Mediterranean Flows: People, Ideas and Objects in Motion 3506795139, 9783506795137

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Mediterranean Flows: People, Ideas and Objects in Motion

Contexts of Ancient and Medieval Anthropology Editors Anna Usacheva, Jörg Ulrich, Siam Bhayro Advisory Board José Filipe Pereira da Silva, Barbara Crostini, Andrew Crislip, Samuel Fernández, Annette Weissenrieder

Vol. 3

Anna Usacheva, Emilia Mataix Ferrándiz (Eds.)

Mediterranean Flows: People, Ideas and Objects in Motion

Cover illustration: Pompeian wall painting: figures in an idyllic landscape with sacral buildings. Findspot: Pompeii, VII, 4, 31/51, house of the coloured capitals / house of Ariadne, room 21 (triclinium), east wall. Museum / inventory number: Napoli, Museo Archeologico Nazionale 9489. With permission from Ministero della Cultura – Museo Archeologico Nazionale di Napoli.

Bibliographic information published by the Deutsche Nationalbibliothek The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliografie; detailed bibliographic data available online: http://dnb.d-nb.de All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. © 2023 by Brill Schöningh, Wollmarktstraße 115, 33098 Paderborn, Germany, an imprint of the Brill-Group (Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands; Brill USA Inc., Boston MA, USA; Brill Asia Pte Ltd, Singapore; Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn, Germany; Brill Österreich GmbH, Vienna, Austria) Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Brill Nijhoff, Brill Hotei, Brill Schöningh, Brill Fink, Brill mentis, Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, Böhlau, V&R unipress and Wageningen Academic. www.schoeningh.de Cover design: Evelyn Ziegler, Munich Production: Brill Deutschland GmbH, Paderborn ISSN 2698-3079 ISBN 978-3-506-79513-7 (hardback) ISBN 978-3-657-79513-0 (e-book)

Table of Contents Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii Emilia Mataix Ferrándiz, Anna Usacheva 1. The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Greg Woolf

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2. The World Flows with Mediterranean Wine: On the Roles of Mare Nostrum in Global Wine Dynamics . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17 David Inglis 3. Condemning Mobility: Nativist and Exclusionist Rhetoric in the Second-Century “Sophistic” Discourse on Human Movement . . . . . . 45 Antti J. Lampinen 4. Travelling Britannia: A Diachronic Perspective on Romano-British Mobility . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 James Gerrard 5. Reading Acts in Motion: Movement and Glocalisation in the Acts of the Apostles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 96 Pieter B. Hartog 6. Sabbath as a Temporal Marker in Luke-Acts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 111 Sigurvin Lárus Jónsson 7. Words and Concepts in Motion: Hilary of Poitiers between East and West . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 Samuel Fernández 8. Educational and Ritual Aspects of Reading and Publishing Practices from the Greek Philosophical Schools to Latin Monasticism . . . . . . . 148 Anna Usacheva 9. Miles Make the Mind: Jerome on Travel, Learning, and Knowledge Exchange . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 180 Jessica van ‘t Westeinde List of Editors and Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211

Introduction Emilia Mataix Ferrándiz, Anna Usacheva Processes of constant movement prompt cultural fluidity, variety and richness of life. However, such processes are not free of the drawbacks born of the fears and discomfort of people involved in perpetual movement and change. This volume explores the ways in which the movement of people, objects and ideas affect and shape human lives or identities. The process of mapping out itineraries of value in the realm of the material allows us to grasp the nature of a given social formation through the shape and meaning taken on by them. It also provides insights into the nature of dynamic synergy between the world of material objects and the realm of beliefs, knowledge and identities. Already in the fifth century BCE, Greek authors were engaged in an active discussion concerning constant movement and change as the prime drivers of life. The Roman Stoic philosopher Seneca authored a dictum, which embodies the main idea of the volume: Adsiduus generis humani discursus est; cotidie aliquid in tam magno orbe mutatur. “Humankind is constantly rushing to and fro; in this vast world something is changing every day.”1 Seneca’s above quotation draws on the idea of people moving in a world that, in turn, is in motion too.2 At the same time, physical motion is intimately connected with moral choices, cultural values, as well as the way that motion also spreads to images, objects and metaphors. Greek and Latin literature are indubitably full of motion. Indeed, before Seneca, Homer’s Iliad uses movement to describe the mental state of the characters involved in the story, as well as the texture of the lived situations.3 These are but two authors among the wide 1 Sen. Cons. Helv 11.7.5. Cf. J.W. Basore (ed.), L. Annaeus Seneca, Moral Essays 2, London 1932, available at: http://www.perseus.tufts.edu. Translation by Maijastina Kahlos. 2 A notion already promoted by the famous heraclitean quote Πάντα ῥεῖ, ‘everything flows’. While the first verbatim mention of the famous aphorism of Heraclitus was coined by Simplicius in the sixth century CE, a similar phrase referencing Heraclitus’ theory of flux and the metaphor of a flowing river is found already in Plato’s Cratylus (509a). 3 G.O. Hutchinson, Motion in Classical Literature: Homer, Parmenides, Sophocles, Ovid, Seneca, Tacitus, Art, Oxford 2020, 32–77.

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variety of writers who had used motion not only to describe the world surrounding their stories, but also as a resource to indicate emotions, moral choices or situational contexts.4 These examples from the Greek and Roman worlds raise the predominant Mediterranean orientation of our inquiry: the ‘inside out’ topography of the region, with landmasses facing onto a single body of eminently navigable water, dotted with islands, connected and populated since a very early age.5 However, as the Mediterranean is connected, the contributions included in this volume span further than its shores, to reach other interrelated regions, such as the Atlantic6 or inland areas which promote mobility of people, ideas and objects.7 While many books focused on Mediterranean history, focus on a concrete chronological span,8 single phenomena9 or a concrete focus on the data studied,10 we do not tell a single story in these pages. Rather, we want to interweave several different stories that characterise the impact of movement in ancient lives.

4

Ibid. – See also P. Murgatroyd, Space and Movement through Space at Virgil, Georgics 4.317– 558, in: A.F.  Basson / W.J.  Dominik (eds.), Literature, Art, History: Studies on Classical Antiquity and Tradition in Honour of W. J. Henderson, Frankfurt 2003, 25–30; H. Barreau, La Conception du mouvement chez les anciens philosophes grecs, in: Ktèma 32 (2007), 7–30; G.O. Hutchinson, Motion in Grattius, in: S.J. Green (ed.), Grattius: Hunting an Augustan Poet, Oxford 2018, 135–151; R.  Salis, Luogo, vuoto e movimento a distanza in Giovanni Filopono, Lecce 2014. 5 P. Horden and N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History, Oxford 2000; C.  Concannon / L.  Mazurek (eds.), Across the Corrupting Sea: Post-Braudelian Approaches to the Ancient Eastern Mediterranean, London 2016. 6 See Gerrard in this volume. 7 See Hartog, Lampinen, Usacheva or van ‘t Westeinde in this volume. 8 E.g. I. Malkin, A Small Greek World: Networks in the Ancient Mediterranean, Oxford 2013; C.  López-Ruiz, Phoenicians and the Making of the Mediterranean, Cambridge 2022; J.G. Manning, The Open Sea: The Economic Life of the Ancient Mediterranean World from the Iron Age to the Rise of Rome, New Jersey 2013. 9 E.g. J. Bintlijf / K. Sbonias (eds.), Reconstructing Past Population Trends in Mediterranean Europe (3000 BC–AD 1800), The Archaeology of Mediterranean Landscapes 1, Oxford 1999; C. Moatti / W. Kaiser (eds.), Gens de passage en Méditerranée de l’Antiquité à l’époque moderne: procédures de contrôle et d’identification, Paris 2007; A. Marzano, Harvesting the Sea: The Exploitation of Marine Resources in the Roman Mediterranean, Oxford 2013; M. Pitts / M.J. Versluys (eds.), Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, Cambridge 2014. 10 Such as the spatial-turn focus used in R.  Laurence / D.J.  Newsome (eds.), Rome, Ostia, Pompeii: Movement and Space, Oxford 2011; M. Scott, Space and Society in the Greek and Roman Worlds, Cambridge 2013; J.  Salmon / G.  Shipley (eds.), Human Landscapes in Classical Antiquity: Environment and Culture, London 2011.

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In what follows, this volume takes an inclusive approach to the multidimensional topic of ancient movement, as the themes to be discussed include migration, trade, travelling objects, knowledge exchange and the dissemination of books. The case studies compiled here demonstrate the impact of movement on the processes of identity building, whether social, cultural or religious. The book is based on the assumption that the ancient world constituted a connected environment shaped by networks that fuelled movement.11 Concerning land transport and maritime routes, it acknowledges the studies focusing on the physical infrastructure that connected the diverse Mediterranean provinces through networks of ports12 and/or roads13 acting as poly-functional nodes. However, this volume mostly focuses on the human side of movement, such as how people connect, why they connect and what they carry with them, or have an impact upon, when moving. The focuses are threefold, and while the different contributions find synergies among them, they will achieve their core topics in one of the following subjects: the Mediterranean as a connected and networked environment; the movement of people, and the movement of objects.14 In addition to this, a fourth topic adds an extra layer to the previous three, as it is the impact and consequences of these movements on the spread of ideas in cultural practices or beliefs. The volume also touches upon the question of how movement is studied in different disciplines. What kinds of scholarly approaches to and definitions of movement have been employed either historically or currently? What are the limits of our research on movement? There still exist substantial conceptual and technical barriers to the more holistic exploration 11 12 13

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See Woolf in this volume. S.J. Keay. The Port System of Rome, in: S.J. Keay (ed.), Rome, Portus and the Mediterranean, London 2012, 33–67; S.J.  Keay / P.  Arnaud (eds.), Roman Port Societies: The Evidence of Inscriptions, Cambridge 2020. E.g. R. Witcher, Roman Roads: Phenomenological Perspectives on Roads in the Landscape, in: C. Forsey / E. Witcher (eds.), TRAC 97: Proceedings of the Seventh Annual Theoretical Roman Archaeology Conference, which formed part of the Second International Roman Archaeology Conference, University of Nottingham, April  1997, Oxford 1998, 60–70; R.  Laurence, The Roads of Roman Italy: Mobility and Cultural Change, London 2011, A. Kolb, Roman Roads: New Evidence – New Perspectives, Berlin 2019. C. Feldman Weiss, Bodies in Motion: Civic Ritual and Place-making in Roman Ephesus, in: D.M. Totten / K. Lafrenz (eds.), Making Roman Places, Past and Present: Papers Presented at the First Critical Roman Archaeology Conference, Held at Stanford University in March, 2008, JRA.S 89, Portsmouth 2012, 50–63; E. Macaulay-Lewis, The City in Motion: Walking for Transport and Leisure in the City of Rome, in: R. Laurence / D. Newsome (eds.), 2011, 262– 289; J. Bremmer, Walking, Standing, and Sitting in Ancient Greek Culture, in: J. Bremmer / H.  Roodenburg (eds.), A Cultural History of Gesture: From Antiquity to the Present Day, Cambridge 1991, 15–35.

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of connectivity and interaction: these impediments range from asymmetrical fieldwork traditions and practices to narrow research specialisations and methodological corollaries stemming from certain assumptions and unavoidably leaving something behind. One fundamental problem arises when mobility is defined only at a single scale, instead of at multiple scales. For example, mobility can all too easily come to be equated with macro-scale processes such as migration.15 However, as the contributions of this volume demonstrate, such movements were relatively intermittent and infrequent in the past.16 Therefore, we also need to consider the possible immobility and sedentarism that take over once migration has occurred, which implies that mobility needs to be considered at different scales. Indeed, it may be more helpful to imagine immobility as an everyday condition of human society, rather than an extraordinary event. Various studies have classified migration trends in different categories, highlighting that, in antiquity, migration and mobility were reserved for individuals of certain status or profession.17 Furthermore, from at least the Augustan era onwards, the topos of a ‘corrupting sea’ was commonly recognised and used along moralising lines in critiques of trade and the supposedly enervating or degenerating effects that ‘over-connectivity’ could have.18 However, this belief belonged to a rhetorical (as well as narrow-minded) vision of mobility, while on an actual level there is no doubt that the processes of movement prompted cultural fluidity, variety and richness, even if the number of individuals moving was undeniably quite small.19 People moved and carried their cultural and religious beliefs with them, giving birth to different paths of syncretisation or diversification not only of their 15 16 17

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For migration in the Roman world, see: L. de Ligt / L.E. Tacoma, Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Studies in Global Social History 23/7, Leiden 2016; L.E. Tacoma, Moving Romans: Migration to Rome in the Principate, Oxford 2016. See Woolf in this volume. On the one hand, C.  Tilly. Migration in Modern European History, in: W.W.  McNeill / R.S. Adams (eds), Human Migration: Patterns and Policies, London 1978, 48–72 proposes to classify the diverse migrational trends into five, while L.E. Tacoma, Roman Elite Mobility under the Principate, in N. Fisher / H. van Wees (eds.), ‘Aristocracy’ in Antiquity: Redefining Greek and Roman Elites, London 2015, 125–146; L.E. Tacoma, Moving Romans: Migration to Rome in the Principate, Oxford 2016 proposes ten categories. The article of A. Karivieri, Connecting People in the Mediterranean: Mobility and Migration in Ostia and Portus, in: A.  Lampinen / E.  Mataix  Ferrándiz (eds.), Seafaring and Mobility in the Late Antique Mediterranean, London 2022, 71–87 summarises the situation and applies a concrete case study to it. E.g. Philost., Lives of the sophists, 552–554. See Woolf in this volume.

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beliefs, but also of the categories used to define and explain them.20 In addition, one can find that movement generated not only combinations of ideas, but also was behind the strong rejections to these ideas, having an impact on both ethnic perceptions and on the lives of people relocating in an area.21 Even if the richness of some of the topics addressed in the chapters would deserve a volume of their own, what we think that this volume does is to sketch out the following factors: some surprising links in the perceptions of and the engagement with the impact of movement in ancient society; the tensions between the ‘macroscopic’ level of long-distance movement and trade routes;22 the ‘microscopic’ level of everyday lived movement;23 and the many ways in which movement can affect human lives. For example, the Mediterranean environment shrank and expanded seasonally,24 and this would almost certainly have had an impact on the coastal communities’ perceptions of connectivity, insularity and ethnicity.25 Even landing on your non-native island in the ancient Mediterranean could have had a slight whiff of the Odyssey about it; if you were not familiar with its landforms, recognising the identity of an island would have relied on an encounter with the locals – who, in turn, could in times of turmoil have been suspicious of newcomers.26 This is how movement and the ancient imagination can divide humanity into different spheres: us (the ones who are fixed in one place identified as our own) and the others (foreigners, who come from abroad). It is this too-frequent attitude of the foreigner as enemy which brought about, e.g. the semantic evolution of the word 20 21

22 23

24 25 26

See Lárus Jónsson, Usacheva and Fernández in this volume; A. Collar, Religious Networks in the Roman Empire: The Spread of New Ideas, Cambridge 2013. See Lampinen in this volume, and also T.S.  Burns, Rome and the Barbarians, 100 B.C.– A.D. 400, Baltimore 2003; D.  Garcia, Greeks, Celts and Ligurians in South-East Gaul: Ethnicity and Archaeology, in: A. Hermary / G.R. Tsetskhladze (eds.) From the Pillars of Hercules to the Footsteps of the Argonauts, Leuven 2012, 21–36. A. Kolb, Transport und Nachrichtentransfer im Römischen Reich, Klio.B.NF 2, Berlin 2000; C. Moatti, Translation, Migration, and Communication in the Roman Empire: Three Aspects of Movement in History, in: ClA 25 (2006), 109–140. E.g. T.  Terpstra, Trading Communities in the Roman World: A Micro-Economic and Institutional Perspective, Columbia Studies in the Classical Tradition  37, Leiden 2013; C. Moatti, La mobilité négociée: le cas des marchands étrangers à la fin de l’Antiquité, in: Le relazioni internazionali nell’alto mediovevo, Atti delle settimane 58, Spoleto 2011, 159–188. See for example, J. Beresford, The Ancient Sailing Season, Mn.S 351, Leiden 2012; S. Feuser, Seasonality and the Sea, in: A. Lichtenberger / R. Raja (eds.), The Archaeology of Seasonality, Studies in Classical Archaeology 11, Turnhout 2021, 59–72. J. Leidwanger, Roman Seas: A Maritime Archaeology of Eastern Mediterranean Economies, Oxford 2020, 65–67. Hom., Od. 10.56–132 on the island of Laestrygonians, where Odysseus and his men were unwelcome.

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hostis (enemy), which, according to the testimonies of Cicero (Off. 1.12), Varro (Ling. 5.3) and Servius (Aen. 2.424), originally only had the meaning of foreigner.27 Indeed, while the ancient historian can be tricked into reading into this divide through the words of ancient literary works of classical authors (who sometimes emphasise this divide),28 the reality is that mobility was not so common in antiquity, and immobility instead could promote these feelings of entitlement, discomfort and mistrust. As mentioned previously, the articles included in this volume explore the movement of objects that are characterised by temporal continuity, embodying a prior existence with lingering effects. Traditionally, an understanding of people and their actions can be inferred through the archaeologically preserved remains of lives, settlements, houses, possessions, and rubbish, i.e., the material world in which people lived. Leading on from this, perhaps, one of the most useful indicators of lives being lived, social contacts and organisation, is that gained through objects which have been moved from their point of origin through the landscape by trade and exchange mechanisms or direct procurement.29 This volume follows the conviction that material culture does not just tell us about processes, events and associations, it also actively enables, constrains, shapes, affects, acts or forces these very processes, in turn.30 As objects and words transform through time and space,31 so do the values and functions attributed to them. A similar “palimpsest effect” is made in the aftermath of the movement of people whose possessions, authoritative texts, and beliefs appear to be tied to a particular place of origin or their owners, just as much as their identity. A parallel move, from that of artefact biographies to trajectories in relation to the movement of things in time also exists for the spatial dimension. Indeed, this volume also reflects upon globalisation, a topic that fosters an alternative kind of history, in which the movement of 27

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29 30 31

See also: P. Huvelin, Études d’histoire du droit commercial romain: histoire externe–droit maritime, ouvrage publié après la mort de l’ auteur par Henri Lévy–Bruhl, Paris 1929, 7–8; J. Rougé, Recherches sur l’organisation du commerce maritime en Méditerranée sous l’Empire romain, Paris 1966, 1468; E. Mataix Ferrándiz, Shipwrecks, Legal Landscapes and Mediterranean Paradigm: Gone under Sea, Leiden 2022. E. Dench, From Barbarians to New Men: Greek, Roman, and Modern Perceptions of Peoples from the Central Apennines, Oxford 1995; I.M. Ferris, Enemies of Rome. Barbarians through the Roman Eyes, Stroud 2004; J.R. Collis, The Celts: Origins, Myths, and Inventions, Stroud 2003; A.  Coşkun, Deconstructing a Myth of Seleucid History: The So-Called ‘Elephant Victory’ Revisited, in: Phoenix 66 (2012), 57–73. A. van Oyen / M. Pitts (eds.), Materialising Roman Histories, Oxford 2017. Following the lead of A. van Oyen, How Things Make History: The Roman Empire and its Terra Sigillata Pottery, Amsterdam 2016, 1. See Lárus Jónsson, Usacheva and Fernández in this volume.

