence inherent in the image of the imperial lion: obviously a predator himself, he nevertheless appears as the protector of the border between Byzantine civilisation and wild nature outside. Conversely, the aspect of the rapacious beast can also be applied to the lion-emperor. Nikephoros Basilakes, for example, compares John II in combat with the Muslims in Syria (in 1138) with a lion hunting among flocks 26 For the representation of Constantinople and other ancient cities as women see Judith Herrin, Unrivalled Influence: Women and Empire in Byzantium (Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2013), 167–8; Gudrun Brühl, Constantinopolis und Roma. Stadtpersonifikationen der Spätantike (Kilchberg/Zürich: Akanthus, 1995), 2–4; Jeffreys and Jeffreys, ‘“Wild Beast”’, 107. For the representation of Constantinople as a woman in Komnenian court literature see for example Prodromos, Gedichte, No. 3, 193, 15–16: Roma is attacked by wolves (the ‘Persians’). Following the myth of Perseus, Niketas Choniates describes Constantinople as a young woman threatened by the monstrous Andronikos I and saved by Isaac II. See Niketas Choniates, Orationes, no 9, 89, 1–13. 27 ‘[…] as he [ John II] rushed at them, like a lion which frightens wild animals before it, […] he stemmed their advance against us, so that we, the lambs of God, whom he shepherded in a manner befitting God’s apostles, would hear the wild wolves howling but would not experience their claws when they challenged us.’ Eustathios of Thessalonike, Opera Minora, No. 14, Peter Wirth, ed. (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000), 94, 89–238, 237.

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of sheep, based on a passage from the biblical Book of Micah.28 With regard to beasts of prey, the emperor is nearly exclusively compared to the lion.

The Lion as King of all Animals Besides the image of the lion-like protector and warrior against wild beasts there are other categories of statements that concentrate more on the role of the lion as king of all animals and the emperor as supreme authority in the world, foreign peoples included. The following example is from the chronicle of Constantine Manasses. He reports on Romanos IV Diogenes being captured by the Seljuks at Manzikert in 1071: […] καὶ τελευταῖον ζωγρεῖται, φεῦ, ὁ βασιλεὺς βαρβαρικαῖς παλάμαις, ὁ λέων θήρα γίνεται πανθήρων λυσσητήρων, ταῖς νυκτερίσιν ἀετὸς κρατεῖται χρυσοπτέρυξ.29

The emperor is depicted as the king of animals (lion/eagle), being overwhelmed by subordinate animals. Here the selection of the animals representing the Seljuks is not meant to symbolise the special characteristics of that people. It rather refers to the image of the emperor in general. By contrasting the bats, associated with darkness, demons and the devil, with the golden eagle, which is deeply connected to the sun, another imperial

See Nikephoros Basilakes, Orationes et Epistulae, No. 3, Antonio Garzya, ed. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1984), 64, 28–32; Mi. 5, 7–8. 29 ‘[…] and in the end / the emperor is taken captive by barbarian hands, / the lion becomes prey of wild panthers, / the eagle with golden wings is overwhelmed by bats.’ Constantine Manasses, Breviarium Chronicum, Pt 1, Odysseus Lampsidis, ed. (Athens: Academiae Atheniensis, 1996), 351, 6485–8. 28

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symbol, Manasses wants to generate an antagonism between light and darkness, good and evil.30 Another passage referring to the lion as king of animals is from an oration by Niketas Choniates for Isaac II in 1190. Here Choniates accuses Frederick I Barbarossa, who passed through the empire with his troops on the Third Crusade, of perjury. Pretending to fight for the Christian faith he is believed to aim at a conquest of Constantinople: Ἰδοὺ καὶ ἕτερος τύραννος, ὁ κατάρχων τῶν Ἀλαμανῶν, […] τὴν παρδαλῆν συστέλλων τῇ λεοντῇ καὶ προσωπείῳ φιλοθεΐας τὸν καθ‘ ἡμῶν ἀρχαῖον κότον ἐπικρυπτόμενος· πάσας γὰρ μεταλαμβάνων χρόας ἐπίσης τῷ χαμαιλέοντι μόνης ἀπέχεται τῆς λευκότητος καὶ διαφαίνειν οὐχ αἱρεῖται τὸ τῆς γνώμης ἐνδόμυχον.31

Like the chameleon, the leopard’s skin represents deceitfulness. Moreover, it stands for cowardice, at least in the face of stronger enemies.32 Eustathios of Thessalonike mentions this in his commentary on the Iliad. There he reports on an episode where Paris – wearing a leopard’s skin – avoids the fight with the lion-like Menelaos and turns to flight. Furthermore, he tells us that ‘“to wear a leopard’s skin” is said proverbially by the later ones about one who is multi-coloured with regard to his habits and spotted with regard to his character, like a leopard’.33 An Aesopic fable relates the

30 For the sun as a symbol for the emperor see Angelov, Ideology, 80; Otto Treitinger, Die oströmische Kaiser- und Reichsidee nach ihrer Gestaltung im höfischen Zeremoniell. Vom oströmischen Staats- und Reichsgedanken (Darmstadt: Gentner, 1956), 112–23. For the bat as a symbol for demons and the devil see I. Mundle in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, Vol. 7 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1961), 1104–5. 31 ‘Look, another Tyrannos, the leader of the Alamannoi, […] who covers the leopard’s skin by a lion‘s skin and covers the old grudge against us with the mask of the love of God. Adopting all colours and avoiding only white like a chameleon he prefers not to be seen through the inmost parts of his mind.’ Niketas Choniates, Orationes, No. 9, 89, 21–7. 32 For the chameleon see A. Herrmann in Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum, Vol. 2 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1954), 1021–31. 33 ὅτι παροιμιωδῶς παρὰ τοῖς ὕστερον παρδαλέην ἐνεῖσθαι λέγεται ὁ ποικίλος τὸν τρόπον καὶ οἷον πολύστικτος τὸ ἦθος κατὰ τὴν πάρδαλιν, Eustathios of Thessalonike, Commentarii ad Homeri Iliadem, Vol. 1, M. van der Valk, ed. (Leiden: Brill, 1971–1987), 592, 44–6.

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tale of a donkey putting on a lion’s skin to get more authority.34 Again, this imagery is related to the concept of the lion as king of animals. Niketas obviously implies that Frederick aimed at usurping the Byzantine throne, symbolised by him wearing the lion’s skin. The leopard’s skin below associates Frederick, as seen, with deceitfulness. Moreover, despite possessing the strength and aggressiveness of a predator, the leopard nevertheless still belongs to the lower animals and lacks the qualification of the Byzantine lion to rule the kingdom of animals.35 There is another characteristic passage in Niketas’ historiographical work, according to which the Serbian župan Stephan Nemanja feared Emperor Manuel I more ‘than wild beasts fear the king of animals’.36 In all these examples, the lion appears as the king of the animal world. Hostile foreigners consequently are depicted as subordinate animals rebelling against this universal order. There is no accentuation of differences between the Byzantines and foreign cultures in these passages. The whole world might rather be seen as a single kingdom where the lion-emperor is the supreme authority. This fits nicely into the Byzantine tendency to see their empire as a universal one and their emperor as the God-given leader of the whole world. The lion, as the king of all animals, serves as a symbol for this universal world order.37 The insignificance of cultural differences in this kind of image is confirmed by the fact that the same imagery is used in descriptions of rebellions within the empire. In 1207 Niketas Choniates rebukes the subjects of David 34 See Corpus Fabularum Aesopicarum, Vol. 1, Fasc. 2., No. 199, A. Hausrath, ed. (Leipzig: Teubner, 1959), 21–2. 35 See a similar passage in ‘Manganeios’ Prodromos, No. 20, ll. 1–3, 323–7, 631–3, Jeffreys and Jeffreys, eds, ‘“Wild Beast”’, 108–9, where Prodromos implies that Conrad III planned to conquer Constantinople in 1147 and to install a Latin patriarch. 36 See Niketas Choniates, Historia, Jan Louis van Dieten, ed. (Berlin and New York: de Gruyter 1975) 5, 159, 13–14. 37 See Treitinger, Reichsidee, 164–7; Page, Being, 44. For the lion as a symbol for the biblical kings cf. Gen. 49, 8–10. For the Byzantine court being a reflection of the heavenly court see Henry Maguire, ‘The Heavenly Court’, in Henry Maguire, ed., Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1997), 247–58 (see 247–8).

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Komnenos of Trebizond, whom he considers a rebel against Theodore Laskaris. According to him, οἱ δὲ […] τι δρῶντες, ὡς εἰ τὸν ἀληθῶς τῶν θηρῶν βασιλεύοντα λέοντα παρεβλέψαντο, ζῷον δέ τι ἀνθείλοντο λεόντειον δορὰν περικείμενον.38 The same images appear despite the fact that there are no foreign cultures involved.39

The Emperor and his Subjects In this final section we will see some examples presenting the emperor in relation to his subjects. The passages shown above have already introduced the lion defending the Byzantines and their culture from the chaotic world outside. The following example from a Lenten sermon by Niketas Choniates for emperor Theodore Laskaris in 1207 shows a different aspect of the lion. The emperor addresses his subjects as follows: ἄρνες δὲ καὶ βόες καθαροὶ τὴν συνείδησιν καὶ τὰ εἰς ἀρετὴν ἐργατικοί τε καὶ μογεροὶ ἔμοιγε τῷ λέοντι βασιλεῖ ταῖς ἀνθρωποπρεπέσι που φαγίαις συνεστιάθητε.40

This passage refers to the peaceful coexistence of beasts and domestic animals announced in the Book of Isaiah for the coming of the messianic king at the end of time.41 The emperor and the subjects are depicted as a peaceful community. Whereas in Isaiah the lion is only one example of a

38

‘They [ … .] behaved as if they had disregarded the lion, who in reality rules over the animals, and had preferred another animal which had put on a lion’s skin.’ Niketas Choniates, Orationes, No. 14, 139, 18–21. 39 See also Anna Komnena, Alexias, Vol. 1, Dieter Roderich Reinsch, ed. (Berlin and New York: de Gruyter, 2001) 1, 28, 29–33. 40 ‘As sheep and cattle, with a clear conscience, hard-working and anxious to do good things, you shall eat with me, the imperial lion, from the food appropriate to humans.’ Niketas Choniates, Orationes, No. 17, 179, 28–30. 41 See Isa. 11.6-7, 65.25.