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objects is allowed to take centre stage.32 As the present moves into the past, it is evident that people, objects and ideas change their matter and meaning. By exploring the process of this eternally ongoing shift, the aim of this book is to embrace multidisciplinary approaches and to tell stories of people both past and present. In this way, this volume attempts to foreground mobility as a fundamental condition of ancient societies. One great example is provided by Martin Pitts, who considers the case of the saucer.33 Nowadays, these objects are generally taken for granted, generally associated with cups, drinking tea, and a vague sense of Englishness and the Victorian era. However, the combination of one object with the other has been believed to be a Turkish innovation of 1645, or shortly before. Since the English lagged behind the Dutch in the trade of tea and porcelain from China, it was probably not until several decades later in the early 18th century that the popular practice of drinking tea with a cup-and-saucer combination really took off in England.34 This brief example demonstrates how movement and what it entails has an influence on cultural practices, and thus on how these are the products of highly specific historical circumstances and connections. History and archaeology identify instances of mobility in the past as a matter of course; and yet there is a lack of explicit thinking about the range of forms of mobility and their diverse effects upon societies. While the outlook of this volume is distinctively historical, important lessons can be learned from neighbouring disciplines. This book brings together a diverse group of specialists in the fields of history and archaeology, sociology, classical philology and religious studies to explore various aspects and manifestations of movement in antiquity. The volume also opens the field to further discussion, as there is still room to consider the micro-regional level of mobility,35 for instance: how households were connected to each other and encouraged movement,36 how regions were connected to polities and wider 32 33 34 35

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See Inglis in this volume. M.  Pitts, The Roman Object Revolution: Objectscapes and Intra-Cultural Connectivity in Northwest Europe, Amsterdam 2018, 1. T. Wolker, Porcelain and the Dutch East India Company, Leiden 1954, 100; G.O. Godden, Oriental Export Market Porcelain and its Influence on European Wares, Leiden 1979, 19. Horden and Purcell 2000; E.  Heldaas  Seland, Ports and Political Power in the Periplus: Complex Societies and Maritime Trade on the Indian Ocean in the First Century AD, Oxford 2010; G. Gambash, Between Mobility and Connectivity in the Ancient Mediterranean: Coast-Skirting Travellers in the Southern Levant, in: E. Lo Cascio and L.E. Tacoma (eds.), The Impact of Mobility and Migration in the Roman Empire: Proceedings of the Twelfth Workshop of the International Network Impact of Empire (Rome, June 17–19, 2015), Leiden 2016, 155–172. Especially when it concerns trade and trust, see: W. Broekaert, Welcome to the Family!: Marriage as a Business Strategy in the Roman Economy, in: MBAH 30 (2012), 41–66.

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social spheres of interaction, as well as how words and ideas move and transform in time and space and have their impact on people and history at the same time. But all the rich new material, new archives, much new archaeological material, and new osteological, genetic and climate data suggest that a larger framework in which to understand mobility must be built. The structure of the book loosely observes a chronological order starting with a panoramic survey of the “Roman Empire as Fluid System” by Greg Woolf. The author highlights in his chapter how we have become used to talking in very general terms about the connectivity of the ancient Mediterranean world (and to include in this formulation its continental hinterlands from the central Sahara to the Baltic and the Atlantic façade to the Indian Ocean). His paper considers three kinds of movement or flow, and asks how they were shaped and interacted. The flows in question are those of objects, of people and of ideas. The movement of manufactures is well documented, after decades of archaeological research, even if evidence of textiles is less easy to track than evidence of hard stones or container amphorae. Many were unidirectional, giving rise to the distinctive distributions of Mediterranean manufactures in the provinces and beyond the empire’s frontiers. Other unidirectional flows brought raw materials into the centre of the empire. Human mobility was more complex in terms of both unidirectional flows, such as those associated with slavery and in some periods with military recruitment, and reciprocal and circulatory flows of the kind associated with the movement of traders, craftsmen and (in very small numbers) of scholars. The scale of these movements is often exaggerated, and only a small proportion of the empire’s population made long-distance journeys. Flows of ideas are less easy to track, and much depends on what counts as an idea – an aspect of religious iconography such as the Mithraic tauroctony, familiarity with a literary work like the Aeneid, or with the myths of Troy, or a cultural practice such as municipal benefaction? Objects and people were often vectors for ideas. This paper nuances the notion of generalised connectivity, seeking to characterise, inevitably at a fairly schematic level, the flows that sustained the Roman Empire. It underlines what flowed out, what flowed in, which flows dispersed and thinned cultural phenomena, which concentrated them, where there were areas of churn, and where the connectivity decreased. David Inglis, with his chapter “The World Flows with Mediterranean Wine: On the Roles of Mare Nostrum in Global Wine Dynamics” deals with how the Mediterranean Sea has long been, and in many ways continues to be – although in ever more subtle and indirect ways – at the centre of the global workings of wine. Taking a very long-term perspective, we can see that wine takes on a major world-historical presence once it reaches the eastern shores

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of that sea and then spreads westwards. Wine thus goes from being a regional Eurasian product and a culture, towards becoming more genuinely “global” in nature and scope, once it becomes entangled with, and then begins to shape, Mediterranean trade, politics and cultural dynamics. It is Greco-Roman wine culture, shaped by the complex and wide-ranging dynamics of the Roman Empire and its control over the Mediterranean, that is at the root of subsequent “globalisations” of wine. This is so, first, in post-Roman Europe, when wine knowledge travels out of the Mediterranean world ever northwards, and then in the opening-up to wine of the so-called “New World” after 1500 CE, when Mediterranean wine-making travels to the Americas and to the Pacific. In both cases, it is not the earlier Near Eastern wine culture that travels. It is, instead, Mediterranean-centred practices of making and drinking wine which are exported ever further afield, bringing with them various cultural assumptions as well as forms of political power. Today, wherever the glass of wine in your hand may come from, both its crucial properties and the cultural constellations and connotations surrounding it, are ultimately traceable to what could crudely be called the multiple globalisations throughout history of the Mediterranean and its wine world. This is a complex fact that much wine scholarship today implies but has not yet named and discussed directly. Antti Lampinen situates his study in the so-called Second Sophistic era, when “Hellenic” identities were challenged by population movements within the Roman Empire. Lampinen explored the nativist and exclusionist rhetoric of condemning mobility in the speech acts of Polemon, Favorinus and Philostratus. Built around the “fear of reverse colonisation” the discourse of the aforesaid authors of the second century, prompted the threatening anxieties in late nineteenth-century British and French literature. Lampinen argued that the fear of evanescing group distinctiveness was based on an essentialist conception of people, which featured certain kinds of mobility and specific types of “others” that provoked uneasiness and jeopardised Hellenic identity. Lampinen analysed the physiognomic rhetoric of the sophists, their expressions of xenophobia, and the cases of climatic or environmental determinism. At the same time, he highlighted a tension between the role of Greek as the integrative cultural koine of Hellenic oikumene, on the one hand, and the inherited language of genealogical descent of Hellenicity, appropriated by the educated Greek elite. Lampinen suggested that xenophobic anxieties of the sophists had structural parallels with contemporary conspiracy theories of “replacement”. Thus, Lampinen underscored two opposite yet inherently connected trends of the outward expansion and dissemination of Hellenic culture balanced by the agoraphobic elitist conservatism.

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James Gerrard, with his chapter “Travelling Britannia: A Diachronic Perspective on Romano-British Mobility” provides an unusual focus to ancient migration, mobility and movement. Following his study, he indicates that scientific advances (isotopes and aDNA) seem to offer new insights into understanding the geographical origins of people and animals. As we construct narratives from this evidence, we seem to be fossilising an old difficulty enshrined in archaeological interpretation: the origin and point of deposition of a sample (be that an artefact or an ecofact) can be identified, but what about the time and space between these events in a lifecycle? Travel in the Roman world has usually been characterised in terms of speed and distance. What is lacking is an appreciation of the social life of travel. The very words used in English for travelling – travel and journey – point to an elite social context. Travel is from the Old French travail, journey is ultimately derived from the Latin diurnus, via Old French. Few today would use ‘wayfarer’, a word derived from Old English. This paper seeks to use analogies from other time periods to better understand the practicalities and temporalities of movement in Roman Britain. By considering the social life of travel, and by thinking of travel as travail, we may be better placed to understand the experience of movement by groups of differing social statuses in the past. A compatible and intertwined yet contradicting trend with that of Lampinen is discussed by Pieter B. Hartog, who addresses the topic of movement and glocalisation in the Acts of the Apostles. He emphasises the importance of exploring motion and globalisation through the lenses of literary intentionality and individual authorial perspective. In this way, Hartog studies the glocalising terminology of Acts as an instance of the “travel-narrative”, which portrays the way of Jesus through the imagery of global mélange – the term coined by Nederveen Pieterse. Hartog specifically underlines that, while the leitmotif of Acts spoke about an image of the Way as a symbol of a cosmopolitan movement, this narrative retained local affiliations, although they were revised within a global whole. Accordingly, the glocalising narrative of Acts presented the global way and mélange of Judeans and non-Judeans, which reshaped their ethnic identity and had a significant impact on the global contour of oikumene. Hartog explores specific passages, where traditional Judean eschatological expectations were synthesised with a Roman elite perspective. He argues that by way of imitation of Jesus the movement of his disciples assumed a glocal shape, where local Judean values whilst their spread over the imperial canvas, also transformed their authentic identity. The chapter of Sigurvin Lárus Jónsson went ahead with the investigation of the book of Acts, featuring its specific temporal markers, which translate eschatological narrative in the terms of historicity and urgency. Jónsson noted

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that at the heart of the contemporary understanding of motion lay the twin concepts of space and time. He revised Greek and Jewish time-related terminology and argued that Luke-Acts was a foundational document for the establishment of the Christian calendar and the re-defining of time as Salvation history. In this way, Luke-Acts transformed the Jewish vision of time (eschatology) and the notion of Sabbath by flavouring it with missionary zeal and the imagery of motion and dissemination of Christian teaching. Jónsson traced specific terminology and the markers of time in the letters of Paul, the Gospel of Mark and Luke-Acts. He pointed out the motif of urgency and the futureoriented eschatological outlook of Christian mission, conveyed by the Pauline letters and the Gospel of Mark. Luke-Acts depicted the past in its genuine historical setting, featuring the concept of Sabbath as eschatological rest, which becomes the temporal setting for the “flow” of early Christian “ideas”, as their messengers traverse the Mediterranean world. In Luke-Acts the eschatological urgency of Paul’s deliberation about “time” and the eschatological rest of the “Sabbath” come together as the basis for the movement through space. Samuel Fernández offered a philological perspective on the theme of motion. He explored the translation difficulties of Hilary of Poitiers and the case of rendering Greek theological concepts in the Latin language. Fernández studied how the Bishop of Poitier handled the nuanced distinctions between the terms ousia and hypostasis and the verb gennaō and its derivatives, which figured in Arius’ Letter to Alexander and the Nicene Documents. A daring endeavour of translating controversial theological concepts held a potential for either spreading the so-called Arian crisis from East to West or soothing acute terminological confusion. Aware of the genuine complexity of the Eastern Trinitarian debate and of the Western bewilderment and prejudice against these discussions, the Bishop of Poitier perceived the magnitude of his task. Fernández meticulously analysed all the occurrences of the verbs gennaō, gignomai, poieō, ktizō, and of the terms ousia and hypostasis. He concluded that Hilary was consistent in his ad sensum translations of these words, even though his literal rendering of them was not uniform. Fernández disputed the idea of carelessness or lack of discernment in Hilary’s translation. Fernández demonstrated that, instead of the word-for-word uniform rendering, the Bishop of Poitiers tried to explain and contextualise Greek terminology, and to assist in its comprehension and acceptance by Western readers. Anna Usacheva continues with the topic of the motion of ideas and texts in the Eastern and Western parts of the Roman Empire, as well as between them. She investigates how reading practices of the Greek philosophical schools were adopted and transformed in Latin monastic environments. She argues that the educational setting of philosophical schools prompted certain forms

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of literary production such as scholarly commentaries, introductions, etc., along with certain types of fluid non-authorial publications such as extempore lectures loosely recorded by the students and disseminated in scholarly circles. Usacheva suggests that similar methods of dealing with authoritative texts were adopted in monastic circles, where publishing via oral lecture recorded through stenographers was also fairly common. She specifically explores the publishing practices of Rufinus at the Mount of Olives, and of Jerome at his Bethlehem community. She demonstrates that professional networks and ties of friendship were crucial for inspiring certain literary projects of Jerome and Rufinus, and also instrumental for the dissemination of their books. In addition to comparing the publishing practices of the Greek philosophical schools and Latin monastic communities, Usacheva also highlights similar ritual aspects of reading practices employed by the Neoplatonists and Christian ascetics. Jessica van ‘t Westeinde continues the study of the Hieronymian legacy in her chapter “Miles Make the Mind: Jerome on Travel, Learning, and Knowledge Exchange”. She argues that far from being mere knowledge-hunting expeditions, the educational journeys of Jerome promoted his self-fashioning as a man of high social status, similar to the viri illustres of the past and on par with the intellectual nobility of the present. Moreover, in the course of his travels Jerome expanded his networks, acquiring important acquaintances, who later became his patrons, students, readers and literary agents. Van ‘t Westeinde demonstrates how Jerome disseminated his books across the Roman Empire through his educational networks. She observes that among other advantages, extensive travelling enabled Jerome to collect an impressive library, which also added significance to his social status. She specifies that, while travel for education prompted by a desire to learn (cupiditas noscendi) or out of curiositas was a hallmark of a person of high social position, sightseeing journeys similar to contemporary tourism would have been considered frivolous. Van ‘t Westeinde compares the Christian attitude toward educational travels to the Greek philosophical tradition and the practices of the Roman Empire’s rabbis. The latter, she argued, usually combined the purposes of visiting famous teachers with the pursuits of visualising the past and pilgrimage. In sum, the chapters of this volume explore the travels of people and animals, commodities, ethnic identities, theological concepts, social stereotypes, practices and statuses. Merged in the melting pot of Mediterranean civilisation, all these flows introduced many novel streams, whilst themselves losing their original distinctiveness. As the ages pass by, historical contexts change but the patterns of constant flux keep driving the wheel of human civilization onwards, thereby providing material for the following multidisciplinary investigation on the topic of motion.

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This volume emerged from the conference Mediterranean Flows: People, Ideas and Objects in Motion hosted by the Collegium for Advanced Studies of the University of Helsinki in December 2020. On behalf of the team of this volume, we thank the amazing, supportive and highly professional administration of the Collegium, who encouraged and assisted with the organisation of the conference: Tuomas Forsberg, Hanne Appelqvist, Kaisa Kaakinen and Eeva Lindström. The initiator of the conference, the brilliant scholar Maijastina Kahlos and her talented co-organiser Elisa Uusimäki, helped with the initial planning and promotion of this volume’s project. We are very grateful to the editors of the CAMA Series Jörg Ulrich and Siam Bhayro for their steadfast and dedicated support of our project. Thanks to the excellent team at the Martin Luther University of Halle-Wittenberg – Rebekka Föste, Kai Klemm-Lorenz, Miriam Rüther – the editorial work on the volume went very smoothly. We thank Martina Kayser and the whole team at Brill | Schöningh Publishers for their professionalism and beautiful books. And last but not least, we express our deep gratitude to all the contributors of this volume for their excellent research and fruitful collaboration.

The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System Greg Woolf Abstract Considering the Roman Mediterranean in terms of flows of material, people and information offers a way to examine the notion of “connectivity”. Flows of material and people were predominantly local: long-distance flows were mostly unidirectional and directed. Information flowed more widely, but its processing was rudimentary. These conclusions imply a low level of connectivity beyond the local level, even if some connections were nevertheless influential.

Introduction

One of the advantages of thinking in terms of Mediterranean Flows is that the concept offers a means of bringing together some of the different ways in which the Roman Mediterranean has been imagined as a system. One group of approaches begin from the political economy, many of them inspired by Immanuel Wallerstein’s notion of a world-system, by the concept of tributary empires and indirectly Marx’s idea of the Asiatic Mode of Production.1 These direct attention to fiscality and rents (or if one prefers macro-predation), that is how ruling groups extract revenue from subjugated populations. When we are dealing with premodern imperial systems, like that of Rome, the greater part of what was extracted was spent on government and security, with shares allocated to other groups on which the empire depended, such as local rulers, tax-farmers, and officials. Keith Hopkins’ argument that

1 G. Woolf, World Systems Analysis and the Roman Empire, in: JRA 3 (1990), 44–58. On tributary empires in antiquity P.F.  Bang / C.A.  Bayly, Tributary Empires in History: Comparative Perspectives from Antiquity to the Late Mediaeval, Chicago 2003; P.F. Bang / C.A. Bayly (eds.), Tributary Empires in Global History, London 2011; J.F.  Haldon, The State and the Tributary Mode of Production, London 1993; For a very helpful account see now J.F. Haldon, The Political Economy of Empire: “Imperial Capital” and the Formation of Central and Regional Elites, in: P.F. Bang / C.A. Bayly / W. Scheidel (eds.), The Oxford World History of Empire, Oxford 2021, 179–220.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_002

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extraction generated reciprocal flows of trade and stimulated manufactures and production was a development of these ideas.2 A second group of approaches begins from the physical and biological Mediterranean rather than from the political structures of empire. These flows are seen are generated by a particular logic of production and consumption that responds to the peculiar characteristics of the region, notably its physical fragmentation into micro-regions, the precarity of agriculture in many of them, and the relative ease with which exchanges can be conducted between adjacent micro regions. Accounts of this kind begin with the Neolithic and the most significant change is the development of sail in the third millennium BCE.3 The appearance of states, their centralization into an empire, and that empire’s eventual dissolution are treated as largely incidental to these dynamics. Since the fundamental intervention of Horden and Purcell in The Corrupting Sea, all this has been associated with the word “connectivity”.4 A third set of approaches examines Mediterranean flows through the mapping of networks, the links in which represent actual or potential routes of communication between nodes that in turn represent communities, sites of production and the like.5 These too typically adopt a longer time frame than 2 K. Hopkins, Taxes and Trade in the Roman Empire: 200 BC–AD 200, in: JRS 70 (1980), 101– 125; id., Rome, Taxes, Rents and Trade, in: Kodai 6/7 (1995/96), 41–75; (also in: W. Scheidel / S. von Reden [eds.] The Ancient Economy, Edinburgh 2002, 190–230); id., Rent, Taxes, Trade and the City of Rome, in: E. Lo Cascio (ed.), Mercati permanenti e mercato periodi nel mondo romano: Atti degli Incontri capresi di storia dell’economia antica (Capri 13–15 ottobre 1997), Bari 2000, 253–267; id., The Political Economy of the Roman Empire, in: I.  Morris / W.  Scheidel (eds.), The Dynamics of Ancient Empires: State Power from Assyria to Byzantium, Oxford 2009, 178–204. 3 C. Broodbank, The Making of the Middle Sea: A History of the Mediterranean from the Beginning to the Emergence of the Classical World, Oxford 2013; P. Halstead / J. O’Shea, A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed: Social Storage and the Origins of Social Ranking, in: C. Renfrew / S. Shennan (eds.), Ranking, Resources and Exchange: Aspects of the Archaeology of Early European Society, Cambridge 1982, 92–99; P. Halstead / J. O’Shea (eds.), Bad Year Economics: Cultural Responses to Risk and Uncertainty, Cambridge 1989. 4 P. Horden / N. Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History, Oxford 2000 with follow-up essays now collected, in: P. Horden / N. Purcell, The Boundless Sea: Writing Mediterranean History, London 2020. Initial responses in W.V.  Harris (ed.), Rethinking the Mediterranean, Oxford 2005; I.  Malkin (ed.), Mediterranean Paradigms and Classical Antiquity, London 2005. 5 A. Collar, Religious Networks in the Roman Empire: The Spread of New Ideas, Cambridge 2013; C.  Constantakopoulou, The Dance of the Islands: Insularity, Networks, the Athenian Empire and the Aegean World, Oxford 2007; A.  Kouremenos / M.J.  Gordon (eds.), Mediterranean Archaeologies of Insularity in the Age of Globalization, Oxford 2018; J.  Leidwanger et  al., A Manifesto for the Study of Ancient Mediterranean Maritime Networks, in: Antiquity, 342, http://journal.antiquity.ac.uk/projgall/leidwanger342; I.  Malkin / C.  Constantakopoulou /

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the duration of the Roman Empire. Some recent applications of globalization theory to the ancient world operate in a similar way, beginning from observable flows rather than a priori theorizations of either the political nature of the Roman empire or the ecology of the Mediterranean basin.6 This paper is an exercise in considering what kind of flows characterised the Roman world, with the Mediterranean at its heart, without privileging the structures generated by imperial rule or those required for its inhabitants to maximise the potential and mitigate the risks of the physical environment. The flows under consideration may be considered as flows of material (things, objects in motion); of living creatures including human beings; and of information.7 The distinction is purely analytical, since in the real world a trading vessel might transport all three, and in the last part of the paper I shall bring material, animate and informational flows back together. But it is helpful to separate them out because the three categories of fluids moved in different ways. I shall be looking for differences between unidirectional flows and bidirectional ones, between generalised circulation and more focused movement, and for places of concentration, dispersal, and churn (intense localised circulation). The trading vessel for example might provide an example of bidirectional flow for the ship and its crew, moving back and forward between two nodes, Alexandria and Rome for example. But the goods on it move only one way, as Egyptian grain moved to Rome rather than the reverse. Information carried by the crew moved in both directions and accumulated at both ends of the journey, building communities that were knowledgeable about their distant K.  Panagopoulou (eds.), Greek and Roman Networks in the Mediterranean, London 2009; R.J. Sweetman, Networks: Exile and Tourism in the Roman Cyclades, in: S.E. Alcock / M. Egri / J.F.D. Frakes (eds.), Beyond Boundaries: Connecting Visual Cultures in the Provinces of Ancient Rome, Los Angeles 2016, 46–61. 6 O. Belvedere / J. Bergemann (eds.), Imperium Romanum: Romanization between Colonization and Globalization, Palermo 2021; T. Hodos (ed.), The Routledge Handbook of Archaeology and Globalization, London 2017; M. Pitts / M.J. Versluys (eds.), Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, Cambridge 2015; R. Witcher, Globalisation and Roman Imperialism: Perspectives on Identities in Roman Italy, in: E. Herring / K. Lomas (eds.), The Emergence of State Identities in Italy in the First Millennium B.C., London 2000, 213–225; R. Witcher, The Globalised Roman World, in: T. Hodos (ed.), 2017, 634–651. 7 My approach differs slightly then from the “flow system” approach pioneered by Sander van der Leeuw in a number of papers that differentiate flows of matter, energy and information, but I trust the inspiration will be clear. For this approach see e.g. S. van der Leeuw, Global Systems Dynamics and Policy: Lessons from the Distant Past, in: Complexity Economic 1 (2012), 33–60; S. van der Leeuw / B. de Vries, Empire: The Romans in the Mediterranean, in: B. de Vries / J. Goudsblom (eds.), Mappae Mund: Humans and their Habitats in a Long-Term Socio-Ecological Perspective: Myths, Maps and Models, Amsterdam 2003, 209–256, open access via https://www.jstor.org/stable/j.ctt46mzp7.

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partners. The grain itself, of course, did not accumulate since it was consumed and dispersed soon after its arrival. This approach will seem very abstract to some readers, but the aim is a practical one, to move beyond rather vague claims about generalised connectivity, and to ask what difference the creation of the Roman Empire made to flows within and beyond the Mediterranean basin. Completeness is impossible of course. I shall have nothing to say about atmospheric flows, nor the flows of water into and around the Middle Sea; nor about the slow recovery of the Mediterranean and Europe from the last glaciation marked by the northward flows of species from refugia, still underway in this period; nor about the introduction of new cultigens and domesticated animals mainly from the east and south; and nothing about the inexorable tectonic flows that formed and periodically convulsed the Mediterranean. This paper deals with flows of short duration and mostly with those that were anthropogenic, the result that is of human agency. 1

Material Flows

The movement of raw materials, agricultural produce and manufactured goods has been a consistent focus of archaeological research and although quantification is not always easy, we can be broadly confident about what moved where and how. Ancient diets were mostly carbohydrate-heavy and the main component throughout the period was cereal crops.8 Most agricultural produce was presumably consumed close to where it was grown, but urbanization and the assembly and movement of armies created concentrations of consumers who did not grow their own food, or put otherwise, imbalances between the geographies of production and the geographies of consumption. Those imbalances generated flows in staple foodstuffs. Civic and military authorities seem in most cases to have had preferential access to grain, even when this meant that the producers went hungry.9 It follows that there were multiple unidirectional flows of grain from areas of high production to nearby cities and armies, many

8 L. Foxhall / H.A. Forbes, Sitometreia: The Role of Grain as a Staple Food in Classical Antiquity, in: Chiron 12 (1982), 41–90. 9 P. Garnsey, Famine and Food Supply in the Greco-Roman World: Responses to Risk and Crisis, Cambridge 1988; drawing on A.  Sen, Poverty and Famines: An Essay on Entitlement and Deprivation, Oxford 1981.

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of which were in any case billeted in cities, especially in the Roman East.10 Only a few cities had the political muscle and generated sufficiently consistent demand to produce regular flows of staples from beyond their immediate hinterland: Athens from the sixth century BCE, Alexandria and Rome from the third century BCE, and in the imperial period Antioch, Carthage, Ephesus, and Constantinople were among them.11 The general picture is that a few areas of high production, among them upland North Africa, Sicily, the Nile Valley and the northern hinterland of the Black Sea, regularly shipped grain to major population centres in the Mediterranean basin. Other areas likely to have done the same on a smaller scale include the lower Rhône Valley, Campania, Sardinia, the Po Valley, Thessaly, and Cyrenaica. A key question concerns whether there were also occasional bulk flows of grain from regions with an unexpected surplus to those with an unexpected deficit. This is one proposition underlying the argument of The Corrupting Sea which stresses the asynchronous occurrence of “gluts” and “dearths” in the microregions of the Mediterranean.12 Connectivity, runs the argument, allowed for a balancing effect that increased the carrying capacity of the entire region. Similar arguments have been made for the prehistoric period when “social storage” – the cultivation of relations of good neighbourliness, has been seen as a crucial risk-buffering strategy, operating between households or

10

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12

R. Alston / O. van Nijf (eds.), Feeding the Ancient Greek City, Leuven 2008; P. Erdkamp, Hunger and the Sword: Warfare and Food Supply in Roman Republican Wars (264–30 B.C.), Warsaw 1998; Garnsey, 1988; B. Isaac, The Limits of Empire: The Roman Army in the East, Oxford 1990; C. Virlouvet et al. (eds.), Le ravitaillement en blé de Rome et des centres urbains des débuts de la République jusqu’au Haut Empire: Actes du colloque international organisé par le Centre Jean Bérard et l’URA 994 du CNRS, Naples, 14–16 février 1991, Rome 1994, see https://books.openedition.org/pcjb/723?format=toc. P. Erdkamp, The Grain Market in the Roman Empire: A Social, Political and Economic Study, Cambridge 2005; P. Garnsey, Grain for Rome, in: P. Garnsey / K. Hopkins / C.R. Whittaker (eds.), Trade in the Ancient Economy, London 1983, 118–130; id., 1988; M.R. Salzman, From a Classical to a Christian City: Civic Euergetism and Charity in Late Antique Rome, in: Studies in Late Antiquity 1 (2017), 65–85; B. Sirks, Food for Rome: The Legal Structure of the Transportation and Processing of Supplies for the Imperial Distributions in Rome and Constantinople, Warsaw 1991. Very helpful summaries of this position in N. Purcell, The Boundless Sea of Unlikeness? On Defining the Mediterranean, in: Mediterranean Historical Review 18 (2004), 9–29 (also published as a monograph edited by Irad Malkin entitled Mediterranean Paradigms and Classical Antiquity, London 2005) and P. Horden / N. Purcell, The Mediterranean and “the New Thalassology”, in: AHR 111 (2006), 722–740. Now both republished in revised form in P. Horden / N. Purcell, 2020.

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adjacent villages.13 Crops might well fail on one side of a mountain but thrive on the other depending on the vagaries of hailstorms or other weather hazards. But it is difficult to see how this sort of reciprocity could be scalable to allow more microregions and larger communities to help each other out. Two prerequisites would be a high level of agility in the management and distribution of unpredicted surpluses, and a high level of information about the location of unexpected shortages. Neither is very likely to have existed in the ancient world. Even in the Roman period there are few instances attested of rapid responses to local crises. Most cities will not have had sufficient carrying capacity to suddenly embark and despatch surplus grain. It might also take weeks to learn of a distant crisis, and weeks to respond: that would create a risk that the shortage would be over before a shipment of grain arrived, leaving shippers with cargoes of perishable goods chasing “dearths” around the Mediterranean as the sailing season shortened. A more rational alternative would be for those with spare grain and those in need of it to head for regional hubs, and to hope to transact business there. There is little evidence to support the notion of a flexible system of reciprocal exchanges of foodstuffs with the capacity to respond year by year to changing locations of surplus and scarcity. There is documentation of food crises in the larger cities, and accounts of them reaching out to new sources of grain when their usual sources failed them.14 But these cities were unusual, cities like Rome and Athens in fact. It also seems as if they reached out to places which usually had a surplus, rather than trying to connect to locations which had that year had a bumper harvest. There were many areas around the Mediterranean which did not experience dramatic interannual variation in crop yields. For all these reasons, it seems most likely that the greater part of bulk shipments of grain followed regular routes that did not change much from one year to the next. These flows were unidirectional. No food-commodity has been studied as intensively as grain. But the pattern of a reliance on established unidirectional flows does seem similar in the case of some other goods. Olive oil, produced throughout the Mediterranean but produced in bulk for export in only a few regions, seem to conform to this pattern.15 There are some uncertainties about the relative importance 13 14 15

P. Halstead / J. O’Shea, A Friend in Need is a Friend indeed: Social Storage and the Origins of Social Ranking, in: C. Renfrew / S. Shennan (eds.), Ranking, Resources and Exchange: Aspects of the Archaeology of Early European Society, Cambridge 1982, 92–99. P. Garnsey, 1988. J.-P.  Brun, L’oléiculture antique en Provence: les huileries du département du Var, Paris 1986; D. Mattingly, Oil for Export? A Comparison of Libyan, Spanish and Tunisian Olive Oil Production in the Roman Empire, in: JRAr 1 (1988), 33–56; id., First fruit? The Olive in the

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of different routes from southern Hispania to northern Europe, but the pattern of disposal of oil containers strongly suggests the existence of a small number of unidirectional flows, many to the city of Rome and central Italy, others to regions in which olives could not be cultivated. Amphorae used to transport olive-oil are difficult to reuse and so we have a clear image of the end points of flows of oil, prior to their decanting for more or less immediate local use. Studies of wine amphorae also give a strong impression that particular productions were earmarked for particular markets, and that there was little generalised circulation of wine amphorae.16 These long-distance flows need to be set alongside shorter-distance flows of foodstuffs that were more perishable – meat and dairy products, fruit and vegetables for instance – but equally unidirectional. Similar considerations apply to non-food commodities. Some materials were produced with specific sites of consumption in mind, such as stone designated for use in building projects (most of them in Rome and later Constantinople) and probably too for timber grown in imperial forests as a building material.17 Trade in textiles and the raw materials from which they were made, is fantastically difficult to track given their perishable nature. The military at least must have generated some flows of goods of this kind. For non-food commodities too there were local flows of material, such as those that brought fuel into cities, and (where there were aqueduct systems) water as well. Probably some material was exchanged through circulatory patterns. Small quantities of ceramic moved in all directions from their points of origin, perhaps as a by-product of the back-and-forth movement of shipping.18 Coinage

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Roman World, in: G. Shipley / J. Salmon (eds.), Human Landscapes in Classical Antiquity: Environment and Culture, London 1996, 213–253. See also a helpful bibliography at http:// oxrep.classics.ox.ac.uk/bibliographies/olive_oil_production_trade_bibliography/. A. Tchernia, Le Vin d’Italie romaine: Essai d’histoire économique d’après les amphores, Rome 1986; G. Woolf, Imperialism, Empire and the Integration of the Roman Economy, in: World Archaeology  23 (1992), 283–293. Relying in particular on M.  Lenoir / D.  Manacorda / C.  Panella (eds.), Amphores romaines et histoire économique: Dix ans de recherches, in: Actes du colloque de Sienne, Rome 1989. B. Russell, Shipwrecks and Stone Cargoes: Some Observations, in: A. Gutierez / P. Lapuente / I.  Roda (eds.), Interdisciplinary Studies on Ancient Stone, ICAC 2012, 533–539; id., The Economics of the Roman Stone Trade, Oxford 2013; on timber W.V. Harris, The Indispensable Commodity: Notes on the Economy of Wood in the Roman Mediterranean, in: A. Bowman / A. Wilson (eds.), Trade, Commerce, and the State in the Roman World, Oxford 2017, 211–236. M.  Fulford, Economic Interdependence among Urban Communities of the Roman Mediterranean, in: World Archaeology 19 (1987), 58–75, see http://www.jstor.org/stable/ 124499; M.G.  Fulford, To East and West: The Mediterranean Trade of Cyrenaica and Tripolitania, in: Libyan Studies  20 (1989), 169–191; C.  Rice, Ceramic Assemblages and

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also clearly circulated within the areas to which it was supplied.19 But the dominant pattern is of unidirectional flows of material from areas of production and manufacture to sites of consumption many of which were directly (like the army) or indirectly (like major cities) beneficiaries of the unequal distributions of entitlement established by the empire.20 When cash itself moved, as taxes or rents, these flows too were largely unidirectional. The existence of taxation in kind set some limit on the kinds of reciprocal flows of manufactures hypothesised by Hopkins. Besides many flows of material were not commercial. Imperial authorities did rely on private traders for many purposes, but tax grain flowed in one direction only. Many quarries were owned by the emperors and so flows of granite, marble and other hard stones to Rome probably generated no reciprocal flows. It is worth considering unidirectional flows in more general terms. Most commerce, even today, has a certain amount of unidirectionality simply because it is generated by differential costs of labour and materials around the world. The ideal situation for a trader is to find complementary flows of goods, as in the notorious triangular trade that took European manufactures to west Africa, slaves to the Americas and the products of tobacco and sugar cane plantations back to Europe. Perhaps this sort of complementarity existed in the Roman Mediterranean, but there are some reasons to suspect it was not as common in antiquity as it is today. For one thing it is noticeable that in the epigraphy of traders, individuals are often characterised by a single product, as negotiatores vinarii, olearii, frumentarii, artis cretariae and so on. This applies to inscriptions at the edge of the empire, as in the North Sea shippers who set up dedications at the mouth of the Rhine, and also in the centre as in the square of the corporations in Ostia.21 What we can tell of the institutionalization of trading communities is that they

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Ports, in: D. Robinson / A. Wilson (eds.), Maritime Archaeology and Ancient Trade in the Mediterranean, Oxford 2011, 81–92. J. Creighton, The Supply and Movement of Denarii in Roman Britain, in: Britannia 45 (2014), 121–163, see http://www.jstor.org/stable/24737448; C.  Howgego, The Supply and Use of Money in the Roman World 200 B.C. to A.D. 300, in: JRS 82 (1982), 1–31, see https://doi. org/10.2307/301282; id., Coin Circulation and the Integration of the Roman Economy, in: JRAr 7 (1994), 5–21. P. Arnaud, Les routes de la navigation antique: Itinéraires en Méditerranée, Paris 2005; id., Ancient Sailing-Routes and Trade Patterns: The Impact of Human Factors, in: D. Robinson / A. Wilson (eds.), Maritime Archaeology and Ancient Trade in the Mediterranean, Oxford 2011, 61–76. W. Broekaert, Navicularii et negotiantes: A Prosopographical Study of Roman Merchants and Shippers, Rahden 2013; J.d.P.  Taylor / H.  Cleere (eds.), Roman Shipping and Trade. Britain and the Rhine Provinces, London 1978; R. Vaga, The Professionals of the Latin West.