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predator, Choniates uses him as a symbol for kingship and as head of the community of animals, who guarantees this peaceful state.42 The idea of an animal community led by the lion also inspired a passage from the lament on the death of Bertha of Sulzbach, first wife of Manuel I, by archbishop Basil of Ochrid in 1160: Λέων ἐρεύξεται, καὶ τίς οὐ φοβηθήσεται; βασιλεὺς πενθεῖ, καὶ τίς οὐ πενθήσει […]; εἰ ἐρεύξεται λέων ἐκ τοῦ δρυμοῦ – μὴ γὰρ ἀφιστάσθω σοι τῆς προφητείας ὁ λόγος – καὶ οὐ δώσει σκύμνος φωνὴν αὐτοῦ ἐκ τῆς μάνδρας; εἰ γοῦν λέοντος ἐρευγομένου – ἐρυγὴ δὲ τοῦ θηρὸς ἡ κραυγή – καὶ σκύμνος ἐκ τῆς μάνδρας φωνὴν αὐτοῦ δίδωσιν – σκύμνοι δὲ βασιλέως ὅσον ἐπὶ τῇ περὶ τούτου προνοίᾳ καὶ τοῖς ὑπὲρ ἡμῶν παντοδαποῖς ἀγωνίσμασιν καὶ σπουδάσμασιν ἡμεῖς ὁ λαός, τὸ ὑπήκοον, – δῶμεν καὶ αὐτοὶ φωνὴν ἐκ τῆς μάνδρας ἐπὶ τῇ κραυγῇ καὶ τῷ πένθει τοῦ βασιλέως, ὑψώσωμεν τὴν κραυγήν, τὸν θρῆνον ἐπάρωμεν, πᾶσα ἡλικία, πᾶν γένος ἀνθρώπων, ἱερεῖς και λαός.43

Based on a passage from the biblical book of Amos, Basil depicts the whole Byzantine people as a lion family lamenting together with the lion father.44 He makes special use of the ambiguity of the word ‘μάνδρα’, usually translated as ‘fold’ or ‘sheep pen’. Related to the image of the Good Shepherd, which is regularly applied to bishops, but also to the emperor, Amos’ use of the term in the sense of a lion’s ‘lair’ enables the orator to compare his ‘flock’, that is the audience or rather the totality of the emperor’s subjects, to 42 There is another poem by Theodore Prodromos using this image to illustrate the security in the reign of John II. See Theodoros Prodromos, Gedichte, No. 18, 305, 81–4. 43 ‘The lion belches forth, and who is not terrified? The emperor mourns and who will not mourn […]? If the lion belches forth from the thicket – let the words of the prophecy not go unnoticed –, shall the cub of the lion not raise his voice from the lair as well? If it is true that when the lion belches – the belch is the roar of this wild animal – the cub also raises his voice from the lair – and if we are the cubs of the emperor, his people, his subjects, on account of his care and his various struggles and toils for us, – let us too raise our voices from the lair when the emperor cries and mourns, let us cry out to the heavens, let us raise our laments, every age, every family, priests and people alike.’ Basil of Ochrid, Regel/Novosadskij ed., Fontes, No. 20, 24–312, 16, 311. 44 ‘Will a lion roar in the forest, when he hath no prey? Will a young lion cry out of his den (ἐκ τῆς μάνδρας), if he have taken nothing?’Am. 3.4 (KJV). 

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the lion cubs mentioned in the prophecy. Basil thus intensifies the relation between the emperor and his subjects creating the illusion of a community consisting of the same species.

Conclusion The passages describing the relationship between the Byzantine emperor, foreign nations and his subjects by means of lion imagery show several different aspects of the lion’s symbolic content: in most cases he stands for the emperor’s military role towards external enemies. This is due to the great importance of military virtue in imperial ideology. The imperial lion can be a protector against wild and uncontrollable beasts as well as it can display his own nature of a predator raiding among foreign peoples. This role is obviously characterised by an ambivalence between the lion as a savage and fierce beast and as the protector of the empire’s inhabitants, often expressed by a flock of sheep, against predators from outside. The lion thus stands directly on the border between Byzantine civilisation and foreign wild nature, possessing aspects of both spheres. Beside these warrior-like aspects, the concept of the lion as universal king of animals has a strong influence on the examined passages. The world as a universal and transcultural kingdom led by the emperor is compared to the assumed conditions in the natural world. Attacks by foreign peoples and internal rebels alike are correspondingly seen as insubordinations by lower animals against this order, which, in the end, is the divine world order. The foreigners are generally described as rather characterless. In most cases a dualistic view prevails that separates the Byzantines from all ‘barbarians’ outside. Some of the passages show that often the focus lay rather on the image of the emperor than on the foreigners themselves. The aim of the animal imagery is primarily to create contrasts, like civilisation and savagery, prowess and cowardice, good and evil.

Pietro Pirrone

12 La ‘staurothèque de Gaète’: Un témoignage de la communauté ‘grecque’ dans la principauté lombarde de Salerne?

abstract The ‘Staurotheke of Gaeta’: An Art-Historical Record of the ‘Greek’ Community of the Lombard Principality of Salerno? The so-called ‘Staurotheke of Gaeta’ is a precious Byzantine pectoral cross held at the Diocesan Museum of Gaeta (Italy). This small enkolpion – also known as ‘Staurotheke of Basilios’ and ‘Cross of the cardinal De Vio’ – is made of pure gold decorated with Senkschmelz and cloisonné enamels. The ‘Staurotheke’ (i.e. reliquary of the True Cross) arrived in Gaeta from the Italo-Greek monastery of San Giovanni a Piro (Salerno), between 1519 and 1534. This is the only extant historical record about this object. By investigating the perfect balance between the constituent materials and the inscriptions, as well as the technical features of the pectoral-cross, this paper aims to contextualise its production within the Macedonian Renaissance. Moreover, it underlines how the ‘Staurotheke’ could be considered as a witness of the relations between southern Italy and Byzantium before the crusades.

La staurothèque de Gaète est une petite croix-reliquaire byzantine conservée au Museo Diocesano de la ville italienne, qui se trouve près de la célèbre abbaye bénédictine de Mont-Cassin (Figures 12.1 et 12.2). Il s’agit d’une œuvre d’orfèvrerie en or décoré d’émail et datant, selon la majorité des spécialistes, du XIe siècle.1 De son histoire patrimoniale, nous connaissons

1

Je souhaite remercier Mme Francesca Dell’Acqua, professeur d’Histoire d’art médiéval à l’Université de Salerno, pour m’avoir suggéré ce sujet dans le cadre de mon mémoire de master, soutenu, sous sa direction, à l’Université de Salerno. De même, je tiens à remercier M. Mario D’Ambrosi, professeur d’Histoire et de Philologie byzantines dans la même université, pour toutes ses remarques concernant les inscriptions de la staurothèque. Enfin, toute ma gratitude s’adresse à Matteo Ferrari et Emilie Mineo, pour avoir aimablement accepté de réviser ce manuscrit. Sur la staurothèque de Gaète, voir Émile Bertaux, ‘L’esposizione di Orvieto e la Storia delle Arti’, Archivio Storico

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seulement son lieu de provenance, le monastère italo-grec de San Giovanni a Piro, édifié dans la partie méridionale de la principauté lombarde de Salerne dell’Arte 2 (1896), 407; Gustave Schlumberger, L’Épopée Byzantine à la fin du dixième siècle: seconde partie. Basile II le Tueur de bulgares (Paris: Hachette, 1900), 532–3; Salvatore Ferraro, Memorie religiose e civili della città di Gaeta (Napoli: F. Giannini, 1903), 189–92; Émile Bertaux, L’art dans l’Italie méridionale. Tome premier. De la fin de l’Empire Romain à la Conquête de Charles d’Anjou (Paris: A. Fontemoing, 1904), 179–80; Pasquale Fantasia, ‘Sui monumenti medioevali di Gaeta e specialmente sul Campanile e sul “Candelabro”’, Annali del Regio Istituto Tecnico di Napoli (1916), 326; Yvonne Hackenbroch, Italienisches Email des frühen Mittelalters (Basel-Leipzig: Holbein, 1938), 49, 56; Carlo Cecchelli, Vita di Roma nel medioevo: le arti minori e il costume (Roma: Palombi, 1951–2), 45; Angelo Lipinsky, ‘Per una storia dell’oreficeria nel Reame di Napoli e Sicilia. La Stauroteca di Gaeta’, Il Fuidoro: cronache napoletane, 4/1–2 (1957), 1–6; idem, ‘Enkolpia cruciformi orientali in Italia. II. La stauroteca di Gaeta già nel cenobio di San Giovanni Apiro’, Bollettino della Badia Greca di Grottaferrata n.s. 11 (1957), 91–105; idem, ‘Monumenti d’arte orafa antica nel Lazio Meridionale I: Oreficerie bizantine ed italo-bizantine nel Tesoro del duomo di Gaeta’, Bollettino dell’Istituto di Storia e di Arte del Lazio Meridionale 4 (1966), 111–25; idem, ‘Oreficerie bizantine ed italo-bizantine nella regione campana’, Corso di Cultura sull’Arte Ravennate e Bizantina 14 (1967), 126–33; Elio Galasso, Oreficeria medioevale in Campania (Benevento: Museo del Sannio, 1969), 46–8; Marie Madeleine Gauthier, Émaux du moyen-âge occidental (Fribourg: Office du Livre, 1972), 63–4; Michela di Macco, ‘Stauroteca’, in Maria Andaloro, et Alba Costamagna, et Luisa Cardilli Alloisi, éds, Tesori d’arte sacra di Roma e del Lazio dal Medioevo all’Ottocento: catalogo (Roma: Assessorato Antichità, Belle Arti e Problemi della Cultura, 1975), 7–8; Mario Rotili, Arte bizantina in Calabria e Basilicata (Cava dei Tirreni: Di Mauro, 1980), 190–1; Raffaella Farioli Campanati, ‘La cultura artistica nelle regioni meridionali d’Italia dal VI all’XI secolo’, in Guglielmo Cavallo, éd., I Bizantini in Italia (Milano: Scheiwiller, 1982), 371, 419; André Guillou, Recueil des inscriptions grecques médiévales d’Italie (Rome: École française de Rome, 1996), 22–3; Francesco Abbate, Storia dell’arte nell’Italia meridionale: dai Longobardi agli Svevi (Roma: Donzelli, 1997), 90–1; Maria Rosaria Marchionibus, Il Cilento Bizantino: monastero di Santa Maria De Pactano (Salerno: Palazzo Vargas, 2004), 26; Brigitte Pitarakis, Les croixreliquaires pectorales byzantines en bronze (Paris: Picard, 2006), 36–7, 49, 75, 101; Marina Falla Castelfranchi, ‘Trésors liturgiques byzantins dans les inventaires des monastères italo-grecs de l’Italie méridionale et de la Sicile’, Les cahiers de Saint-Michel di Cuxa 41 (2010), 189–90; Valentino Pace, ‘Staurotheken und andere Reliquiare in Rom und in Suditalien (bis ca. 1300): ein erster Versuch eines Gesamtuberblick’, in Ulrike Wendland, éd., … das Heilige sichtbar machen: Domschatze in Vergangenheit, Gegenwart und Zukunft (Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2010), 140–1.