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largely took the form of communities united by a common geographical provenance, and were focused on managing single routes and probably mostly single commodities.22 Reciprocal flows must have existed. Traders who purchased and sold cargoes opportunistically were certainly imaginable. A much quoted chapter of the Digest (45.1.122.1) contains a discussion by Scaevola of a shipper who borrows money to buy a cargo in Beirut, sells it in Brindisi, uses the money to buy another cargo there and after that is sold in Beirut can repay the loan keeping as profit whatever was made on the two sales.23 Mixed cargoes seem to have characterised the Indian Ocean trade to judge from the Muziris papyrus.24 But this was not the norm within the empire. Unidirectional flows of material contributed to accumulations of material. Some of this was of short duration, given how much of what was transported was for immediate consumption. Building materials were another matter. So too was the steady accumulation of plundered art works and other valuables first in Rome and then in Constantinople.25 2

Flows of Living Things

There’s no sign of major annual migrations of terrestrial animals in this region during the Holocene, and those of birds and other airborne species

22

23 24 25

Encoding the Occupational Titles, in: G. Cupcea / R. Vaga (eds.), Social Interactions and Status Markers in the Roman World, Oxford 2018, 9–21. A. Marzano, The Personal Infrastructure of Roman Trade, in: P. Candy / E. Mataix Ferrándiz (eds.), Roman Law and Maritime Commerce, Edinburgh 2022, 57–75; C.  Rice, Shipwreck Cargoes in the Western Mediterranean and the Organization of Roman Maritime Trade, in: JRAr 29 (2016), 165–192, see https://doi.org/10.1017/S1047759400072093; T.T. Terpstra, Trading Communities in the Roman World: A Micro-Economic and Institutional Perspective, Leiden 2013; A. Wilson / A. Bowman (eds.), Trade, Commerce and the State in the Roman World, Oxford 2018. For discussion R.P. Duncan-Jones, Structure and Scale in the Roman Economy, Cambridge 1990. On the archaeology of cargoes see now the fundamental study by Rice, 2016, 165–192. D.  Rathbone, The Muziris Papyrus (SB XVIII): Financing Roman Trade with India, in: N.  Swelim / D.  Abdu  Daoud / M.  El-Abadi (eds.), Alexandrian Studies II in Honour of Mostafa el Abbadi, Alexandria 2000, 39–50. M.P.  Loar / C.  MacDonald / D.-E.  Padilla  Peralta (eds.), Rome, Empire of Plunder: The Dynamics of Cultural Appropriation, Cambridge 2018. See also L. Bricault / M.J. Versluys / P.G.P. Meyboom (eds.), Nile into Tiber: Egypt in the Roman World. Proceedings of the IIIrd International Conference of Isis Studies, Leiden, May 11–14 2005, Leiden 2007; C. Edwards, Incorporating the Alien: The Art of Conquest, in: C. Edwards / G. Woolf (eds.), Rome the Cosmopolis, Cambridge 2003, 44–70; C. Vout, Embracing Egypt, in: C. Edwards / G. Woolf (eds.), 2003, 177–202.

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had little impact on Romans. Seasonal migrations of fish are another matter and movement of pelagic fish between the Atlantic and the Mediterranean and also from the Black Sea into the Mediterranean brought large fish like tuna from regions that were trophically richer than the Mediterranean into areas where they could be fished on a large scale. Fish processing sites lined the Straits of Gibraltar and the Dardanelles in the Roman period as well as being found much more widely around the Mediterranean.26 Livestock production resulted in some anthropogenic movements too, both vertical transhumance in many parts of the Mediterranean and also the herding of animals to market over shorter and longer distances.27 More recently attention has been directed to the movement of pathogens and animal vectors: research is moving very quickly here.28 Much more crucial for Roman society was the nature and scale of human mobility.29 A mass of recent research makes it possible to characterise this much more clearly than in the past. On the one hand, there has been a firm rejection of the idea that long distance movement was completely exceptional 26

27

28 29

T. Bekker-Nielsen (ed.), Ancient Fishing and Fish Processing in the Black Sea Region, Aarhus 2005; J. Edmondson, Two Industries in Roman Lusitania: Mining and Garum Production, British Archaeological Reports 1987; A. Marzano, Harvesting the Sea: The Exploitation of Marine Resources in the Roman Mediterranean, Oxford 2013. O. Badan / G. Congés / J.-P. Brun, Les bergeries romaines de la Crau d’Arles: Les origines de la transhumance en Provence, in: Gallia  52 (1995), 263–310; P.  Halstead, Traditional and Ancient Rural Economy in Mediterranean Europe: Plus ça Change? in: JHS 107 (1987), 77–87; https://doi.org/10.2307/630071 (in: W. Scheidel / S. von Reden [eds.], The Ancient Economy, Edinburgh 2002, 53–70); C.R. Whittaker (ed.), Pastoral Economies in Classical Antiquity, Cambridge 1988. E.g. K.  Harper, The Fate of Rome: Climate, Disease and the End of an Empire, Princeton 2017; M. McCormick, Rats, Communications, and Plague: Toward an Ecological History, in: Journal of Interdisciplinary History 34 (2003), 1–25. W. Broadhead, Migration and Transformation in Northern Italy in the 3rd–1st Centuries BC, in: BICS 44 (2000), 145–166; id., Rome’s Migration Policy and the So-Called “ius migrandi”, in: Cahiers du Centre Gustave Glotz 12 (2001), 69–89; id., Migration and Hegemony: Fixity and Mobility in Second-Century Italy, in: L.  de  Ligt / S.  Northwood (eds.), People, Land and Politics: Demographic Developments and the Transformation of Roman Italy 300 BC– AD 14, Leiden 2008, 451–470; L. de Ligt / L.E. Tacoma (eds.), Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Leiden 2016; E. Isayev, Migration, Mobility and Place in Ancient Italy, Cambridge 2017; C.  Moatti, Translation, Migration, and Communication in the Roman Empire: Three Aspects of Movement in History, in: ClA  25 (2006), 109–140; C.  Moatti, Immigration and Cosmopolitanization, in: P.  Erdkamp (ed.), Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rome, Cambridge 2013, 77–92; N.  Morley, Migration and the Metropolis, in: C. Edwards / G. Woolf (eds.), Rome the Cosmopolis, Cambridge 2003, 147–157; W. Scheidel, Human Mobility in Roman Italy I: The Free Population, in: JRS 94 (2004), 1–26; id., Human Mobility in Roman Italy II: The Slave Population, in: JRS 95 (2005), 64–79; L.E. Tacoma, Moving Romans: Migration to Rome in the Principate, Oxford 2016.

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in antiquity. One the other, notions of generalized mobility have also been called into question. It seems, for instance, that most mobility was extremely local, that very few women moved far from their places of birth except for those that had been enslaved, and that the carrying capacity of ancient shipping was so low that mass mobility whether in search of work or fleeing disasters, was extremely rare. Perhaps one in a thousand of the population undertook a longdistance journey each year. Most were soldiers or former soldiers, or people who had been enslaved.30 Some were likely voluntary migrants, moving from areas where fertility exceeded mortality, or simply seeking opportunities in less caged societies.31 Most of this mobility was unidirectional. The movement of enslaved people was most marked in the direction of major population centres. Their journeys had multiple origins although it is becoming clear that the empire was a net importer of population, especially from northern Europe and from Africa. The larger cities almost certainly relied on forced immigration to sustain their population levels. The number of individuals of slave or former slave status in even modest Italian cities has suggested this may not only apply to imperial capitals.32 Enslaved people did not always stay in the first destination to which they were transported of course, but few ever retraced their steps. Those soldiers who moved long distances also made unidirectional journeys, even those fortunate enough to make their final journey to a veteran colony. There are a few signs of voluntary economic migration when new opportunities appeared. The exploitation of the mines around Cartagena captured from Carthage attracted Italian entrepreneurs in the second century BCE, and the capture of Dacia in the second century CE was followed by the immigration of Dalmatians who took over the mining at Rosia Montana. During the first decades of the first century CE, there are signs of Italian craftsmen and architects moving to nearby provinces to direct the construction of new urban centres, and it seems likely that the creation of provincial pottery industries and the transformation of local livestock will also have required at least long stays by Italians with the requisite knowledge and skills. Most of these

30 31 32

This summarizes the argument of G. Woolf, Movers and Stayers, in: L. de Ligt / L.E. Tacoma (eds.), Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Leiden 2016, 440–463. N.  Morley, Metropolis and Hinterland: The City of Rome and the Italian Economy 200 B.C.–A.D. 200, Cambridge 1996. L. de Ligt / P. Garnsey, The Album of Herculaneum and a Model of the Town’s Demography, in: JRAr 25 (2012), 69–94, see https://doi.org/10.1017/S1047759400001148; A. Wallace-Hadrill, Imperial Rome: A City of Immigrants? in: AAAHP  29 (2017), 53–72, see https://doi. org/10.5617/acta.6076.

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displacements were probably permanent, and there is not much sign of twoway migration streams of the kind more familiar in the modern world. There were also some individuals who regularly moved back and forth along the same pathways, in journeys that traced a more complex network of circular and return routes. They included traders, imperial officials and their families, ambassadors, teachers, performers and artists, doctors, craftsmen and religious specialists, even a few tourists and pilgrims. Not all were from the social élite, although very few can have included the poor (unless we include in that group the enslaved retinues without which the powerful never travelled). Although some of these groups are prominent in literary and epigraphic records, they were numerically insignificant. Their impact might be considerable however, not just because of their social prominence but because they carried information between local societies that were otherwise mostly quite homogenous.33 A second category of return migrants are almost invisible because of their low status, but their presence can be inferred from the structure of the economy.34 Seasonal labourers of various kinds worked both in agriculture and in urban economies. Some assisted the permanent workforce of larger farms, which was often unfree, during times of the agricultural year like the harvest and the vintage when extra labour was needed. Others worked on the docks of port cities, or on construction sites, neither of which were busy throughout the year. Their migrations were probably mostly of short distance and their absences from home of short duration. The Roman world was a more complex fluid system in relation to human mobility than to the movement of material. The massive imbalances created by imperial expansion, and the military bases and cities to which it gave rise, generated large-scale flows of people. Most moved in one direction only and did not return. Yet there was also the tiny but influential fraction of travellers whose journeys knitted together the societies of the empire.

33 34

M.S. Granovetter, The Strength of Weak Ties, in: AJS 78 (1973), 1360–1380. For an application to antiquity A. Collar, Network, Theory and Religious Innovation, in: Mediterranean Historical Review 22 (2007), 149–162. See for instance L. Foxhall, The Dependent Tenant: Land Leasing and Labour in Italy and Greece, in: Journal of Roman Studies 80 (1990), 97–114; C. Hawkins, Roman Artisans and the Urban Economy, Cambridge 2016; D.  Rathbone, The Development of Agriculture in the Ager Cosanus during the Roman Republic: Problems of Evidence and Interpretation, in: JRS 71 (1981), 10–23; B.D. Shaw, Bringing in the Sheaves: Economy and Metaphor in the Roman World, Toronto 2013; W. Tietz, Seasonal Labour and Migratory Work in the Roman Empire, in: A.  Lichtenberger / R.  Raja (eds.), The Archaeology of Seasonality, Turnhout 2021, 25–38.

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13

Flows of Information

The back-and-forth movement of this tiny group of regular travellers forms a natural transition to consideration of the empire as an information processing system. This subject has been most systematically investigated in terms of exchanges between Romans and those that they regarded as barbarians. How much did Romans really know about those they othered? And how much was known of Romans in turn by their neighbours? These issues relate both to general questions about ethnographic writing and knowledge, and also to specific questions about security on the frontiers.35 There is no reasonable doubt that the movement of individuals back and forth across Roman frontiers increased the knowledge each side had of the other. Frontiers have been described as “interaction zones”.36 Among those moving back and forth were soldiers, both Romans on expedition and non-Roman recruits who later returned to their home societies, traders, spies (the exploratores whose activities are attested in the late empire), ambassadors, hostages and later missionaries.37 Information was transmitted by bilinguals from both interior and exterior societies. Within the empire information was presumably transmitted by some of the same groups within that tiny proportion who made return journeys of any length. Imperial governors and other officials communicated with the centre of power, whether that was in one of the capitals or wherever emperors happened to be. Some basic information about troop totals and disposition and about flows of revenue was already being gathered by the end of the reign of Augustus.38 Yet we should hesitate before concluding that the operations of commerce or empire generated an accumulation of information, nor that this led to an improvement of the knowledge of distant peoples and places. For one thing, much information was of short currency. During the Republican period it was notorious that corporations kept few records: Cicero had to consult the private 35

36 37 38

S.  Graham, Networks, Agent-Based Models and the Antonine Itineraries: Implications for Roman Archaeology, in: Journal of Mediterranean Archaeology 19 (2006), 45–64; A.D. Lee, Information and Frontiers: Roman Foreign Relations in Late Antiquity, Cambridge 1993; S. van der Leeuw, Acculturation as Information Processing, in: R. Brandt / J. Slofstra (eds.), Roman and Native in the Low Countries: Spheres of Interaction, Oxford 1983, 11–41; G. Woolf, Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West, Oxford 2011. C.R. Whittaker, Frontiers of the Roman Empire: A Social and Economic Study, Baltimore 1994. J.F.  Matthews, Hostages, Philosophers, Pilgrims, and the Diffusion of Ideas in the Late Roman Mediterranean and Near East, in: F.M. Clover / R.S. Humphreys (eds.), Tradition and Innovation in Late Antiquity, Madison 1989, 29–49. Suet. Aug. 101.

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records of the descendants of former magistrates in search of historical information, and the magistri of publican societies retained documents relating to their term of office when they demitted it.39 There is no reason to think the emperors kept cumulative records of troop strengths, as opposed to up-to-date reports, and certainly no sign that they used longitudinal data to calculate necessary replacement rates or predict future demands for pay and discharge bonuses. Indeed, the military crises at the start of Tiberius’ reign, partly generated by keeping soldiers in service longer than they expected, might suggest some poor future planning. Centuries later the Notitia Dignitatum shows a lack of current information by its compiler. Equally the efforts that went into compiling the Codex of Theodosius, which included soliciting copies of imperial edicts from provincial offices, suggests record keeping at the centre was haphazard.40 There is also little sign that ethnographic knowledge increased in quantity or quality over the centuries.41 Not much is known about how traders and collegia accumulated and used information about their partners. We should expect a good deal of practical navigational and product specific knowledge would be passed on from generation to generation, and current knowledge of networks of commercial partners and officials would be useful. It does not follow that any group had a sense of, for example, long-term fluctuations in the price of olive oil. Parallel attempts to see how far the owners of large estates used the information they gathered each year to make rational evidence-based decisions about future strategies have been inconclusive.42 A crucial distinction needs to be made between flows of information and information processing. Much information was of short currency, and so was used and forgotten quickly (rather as food commodities were rapidly accumulated and then rapidly consumed). High flows of information need not imply either an accumulation of information, or the use of that information for analytical or predictive purposes. Anecdotes like those gathered above suggest that even those public bodies that gathered the most information, did little to store it, let alone to store it in a form that made it easily discoverable. This meant information could hardly ever have been verified, tested, compared or 39 40 41 42

P. Culham, Archives and Alternatives in Republican Rome, in: CP 84 (1989), 100–115. On the record keeping of publican societates E. Badian, Publicans and Sinners: Private Enterprise in the Service of the Roman Republic, Oxford 1972. J.  Harries / I.  Wood (eds.), The Theodosian Code: Studies in the Imperial Law of Late Antiquity, Oxford 1993; J.F.  Matthews, Laying Down the Law: A Study of the Theodosian Code, New Haven 2000. G. Woolf, Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West, Oxford 2011. D.  Rathbone, Economic Rationalism and Rural Society in Third-Century  A.D.  Egypt: The Heroninos Archive and the Appianus Estate, Cambridge 1991.

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curated. This now seems less surprising in view of a major new study of information processing in the Roman world that shows how little use was made of what seem to us the most basic forms of data storage, among them tables and structured lists.43 Information flowed across the Roman world, but most of it was rapidly out of date and little of it was stored. Privately and publicly there was little institutional memory for this kind of data. At a more local level, there must have been considerable intergenerational transmission of know-how, of skills and experiences. It was mostly domain-specific (e.g. about viticulture, about making bricks, about riding a horse) and most of it was never entrusted to writing or numerical record. To an extent that seems to us alarming, most Romans lived in the present, with little concern for how analysis of the past might help them plan for the future.44 4

Structure, Scale and Flow

This short reflection on flows of material, of living beings and of information offers some new perspectives on the connectivity of the Roman world. Most obviously there is a repeated contrast between high levels of connectivity at the local level, expressed in the flows that sustained ancient cities and other population concentrations, and a relatively low level of connectivity at the large scale. This applies to flows of materials and of people. Most long-distance flows were unidirectional. This applies to flows of material and population occasioned by state action and also to those generated by private activity. There is little sign of generalized connectivity at the larger scale. Locally things were different. Small boats may have carried mixed cargoes back and forth between neighbouring communities and may have responded opportunistically to what they knew or guessed about local demand. But at the larger scale, flows were more stable and predictable. People moved back and forth between the territories of adjacent cities, travelled short distances for seasonal labour, married and traded in neighbouring communities. Very few travelled long distances. Most of those who did were men, and most were soldiers or enslaved people. Flows of information were also mostly localized. Like flows of food, fuel and water, they were ephemeral.