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au milieu du Xe siècle.2 C’est de ce lieu que la staurothèque fut transférée au trésor de la cathédrale de Gaète, entre 1519 et 1534, par ordre du cardinal Tommaso De Vio (1469–1534), à l’époque abbé commendataire de l’ancien couvent de San Giovanni a Piro (Figure 12.3).3

2

3

Sur l’histoire du monastère de San Giovanni a Piro, voir Ferdinando Ughelli, Italia Sacra sive de Episcopis Italiæ et Insularum Adiacentium. Tomus Septimus (Romæ: Typis Vitalis Mascardi, 1659), 759, 795; Augustin Lubin, Abbatiarum Italiæ brevis notitia (Romæ: Typis Jo:Jacobi Komarek Boëmi, 1693), 295; Pietro Marcellino di Luccia, L’Abbadia di S. Giovanni a Piro (Roma: Gran Curia Innocenziana, 1700); Bernard de Montfaucon, Palæographia Græca (Parisiis: L. Guerin, 1708), 431–2; Giuseppe Antonini, La Lucania: discorsi (Napoli: F. Tomberli, 1795), 413–14 et note 2; Pietro Pompilio Rodotà, Dell’origine progresso, e stato presente del rito greco in Italia. Libro secondo: dei monaci basiliani (Roma: G. G. Salomoni, 1760), 233, 241; Vincenzo D’Avino, Cenni storici sulle chiese arcivescovili, vescovili e prelatizie (nullius) del Regno delle Due Sicilie (Napoli: Ranucci, 1848), 537–9; Pierre Batiffol, L’abbaye de Rossano: contribution à l’histoire de la Vaticane (Paris: Picard, 1891), 108; Alberto Vaccari, La Grecia nell’Italia meridionale: studi letterari e bibliografici (Roma: Pontificio Istituto Orientale, 1925), 316 et note 44; Cyrille Korolevskij, ‘Basiliens italo-grecs et espagnols’, in Alfred Baudrillart, éd., Dictionnaire d’histoire et de géographie ecclésiastiques. VI. Badeer-Bavière (Paris: Letouzey et Ane, 1932), cols. 1197, 1232; Hermann Hoberg, Taxae episcopatuum et abbatiarum pro servitiis communibus solvendis (Città del Vaticano: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1949), 207; Riccardo Filangieri, I registri della Cancelleria angioina. IX. 1272–1273 (Napoli: Accademia Pontaniana, 1957), 31 et note 18; Marie-Hyacinthe Laurent, et André Guillou, éds, Le ‘Liber Visitationis’ d’Athanase Chalkéopoulos (1457–1458): contribution à l’histoire du monachisme grec en Italie méridionale (Città del Vaticano: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1960), 160–1, 245–6; Ferdinando Palazzo, Il ‘Cenobio’ Basiliano di S. Giovanni a Piro e cenni storici su S. Giovanni a Piro, Bosco e Scario (Salerno: Di Giacomo, 1960); Biagio Cappelli, Il monachesimo basiliano ai confini calabro-lucani: studi e ricerche (Napoli: F. Fiorentino, 1963), 305–6; Luigi Tancredi, L’abbazia basiliana di San Giovanni a Piro (Salerno): millennio della fondazione 990–1990 (Salerno: Cantelmi, 1991); Giuseppe Cataldo, Teodoro Gaza umanista greco ed abate del cenobio basiliano di San Giovanni a Piro (sec. XV) (Salerno: s.é, 1992); Franco Cariello, San Giovanni a Piro: chiese, cappelle e confraternite (Sapri: edizioni MDD, 2010); Carlo Bellotta, ‘Il monachesimo basiliano nel Cilento. Il cenobio di S. Giovanni a Piro’, Annali Storici di Principato Citra 10/1 (2012), 130–45. Sur les abbés commendataires du monastère de San Giovanni a Piro, voir Di Luccia, L’Abbadia, 19–27; Palazzo, Il ‘Cenobio’, 45–69; Tancredi, L’abbazia, 56–67.

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Figure 12.1.  Staurothèque de Gaète. Recto. Jésus-Christ flanqué de la Vierge et saint Jean l’Évangéliste. Au-dessus de la croix: l’archange Michel. Au-dessous: le crâne d’Adam (photo Lino Sorabella – Museo Diocesano di Gaeta).

La staurothèque mesure 8,4 centimètres de haut et 6,7 de large:4 sa petite taille et ses deux volets cruciformes révèlent ses fonctions originelles. La première était celle de boîtier utilisé pour contenir un fragment du bois de la 4

Ce sont les mesures que j’ai relevées personnellement et qui présentent un écart de quelques millimètres par rapport aux dimensions signalées par les auteurs ayant traité précédemment de l’œuvre (voir supra note 1).

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Figure 12.2.  Staurothèque de Gaète. Verso. Vierge entourée par saint Théodore Stratélate, saint Georges, saint Démétrius, saint Jean le Baptiste (photo Lino Sorabella – Museo Diocesano di Gaeta).

Vraie Croix, comme le précise très clairement l’étymologie grecque du mot staurothèque dérivant de σταυρός, ‘croix’, et ϑήκη, ‘coffret’.5 La seconde était

5 Ferraro, Memorie, 190–1, affirmait que les quatre morceaux de bois de chêne contenus dans l’œuvre confirment sa fonction originelle de staurothèque puisqu’ils étaient disposés en forme de croix. En tout cas, la relique de la Vraie Croix a toujours été

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Figure 12.3.  San Giovanni a Piro et Gaeta: emplacement géographique (schéma auteur).

celle de croix pectorale ou enkolpion, c’est-à-dire de pendentif suspendu à une chaîne passée autour du cou, comme l’indique le terme grec ἐγκόλπιον que l’on peut traduire par la périphrase ‘qui est sur la poitrine’.6 L’analyse des détails du programme iconographique et la richesse des matériaux utilisés pour sa fabrication constituent les seules ressources disponibles pour comprendre l’origine et la datation de la staurothèque de Gaète. La surface de l’œuvre est enrichie par une série de personnages sacrés, représentés avec soin et adroitement répartis entre les inscriptions. La subdivision de l’espace disponible entre l’émail cloisonné des figures, le Senkschmelz des inscriptions ainsi que l’or des volets met bien en évidence les images représentées sur la croix-reliquaire. À l’avers (Figure 12.1), la Crucifixion occupe la croisée des bras de l’enkolpion. Les paroles inscrites sous les bras du Christ vêtu du perizonium, ΙΔΕ Ο Υ[IO]Σ ΣΟΥ (‘Voici ton fils’) e ΙΔΟΥ H MH[TH]P ΣΟΥ (‘Voici ta mère’), font de la scène une parfaite mise en image du passage de l’Évangile selon Jean où le Sauveur considérée comme l’une des les plus précieuses conservées à Gaète, voir Pietro Rossetto, Breve descrittione delle cose più notabili di Gaeta (Napoli: Roncagliolo, 1675), 27. Pourtant, les sources antérieures au XIXe siècle n’évoquent jamais la staurothèque mais seulement son contenu. 6 Bertaux, L’art, 179–80, suggérait aussi la fonction de σταυρίτζιον, c’est-à-dire de joyau sacré cruciforme épinglé aux manteaux de cérémonie des dignitaires de la cour impériale byzantine.

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adresse ces derniers mots à l’intention de la Vierge et de saint Jean.7 De toute évidence, l’identité des personnages sacrés est révélée par les tituli qui les accompagnent sous la forme de nomina sacra. Jésus-Christ est signalé par le classique Ι[ΗCΟΥ]C Χ[ΡICΤΟ]C; la Vierge est entourée des lettres ΜΗ[TH]Ρ Θ[EO]Υ, à savoir ‘Mère de Dieu’; saint Jean l’Évangéliste, dit Ὁ Ά[ΓΙΟΣ] ΙΩ[ΑΝΝHΣ] Ο Θ[ΕΟΛΟΓΟΣ], est accompagné par le titre traditionnel de ‘Théologien’. L’ensemble est complété par le buste de l’archange Michel, placé à l’extrémité supérieure du bras vertical et surmonté du titulus M[I]X[AHΛ], et par le crâne d’Adam, traditionnellement représenté au pied de la croix et dépourvu de légende. Le revers (Figure 12.2) présente une disposition similaire. La Vierge, à nouveau nommée ΜΗ[TH] Ρ Θ[EO]Υ, est représentée au centre de la croix pectorale, tandis que des saints sont disposés dans les extrémités arrondies des bras: Jean le Baptiste dit ‘le Précurseur’, Ὁ Ά[ΓΙΟΣ] ΙΩ[ΑΝΝHΣ] Ο ΠΡ[OΔPOΜOΣ]; saint Théodore Stratélate, Ὁ Ά[ΓΙΟΣ] ΘΕOΔΩΡΟ[Σ]; saint Georges, Ὁ Ά[ΓΙΟΣ] ΓΕΩΡΓIΟ[Σ]; enfin, saint Démétrius, Ὁ Ἀ[ΓΙΟΣ] ΔHΜΗTP[IΟΣ]. En outre, la Vierge orante est bordée d’une invocation qui lui est adressée: Θ(ΕΟΤΟK)Ε ΒΩΗΘΗ ΤΟ ΣΟ ΔOΥΛ(Ω) BΑΣΙΛ(ΕΙΩ), à savoir ‘Mère de Dieu, porte secours à ton serviteur Basile’. Cette dernière inscription transmet le nom du commanditaire de l’œuvre. Le lien entre la staurothèque de Gaète et l’art de l’Empire byzantin peut être renforcé au travers d’observations plus détaillées. Il faut d’abord remarquer que la ligne sinusoïdale dessinée par le corps du Christ crucifié pourrait convenir à une datation comprise entre la seconde moitié du Xe et la première moitié du XIe siècle (Figure 12.1). Elle rappelle en effet l’absence de pathos typique de la littérature et de l’art byzantins de cette époque, alors que d’autres scènes de la Crucifixion ont été produites, imprégnées du même lyrisme.8 Pareillement, le buste ailé de l’archange Michel qui surmonte le Rédempteur en croix utilise un schéma semblable à celui que 7 8

Jean XIX, 27–8. Sur la poésie et la littérature de la période, voir Marc Lauxtermann, Byzantine Poetry from Pisides to Geometres: Texts and Contexts (Wien: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2003) et Emilie Marlene van Opstall, éd., Jean Géomètre: poèmes en hexamètres et en distiques élégiaques (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2008). Sur

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l’ont peut observer dans les peintures de la Nouvelle église de Tokali, en Cappadoce, datées du Xe siècle (Figure 12.1).9 De plus, les petites broderies cruciformes en or du maphorion bleu de la Vierge constituent un détail caractéristique de l’iconographie de la Mère de Dieu à Byzance comme nous pouvons l’observer, par exemple, dans les mosaïques de l’Hagia Sophia de Constantinople datant de l’époque de la dynastie macédonienne (867–1056; Figures 12.1 et 12.2).10 Par ailleurs, la typologie des vêtements portés par les personnages reproduits sur la staurothèque rappelle les parements du cérémonial de la cour impériale. La Theotokos complètement enveloppée dans le maphorion évoque l’interdiction, d’origine persane, de s’approcher du basileus avec les mains découvertes afin de ne pas contaminer la sacralité de sa personne (Figure 12.1).11 Le loros de l’archange Michel est un attribut propre aux empereurs d’Orient (Figure 12.1).12 Les skaramangia avec sagion de l’Évangéliste et du Baptiste (Figures 12.1 et 12.2), ainsi que les chlamydes décorées du tablion de saint George, de saint Démétrius et de saint Théodore (Figure 12.2),13 trouvent une comparaison dans les descriptions de l’habillement de la cour transmises par le Kletorologion de Philothée, un traité daté de 899 conservé sous la forme d’un appendice aux derniers chapitres du Liber de cerimoniis aulae Byzantinae de Constantin VII Porphyrogénète (944–959).14 les scènes de Crucifixion, voir Henry Maguire, ‘The Depiction of Sorrow in Middle Byzantine Art’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 31 (1977), 123–74. 9 Sur l’église de Tokali, voir Anne Wharton Epstein, Tokali Kilise: Tenth-Century Metropolitan Art in Byzantine Cappadocia (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1986). 10 Sur l’iconographie de la Vierge à Byzance, voir Maria Vassilaki, éd., Images of the Mother of God: Perceptions of the Theotokos in Byzantium (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005). 11 Giorgio Ravegnani, Imperatori di Bisanzio (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2008), 25. 12 ‘Regalia Signa. Iconografia e simbologia della potestà imperiale’, Porphyra 6/supplemento 10 (2009), 45–8 [en ligne], , consulté le 3 juillet 2013. 13 Piotr Grotowski, Arms and Armour of the Warrior Saints: Tradition and Innovation in Byzantine Iconography (843–1261) (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2009), 166–70, 255–65, 265–71. 14 Sur le Kletorologion de Philothée, voir John Bagnell Bury, The Imperial Administrative System in the Ninth Century: with a Revised Text of The Kletorologion of Philotheos (London: British Academy, 1911).

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Par conséquent, la présence des regalia signa associée à celle des saints dits militaires (George, Démétrius, Théodore) laisse penser que la staurothèque de Gaète a été réalisée pour un membre de la cour impériale, ou de l’armée, qui devait se prénommer Basile, comme le suggère la prière adressée à la Vierge orante sur le revers de l’objet. D’ailleurs, selon Angelo Lipinsky, Gustave Schlumberger aurait considéré l’empereur Basile II (976–1025) comme possible commanditaire de l’œuvre. Toutefois, il n’y pas de traces de cette affirmation dans la deuxième partie de L’Épopée Byzantine à la fin du dixième siècle où l’auteur français se consacre à l’étude de la staurothèque. Par ailleurs, selon Elio Galasso, le nom inscrit BΑΣΙΛ(ΕΙΩ) est le prénom d’un higoumène inconnu du monastère de San Giovanni a Piro. Pour sa part, André Guillou suggére de l’identifier au stratège de Calabre ayant vécu au Xe siècle et nommé Basile. De toute façon, l’hypothèse d’une réalisation du précieux reliquaire à Constantinople au Xe siècle reste plausible. La datation au Xe siècle et l’origine constantinopolitaine de la croix pectorale sont confortées, d’autre part, par l’examen des inscriptions et des matériaux qui la composent. En effet, les observations paléographiques faites par André Guillou dans son livre Recueil des inscriptions grecques médiévales d’Italie invitent à privilégier cette chronologie. Le K en deux traits, le M capital à la base ondulée très plongeante, l’Ω très ouvert en haut, l’Υ assimilé au N, et surtout l’abréviation ὁ ἅ(γιος) obtenue avec l’A enclavé dans l’O semblent remonter aux années évoquées précédemment. De même, la connotation religieuse couramment attribuée à l’or et à l’émail dans la culture byzantine rapproche encore une fois l’enkolpion de la ville de Constantinople à l’époque du règne des Macédoniens. Ce dernier est étroitement apparenté aux différentes pièces d’orfèvrerie rappelées dans le Liber de cerimoniis aulae Byzantinae avec les termes ‘ἔργα χειμευτά’ dans la description des visites des ambassadeurs étrangers au Grand-Palais à l’époque de Constantin VII.15 Il s’agit de bijoux en alliages métalliques dont la surface produisait des reflets, à la fois diaphanes et brillants, capables de provoquer chez leurs observateurs un état de communion avec la divinité.

15

Johann Jacob Reiske, éd., Constantini Porphyrogeniti imperatoris De cerimoniis aulae Byzantinae libri duo: Graece et Latine. Volumen I (Bonnae: Impensis Ed. Weberi, 1829), 571, 580–1.

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Cet état était défini comme ἔκστασις puisque, conformément à l’esthétique byzantine de la ποικιλία, la lumière était considérée comme l’expression du Saint-Esprit.16 À cette date, on observe, de surcroît, une véritable augmentation des œuvres exécutées en différents matériaux. L’empereur Constantin VII est lui-même défini orfèvre par le Theophane Continué, ayant travaillé aux portes du chrysotriclinos et conseillé les artisans de Constantinople.17 Il est donc tout à fait plausible que la staurothèque de Gaète soit vraisemblablement un important témoignage de l’art de la Renaissance macédonienne, étant donné que son excellente fabrication la rapproche de celle des objets somptuaires produits au Xe siècle. Le ductus des émaux cloisonnés est très proche de celui de la plaquette géorgienne de Shemokmedi, mais surtout des enkolpia de Martvili et Richmond, tous les deux datés de la fin du Xe ou du début du XIe siècles et sans doute originaires de Constantinople.18 De plus, l’application marginale du Senkschmelz, essentiellement confinée 16 17 18

Sur la signification religieuse des émaux à Byzance, voir Bissera V. Pentcheva, The Sensual Icon: Space, Ritual, and the Senses in Byzantium (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2010). Immanuel Bekker, éd., Theophanes Continuatus, Ioannes Cameniata, Symeon Magister, Georgius Monachus (Bonnae: Impensis Ed. Weberi, 1838), 450–1. Sur les émaux géorgiens de Shemokmedi et Martvili, voir Shalva Amiranashvili, Les Émaux de Georgie (Paris: Cercle d’Art, 1962), 36, 42; Klaus Wessel, Die byzantinische emailkunst vom 5. bis 13. Jahrundert (Recklingshausen: Bongers, 1967), 69–70, 73; Shalva Amiranashvili, Georgian Metalwork from Antiquity to the 18th Century (London: Hamlyn, 1971), 84; Alexander Javakhishvili, et Guram Abramishvili, éds, Jewellery and Metalwork in the Museums of Georgia (Leningrad: Aurora Art Publishers, 1986), 104; Jeffrey C. Anderson, ‘Enkolpion with the Anastasis’, in Helen C. Evans, et William D. Wixom, éds, The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era. A.D. 843–1261 (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), 342. Pour un état de la question sur l’enkolpion de Richmond, voir Anna Gonosová, et Christine Kondoleon, Art of Late Rome and Byzantium in the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts (Richmond: Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, 1994), 119, 410–15; Susan A. Boyd, ‘Quatrefoil Enkolpion’, in Helen C. Evans, et William D. Wixom, éds, The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era. A.D. 843–1261 (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1997), 162; Pitarakis, Les croix-reliquaires, 48 et note 155; Ioli Kalavrezou, ‘Reliquary Enkolpion’, in Robin Cormack, et Maria Vassilaki, éds, Byzantium: 330–1453 (London: Royal Academy of Arts, 2008), 430–1.