43 44

A.M. Riggsby, Mosaics of Knowledge: Representing Information in the Roman World, Oxford 2019. On this theme see B.D. Shaw, Did the Romans Have a Future? in: JRS 109 (2019), 1–26.

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The low level of connectivity does not mean it was unimportant. Network theory has taught us that even a small amount of contact between systems that are highly integrated at a local level can be important. Low frequency connectivity at a distance seems to have been sufficient to allow the spread of technological innovations, especially in relation to building across the Mediterranean. The movement of cults, not always rapid but often extensive, much be attributed to these attenuated connections at the largest scale. Pathogens too, could travel long-distances even in these conditions. But as a fluid system, the Roman world as a whole is unimpressive. This conclusion should modify the ways we apply concepts like connectivity and globalization to the Roman world.

The World Flows with Mediterranean Wine: On the Roles of Mare Nostrum in Global Wine Dynamics David Inglis Abstract Although in ancient times wine was presented to buyers as being the expression of the particular place where the grapes were grown, a form of marketing that is even more pronounced today, when considered historically, a preeminent fact about wine is that it moves. This chapter provides a broadly historical-sociological account of that point, showing how it applies not just to the finished product, but to the whole gamut of persons (often colonizers), non-humans (ranging from grape vines to the tools of the vineyard and winery and the vessels wine is transported in), and ideas (both technical and ideological) which have moved across lands and seas over millennia. Both driven by and contributing to the creation of wider socio-cultural currents, wine-related phenomena travelled from an originating core in Eurasia – the Caucasus region – into the Mediterranean area, and there they were then “Mediterraneanized” in various ways, then subsequently “Europeanized”, and then, over the most recent 500 years, spread across much of the world, in a series of processes that are conventionally called the “globalization” of wine. Within that long history, the movement of wine-related phenomena has gone along with, and been in large part driven by, imperial expansion and colonial projects. It is Greco-Roman wine culture, shaped particularly by the complex and wide-ranging dynamics of the Roman empire and its control over the Mediterranean, that is the most influential imperial constellation in the longterm in this regard. And it is the flowing of wine-related products, persons, technologies, and ideas into, around, and out of the Mediterranean geographical area and cultural worlds, which lies at the root of subsequent “globalizations” of wine, including those happening today. The chapter concludes with a consideration of how the millennia-long dominance of Mediterranean and European claims to have invented wine is today being challenged by those in the Caucasian region, who claim a more ancient inheritance as regards winemaking tradition.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_003

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Introduction

In the late Stephen Sondheim’s 1962 Broadway musical-comedy entitled A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum, an adaptation of themes inspired by ancient Roman comedic playwrights such as Plautus, one of the biggest laugh-lines concerns the nature of wine quality and vintage years. The main protagonist, the wily slave Pseudolus, takes a brief break from the otherwise frenetic action, to ponder the wine in a jug. “Was One a good year?”, he wonders. The joke amuses modern audiences because of its mixing-up of the putative first year of the Christian calendar with the play’s setting in pre-Christian, pagan Rome. The gag places the incongruity within a 20th century phrase which even those wholly unfamiliar with the world of wine talk would understand as an important question to pose of any wine, namely were the results of the winemaking in a specific region in a given year good, bad, or indifferent. The same sort of question was also posed in ancient Rome, with certain vintages being regarded as the superlative ones that, if a man was rich enough, he would certainly want to acquire, enjoy, and serve to his most prized friends and acquaintances, including those he wanted to impress regarding his wealth and his excellent taste.1 In some senses, ancient wine connoisseurship is not so very different from its modern counterpart, being partly about aesthetic enjoyment and personal pleasure, and partly about showing-off and conspicuous consumption. That is not the only way in which ancient Mediterranean and modern wine worlds are not that different from each other. On the production side, in both cases vineyards, wineries, wine businesses and wine regions ranged and range from very small-scale entities to massive ones.2 Much vine-tending and grapepicking today – the hard graft of the wine industry – is done by exploited labour, echoing to some extent the slave labour basis of much ancient wine production. In both ancient and modern cases, the more massive the production entity, the more negative conditions may well be for the toilers in the vineyard.3 In terms of distribution, wine is much more apt than beer to yield its makers economic profits, by being transported to, and drunk at, locations 1 A. Dalby, Empires of Pleasures: Luxury and Indulgence in the Roman World. London 2000. 2 J. Overton / G. Banks, Conspicuous Production: Wine, Capital and Status, in: Capital & Class 39 (2015), 473–491. 3 C.  Crenn, Ethnic Identity, Power, Compromise, and Territory: ‘Locals’ and ‘Moroccans’ in the Sainte-Foy-Bordeaux Vineyards, in: J.  MacClancy (ed.) Alternative Countrysides: Anthropological Approaches to Rural Western Europe Today, Manchester 2015, 61–81.

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geographically far from its point of origin.4 Wine’s travelling capacities have nonetheless created complicated problems of transportation and storage, with the ever-present threat of spoilage, while travelling or shortly after opening the container, being problems that both ancient and modern inventors of winerelated technology have worked hard to resolve.5 On the consumption side, there were and are huge variations in the quality of products made available by the wine industry, ranging from expensive and rare fine wines aimed at and sought by social elites, and served at special events, through to mass-market, basic – and for the privileged aficionado, often deeply unpalatable – wines, intended for demotic social groups and drunk in mundane contexts.6 In both ancient and modern worlds, the buyer has to take on trust what the seller says – either face to face or on the labelling of the amphora or bottle – about the provenance and quality-level of the wine being purchased. In both contexts, fraud was and is rife, especially as regards faked versions of wines from prestige regions and prized vintages.7 In many ways, then, the world of wine in the Roman Mediterranean some 2,000 years ago can be compared to the global(ized) worlds of wine that operate today and many affinities can be found to exist between them. But the relations between ancient and modern wine and wine-related activities exist not only at the level of analytical comparisons. The ancient wine world in general, and that of the Roman-dominated Mediterranean in particular, has profoundly shaped the nature of wine today, as well as the various socio-economic structures, social practices, cultural forms, and modes of imagining, which surround it and make it possible. The social organisation and cultural framing of wine in the Roman Mediterranean should, I believe, be seen as a most influential set of factors in creating both what we think of as “wine” today, and where and how it is made, as well as how and by whom it is bought and drunk. The interlocking factors that together make up the wine world of the Roman Mediterranean have profoundly influenced both the more tangibly material aspects of wine – such as where and how it is made, by whom, and what it tastes like – as well as the more intangible cultural and ideational elements that frame wine, and thereby motivate people to make, appreciate, and drink it. Greco-Roman notions that wine is not just a “civilized” drink and emblem of civilization, but also that it is an active enabler of civilizing tendencies, casts a 4 M.  Dietler, Alcohol: Anthropological/Archaeological Perspectives, in: Annual Review of Anthropology 35 (2006), 229–249. 5 P. Lukacs, Inventing Wine, New York 2013. 6 Dietler, 2006. 7 Dalby, 2000.

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very long shadow over how wine is understood, created, and acted upon and with, at the present time.8 Although in ancient times wine was presented to buyers as being the expression of the particular place where the grapes were grown, a form of marketing that is even more pronounced today, when considered historically, wine moves. That point applies not just to the finished product, but to the whole gamut of humans and non-humans, and more material and more ideational entities, that together make up what we conveniently call “wine” made from grapes (for further consideration of issues of ‘movement’ in studies of the ancient world, see Hartog’s chapter in this volume). This chapter provides a broadly historical-sociological account of such matters, focusing on how a panoply of persons (often colonizers), non-humans (ranging from grape vines to the tools of the vineyard and winery, and the vessels wine is distributed in), and ideas (both technical and ideological) have moved over millennia, both reflecting and in turn creating powerful socio-cultural currents. These various actors and actants travelled from an originating core in Eurasia – more precisely, the Caucasus region – into the Mediterranean area. There they were then “Mediterraneanized” in various ways, then subsequently “Europeanized”, and then, over the most recent 500 years, spread across much of the world, in a series of processes that are conventionally called the “globalization” of wine. Wine thereby went from being a regional, west-central Eurasian product with a specific culture surrounding it, towards becoming ever more capacious and powerful in nature, scope and cultural reference, precisely because it flowed into, around, and then out of, the Mediterranean geographical area and its cultural worlds. Within that long history, the movement of wine-related phenomena has gone along with and been in large part driven by imperial expansion and colonial projects. it is Greco-Roman wine culture, shaped particularly by the complex and wide-ranging dynamics of the Roman empire and its control over the Mediterranean, that is primarily at the root of subsequent “globalizations” of wine.9 The Greco-Roman and Roman shaping of wine can be seen both in the case of post-Roman Europe, when wine knowledge travels out of the Mediterranean world ever further northwards; and then also in the openingup to wine of the so-called “New World” after 1500 CE, when Mediterranean wine-making travels across the Atlantic to the Americas and across the Pacific to Australasia. In both these cases, it was not earlier Caucasian and Near 8 J. O’Brien, States of Intoxication: The Place of Alcohol in Civilisation, London 2018. 9 D.  Inglis, D., Wine Globalization: Longer-term Dynamics and Contemporary Patterns, in: D. Inglis / A.-M. Almila (eds.), The Globalization of Wine, London 2019, 21–46.

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Eastern wine styles and their surrounding cultural appurtenances that subsequently travelled around the globe or were later narrated as having done so. It is instead European and (primarily Roman) Mediterranean-centred practices of making and drinking wine which are exported ever further afield, bringing with them powerful cultural assumptions about the affordances of wine. Over a long period, wine was Europeanized – that is, made synonymous with, and essentialized as being quintessentially about and from “Europe”, with the latter taken as wine’s fons et origo. At the core of wine’s freighting with “Europeanness” were wine’s earlier Greek, Greco-Roman and Roman imperial manifestations, which over the centuries have become much more visible and thematized than wine’s non-European and non-Mediterranean manifestations and origins. Today the world flows, as it were, not only with European-style wine, but more particularly with (Greco-Roman-inspired) Mediterranean-styled wine, and not with wine’s earlier, Eurasian/Caucasian manifestations. In this sense, when we consider the history of wine, we are examining profound processes of Europeanization in general, and Mediterraneanization more particularly. Only in very recent years have there begun to exist challenges to such centuries-long cultural framings of wine, with people in the Caucasus now starting to make claims to global audiences to the effect that wine is not in origin or in essential qualities truly “European” or essentially “Mediterranean” at all. 1

Wine Moving Westwards

Around 100 species of grape grow wild across the world. But 99% of the grape wine made today comes from just one Eurasian grape type, Vitis Vinifera  L. subsp. Sylvestris. In its wild and uncultivated form, it can be found from Central Asia to Iberia, spanning a distance of about 6,300 kilometres, within a north to south band of about 1,300 kilometres. All domesticated grape varietals derive from it, in a huge variety of shapes, sizes, combinations of sugars and acids, and flavours.10 Wine began as a phenomenon developed in a specific part of westerncentral Eurasia, the Caucasus. The earliest evidence of humans cultivating grape vines in order to make wine – that is, viticulture and viniculture – dates from about 6000 BCE. The first wine making probably occurred in the area

10

P. McGovern, Ancient Wine: The Search for the Origins of Viniculture, Princeton 2003, 13.

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today known as Georgia.11 The Judaic tradition’s assertion that Noah was the first vintner – being at Yahweh’s behest the first person to plant the grape vines donated by the divinity as a gift to mankind – was in one way not so wide of the mark. At the end of the great Flood, the Ark was said to have come to rest on Mount Ararat, which is in the area that archaeologists have located what are probably the world’s first wineries.12 The grape vine is presented in the Judaic tradition as bringing joy and consolation to traumatised humanity. Yahweh gives humanity the wisdom and means to be able to make wine. “Wine is a blessing, but it is still the product of hard work. It is not in itself a divine gift: rather, [after the Flood] it is a now an essential part of the duties of a farmer”.13 Vine-rearing and winemaking knowhow spread westwards over the next several millennia. There was a developed wine industry in Egypt14 and Lower Mesopotamia by circa 3,000 BCE, and in Crete by 2200 BCE.15 In the second millennium BCE, Phoenician traders from Tyre and Lebanon took grape vines to North Africa, Italy, and Iberia. Greek settlers colonized southern Italy in the 8th and 7th centuries BCE, planting so many vines there that the Greeks called southern Italy “Enotria”, the Land of Vines. Vines and winemaking techniques were also brought at around that time to Sicily and the Black Sea.16 The descendants of the Phoenicians, the Carthaginians of North Africa, had developed extensive wine-making knowledge by the 3rd century BCE.17 Over time, wine became an ever more ubiquitous feature of ancient Mediterranean life, and a quintessential feature of the symbolism and practices of the societies existing around its coastline.18 “It was a common table drink, a desirable trade item, a gift to kings, a medical aid, a ritual offering, and

11

12 13 14 15 16 17 18

A. Kassam / N. Davis, Evidence of World’s Earliest Winemaking Uncovered by Archaeologists, in: The Guardian, 13 November 2017. Available at: https://www.theguardian.com/science/ 2017/nov/13/evidence-of-worlds-earliest-winemaking-uncovered-by-archaeologists (Accessed 6 December 2021). A. Feiring, For the Love of Wine, Lincoln 2016. W. Wilson, Wine and Words in Classical Antiquity and the Middle Ages, London 2012, 7. M.-C. Poo, Wine and Wine Offering in the Religion of Ancient Egypt, London 1995. H.F. Lutz, Viticulture and Brewing in the Ancient Orient, Leipzig 1922; McGovern, 2003. M. Millon, Wine: A Global History, London 2013. McGovern, 2003, 202–203. D.B.  Heath, Alcohol in the Study of Anthropology and Religion, in: S.D.  Glazier / C.A. Flowerday (eds.), Selected Readings in the Anthropology of Religion, Westport 2003, 143–164.

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part of nearly every aspect of life as it was shared by family, friends, priests, and kings to celebrate happiness and sorrow, worship and covenant”.19 Moreover, the fermented grape was “by far the commonest source of alcohol … and alcohol [was] by far the commonest intoxicant available”.20 Religious rituals often involved wine offerings, and wine-oriented rituals – pre-eminently festivals of the grape harvest and of opening new vintages – were important features of the seasonal calendar in the various societies of the Mediterranean world.21 As grape-growing and winemaking spread further westwards, so too did the cultural worlds surrounding and stimulating it.22 More secular cultures of wine appreciation developed, as did religious symbolism involving wine themes, and ritualised practices of wine consumption. The Greek case is exemplary here. In archaic Greece, aristocrats “competed with one another for prestige and power by ostentatious displays of martial valour, gift giving, and feasting … [acting] as redistributors whose power [was] as fragile as their last successful party”,23 and wine played an important role in the gifts showered by leaders onto followers whose loyalty had to be won.24 In classical Greece, wine became an element of everyday practices, as well as an object of sophisticated cultural reflection. As the warrior dispositions of elites of the Greek archaic age evolved into the more pacific dispositions of upper-class men in the classical age,25 nonetheless elements of the older culture of hospitality – involving competitive feasting, and the gifting of food and wine to allies and clients – survived in the institution of the symposion, the dinner with entertainments and wine drinking for well-to-do males, with the host giving out largesse to the guests.26 As Lissarrague notes,27 when speaking about wine, the ancient Greeks “were inexhaustible. Drinkers’ dialogues, 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27

J.A.H. Seely, The Fruit of the Vine: Wine at Masada and in the New Testament, in: Brigham Young University Studies 36 (1996/1997), 207–227 (207). N.  Purcell, Wine and Wealth in Ancient Italy, in: Journal of Roman Studies  75 (1985), 1–19 (2). J.M. Wilkins / S. Hill, Food in the Ancient World. Oxford 2006, 182. D. Stanislawski, Dionysus Westward: Early Religion and the Economic Geography of Wine, in: Geographical Review 65 (1975), 427–444. B.F.  Russell, Wine, Women, and the Polis: Gender and the Formation of the City-State in Archaic Rome, in: Greece & Rome 50 (2003), 77–84. Y.  Hamilakis, Wine, Oil and the Dialectics of Power in Bronze Age Crete: A Review of the Evidence, in: Oxford Journal of Archaeology 15 (1996), 1–32. A. Joffe, Alcohol and Social Complexity in Ancient Western Asia, in: CA 39 (1998), 297–322 (307). Russell, 2003. F. Lissarrague, The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet, Princeton 2016, 4.

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experts’ discussions, lyric poems, and mythological tales” all culturally processed wine, while confirming the drink’s importance for Greek identity and self-understanding. Perhaps the most important set of ideas concerning wine in the Greek context concerned the cult of Dionysos, the donor of wine to humankind, and the ancient wine god whose imagery still bedecks wine paraphernalia today.28 Dionysiac notions about wine were influenced by various accretions from the Egyptian and Minoan cultures which wine making knowledge had passed through in earlier centuries.29 In Dionysian thought and imagery, wine is treated very ambivalently. On the one hand, it was a great gift from the god to humanity, being among other things the facilitator of lasting friendships, warm bonhomie, and sincere words between friends and allies.30 On the other hand, Dionysos’ gift had to be handled with great care. One had to drink wine in moderation, not just to avoid hangovers, but more broadly to maintain social decorum and to retain a sense of cosmological balance.31 Not only excessive consumption but also the drinking of wine in unadulterated form – un-mixed and without the necessary tempering of added water – could lead to catastrophe.32 In the variety of myths about the origins of wine, Dionysos’ gift to humankind is usually accompanied by violence and the deaths of the first recipients of the gift.33 The ambiguous gift of wine was too strong for the first imbibers of it to handle. Humans had to learn how to treat this most powerful beverage, “liquid fire”, very circumspectly indeed.34 The Greeks knew that viticulture and viniculture had originally come from more easterly climes. This knowledge is reflected in the widespread representation of Dionysos as both boon-companion of humans, as well as an untrustworthy stranger and foreigner from the East. The non-Greek origins of wine were expressed in the notion that when Dionysos arrives in a new location, which before his arrival did not know of wine, he “spreads ecstasy and

28 29 30 31 32 33 34

Stanislawski, 1975, 428. C.A.P. Ruck, The Wild and the Cultivated: Wine in Euripides’ Bacchae, in: R.G. Wasson et al. (eds.), Persephone’s Quest: Entheogens and the Origins of Religion, New Haven 1986, 179– 224 (180). Stanislawski, 1975, 444. P. Nencini, The Rules of Drug Taking: Wine and Poppy Derivatives in the Ancient World 1: General Introduction, in: Substance Use & Misuse 32 (1997), 89–96 (91). Lissarrague, 2016. Nencini, 1997, 191; Ruck, 1986, 195. W. Wilson, Wine and Words in Classical Antiquity and the Middle Ages, London 2012, 31.