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aux inscriptions, atteste de l’emploi expérimental de cette technique dans les parties où les émaux se détachent sur le fond doré grâce à la réserve. La mise en relation du joyau avec les ergasteria de Constantinople devient alors plausible car, selon David Buckton, c’est précisément pendant le règne de Constantin VII que l’on assiste au développement de l’émail cloisonné enfoncé.19 Dans ces conditions, on peut prudemment proposer de dater la staurothèque de la seconde moitié du Xe siècle, vraisemblablement entre les règnes de Constantin VII et Jean Ier Tzimiskès (969–976). Quels aléas de l’Histoire amenèrent par la suite cet objet du centre de l’Empire byzantin à San Giovanni a Piro, site placé en périphérie de la principauté lombarde de Salerne? Il est difficile de répondre à cette question car la perte de toute la documentation produite par l’ancienne fondation italo-grecque ne permet pas de remonter à l’histoire de ses origines. De même, les informations rapportées par le Liber Visitationis d’Athanase Chalkéopoulos et par certaines bulles pontificales illustrent le parcours plus tardif de son histoire, au sein d’une communauté monastique affaiblie. On y trouve notamment des informations relatives à la soumission du monastère au régime de la commende, voulue par le pape Nicolas V (1447–1455) en 1449, et à la visite d’Athanase Chalkéopoulos, datée du 22 mars 1458, réalisée dans le cadre d’une enquête commandée par Basile Bessarion (1408–1472) sur la vie spirituelle menée dans les couvents grecs en déclin de l’Italie méridionale. Dès lors, une série illustre d’abbés commendataires administrèrent, sans que cela n’amène d’amélioration notable, les moines de San Giovanni a Piro avant la disparition du monastère en 1587. Parmi eux, on trouve Basile Bessarion (1449–1462) et Théodore Gaza (1462–1468) mais, surtout, Tommaso de Vio (1527–1534). Celui-ci porta la staurothèque à Gaète probablement à

19

David Buckton, ‘Chinese Whispers: the Premature Birth of the Typical Byzantine Enamel’, in Christopher Moss, et Katherine Kiefer, éds, Byzantine East, Latin West: Art-Historical Studies in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1995), 591–5. Pour une vision d’ensemble de la production des émaux à Byzance, en Occident et dans le monde islamique, voir Anna Rosa Calderoni Masetti, et Jannic Durand, et Avinoam Shalem, ‘Smalto’, in Angiola Maria Romanini, éd., Enciclopedia dell’Arte Medievale. X. Ricamo-Strasburgo (Roma: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1999), 732–58.

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la suite d’une expédition des navires ottomans conduit, en 1533, par l’amiral Khayr al-Dīn Barberousse (1466–1546) sur la côte tyrrhénienne, aux alentours du monastère. C’est ce même Tommaso de Vio qui, par la suite, ajoutera au reliquaire un piédestal triangulaire en bronze doré pour mettre sa présence en valeur dans la cathédrale de Saint-Érasme (Figure 12.4).

Figure 12.4.  Staurothèque de Gaète: piédestal triangulaire en bronze commandé par le cardinal Tommaso De Vio (photo Lino Sorabella – Museo Diocesano Gaeta).

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Il est de fait possible d’aboutir à des conclusions plus solides en essayant d’éclairer les origines de la fondation du monastère, malgré la disparition de son typikon. Ce qui frappe, tout d’abord, est l’emplacement du monastère au pied du mont Bulgheria dans la partie méridionale de la principauté lombarde de Salerne, près du thema de Calabre et du golfe de Policastro. La Vie de saint Nil de Rossano (909–1004) décrit cet endroit comme un lieu constamment fréquenté par les moines italo-grecs en route pour le Cilento aux IXe et Χe siècles.20 En effet, cette région au sud de Salerne était devenue la destination habituelle des anachorètes orientaux attirés par son caractère sauvage, qui leurs permettait de trouver la paix contemplative, l’ἡσυχία, plus facilement que dans la Thébaïde calabraise limitrophe du Mercurion bouleversée par les effets des lois impériales contre la propriété monastique et, surtout, par les expéditions des Sarrasins (Figure 12.5).21

20 Sur l’identification du mont Bulgheria dans la Vie de saint Nil, voir Jules Gay, L’Italie méridionale et l’Empire byzantin: depuis l’avènement de Basile Ier jusqu’à la prise de Bari par les Normands (867–1071) (Paris: A. Fontemoing, 1904), 270; Lipinsky, ‘Per una storia’, 2; Lipinsky, ‘Enkolpia’, 93; Palazzo Il ‘Cenobio’, 24–5; Cappelli, Il monachesimo, 44–5; Marchionibus, Il Cilento, 31; Vera von Falkenhausen, ‘Il percorso geobiografico di San Nilo da Rossano’, in Filippo Burgarella, éd., San Nilo di Rossano e l’abbazia greca di Grottaferrata: storia e immagini (Roma: Comitato nazionale per le celebrazioni del millenario della fondazione dell’Abbazia di S. Nilo a Grottaferrata, 2009), 90, 92. Pour l’hagiographie de saint Nil, voir Germano Giovannelli, éd., Βίος καὶ Πολιτεία τοῦ ὁσίου Πατρὸς ἡμῶν Νείλου τοῦ Νέου (Grottaferrata: Badia di Grottaferrata, 1972). 21 Sur les monastères byzantins du Cilento, voir Marina Falla Castelfranchi, ‘I monasteri bizantini nel principato longobardo di Salerno’, in Maria Galante, et Giovanni Vitolo, et Giuseppa Z. Zanichelli, Riforma della chiesa, esperienze monastiche e poteri locali. La Badia di Cava nei secoli XI–XII. Atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Badia di Cava, 15–17 settembre 2011 (Firenze: Sismel, Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2014), 149–60; Marchionibus, Il Cilento; Paolo Abbate, Cenobi italo-greci e paesi del Basso Cilento (Salerno: Palladio, 1999); Pietro Ebner, Studi sul Cilento: ristampa degli articoli pubblicati tra il 1949 e il 1988 (Acciaroli: Edizioni del Centro di Promozione Culturale per il Cilento, 1999). Sur la vie spirituelle dans le Mercurion? on peut renvoyer à la bibliographie signalée par Giovanni Russo, La valle dei monasteri: il Mercurion e l’Argentino (Paludi: Ferrari, 2011).

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Figure 12.5.  Les Thébaïdes monastiques italo-grecques aux alentours de San Giovanni a Piro (schéma auteur).

Pour cette raison, la fondation du monastère de San Giovanni a Piro peut être interprétée comme la conséquence de la renommée ascétique du mont Bulgheria: sa construction remonterait donc à après 940, au lendemain du passage de saint Nil sur les pentes de la montagne pendant son voyage vers le couvent voisin de San Nazario – situé près du village de San Mauro la Bruca – où il prit l’habit monastique. En tout cas, le colophon du manuscrit Laurenziano Plut. XI. 9 atteste que le monastère était déjà édifié entre 1020 et 1021, lorsque ce codex fut rédigé par le calligraphe Luc pour Isidore, l’higoumène de la ‘μονὴ τοῦ ἁγίου Ἰωάννου τοῦ Ἐπείρου, c’est-à-dire le ‘monastère de Saint Jean le reculé’, identifié avec celui de San Giovanni a Piro.22 À cette époque, le Cilento était devenu une véritable enclave hellénophone au sein de la principauté lombarde de Salerne accueillant de nombreux ‘Grecs’ de 22

Sur le manuscrit Laurenziano Plut. XI. 9, voir Davide Baldi, ‘Florilegio agiografico, ascetico e crisostomico. Firenze, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 11.9’, in Filippo Burgarella, éd., San Nilo di Rossano e l’abbazia greca di Grottaferrata: storia e immagini (Roma: Comitato nazionale per le celebrazioni del millenario della fondazione dell’Abbazia di S. Nilo a Grottaferrata, 2009), 123–8.

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Sicile et de Calabre arrivés à la suite des moines.23 Parmi les membres de cette communauté se trouvaient aussi de riches aristocrates dont la fortune dépendait de la grande propriété foncière et de la vente des produits agricoles aux autres régions de la Méditerranée. Ils investissaient l’argent ainsi gagné dans le marché du luxe constantinopolitain qui, tout au long du Xe et du XIe siècles, était contrôlé par les Amalfitains. De manière générale, ils utilisaient ces œuvres précieuses comme status symbol pour légitimer leur pouvoir.24 Néanmoins, les objets somptuaires pouvaient être la manifestation de l’évergétisme de quelques notables hellénophones au bénéfice des monastères italo-grecs du Cilento. À ce propos, il ne sera pas inutile de signaler les donations faites dans la seconde moitié du XIe siècle au monastère de San Nicola de Gallucanta de Vietri, près de Salerne, par une famille arabe hellénisée et christianisée de Salerne, originaire de la Sicile kalbite, ayant comme ancêtre l’orfèvre Basile.25 De la même manière, on peut se reporter, en remontant à une époque plus ancienne, au récit hagiographique de la visite du noble amalfitain Pietro à saint Sabas de Collesano (950–995), lorsque le célèbre moine, échappé de la Sicile musulmane, était

23

Sur la communauté ‘grecque’ dans la principauté de Salerne, voir Antonia Tierno, ‘La presenza greca nel Principato longobardo di Salerno’, Annali Storici di Principato Citra 2/2 (2004), 23–34; Annick Peters-Custot, ‘L’identité d’une communauté minoritaire au Moyen Âge. La population grecque de la principauté lombarde de Salerne (IXe–XIIe siècles)’, Mélanges de l’École française de Rome. Moyen Âge 121/1 (2009), 83–97. 24 Sur le rôle d’Amalfi dans le commerce entre Italie et Orient, voir Bruno Figliuolo, ‘Amalfì e il Levante nel Medioevo’, in Gabriella Airaldi, et Benjamin Z. Kedar, éds, I comuni italiani nel regno crociato di Gerusalemme: atti del colloquio ‘The Italian Communes in the Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem’ (Jerusalem, May 24-May 28, 1984) (Genova: Università di Genova, Istituto di Medievistica, 1986), 571–664. Sur les investissements de l’aristocratie campanienne, voir Amedeo Feniello, Napoli: società ed economia (902–1137) (Roma: Istituto Storico Italiano per il Medio Evo, 2011). 25 Sur Basile aurifex, voir Marchionibus, Il Cilento, 26; Annick Peters-Custot, Les Grecs de l’Italie méridionale post-byzantine (IXe–XIVe siècle): une acculturation en douceur (Rome: École française de Rome, 2009), 609; idem, ‘L’identité’, 90–1, 97; Falla Castelfranchi, ‘Trésors’, 190.

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en méditation ascétique à Capo Palinuro, localité de la côte tyrrhénienne à proximité de San Giovanni a Piro.26 On pourrait alors penser à la staurothèque de Gaète de manière analogue, comme l’offrande pieuse d’un important aristocrate ‘grec’ de la principauté lombarde de Salerne au monastère de San Giovanni a Piro, dont l’odeur de sainteté acquise au cours du XIe siècle dérivait du passage au pied du mont Bulgheria de saint Nil de Rossano (909–1004) et d’autres importants saints italo-grecs tels saint Phantin le Jeune (927–1000) et saint Nicodème de Kellarana (950–1020).27 En ce lieu, au-delà de sa valeur matérielle, l’enkolpion aurait pu représenter un trait d’union idéal entre la communauté hellénophone du Cilento et la culture de l’Empire byzantin, en considérant que les ‘Grecs’ salernitains bien que d’origine ethnique hétérogène se distinguaient jusqu’au XIIe siècle du reste de la population lombarde de la principauté de Salerne par l’utilisation de la langue grecque, la perpétuation de la liturgie orientale et le respect du droit justinien. En fin de compte, la datation supposée de l’arrivée de la staurothèque à San Giovanni a Piro au XIe siècle semble fort probable. De cette façon, l’on peut reconnaître dans la croix pectorale de Gaète un des nombreux objets somptuaires byzantins arrivés en Italie méridionale avant le début de la croisade en 1099 grâce aux solides relations politiques, commerciales, culturelles de la région avec l’Empire des ‘Romains’. En conclusion, notre staurothèque représente un témoignage rare et remarquable permettant de constater le caractère précieux des achats effectués à Constantinople par l’oligarchie locale. En ce sens, elle pourrait donc bénéficier du même statut que celui accordé à l’exemplaire enluminé du Roman d’Alexandre, importé de Constantinople à Naples par la volonté

La thèse de Cappelli, Il monachesimo, 256, identifie l’endroit de Palinodion cité dans la Vie du saint avec Palinuro. Pour l’hagiographie de saint Sabas, voir Giuseppe CozzaLuzi, éd., Historia et Laudes SS. Sabæ et Macarii juniorum e Sicilia, auctore Oreste, patriarcha Hierosolymitano (Romæ: Typis Vaticanis, 1893). 27 Sur les saints italo-grecs, voir Giovanni Musolino, Santi eremiti italogreci: grotte e chiese rupestri in Calabria (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 2002). 26

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du duc Jean III (928–968) pendant le règne de Constantin VII et,28 plus tard, à la vaisselle liturgique apportée de Constantinople au monastère du Patire de Rossano par son higoumène Barthélemy de Simeri (1050/60– 1130) à l’époque d’Alexis Ier Comnène (1081–1118);29 ou encore, à la grande quantité d’objets précieux importés en Occident par les Amalfitains, rapportée en détail par les sources historiques de la période comme l’Historia Normannorum d’Aimé de Mont-Cassin (1010–1090/1100) définissant la puissante ville maritime comme ‘La cité de Amalfe, riche de or et des dras’.30

Sur le Roman d’Alexandre, voir Roberta Morosini, ‘The Alexander Romance in Italy’, in Zachary D. Zuwiyya, éd., A Companion to Alexander Literature in the Middle Ages (Leiden and Boston, MA: Brill, 2011), 329–64. 29 Pour l’hagiographie de saint Barthélemy de Simeri, voir Gaia Zaccagni, ‘Il Bios di San Bartolomeo da Simeri (BHG 235)’, Rivista di Studi Bizantini e Neoellenici n.s. 33 (1996), 193–228. 30 Vincenzo De Bartholomaeis, éd., Storia de’ Normanni di Amato di Montecassino volgarizzata in antico francese (Roma: Tipografia del Senato, 1935), 65. 28

Notes on Contributors

Jeffrey Brubaker is currently in the final year of his PhD at the University of Birmingham, under the supervision of Dr Ruth Macrides in the Centre for Byzantine, Ottoman and Modern Greek Studies. His current research seeks to bring the foreign policy of the so-called Empire of Nicaea into the current discussion of Byzantine-Latin diplomacy. While much has been written and discussed about East-West relations before 1204, very little has been put forward to describe the situation from 1204 to 1261, the period in which the Byzantine government continued ‘in exile’ in Nicaea while the Latins occupied Constantinople. Of central concern to his study is the frequency of ecclesiastical discussion, or disputatio, during the period in question. While one might expect that the animosity brought about by the Fourth Crusade would prohibit such meetings, there are in fact several instances in which the two sides discussed a possible union of the churches. Explaining the motives behind these meetings, how they progressed and what obstacles may have caused them to fail is a central issue in his research. Elizabeth Buchanan was recently awarded a DPhil degree in History by the University of Oxford, with her thesis addressing the legal and economic changes that occurred in debt acknowledgements in Byzantine Egypt from 400 to 700 AD. She is currently a Visiting Academic and part-time tutor at Oxford. In addition, she has a Law degree from the University of California, Hastings College of the Law, and a Master’s degree in Resourcing National Security from the National Defense University. Her research interests include Greek and Coptic papyri, both documentary and literary, and early Christian history. Zuzana Černáková is a PhD candidate at the Department of General History at Comenius University in Bratislava. Her main research interest lies in the history of relations between Byzantium and the Latin West in the

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crusading period, with an emphasis on cultural aspects of the topic. She is equally concerned with medieval French literature and its use as a historical source. Her dissertation project tackles the representation of Byzantium in the Old French chansons de geste of the twelfth century. In past years, she has been awarded several scholarships for research visits at the University of Oxford, the Austrian Academy of Sciences and École des hautes études en sciences sociales in Paris. Her publications include articles on FrenchByzantine relations during the Second Crusade, the image of Byzantium in Old French fiction and the career of megas primikerios Tatikios. She also participates in her department’s ongoing project on the first Slovak monograph of the First Crusade and is an editor of the students’ academic journal MEDEA – studia mediaevalia et antiqua. Joseph Grabau holds graduate degrees in Philosophy, Theology and Classical Languages (CUA, Villanova, Kentucky), and received the Advanced MA in the Faculty of Theology at KU Leuven (2015), where he is now a doctoral researcher in the fields of patristic exegesis and Augustinian studies. He is currently reading for the PhD/SThD in Historical Theology with Professor Mathijs Lamberigts and Professor Anthony Dupont in KU Leuven’s Faculty of Theology and Religious Studies. He is a member of the ‘History of Church and Theology’ research unit. The central topic of his dissertation is the fourth-century and fifth-century receptions of John’s Gospel in Latin North Africa, in particular the ways in which it was used to promote both regional and imperial identity. While researching Late Antique religion in the West represents his main interest, he also finds time for work on Greek patristic and early Byzantine authors, in particular Ignatius of Antioch, Gregory of Nazianzen, Pseudo-Dionysios and Maximos the Confessor. Karen Hamada is a PhD student in the Department of Area Studies at the University of Tokyo Graduate School of Arts and Sciences. After studying as a research student at the Russian State University of Humanities from 2009 to 2010, she received her MA in Area Studies from the University of Tokyo. She is interested in theological and literary interactions in the Christian East. Her current work focuses on theological debates between Armenians and Byzantines in twelfth-century Cilicia.