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madness around him and finally disappears”.35 He was also understood as a sexual threat, undoing patriarchal gender relations among the women of the places that he appears in, who may be tempted to become his debauched followers, known as the Bacchantes or Maenads.36 Thus, in Greek thought, the dangerous sides of wine – when badly handled it can lead to social and sexual chaos, disorder and death – are associated with its Eastern origins, as an originally foreign entity not quite ever fully capable of being domesticated (for consideration of ancient fears of migrating Others, see Lampinen’s chapter in this volume). The sense of wine’s unruliness was also connected to its apparent mysteriousness. The Greeks did not know why the fermentation of grape juice happened spontaneously, and various mystical and divine reasons were attached to the process.37 One such explanation was that just as the harvested and crushed grapes had to “die” in order to create the marvellous liquid, so too did Dionysos suffer and die bloodily and then was reborn. “Upon the body of the harvested grape could be grown the regeneration of the primitive god into his evolved form as the cultivated and refined intoxicant of civilized times, a rebirth that was clearly observable in the effervescing movement of the rotting ferment, as well as in the perceptible warmth generated by the process”.38 It was only by sacrifice of himself, an act thought to be repeated each year at grape harvest time, that Dionysos could offer continually the gift of wine to humankind.39 The fermented juice was understood to be akin to, or actually was, the resurrected Dionysos, a cultural trope that would later come to figure in some people’s linking of this god to Jesus Christ, another divine figure whose sacrifice for the benefit of humanity was strongly connected to wine and wine imagery. Despite the dangers and foreign origins of wine, at the same time it figured in Greek thinking as a highly positive symbol of, and to some extent guarantor of, civilized life.40 As civilization was regarded “as the ability to invent one’s own life and to shape nature”, the fact that wine from grapes – as well as oil from olives and bread from wheat – do not exist in nature but are rather the fruits of human labour, meant that they all could operate as powerful representations of civilized existence.41 In this line of thought, the foreign origins 35 36 37 38 39 40 41

B.-M. Näsström, The Rites in the Mysteries of Dionysus: The Birth of the Drama, in: SIDA 18 (2003), 139–148 (139). Joffe, 1998. W.F. Otto, Dionysus: Myth and Cult, Bloomington 1965, 147. Ruck, 1986, 191. Ruck, 1986, 202. Nencini, 1997, 91. M. Montanari, The Culture of Food. Oxford 1996.

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and chaos-creating properties of wine are downplayed or ignored altogether. Vines, grapes, and wine made from them, figure as both epitomes and practical facilitators of civilized behaviour and Greek cultural self-identification. The latter involved constructing and perceiving difference from, and superiority over, barbarians, one sign of the latter groups being that they drank beer and not wine.42 Stripping wine of its Eastern, foreign, and possibly even barbarian origins, Greek thought Hellenized wine, thereby expunging it of associations with its earlier manifestations in locations like Egypt and its origins in the barbarian lands of the Caucasus. 2

The Roman Mediterraneanization of Wine

The Roman contribution to the history we are concerned with can be said to be comprised of two central elements, each contributing to what, in long-term historical hindsight, may be dubbed the Mediterraneanization of wine, a term which we will use to refer to various interlinked processes. First, at the level of ideas, the Greek thinking described above was part of the cultural groundwork that underpinned the development of the interpenetration of wine symbolism and Roman imperial ideology. It is true that something akin to the characteristically Greek ambivalence and trepidation about the pernicious effects of the wine god Dionysus on his followers was certainly present to some degree in republican Rome. The political elite of the 2nd century BCE Rome seemed to have found the women-only Dionysiac rites very threatening to established patriarchal order, such that that the Senate banned them. Livy’s claim that 7,000 adherents were executed for the sake of public propriety would suggest that this was the most serious purge of religious followers in Rome until the time of the Christian persecutions some centuries later, but the claims are probably greatly exaggerated.43 But the more important and longer lasting ideological element of the Roman relationship with wine concerned not the frenzies of Dionysus, but of the more orderly and therefore socially and politically useful symbolism of his Romanized alter-ego, Bacchus. That god reigned over the world of vineyards and their vinous products. The planting of vines in new territories, and the subsequent adoption of a wine-drinking culture by the indigenous inhabitants in imitation of Roman practice, were crucial elements in the rendering of places and people out of perceived barbarity and into the civilized form of 42 43

M. Nelson, The Barbarian’s Beverage: A History of Beer in Ancient Europe, London 2005, 4. Näsström, 2003, 142.

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life characteristic of the empire.44 As the Mediterranean world came under the aegis of Rome, and as the Roman civilization so strongly associated wine with itself, then wine assumed a quintessentially Mediterranean character, such that any notion of the Mediterranean world existing without wine, would become ever more difficult, if not impossible, to conceive of. The second major Roman contribution to what we are calling the Mediterraneanization of wine concerns the massification of wine production around the whole region by the Romans, and the systematization of largescale and long-term distribution of wine across it. More wine was made, and more of it was sent over long distances, than under any other previous imperial constellation.45 In terms of distribution, the conditions of the empire allowed for the very large-scale transportation of wine-bearing amphorae all around the Mediterranean and into the hinterlands.46 For example, an estimated 55–65 million amphorae of wine were imported into Roman Gaul over the course of the 100 years spanning the 2nd to 1st centuries BCE. Each year during that time up to 10,000 amphorae, containing 16 million litres of wine, came into Gaul from the wider empire, mostly from Italy and North Africa.47 In terms of production, ever more land was put under vine, both in Italy and in the provinces. There are various socio-economic factors to note here. The production of ever greater amounts of wine went together with the expansion of the size of wine-making entities. Thus, at the time of the emperor Nero, only 6 proprietors controlled all wine production in Roman North Africa, each owning huge estates and facilities capable of rendering grapes into vast amounts of wine.48 Wine production required constant and intensive labour throughout the growing season, and slave labour was more effective than free labour in producing it. As more parts of the Italian countryside were turned over to vines tended by slaves, the free peasantry increasingly migrated to the cities. This was part of a great movement of millions of people from countryside to urban areas in the second and first centuries BCE, a relatively rapid and certainly vast urbanization process that was not to be matched globally until the massive rises in London’s population more than 1500 years later.49 44 45 46 47 48 49

S. Serventi / F. Sabban, Pasta: The Story of a Universal Food, New York 2002, 163. M. Millon, Wine: A Global History, London 2013. R. Hingley (ed.), Globalizing Roman Culture: Unity, Diversity and Empire, London 2005. M.  Dietler, Alcohol: Anthropological/Archaeological Perspectives, in: Annual Review of Anthropology 35 (2006), 229–249. H. Johnson, Vintage: The Story of Wine, New York 1989. R.M. Geraghty, The Impact of Globalization in the Roman Empire, 200 BC–AD 100, in: The Journal of Economic History 67 (2007), 1036–1061.

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Imperial expansion meant grain, from which came the bread that the mass of the population depended on, came increasingly from Egypt and North Africa.50 As a result, Italian grain prices went down, compelling large estate owners to move more into wine production. At the same time, Italian wine prices went up, due to more demand for wine from consumers in the Romanized provinces around the Mediterranean. In this period of economic boom, the richest landowners who owned vast vineyards became even richer, with massive socioeconomic inequalities being created.51 The presence of both winemaking and imported wines could have major ramifications for how life was lived in a particular place, at least for the richer, more clearly Romanized inhabitants. For example, in Roman-controlled Crete, the social elite were wealthy enough to create a market for imported wine. Simultaneously, the making of wine for export generated wealth which was then spent on consumer goods like lamps and other household items, made in the then-current “international” style favoured in Rome, which in turn lead to the taking up of cross-empire fashion trends.52 In all these ways, wine was constantly imbricated into the fabric of life across the Roman Mediterranean, reinforcing and extending the pre-eminence of wine in the region as both everyday drink and symbolic resource. Under such conditions, the aesthetic appreciation of wine developed further in sophistication than had been the case with the Greeks of earlier centuries. Greek wine connoisseurship was more limited because of a combination of factors: cruder production techniques; wine mostly being available from production sites close by and not from further afield; and – at least among male elites – understandings of wine being closely bound up both with the social obligations of the symposium, and theological and cosmological reflections connected to Dionysus.53 In the Roman Mediterranean, there was more wine, of more types, and from further away than there had been in the earlier Greek world. While wine was still an important feature of societal obligations – as in the case of richer patrons doling out apparently free wine as part of their largesse to friends, acquaintances, clients and hangers-on54 – nonetheless appreciation of it took on less theological and cosmological aspects. A cultural space opened-up among the Romans for the rich and the relatively well-to-do to develop a taste for wine 50 51 52 53 54

Geraghty, 2007. Geraghty, 2007. R.J. Sweetman, Roman Knossos: The Nature of a Globalized City, in: AJA 111 (2007), 61–81. F. Lissarrague, The Aesthetics of the Greek Banquet, Princeton 2016. T.J. Leary, Martial’s Christmas Wine List, in: GaR 46 (1999), 34–41.

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as filtered through aesthetic frameworks which adjudicated more clearly than among the Greeks of earlier centuries as to which wine styles, places of production, and vintages were superior to others. Beyond basic wines for those with unsophisticated palates and small purses, a sophisticated cultural system for appraising fine and high-quality wines emerged.55 Thus in terms of place and provenance, the late republican and early imperial periods, Falernian wine from near Naples was widely perceived to be the best available, along with those from Albanum (today’s Alban hills), Praetutium (on the Adriatic coast) and Rhaeticum (near present-day Verona).56 Roman connoisseurs also had a strong sense of which vintage years were better than others, the Falernian wine made in 121 BCE during the consulship of Lucius Opimius being frequently mentioned as the best wine of all time. This was a fact lampooned in the Satyricon of Petronius, where the parvenu freedman Trimalchio offers to guests at his fabulously vulgar party an Opimian wine that clearly must be a fake.57 Elite drinkers at formal dinners sometimes liked to alternate between Italian and foreign wines, the latter being called transmarina (from across the sea), these being brought from Greece and Asia Minor.58 The great Italian wines were regarded as worthy rivals to the esteemed wines of the islands of Cos, Chios and Lesbos. In 46 BCE Julius Caesar was a trendsetter, and regarded as such, when he had served at a banquet Sicilian wines instead of the usual Italian and Greek offerings.59 3

Wine from Judaism to Christianity

This Roman cultural complex of wine connoisseurship, in which high-level wines were appreciated for their own sakes, and ranked in relation to each other, stood in some contrast to how wine was treated in other ancient societies. While the secular wine aesthetics of Roman elites existed in relative autonomy from ritualistic and religious uses of and thoughts about wine, the latter predominated in other social formations surrounding the Mediterranean. This was certainly the case in ancient Israel. There wine was central to many rituals, both more solemn and more joyful, concerning recurring holy days like the Sabbath and Passover, as well as key life events, including marriage and 55 56 57 58 59

A. Dalby, Empires of Pleasures: Luxury and Indulgence in the Roman World, London 2000. M. Millon, Wine: A Global History, London 2013. N. Purcell, Wine and Wealth in Ancient Italy, in: Journal of Roman Studies 75 (1985), 1–19. Dalby, 2000. Allen, A History of Wine, London 1961.

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circumcision. The drinking of certain types of wine served as a means of distinguishing Jews from non-Jews.60 In the rabbinic tradition, which indicates Jews must drink only kosher wine, untouched by gentile hands in its making and serving, wine was “the currency of sacredness”, and thereby had to “be cordoned off from the profane realm where Jews and Gentiles pursue[d] social and economic relationships”.61 Wine was very important in the books of the Hebrew Bible and other canonical texts of Judaism.62 There are more references to the vine in the Torah than to any other plant.63 In many of the texts, wine is depicted as being given as a gift to the people of Israel by Yahweh.64 Vineyards, vines, and grapes are symbols of fruitfulness and of the God’s care for his children.65 As Seely puts it,66 “the fruit of the vine gave many gifts to ancient Israel”, being symbolic of both God’s grace and the salvation he promises true believers, as well as of his wrath, grapes being crushed in vats often being used as a symbol of what happens when Yahweh bloodily cuts down those who oppose him.67 While some later versions of Christianity have held alcohol in contempt, wine was deeply embraced by the earliest Christians.68 Christianity in its early days combined elements of Judaic wine tradition and symbolism together with elements from Greek and Roman wine cultures. In the New Testament, wine plays various important roles. Indeed, one might say that Jesus is in some ways a wine god, so associated with wine is he, both in early accounts of his life, and in subsequent interpretations over the centuries.69 The strong association between the god in human form and wine may explain why the New Testament is generally more positive about wine than are the Judaic texts comprising the Old Testament. The authors of the former may have been “anxious 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69

V.  Putzu, Tasting Heaven: Wine and the World to Come from the Talmud to Safed, in: L.J.  Greenspoon (ed.), Olam ha-zeh v’olam ha-ba: This World and the World to Come in Jewish Belief and Practice, West Lafayette 2017, 151–170 (153). M.B.  Wasserman, Jews, Gentiles, and Other Animals: The Talmud after the Humanities, Philadelphia 2017, 214. M. Smith, On the Wine God in Palestine, in: S.J.D. Cohen (ed.), Studies in the Cult of Yahweh 1, Leiden 21996, 227–237. R. Phillips, Wine: A Social and Cultural History of the Drink That Changed Our Lives, Oxford 2018, 71. J.M.  Sasson, The Blood of Grapes: Viticulture and Intoxication in the Hebrew Bible, in: L. Milano (ed.), Drinking in Ancient Societies, Padua 1994, 399–419 (405). J.A.H. Seely, The Fruit of the Vine: Wine at Masada and in the New Testament, in: Brigham Young University Studies 36 (1996/1997), 207–227 (217–218). Seely, 1996/1997, 223. Sasson, 1994, 410. R.C. Fuller, Religion and Wine, Knoxville 1996. R. Phillips, Alcohol: A History. Chapel Hill 2014, 50.

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to make a clear distinction between wine before the Crucifixion, the old world when people had not been redeemed by the death of Christ, and the newly regenerated Christian world”.70 Multiple instances from the Gospels and other Christian texts confirm the many wine-related aspects of Jesus’ life. He was accused of being a “drunkard” (Luke 7:33–35); he used wine to institute the Lord’s Supper (Matthew 26:29; Mark 14:25; Luke 22:18); and early Christians used wine at their communion services (1 Corinthians 11:21).71 In the gospel of John (15:1), Jesus describes the Christian community in wine terms: “I am the true vine, and my Father is the vigneron … I am the vine, and you the branches. He who dwells in me, as I dwell in him, bears much fruit; for apart from me you can do nothing”.72 It is greatly significant that Jesus’ first miracle was at the wedding feast in Cana. There he transforms water into wine. Like in the miracle of the loaves and fishes, Jesus acts as host and provider of food and wine gifts. This resonates with themes of “divine hospitality” in the Old Testament, where God is often depicted as a host who provides food for guests.73 In an interesting detail, Jesus is seen to turn water into good quality wine, and not the usual inferior stuff that would typically be served towards the end of the feast when the better wine had run out. In this manner the beneficence and munificence of the son of God are acutely dramatized. Turning water into wine is a feat also associated with Dionysos, making the notion of Jesus as both parallel and answer to that wine god a plausible one. In the early centuries of Christianity, the connections between Dionysos, wine, eroticism, and sexual activity were well-established in Greek literature, and early Christian proselytizers were familiar with such ideas.74 Therefore, they were often concerned about the wider world – including the Roman authorities – misrecognising Christian practices as dubious or scandalous Dionysian mysteries. Wine is a key element in the central Christian ritual of the Eucharist, also known as the Lord’s Supper and holy communion. Senn75 notes that 70 71 72 73 74 75

R. Phillips, Wine: A Social and Cultural History of the Drink That Changed Our Lives, Oxford 2018, 73. S. Bacchiocchi, Wine in the Bible: A Biblical Study on the Use of Alcoholic Beverages, Berrien Springs 2001, 34. M.P. Holt, Wine, Community and Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Burgundy, in: Past & Present 138 (1993), 58–93 (86). J. Furnal, A Theology of the Table, in: New Blackfriars 92 (2011), 409–414 (410). C.J.P. Friesen, Dionysus as Jesus: The Incongruity of a Love Feast in Achilles Tatius’s Leucippe and Clitophon, 2.2, in: HTR 107 (2014), 222–240 (239). F.C. Senn, Sacraments and Social History: Postmodern Practice, in: ThTo 58 (2001), 288–303 (289).

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Christianity “entered the world with a bath and a meal as its most constitutive acts”, these being carried out in expectation of forgiveness of hunankind’s sins and ultimate salvation. It can be argued that “the history of the church is the history of the understanding and practice of the Eucharist”.76 The Eucharist as a ritualised meal, involving bread and wine, is simultaneously similar to, probably draws upon, but in other ways is different from, both Jewish ritual meals77 and the Greek symposion.78 The deployment at his last meal by Jesus of wine in a cup, explicitly representing his blood, harks back to the Old Testament notion of the covenant between God and his people being sealed by Moses through a blood offering. The wine symbolizes and enacts a new covenant, creating a community of all those who willingly receive the offered cup and who thereby “in their eating and drinking identify with the benefits of Jesus’ sacrificial death”.79 Drawing upon the already highly positive Greek and Roman understandings of wine and wheat-derived bread as hallmarks of civilization, Christianity in the centuries after its birth redefined them as universal necessities. This was because “a message that claims to be universal has to be founded on universal symbols”, as well as on material vehicles for ritualised deployment, as bread and wine became in communion rites.80 The spread of vines and wine making throughout territories in western Eurasia won over to Christianity in the first millennium CE was partly due to the need for the local availability of wine for Eucharistic purposes, although the spread of wine production throughout much of Europe was often for mundane secular reasons too.81 With the rise of Islam and its prohibition on alcohol, Christian Europe had ever more “reason to characterize itself as wine-drinking Europe”.82 From then on, the identification of wine as “Mediterranean” was augmented, and perhaps partially contradicted, by its depiction as a universal signifier of Christianity, and potentially portable to all locations where there were Christians. As wine became increasingly important in the post-Roman empire territories of present-day France and Germany, wine became widely 76 77 78 79 80 81 82

Furnal, 2011, 411. G.A. Klingbeil, When Action Collides with Meaning, in: Neot 50 (2016), 423–440 (430). Senn, 2001, 291. Klingbeil, 2016, 432–433. M. Montanari, Medieval Tastes, New York 2015, 132. T. Unwin, Wine and the Vine: An Historical Geography of Viticulture and the Wine Trade, London 1991. Montanari, 2015, 134. – Space precludes treatment of the emergence of the Islamic ban on wine and other alcohols. The ban was uneven across Muslim lands in the centuries after the death of Mohammed, its precise elements were debated and contested, and it was often ignored altogether.