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Maximilian C.  G. Lau completed his doctorate at Oriel College, University of Oxford in 2016 and then started a JSPS postdoctoral research fellowship at Hitotsubashi University, Tokyo. His research concerns the world of Emperor John II Komnenos (1087–1143), in particular utilising previously underused sources to complete what has often been labelled a shadowy era. He has carried out extensive fieldwork in Turkey, Serbia and Kosovo with the support of Oriel, All Souls College and the British Institute at Ankara, and has translated works by the Komnenian court rhetors to that end. His postdoctoral research concerns the economic, ecclesiastical, legal and administrative developments during this period, and his next project will be to produce a comprehensive study on this subject. Sihong Lin is a PhD student at the University of Manchester, having previously obtained a BA in History and MSt in Late Antique and Byzantine Studies from the University of Oxford. His PhD focuses on the cultural and political connections between Western Europe and the Eastern Mediterranean world during Late Antiquity, with an emphasis on the papacy’s involvement in Anglo-Saxon England, Merovingian Gaul and the Byzantine Empire. This research builds upon his previous work, which ranges from a comparative analysis of an Anglo-Saxon bishop and a Palestinian monk, to inquiries into Byzantium’s attitudes to its Western provinces and how it interacted with the post-Roman kingdoms of the West. His wider interests include the use of social network analysis in the study of the seventh century, imperial diplomacy towards the East and the West, as well as transnational developments within Christianity. Valeria Flavia Lovato obtained her BA and MA degrees from the University of Siena, Department of Classics. She is pursuing an international PhD programme conducted by the Universities of Turin and Lausanne. She holds a scholarship from the University of Turin and from the Fondation Zerilli-Marimò. Her research, which is also funded by Swiss universities, focuses on the reception of Odysseus in twelfth-century Byzantine scholarship. She has presented papers at various international conferences on this topic, including the Second Uppsala Workshop on Twelfth-Century Byzantine Culture and conferences and seminars at the

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Universities of Oxford, Besançon, Montpellier and Bologna. Some of the papers she presented on these occasions will shortly be published, including ‘Réflexions sur la réception des Éacides chez les érudits byzantins’ (in Actes de la conférence Les Anciens des Modernes, Montpellier 2013) and ‘Ulysse, Tzetzès et l’éducation à Byzance’ (in Brill’s Medieval and Mediterranean series). Pietro Pirrone received his MA in Art History at the University of Salerno. He wrote his thesis on the so-called ‘Staurotheke of Gaeta’ under the supervision of Francesca Dell’Acqua and Mario D’Ambrosi. For the preparation of his thesis, he also studied at the Kunsthistorisches-MaxPlanck-Institut in Florence and at the Centre d’études supérieures de civilisation médiévale in Poitiers. He has presented papers at the Oxford University Byzantine Society’s XVII International Graduate Conference and at the VIII Congresso Nazionale dell’Associazione Italiana Studi Bizantini (22–25 September 2015, Ravenna, Italy). He is particularly interested in analysing Byzantine luxury objects and contextualising them in the life of the highest social ranks of the imperial provinces. Recently, he has co-edited a volume with Francesca Dell’Acqua and Almerinda Cupolo entitled Gli avori medievali di Amalfi e Salerno (Amalfi, 2015). Tristan Schmidt studied History and Political Science at the Johannes Gutenberg-Universität Mainz, Germany and spent half a year at the Universidad Complutense de Madrid, graduating with a BA degree in 2012. He then continued to study for a Master’s degree in History at Mainz, with a special focus on Byzantine studies. He is currently working in a research training group at the University of Mainz on his doctoral thesis, which focuses on animal imagery in the discourse connected to the emperor in the court literature of the Komnenoi, Angeloi and early Laskarids. During his historical studies, before entering the field of imperial ideology, court literature and Byzantine perceptions of animals, he worked on Byzantine hospitals and philanthropic institutions, the law of inheritance in eleventhcentury testaments and the Mediterranean policy of the Holy Roman and the Byzantine Empire in the twelfth century. A further research interest is the culture, economy and political role of the mid-to-late Byzantine aristocracy.

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Kirsty Louisa Stewart was Secretary of the Oxford University Byzantine Society and has recently obtained her AHRC-funded DPhil from the University of Oxford under the supervision of Professor Marc D. Lauxtermann. Her thesis discussed the representation of nature in later Byzantine literature, utilising ecocritical theory. This research focused on four of the Palaiologan romances, the Synaxarion of the Honourable Donkey and the Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds. She has previously had work published in the selected papers of the first Oxford University Byzantine Society International Graduate Conference, and has a translation and commentary forthcoming in Medieval Texts on Byzantine Art and Aesthetics Vol. 3: From Alexios I Komnenos to the rise of Hesychasm (1081-ca.1330) through Cambridge University Press. Her current research focuses on theological naturalism, and in particular the interpretation of the anonymous Symbolic Garden. Katie Sykes is a PhD candidate in the Department of Slavonic Studies at the University of Cambridge, with her research being funded by the Centre for East European Language-Based Area Studies (CEELBAS) and supervised by Professor Simon Franklin. Her principal academic interests are in the religion and written culture of early Rus (c.988–1300). Her doctoral research examines representations of religious difference, particularly between Rus and the Christian West, in texts from early Rus. She also maintains an interest in constructions of the human body in the religious culture of Rus, a topic she first addressed in her Master’s thesis, for which she was awarded a Distinction by the University of Nottingham. Outside of her doctoral study, Katie also works on the TOROT project, which is funded by the Research Council of Norway and aims to create a large, freely available, annotated online corpus of Old Slavonic and Middle Russian texts. James Moreton Wakeley was Treasurer of the Oxford University Byzantine Society when reading for an MPhil in Late Antique and Byzantine Studies under the supervision of Professor Bryan Ward-Perkins. He previously studied Classics at the University of Cambridge, before working for a year in Westminster for a Member of Parliament. His doctoral project concentrates on the Arab Conquests of the Roman East in the seventh

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century, trying to use Syriac, Greek and archaeological sources alongside the Islamic tradition to better understand the processes that underscored invasion and the subsequent development of the Caliphate. His approach is inspired by the vigorous debates that characterise the fall of the Roman West and the Germanic invasions of the fifth century, trying to harness insights that help to contextualise the seventh century in more of a late Roman, than a purely early Islamic, framework.

Index

Adam  74, 181 and the fall  109 image 134–5 Aleppo  32, 42, 106, 164 Alexios I Komnenos  37, 191 Black Sea policy  21 Anatolia impact of Crusades on  103, 118 location of Turks  20, 26, 27 Anna Komnene  26, 39 Antioch  93, 164 ecclesiastical disputes in  95 siege of  38, 40, 43–5, 47, 48 Apophthegmata Patrum  56–7, 134 Armenia  27, 28, 32, 57, 164 ecclesiastical disputes in  101–12 Athanasius, Patriarch of Alexandria Christological perspective  110 writer of hagiography  56–7, 134 Balkans Byzantine military successes in  166 baptism  66, 67 barbarians 28 rhetorical presentation of  145–57, 162, 164, 173, Basil II  183 Basil of Ochrid  172 Basile Bessarion  185 Bohemond of Taranto  23, 38, 45 Bosphorus Crusader crossing  44 Camposanto in Pisa  66 Cappadocian Fathers  69, 83

see also Gregory of Nazianzus; Gregory of Nyssa; saints, Basil the Great Cato the Elder  144–51, 153–4, 156 cave church of Santa Maria in Rongolise 59 Chalcedon 96 Council of  89 Chanson d’Antioche  44–5, 46, 48, 49 Chanson de Jérusalem  44, 46, 49 Christology of Nerses Šnorhali see Nerses Šnorhali see also Eucharist; monotheletism Church of the Nativity, Bethlehem  58 Cilento 187–90 Cilicia  93, 103 ecclesiastical disputes in  105–6 Clement of Alexandria  74 Coloman of Hungary, King  19, 22–4 Conrad III  126, 163 Constans II  14, 86, 94, 95, 96 Constantin VII Porphyrogenitus  182, 183, 184, 185, 191 Constantine Manasses  168–9 Constantinople  13, 15, 25, 30, 86, 96, 132, 182–91 Crusaders’ presence in  44, 46, 117–28, 162, 169 ecclesiastical disputes in  87, 95, 98–9, 103 First Council of (381 AD)  70 patriarchs of  10, 71, 101 Crusades  39, 59, 103 First Crusade  37, 162 Albert of Aachen  43

200 Index Gilo of Paris  47 Godfrey of Bouillon  45 Raymond IV, Count of Toulouse  43, 47 Raymond of Aguilers  43 Second Crusade  162, 164 Louis VII  163 Fifth Crusade  126 Fourth Crusade  117, 126, 128 relations between Byzantium and Latin West  38–9, 117, 175 Third Crusade  169 Frederick I Barbarossa  169 see also Anatolia; Bosphorus; Constantinople; Venice Cyril of Alexandria  108, 109 Cyrus, King of Persia  156–7 Darius I, King of Persia  156–7 David IV of Georgia  20, 25, 27 Demosthenes 148 Dionysios the Areopagite  71 diplomacy clients  7–9, 13–17, 31–3 ecclesiastical  85–99, 103–7, 183 marriage  22, 25, 26, 30–1, 32, 34–5 Dürer, Albrecht  62, 66 Life of the Virgin  62 see also saints, Onuphrius Edessa 164 Egypt hagiographical world of  53–68 ruler depiction  165 Eirene, Empress  14, 25 Elijah 54 Ephrem the Syrian  137 Eucharist  55, 66, 67, 119 Eustathios of Thessalonike  167, 169

filioque  119, 125 see also Latin Church; Orthodox Church France ecclesiastical politics of Kingdom of Francia  87, 89, 90, 94, 96, 99 views of Byzantium in  37–41 see also Crusades George Akropolites  126, 127 George Synkellos  11 Georgia  25, 27, 32 see also David IV of Georgia; diplomacy; translations Germanos II, Patriarch  115 Germany  54, 59, 67 Gesta Francorum  42 Gregory of Nazianzus  69–83, 110 Oration  38 (‘On the Nativity’) Gregory of Nyssa  70–1, 74 Guibert of Nogent  42, 47 Hellenism  143, 144, 149, 159, 188–90 anti-Hellenism  146, 147, 148 Greekness  143, 144, 145, 149, 151, 152, 153, 154, 156 Heraclius I  8, 13, 86, 103 ‘heresy’  86, 87, 91, 95, 96 Heribert Rosweyde  58 Vitae Patrum  58, 60 Ḥijāz  5, 8, 15 Holy Land see Crusades; Jerusalem; Palestine holy men asceticism  65, 131, 133–42 Desert Fathers  54–5, 58, 65–6 ‘wild men’  60–2 See also Apophthegmata Patrum; Athanasius, Patriarch of Alexandria; saints