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understood to be not only Mediterranean in nature, but also in addition what Montanari calls “Roman-barbarian”,83 and then, in later centuries as notions of “Europe” took form, more generally “European”. The Christianization and Europeanization of wine thereby went hand in hand. The excellent qualities and special exalted status of wine were asserted constantly within the Christian cultural milieux of post-Roman and medieval Europe. Wine could not signify “the mystery of human nature, the ardor of the Holy Ghost, the knowledge of the Law, the word of the Gospels, spiritual understanding, the blood of Christ, conscience, contemplation, love” and other important matters, “if it were not itself a product of excellence”. Bread and wine were thereby understood as surpassing “in dignity and preciousness all other fruits of the earth”.84 Within such an ideological context, beer was often presented as a pagan drink, the mark of an inferior society that was “nonRoman, non-Christian, non-international, and uncultivated”.85 In this way, Greco-Roman prejudices against beer were extended and mutated.86 Traces of this way of thinking are arguably still found today, especially but not only in long-standing wine-producing countries, in the widespread cultural assumption of wine as a prestigious entity in general, and usually more prestigious than beer or most spirits. Christianity not only deeply influenced the subsequent symbolism of wine, but its material practices too. In wine-making regions of mediaeval Europe, it was common for proprietors to donate as gifts vineyard plots to Christian institutions like monasteries, in exchange for prayers being said for them and their families.87 By these means vast plots came to be owned by Christian religious groups and communities, such as Cistercian monks. The wine making practices of such organisations have often had great and long-lasting impacts on subsequent viticulture and viniculture in what are today understood as the “classic” regions of European wine making, such as Burgundy.88 In this way, what we could call the Christianization of wine ran parallel to, and partly stimulated, a broader Europeanization of wine, such that wine’s cultural associations with the Mediterranean region were retained, but to these were added broader “European” resonances too. Wine became a marker of “European-ness” as well as of “Mediterranean-ness”. In both instances, a broad 83 84 85 86 87 88

Montanari, 2015, 134. Montanari, 2015, 141. Montanari, 2015, 134–135. M. Nelson, The Barbarian’s Beverage: A History of Beer in Ancient Europe, London 2005. M. Millon, Wine: A Global History, London 2013. R. Phillips, Wine: A Social and Cultural History of the Drink That Changed Our Lives, Oxford 2018, 80.

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cultural configuration – “the Mediterranean” and “Europe” – was symbolized as being highly civilized, in part because wine was made and drunk within that cultural region. The longer such associations persisted, the more wine was regarded as being rooted since time immemorial in these cultural regions.89 Such associations glossed over two facts: that the religious authorities of the Muslim lands of the Mediterranean littoral forbade any kind of alcohol production and consumption, and therefore large swathes of the coastline were wine-free, at least in theory; and that the northern parts of Europe, being too cold for vine cultivation, had beer and spirits as the main type of alcoholic drinks. But such facts could easily be dealt with by essentializing thought patterns, which drew the line between uncivilized and civilized places and people, such that the wine-drinking Christian Mediterranean region was the civilized side of the sea, and that wine-drinking southern and west-central Europe was more civilized than those northerly climes where more barbarous alcohols and concomitant unconstrained drinking patterns held sway. The long-standing cultural stereotypes of the uncouth, beer-guzzling German, juxtaposed against the civilized wine quaffing Frenchman, both expressed and helped to reproduce that cultural fault-line well into the 20th century CE.90 In such thinking. “Europe” was at its most civilized when it was most connected to wine drinking, and thus to the Christian Mediterranean, which was taken as the birthplace of all things oenological.91 4

Modern Imperialisms and the Global Spread of Wine

In the first 6 millennia or so of grape wine, the spread of wine making and drinking across western Eurasia was primarily due to the workings of empires, and especially of trade within and between them, with Christianity then being an important spreader of wine-related knowledge in the first and early second millennia CE. The movement of wine making across continents in the second half of the second millennium CE was in large part due to the broader trajectories of modern European colonialism, with Christianity being bound up with such dynamics in the first few centuries of the European trans-oceanic empires.92 89 90 91 92

M.P. Holt, Wine, Community and Reformation in Sixteenth-Century Burgundy, in: Past & Present 138 (1993), 58–93. R. Barthes, Wine and Milk, in: Mythologies, New York 22013 (1957), 58–60. Montanari, 2015. D.  Inglis, Wine Globalization: Longer-term Dynamics and Contemporary Patterns, in: D. Inglis / A.-M. Almila (eds.), The Globalization of Wine, London 2019, 21–46.

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As colonies were established in the Americas, southern Africa, and parts of east Asia in the 16th, 17th, and 18th centuries, Christian religious functionaries, especially those following Catholic rites, could not rely on wine being supplied from Europe for the purposes of communion services. The solution was to import wine making knowhow and vines from Europe, implanting these in conquered soil, in order to create a guaranteed wine supply.93 Thus, Spanish Jesuits began wineries in Peru in the 17th century. Franciscan monks did the same in Mexico, and then in California, in the late 18th century.94 Christian personnel therefore figure as the pioneers of non-Mediterranean and non-European wine making, and as such the nascent wine industries of the Americas first developed for reasons of religious faith rather than for commercial purposes. Some winemaking operations in the Americas today like to demonstrate their claims to longevity and tradition by tracing their beginnings back to the ecclesiastical wine pioneers of the 17th and 18th centuries.95 Wine in the European colonies became a larger-scale, secular, and profitmaking exercise only in the later 19th century, as mass migration out of Europe across oceans and continents allowed for larger workforces in vineyards and wineries, and the growth of numbers of potential consumers in the cities and towns of the new producing countries. Across the century, about 50 million people emigrated from Europe to the colonies.96 A significant minority of these drank wine in their countries of origin, taking their tastes with them across the seas. A much smaller, but still significant, number also took wine-making skills with them. Some were lured to the new locations by the promise of escaping peasant servitude by becoming small independent landowners. However, many left their ancestral homes because of the devastation wrought on the European wine industry by the phylloxera disease, an originally North American pest which attacked the roots of vines, with disastrous results on wine making capacity in multiple European regions in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.97 Wine professionals and longstanding winemaking families fled southern and central Europe for the various colonial locations that offered some hope of recouping their livelihoods. Destinations included the Americas – especially the US, Argentina, Chile, and Uruguay – as well as Australasia and South Africa. As new vineyards and wineries appeared across continents, this led “to a significant diversification in the world 93 94 95 96 97

T. Colman, Wine Politics, Berkeley 2008. T. Pinney, A History of Wine in America: From the Beginnings to Prohibition, Berkeley 1989. Colman, 2008. D. Held et al. (eds.), Global Transformations: Politics, Economics and Culture, Cambridge 1999. C. Campbell, Phylloxera: How Wine was Saved for the World, London 2004.

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production of wine”, with established European grapes and oenological techniques being adapted and reconfigured in the new climates and territories of the far-flung colonies.98 The social organisation of wine making in the colonies directly reflected some practices that had been current in the Roman empire, pointing to a general trend in wine making within imperial conditions. When new territories for wine making are opened-up by colonial expansion, the scale of vineyards and wineries will generally – but not necessarily – be much larger than in areas where a free peasantry have owned small-holdings over multiple generations.99 This trend certainly applied in 19th century Chile and California, where very large production units were set up by colonists whose vine-growing and wine making facilities in Europe would have been much smaller in scale.100 Highly concentrated, large-scale grape-growing and wine making took advantage of a combination of the natural endowments of highly fertile land, beneficial climates, and the importation of the latest European farming technologies and oenological science. New technologies allowed producers to make consistent wines in hot climates year upon year, and these could also be kept longer than before and more easily transported over long distances without spoiling. Such mass-market wines, made in bulk, were particularly susceptible to being sold through the novel marketing device of the brand name. This was unlike European wines, which had been sold for several centuries under the name of the chateau or domaine where they had been made.101 Very large enterprises were set up to take advantage of and promote the colonial conditions which allowed for mass marketing of wine. By the late 19th century, about 50% of the total annual wine production in Chile was controlled by the top 5 large companies, with even greater levels of control by a very small number of companies in California. Such companies did not just make wine, they also distributed and marketed it too.102 Already in the 1870s California wines were being exported to places as diverse as Australia, Peru, China and Denmark, while being shipped to the US East Coast in bulk, in 100,000-gallon containers.103

98 99 100 101 102 103

V.  Pinilla / M.-I.  Ayuda, The Political Economy of the Wine Trade: Spanish Exports and the International Market, 1890–1935, in: European Review of Economic History 6 (2002), 51–85 (55). J. Simpson, Creating Wine: The Emergence of a World Industry, 1840–1914, Princeton 2011. Simpson, 2011. T. Unwin, Wine and the Vine: An Historical Geography of Viticulture and the Wine Trade, London 1991. Simpson, 2011. Unwin, 1991.

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An even more spectacular case of the massification of wine production is that of colonial Algeria. Paralleling the Roman experience in North Africa, the late 19th century French colonial authorities set up Algeria as their major source of supply.104 The local Muslim peasantry were thrown off the land in favour of a small number of large industrial wineries owned by big French companies, French colonial wine production jumped exponentially, from 1 million hectares under vine in 1885, to 8.4 million hectares in 1910. Low-grade Algerian wine flooded the market of metropolitan France, turning working class drinkers towards cheap Algerian imports and away from French producers, creating a crisis in the wine-making regions of southern France, which had supplied basic wines to Paris and the major cities for centuries.105 By the early 20th century, France occupied the paradoxical position of being by far both the main producer and the largest importer of wines in the world, most of the imports coming from colonial Algeria.106 The development of wine businesses in the late 19th century European colonies did not, however, always follow the trend towards massification of production and great enlargement of business operations. In locales like California and Argentina, the arrival of peasant smallholders from Europe led to the development of often very small artisanal vineyard and winery operations, existing alongside very large industrial operations. Many of these in California eventually went out of business when the Federal government introduced alcohol prohibition in the 1920s.107 Whether wine operations were grandiose or more modest in size, they each were shaped by, and contributed to, colonial ideologies of Europeans bringing what they called ‘civilization’ to previously benighted locations. In earlier colonial times, missionaries had used wine in the communion service as part of their endeavours to Christianize local populations. Secular colonial authorities drew upon Christian and Greco-Roman ideas as to the civilizing powers of vines and wines. The indebtedness of elite colonizers’ thinking to the ancient Mediterranean inheritance was often quite explicit. As Hannickel notes,108 for elites educated in the assumed virtues of Greek civilization and the pax Romana, it seemed natural to think that “all powerful nations, since antiquity, had transcendent grape cultures”.

104 105 106 107 108

Pinilla / Ayuda, 2002. Simpson, 2011. Pinilla / Ayuda, 2002. Simpson, 2011. E. Hannickel, Empire of Vines: Wine Culture in America, Philadelphia 2013, 15.

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Planting vines, as well as making and drinking wines, were accordingly part of “an international set of colonial tactics for transforming landscapes and for propagating a particular worldview of cultivation and control” over territories appropriated from other peoples.109 Such thinking was perhaps especially to be found in colonial situations governed by Anglo-Saxon elites. In California, the planting of vineyards was thoroughly bound up with notions as to the “civilizing” of the West, and the need of the US state, which had begun to nurtured its own imperial ambitions, to have a wine culture as sophisticated as that of the Greeks and Romans.110 Similar ideas were at work among the British administrators of 19th century Australia, where in addition to taming the landscape through vine planting, the development of wineries had the benefit of creating a supply of “civilized” alcohol that was thought to be able to wean the rough-hewn local settler population off from hard spirits, as well as beer, and the rowdiness and troublemaking associated with their consumption by the lower classes.111 In the 17th and 18th centuries, in the earlier days of colonization, it was wine’s strong Christian associations that facilitated its making in colonial contexts. But in the 19th century situation of the consolidating of imperial acquisitions, it was its symbolic connections to the Greco-Roman civilization of the Mediterranean, and the Roman imperial control of the region and its hinterlands, which further drove its development. Throughout the first half of the 20th century, it was wine’s “European” characteristics that held more sway than those other associations, especially over how makers and marketeers thought about their products, and how they sought to present them to customers.112 This was particularly so in former British colonies. In those, the wine culture of the British upper-middle and upper classes provided the dominant manner of classifying wine. In that imaginary, it was the most prestigious regions of France – Burgundy, Bordeaux, and Champagne – which mainly provided the template for legitimate wine styles.113 These three regions were clearly understood as “European”, but as they are relatively far from France’s southern coast, they could hardly be widely understood as “Mediterranean”. Nonetheless, marketing campaigns that had flourished to cater for the burgeoning tourist trade in post-WWI France, stressed their “ancient” lineages – whether understood 109 Hannickel, 2013, 15. 110 Hannickel, 2013. 111 J.  McIntyre, First Vintage: Wine in Colonial New South Wales, Sydney 2012; M.  Brady, Teaching ‘Proper’ Drinking? Clubs and Pubs in Indigenous Australia, Canberra 2018. 112 T. Brabazon, Colonial Control or Terroir Tourism? The Case of Houghton’s White Burgundy, in: Human Geographies 8 (2014), 17–33. 113 C. Ludington, The Politics of Wine in Britain: A New Cultural History, Basingstoke 2013.

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as medieval, or as dating from the times of early Christian winemaking, or, in the case of Burgundy, begun in the time of Roman Gaul.114 Lacking any indigenous cultural associations of their own to draw upon, winemakers and sellers in the first seven decades of the 20th century in Australia and California were compelled to market their offerings as “California claret” or “white Burgundy” from the Barossa Valley, or similar attempts to indicate that the wine was of a certain European style, and therefore was legitimate and worthy of consideration by consumers in the cities of their own country or abroad. It was only as recently as the 1980s that avoiding associations with European regions and their wine styles became the norm in such countries, as the indigenous wine industries came to have the cultural confidence and economic clout to present their wines as being redolent of their distinct territories and being possessed of their own unique qualities.115 An important component of the vastly increased cultural legitimacy that wines from such areas have come to enjoy internationally over the last four decades, involves a turn in marketing terms towards claiming not only the general European-ness of those wines, but in many cases also their specifically Mediterranean provenance. Both wine marketing to distant consumers, and on-site wine tourism for physically co-present visitors work this way today. Whether in the bottle labels, marketing brochures, and website materials of the former, or in the carefully curated iconography of the latter – which tends to erase any vestiges of wineries operating as sites of mundane labour and techno-scientific manipulation of vines and wines – essentializing accounts of heritage and ethnicity hold sway.116 French-ness, and more broadly European-ness are conveyed by calling the winery Chateau  X or Domaine Y, and also having these represented by stereotypically chateau- or domaine-like buildings, whether as images on labels or as real edifices on the winery grounds, constructed to appeal to tourist demands for immediately visible and tangible “heritage”.117 Internationally recognisable terms like “chateau” and “domaine” are signifiers that can connote

114 P. Whalen, Insofar as the Ruby Wine Seduces Them: Cultural Strategies for Selling Wine in Inter-War Burgundy, in: Contemporary European History 18 (2009), 67–98. 115 Brabazon, 2014. 116 A. Peace, Barossa Slow: The Representation and Rhetoric of Slow Food’s Regional Cooking, in: Gastronomica 6 (2006), 51–59; D. Picard / C. Nascimento Moreira / T. Loloum, Wine Magic: Consumer Culture, Tourism, and Terroir, in: JAR 74 (2018), 526–540. 117 P. Allen, How Wine became Modern: Design + Wine 1976 to Now, in: JSAH 70 (2011), 550–551.