201

Index Homer 153 Iliad 169 see also John Tzetzes, Allegoriae Iliadis Hungary  19, 22, 33

Kiev Black Sea policy  19–35 Christianity in  131–2, 135, 140 see also Rus

iconography 175–91 of Gregory of Nazianzus  69 see also saints, Onuphrius, artistic representations of imperial ideology  87–8, 161–9, 173, 182 see also diplomacy Isaac II  169 Isaac Komnenos (brother of John II)  26, 143 Islam historiographical tradition of  4–7 see also Muḥammad, Prophet Italy 175 reception of Saint Onuphrius in  59, 64, 67

Latin Church  57, 103–4, 107, 115–16, 119–20, 124, 128 Anglo-Saxon Church  85–99 see also Constantinople; diplomacy; Orthodox Church literary reception  46–8, 56–7, 59, 132, 133–5, 137, 141, 145, 149, 165 Liudprand of Cremona  122 Lombards 94 see also Salerno Luther, Martin  66 see also Lutheranism Lutheranism 67–8

Jerusalem  11, 46 see also Chanson de Jérusalem; Crusades John I Tzimiskes  185 John II Komnenos  19, 21, 25–30, 126, 163, 164–5, 167 John III Vatatzes  118 see also Nicaea John V, Patriarch  95 John the Baptist  54, 62, 64, 67–8, 181 John of Chrysostom  62 John Moschus  92 John Tzetzes  143–57 Allegoriae Iliadis  149 Histories (Historiai, Chiliads)  143, 145, 146, 151, 153, 155, 156, 157 Iambi  155 Letters  145, 151

‘Manganeios’ Prodromos  160, 162, 163, 166, Manuel I Komnenos  101, 103, 104, 160, 163, 164–5, 166, 167, 170 Bertha of Sulzbach (wife)  172 Maximos the Confessor  73, 74, 75, 87, 91–3 Monastery of Saint Neophytos in Cyprus 59 monotheletism  85–7, 89, 90–5, 98, 103 Monreale, Sicily  59 Moses  76, 135 the Hungarian  138 Muḥammad, Prophet  4, 8, 17 see also Islam Nerses Šnorhali  101–13 Nestorius 108–9 Nicaea ecclesiastical disputes in  115, 118–19, 124, 128

202 Index Empire of  117 siege of  44, 45 see also John III Vatatzes Nicephorus, Patriarch Short History 13–15 Nikephoros II Phokas  122 Nikephoros Basilakes  167 Nikephoros Blemmydes  125, 127 Nikephoros Diogenes  39 Niketas Choniates  28, 29, 33, 34, 169, 170, 171, 172 nomads 19–35 see also diplomacy, clients Origen of Alexandria  70–1, 83 Orthodox Church  34, 54, 58, 87, 91, 92, 97–8, 103–5, 120 see also Constantinople; diplomacy; Latin Church paideia  143, 145, 146, 151–2, 153, 154, 155–7 Palamedes  149, 153, 156 Palestine Arab Conquests  3, 8–9, 11–12 ecclesiastical disputes in  87 Palladius 57 Paphnutius, the monk  54–6 Pelagius Pope 57 Cardinal Bishop of Albano  126 Persia defeated by the Arabs  4, 7, 15–17 relations with Rome  8, 13, 92 see also barbarians; Darius I, King of Persia Philo 71 Phocas, usurper (602–610)  14 Photios, Patriarch  116 physical appearance  42, 43, 44, 47, 54, 62, 133–42, 149, 150, 170, 180, 181–2

Platonic philosophy  69–73, 78–81 Plotinus 71 Plutarch  145–51, 154 popes Eugenius  88, 89, 90, 94 Gregory IX  115 Leo IX  125 Martin I  88 Vitalian  90, 94 see also Latin Church Ravenna 95 ‘Romanitas’ (Romanness)  91, 97, 143, 144, 145, 149, 151, 153, 154, 156, 190 Romanos IV Diogenes  168 Rome ecclesiastical disputes in  85–91, 93–9, 103 fall of  12, 15, 16–17 see also Latin Church Rufinus Historia Monachorum in Aegypto  57 Rus  22, 24, 26, 28, 31, 32, 33 religion 131–42 saints Anthony  56, 64, 65, 68, 134 Augustine 71 Basil the Great  70 Clement 139 Francis of Assisi  64 John the Apostle  69 John of the Cross  71 John the Evangelist  181 Martin of Tours  64 Mary of Egypt  56, 60 Onuphrius 53–68 artistic representations of   by Bartolomeo Montagna  64, 65, 67, 68   by Cenni di Francesco  64

203

Index   by Giovanni Battista Caracciolo 67   by Lippo d’Andrea  64   by Roberto Oderisi  60   by Simon Bening  60   Virgin and Child between John the Baptist and Saint Onuphrius  64   see also Dürer, Albrecht poems on, by Sebastian Brant 67 Sant’Onofrio, Trastevere in Rome 59 Pachomius 65 Paul the Apostle  111, 112 of the Rus  139 Simeon 69 Thomas Aquinas  76 Salerno Lombard Principality of  175, 180, 185, 188–91 San Giovanni a Piro (Salerno)  175–7, 180, 183, 185, 188, 190 Seljuks  27, 28, 161, 167, 168 Stephen II of Hungary  19 Syria  163, 167 Syrian Church  103, 107

al-Ṭabarī  3, 4, 5 Tatikios, General  37–49 Theodore Laskaris  171 Theodore of Tarsus  85, 86, 87, 93, 98 Theophanes the Confessor  7–12 Theophilus of Edessa  11 Tommaso De Vio  177, 185, 186 translations  57, 135 cultural  135, 141 Greek to Latin  125, 126, 127 Slavonic 132 Trebizond  27, 171 David Komnenos of  170–1 Troy 153 Venerable Bede  85, 88, 94–6 Venice Crusades 117 in diplomatic relations  24 Virgin Mary  62, 64, 67, 111, 181, 182 Vitae Sanctorum  59–60 Vladimir I of Kiev  139 Vladimir II Monomakh  20, 22, 28–33, 35 Wilfrid of York  86, 87 Yilani Church  58

Byzantine and Neohellenic Studies Edited by Andrew Louth FBA, Professor Emeritus of Patristic and Byzantine Studies, University of Durham. David Ricks, Professor of Modern Greek and Comparative Literature, King’s College London.

This series encompasses the religion, culture, history, and literary production of the Greek-speaking world and its neighbours from the fourth century AD to the present. It aims to provide a forum for original scholarly work in any of these fields, covering cultures as diverse as Late Antiquity, the Byzantine empire, the Venetian empire, the Christian communities under Ottoman rule, and the modern nation states of Greece and Cyprus. Submissions in English are welcomed in the form of monographs, annotated editions, or collections of papers.

Volume 1 Anthony Hirst, God and the Poetic Ego: The Appropriation of Biblical and Liturgical Language in the Poetry of Palamas, Sikelianos and Elytis. 425 pages. 2004. ISBN 3-03910-327-X Volume 2 Hieromonk Patapios and Archbishop Chrysostomos, Manna from Athos: The Issue of Frequent Communion on the Holy Mountain in the Late Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries. 187 pages. 2006. ISBN 3-03910-722-4

Volume 3 Liana Giannakopoulou, The Power of Pygmalion: Ancient Greek Sculpture in Modern Greek Poetry, 1860-1960. 340 pages. 2007. ISBN 978-3-03910-752-0 Volume 4 Irene Loulakaki-Moore, Seferis and Elytis as Translators. 392 pages. 2010. ISBN 978-3-03911-918-9 Volume 5 Maria Mandamadiotou, The Greek Orthodox Community of Mytilene: Between the Ottoman Empire and the Greek State, 1876–1912. 270 pages. 2013. ISBN 978-3-0343-0910-3 Volume 6 Eugenia Russell, St Demetrius of Thessalonica: Cult and Devotion in the Middle Ages. 213 pages. 2010. ISBN 978-3-0343-0181-7 Volume 7 Ivan Sokolov, The Church of Constantinople in the Nineteenth Century: An Essay in Historical Research. 1041 pages. 2013. ISBN 978-3-0343-0202-9 Volume 8 Forthcoming Volume 9 Bernard Mulholland, The Early Byzantine Christian Church: An Archaeological Re-assessment of Forty-Seven Early Byzantine Basilical Church Excavations Primarily in Israel and Jordan, and their Historical and Liturgical Context. 245 pages. 2014. ISBN 978-3-0343-1709-2 Volume 10 Maximilian Lau, Caterina Franchi and Morgan Di Rodi (eds), Landscapes of Power: Selected Papers from the XV Oxford University Byzantine Society International Graduate Conference. 323 pages. 2014. ISBN 978-3-0343-1751-1 Volume 11 Dimitrios Konstadakopulos, From Pax Ottomanica to Pax Europaea: The growth and decline of a Greek village’s micro-economy. 375 pages. 2014. ISBN 978-3-0343-1749-8 Volume 12 Forthcoming

Volume 13 Caroline Barron, From Samos to Soho: the Life of Joseph Georgirenes, an Unorthodox Greek Archbishop. Forthcoming. 2016. ISBN 978-3-0343-1788-7 Volume 14 Kirsty Stewart and James Moreton Wakeley (eds), Cross-Cultural Exchange in the Byzantine World, c.300–1500 AD: Selected Papers from the XVII International Graduate Conference of the Oxford University Byzantine Society. 210 pages. 2016. ISBN 978-3-0343-2258-4