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that either the humblest or the most mass-market wineries are somehow part of a wider noble tradition.118 A wine purveyor telling customers that they make “California claret” is for them to admit implicitly that they are copying a higher-level “European” original, and thereby rendering what perforce must be an inferior, because nonEuropean imitation, of an authentic original. However, if the purveyor can claim that the wine has a true Mediterranean heritage, precisely because its makers are ancestors of wine-making immigrants from a long-standing winemaking region of the Mediterranean, then claims to the legitimacy of the wine are much more likely to be sustained.119 Claimed family connections are crucial in this regard. In California, Australia, and other post-colonial winemaking countries, it is very common for the marketing of a wine business to make connections to Italian or other Mediterranean winemaking ancestors of the current owners and/or winemakers. In these cases, labels may contain images of stereotypical cantinas and bodegas, and corresponding buildings are erected on-site to host the tourists.120 Given the broader cultural and commercial validation since the 1970s of the so-called “Mediterranean diet” and associated lifestyles, taken as epitomes of health, wellbeing, and longevity,121 it is easy to market family connections to Mediterranean winemaking traditions – pre-eminently “Italian”, but also Spanish and Greek. It is more difficult to make marketing materials which capitalise on a wine business’s historic connections to people of other nationalities who also were involved in setting up wine operations in the 19th and early 20th centuries, but whose heritages lack the cachet of “Mediterranean” provenance. German, Hungarian, Croat and Swiss colonial winemaking pioneers are cases in point here.122 All sorts of Europeans were involved in creating the new wine worlds of the colonies, but usually – with the exception of the French, who occupy a special position in this regard – only the “Mediterraneans” are memorialized and put to present- day marketing work.123 Such a tendency 118 D.W.  Gade, Tradition, Territory, and Terroir in French Viniculture: Cassis, France, and Appellation Contrôlée, in: Annals of the Association of American Geographers 94 (2004), 848–867. 119 J. Smith Maguire, J. (2018). The Taste for the Particular: A Logic of Discernment in an Age of Omnivorousness, in: Journal of Consumer Culture 18 (2018), 3–20. 120 Peace, 2006. 121 F.-X.  Medina, Looking for Commensality: On Culture, Health, Heritage, and the Mediter­ ranean Diet, in: International Journal of Environmental Research and Public Health 18 (2021), 2605, see: http://dx.doi.org/10.3390/ijerph18052605. 122 M. Veseth, Wine Wars, Lanham 2012. 123 M. Beverland / S. Luxton, Managing Integrated Marketing Communication (IMC) Through Strategic Decoupling: How Luxury Wine Firms Retain Brand Leadership while Appearing to

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gives the impression to consumers that, when wine is not “French”, it must otherwise be wholly Mediterranean in origin, precisely because it is seen to have come directly from Mediterranean countries to “New World” ones, and from nowhere else, and without involving the agency of anyone who is not of some sort of Mediterranean ancestry. Still, the presentation of a “Mediterranean” vineyard or winery in California, Australia, or wherever, must take account of the local conditions too, not least because the marked tendency in wine selling over the last several decades has involved claims as to the unique characteristics of the place where it comes from,124 the placeness being expressed in the (complicated and vexed) term “terroir”, an originally French word now used across the world.125 Thus, purveyors of wine in Northern California have since the 1980s particularly described both the terroir and the associated wine-making style of Italian-heritage winemakers not as “Californian”, nor as “Italian”, but rather as “Cal-Ital”. This is said to combine distinctively Californian and Italian (often especially Piemontese) features in a hybrid that is itself unique, and as exhibiting the best of both worlds. The belief in the uniqueness of Cal-Ital tradition and terroir has had very material effects: it has motivated the planting in the region of classic Central and Northern Italian varietals like Sangiovese and Barbera, as well as some lesser-known regional Italian varieties, often replacing less iconically “Italian” grapes that the “Italian” winemaking ancestors had planted and cultivated in earlier times.126 In this way, beliefs about “Mediterranean” heritages become performative, as well as self-fulfilling prophecies: they bring into existence wine-making practices and styles of wine which they claim merely to describe as facts that have already existed for lengthy periods of time. Territory on the west coast of the American continent is thereby transformed, in interpenetrating symbolic and material manners, into either more “European” (“little Piemonte”) or more “Mediterranean” (the “new Provence”) entities, in both cases with strong associations of cultural heritage and idyllic rurality.127 These concurrent and overlapping Europeanization and Mediterrane­ anization processes gloss over various factors that wine aficionados and tourists might find discomfiting. Closer examination of the history of winemaking in California shows that there existed socio-economic and cultural hierarchies within the group subsequently narrated as homogeneously “Italian”. The be Wedded to the Past, in: Journal of Advertising 34 (2005), 103–116. 124 Smith Maguire, 2018. 125 T. Parker, Tasting French Terroir: The History of an Idea, Berkeley 2015. 126 J.J.  Helzer, Old Traditions, New Lifestyles: The Emergence of a Cal-Ital Landscape, in: Yearbook of the Association of Pacific Coast Geographers 63 (2001), 49–62. 127 T.P. Huber, Wine: An American Provence, Boulder 2011.

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dominant figures in the late 19th and early 20th centuries were Piemontese. Often lacking wine-making skills themselves, they were amply endowed with entrepreneurial skills, and got Italian immigrants from other areas, including the poorer and despised southern regions, to work for them in the vineyards and wineries for low wages, while exploiting the burgeoning Asian and Mexican workforce.128 The exploitation of ethnic minority labour in the wine industry is a recurring story in California and other regions of the US, while intersecting with the history of how initially low-status “Italians” could come to be categorised as being as fully “white” and “European” as their Anglo-Saxon compatriots, partly because of their coming to occupy positions of dominance over Latino workers who occupy some of the lowest positions in the United States’ ethnic hierarchy.129 In other post-colonial winemaking regions, such as in Australia and South Africa, the marketing of wine in general, and the presentation of wines’ and winemakers “Mediterranean roots”, can help to create a sense of a coherent regional food culture (“Barossa cuisine”, etc), even if that is a marketing fabrication which hides local political tensions as well as the possible presence of exploited minority ethnic labour and of globalized capitalist agribusiness.130 Both visitors to wineries and the personnel on-site who handle them will in most cases be overwhelmingly of white ethnicity – Mediterranean ancestry nowadays being mostly unproblematically definable as “white”, although that was not always so in the past – and this is testament to the highly ethnicallyskewed nature of the social worlds of wine across the globe today.131 In such post-colonial locations, promotional materials often play up the venerability of the wine-making operation, sometimes claiming not only to perpetuate “tradition” just as much as wineries do back in Europe generally and Mediterranean countries more specifically, but also to use more authentically traditional techniques than are nowadays used back in the supposed places of origin. In this manner, non-Mediterranean locations are presented as being more redolent

128 S. Cinotto, Soft Soil, Black Grapes: The Birth of Italian Winemaking in California, New York 2012. 129 G. Peck, The Prohibition Hangover: Alcohol in America from Demon Rum to Cult Cabernet, New Brunswick 2009. 130 A. Peace, Barossa Slow: The Representation and Rhetoric of Slow Food’s Regional Cooking, in: Gastronomica 6 (2006), 51–59; J. Ewert / A. du Toit, A Deepening Divide in the Countryside: Restructuring and Rural Livelihoods in the South African Wine Industry, in: JSAS 31 (2005), 315–332. 131 D. Inglis / H.K. Ho, Beyond White: On Wine and Ethnicity, in: S. Charters et al. (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Wine and Culture, London 2022, 415–423.

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of authentic Mediterranean-ness than are those regions surrounding the Mediterranean themselves.132 5

Conclusion: The De-Mediterraneanization of Wine?

This chapter has demonstrated how in the long-term history of wine, the drink’s Eurasian origins have been occluded by successive waves of Mediterraneanization and Europeanization. Different versions of these processes have occurred over the last few millennia, some more the unintentional results of broader social dynamics, especially of imperialism and colonialism, and others, especially in more recent times, carried out more consciously by human actors. Despite originating in the region nowadays called Georgia, and being an important commodity, prestige good, and ritual object in the empires of ancient Western Eurasia, wine today is widely regarded as originally and pre-eminently a generally “European” phenomenon, and more particularly a “Mediterranean” one. While the former classification appeared historically after the latter one, today wine’s Mediterranean-ness is culturally nested within its more generic European-ness. Paradoxically, as Mediterranean and European winemaking travelled to the European colonies and industries developed there, the viability of those industries in far-flung locales with no previous traditions of making wine from grapes, actually underlined and reinforced the notion that wine was “originally” from “Europe” (especially France), but even more especially from the (Greco-Roman) Mediterranean. While wine could be successfully transplanted to the Americas, Australasia, and other locations, it was still understood as being essentially a European, and more specifically Mediterranean, importation. Very few people in post-colonial wine industries today sell their wine through appeals to its historically distant origins in the Caucasus, and hardly anyone in such places attempts to connect the current winemaking to pioneering Georgian ancestors. And yet, after millennia of notions of the supposedly essential Mediterranean-ness and European-ness of wine being reinforced, some challenges to such hegemonic understandings have begun to appear. Entrepreneurs driving the resurgent post-Soviet wine industries of Georgia and adjacent countries now market their wine by appeals to 8,000 years of unbroken winemaking practice.133 Claiming that theirs is the most venerable 132 Peace, 2006. 133 P. Manning / A. Uplisashvili, ‘Our Beer’: Ethnographic Brands in Postsocialist Georgia, in: AmA 109 (2007), 626–641.

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winemaking part of the world, they explicitly seek to deconstruct the supposed Mediterranean and European origins of wine, aiming to dislodge many centuries of cultural centrality by defining those areas not as the true Old World of wine, but as relative newcomers when understood against a much more ancient Eurasian lineage.134 They have created a novel label to describe their region – the Ancient World of wine. This is presented to audiences around the globe as being far older than both the Mediterranean-European Old World, and its post-colonial offspring, the New World. By framing themselves as inheritors of the traditions of the world’s first winemakers and drinkers, and as custodians of the most longstanding wine heritage, they stand against the very long-term cultural tides described in this chapter. The extent to which they are successful in provincializing “Europe” as the seedbed of winemaking, and in de-Mediterraneanizing the nature of wine, remains to be seen.

134 A. Feiring, For the Love of Wine, Lincoln 2016.

Condemning Mobility: Nativist and Exclusionist Rhetoric in the Second-Century “Sophistic” Discourse on Human Movement Antti J. Lampinen Abstract This chapter explores the ways in which human movement and group membership were debated in the second century CE, primarily among the Greek authors influenced by the cultural phenomenon of the ‘Second Sophistic’. It examines, in particular, their expressions of unease at the thought of “Hellenic” identities being diluted as the result of population movements within the empire, as well as the occasional dismissal of such fears. These ideas were enabled by the widely diffused set of theoretical structures that all encouraged the perception of population groups as having essentialistically defined and largely unchanging – though corruptible – characteristics. Turning this human variety and the empire’s internal mobility into a tool in moralizing debate was an option that several writers within the sophistic movement took up. After discussing the epistemic basis for such nativist rhetoric, the chapter focuses on three particular cases: Polemon of Laodicea’s Hellenic chauvinism, Favorinus of Arles’ rejection of nativism while upholding essentialising patterns of thought, and Herodes Atticus’ allegorically replete anecdote on the rural strongman Agathion as preserved in Philostratus’ Lives of the Sophists.

Introductory Notes

The past decade has provided ample and disheartening evidence about how human mobility and migration can engender strongly emotional reactions and even existential fears in sections of the receiving societies.1 It is probably 1 On anti-immigrant sentiment in the EU, UK and US over the past decade, e.g. R. Koopmans / P.  Statham / M.  Giugni / F.  Passy (eds.), Contested Citizenship. Immigration and Cultural Diversity in Europe, London 2005; P.  Schrag, Not Fit for Our Society: Immigration and Nativism in America, Berkeley 2010; A.  Guia, The Concept of Nativism and Anti-Immigrant Sentiments in Europe, European University Institute 2016; J. Szakács / É. Bognár, The Impact of Disinformation Campaigns about Migrants and Minority Groups in the EU, European Parliament 2021; B. Jordan, Immigration, Social Cohesion and Political Reaction, Cham 2021;

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not anachronistic to assume that – considering the universality of ingroupoutgroup dynamics that characterise human social identity-building – such fears and anxieties could well have existed in the case of the societies of the Roman empire, as well.2 Where the danger of anachronism is more acute, however, is the application of concepts from later imperial and colonial contexts into the case of ancient mobility and the reactions it elicited. “Mobility”, itself, is a concept which we should not transpose wholesale to the Roman Imperial era – though it also has been recently studied vigorously, and consequently we have a fairly good idea about the parameters of actual human mobility in different periods of antiquity.3 Migration inside the Roman empire was characterised by several major differences from those of the more recent times – for instance in its lack of distinction between “legal” and “illegal” mobility, and the way in which state power scrutinised emigration (especially of the elites) much more closely than immigration.4 Moreover, expressions of xenophobia were more explicitly than in most modern cases connected with class prejudice – although this is not unknown nowadays, either.5 It should also be noted that the theoretical universality of Roman rule did not put much

2

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4 5

M. Kromczyk / N. Khattab / T. Abbas, The Limits of Tolerance: Before and after Brexit and the German Refugee Crisis, in: Ethnic and Racial Studies 44 (2021), 170–193. See M. Ehala, Signs of Identity. The Anatomy of Belonging, New York 2018 on “symbols of belonging”. On other aspects of ingroup-outgroup dynamics, see e.g. M.B. Brewer, The Psychology of Prejudice: Ingroup Love or Outgroup Hate? in: JSI 55 (1999), 429–444; M. Parker Tapias / J.  Glaser / D.  Keltner / K.  Vasquez / T.  Wickens, Emotion and Prejudice: Specific Emotions Toward Outgroups, in: Group Processes and Intergroup Relations 10 (2007), 27–39; B. Mullen / T. Leader, Linguistic Factors: Antilocutions, Ethnonyms, Ethnophaulisms, and Other Varieties of Hate Speech, in: J.F. Dovidio / P. Glick / L.A. Rudman (eds.), On the Nature of Prejudice: Fifty Years after Allport, Malden 2015, 192–206 and many of the other contributions to the same volume. See, for instance, D. Noy, Foreigners at Rome: Citizens and Strangers, London 2000; Y. Klaassen, Migration and Integration in the Roman World: A New Approach towards Culture and Identity, in: Talanta  42–43 (2010–2011), 129–155; C.  Moatti, Roman World, Mobility, in: I.  Ness (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Global Human Migration, Chichester 2013; and the two collected volumes E. Lo Cascio / L.E. Tacoma (eds.), The Impact of Mobility and Migration in the Roman Empire, Leiden 2016; L. de Ligt / L.E. Tacoma (eds.), Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Leiden 2016. Note the warning of S. Lachenicht, Learning from Past Displacements? The History of Migrations between Historical Specificity, Presentism and Fractured Continuities, in: Humanities 7/2, 36 (2018), 6 about anachronisms when studying historical anxieties about population movements; cf. G.  Baroud, Historicizing Migration and Displacement: Learning from the Early Roman Empire in the Time of the Nation-State. Response to Lachenicht, Susanne, “Learning from Past Displacements?”, in: Humanities 9/2, 36 (2020). Cf. Moatti, 2013, 3–5; L.E.  Tacoma, Moving Romans: Migration to Rome in the Principate, Oxford 2016, 104, 265; Baroud, 2020, 2–4. Noy, 2000, 35.

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emphasis – at least before the Late Antiquity – on the state’s control of territories thought to be particularly “Roman”. That people kept being moving within the empire, both out of their own volition or in forced relocations, is obvious. But mobility did not need to be actual in order to motivate everyday anxieties, either among the elite or among other social groups. It should be kept in mind that when dealing with societal or mental reactions to group difference, perceptions matter frequently as much – or more – than realities: anxieties about perceived, rather than actual, human mobility have motivated many hateful and exclusionary speech acts in our recent past (and present).6 There is no compelling reason to assume that such a fundamental – and apparently quite universal – cognitive feature of our construction of group identities would have been much different in Roman empire.7 In this chapter I will take a look at some Imperial-era cases – all of them from literature – where we seem to have indications of condemnation or anxiety about human mobility within the empire, or – perhaps even more significantly – expressions of nativist or exclusionist rhetoric about immigrants or recently arrived individuals or groups.8 I will argue that we see these sentiments being expressed in both Latin and especially in some Greek texts 6 See e.g. M. Hooghe / T. De Vroome, The Perception of Ethnic Diversity and Anti-Immigrant Sentiments: A Multilevel Analysis of Local Communities in Belgium, in: Ethnic and Racial Studies  38 (2015), 38–56 on the perceptions of ethnic diversity mattering more for antiimmigrant sentiments in Belgian communities than any actual situation. 7 On exclusion, discrimination and migration: E.  Kramer, Motivation, Immigration and the Immigrant, in: S.  M.  Caliendo / C.  D.  McIlwain (eds.), The Routledge Companion to Race and Ethnicity, London 2011, 55–63; M. Banton, Discrimination and Migration: National and Ethnic Origin, in: I. Ness (ed.), The Encyclopedia of Global Human Migration, Chichester 2013; U. Erel / K. Murji / Z. Nahaboo, Understanding the Contemporary Race-migration Nexus, in: Ethnic and Racial Studies 39 (2016), 1339–1360; B. Aldana Marquez / W.L. Moore, Including Exclusion: The Enduring Problematic Gap between the Race and Ethnicity Paradigms, in: Ethnic and Racial Studies 40 (2017), 2249–2255; V. Stolcke, Talking Culture: New Boundaries, New Rhetorics of Exclusion in Europe, in: HAU: Journal of Ethnographic Theory 11 (2021), 221–239; in the case of Roman empire, in particular, see B. Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity, Princeton 2004, 39–40; F. Pina Polo, The Rhetoric of Xenophobia in Cicero’s Judicial Speeches: Pro Flacco, Pro Fonteio and Pro Scauro, in: F. Marco Simón / F. Pina Polo / J. Remesal Rodríguez (eds.), Xenofobia y racismo en el mundo antiguo, Barcelona 2019, 115–126; G. Gellérfi, Xenophobic Utterances in Juvenal’s Satires, in: Graeco-Latina Brunensia 24 (2019), 81–91. 8 “Nativism” in modern contexts is adequately defined e.g. in Schrag, 2010, 1–14, 233 n. 1; Guia, 2016, though this is not entirely transferable to antiquity as a whole. In the ancient contexts, see N. Loraux, Born of the Earth: Myth and Politics in Athens, (S. Stewart, trans.), Ithaca 2000; D. Kasimis, The Perpetual Immigrant and the Limits of Ancient Democracy, Cambridge 2018, 4, 8, 79–81, 91, 123–124, 173–176.

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of the Second Sophistic movement, and possibly in large enough numbers that we can try to define the phenomenon further by explaining which cultural or ideological factors shaped it. Principal ideas shaping the relevant text seem to be ancient attitudes towards the notion of movement, and the contemporary opinions about mixture of populations. The next section will devote attention to this ideological and theoretical background. 1

Essentialist Knowledge Templates

Why would the elites and cultural insiders of a world-empire have worried about population movement among the diverse subjects of the empire? It makes sense to first take a look at some underlying assumptions that coloured Greek and Roman ideas about the mixture of population groups, since it is only with this background in mind that we can see why attitudes towards mobility could have engendered anxieties of existential nature – as opposed to, say, more ubiquitous discrimination and hate speech. Behind the second-century reactions to mobility – and perhaps especially the ones coming from the Greek sphere, as we will see below – stands a set of knowledge templates, all of which emphasised an “essentialist” understanding of “ethnic” groupings. The production and maintenance of cultural difference had by the second century CE come to be epistemically propped up by a set of influential theoretical frames, all of which contributed to the widely shared assumption that the peoples of different regions had indelible, essentialisingly understood qualities. Among these were climatic or environmental determinism, a “nomic” kind of essentialism whereby the customs of a people had a deeper than simply behavioural effect on them, as well as astrological explanations, which were very suitable for being combined with the two first ones.9 9 For these models, see T. Barton, Power and Knowledge: Astrology, Physiognomics, and Medicine under the Roman Empire, Ann Arbor 1994, 27–94 (on astrology); C. Chiasson, Scythian Androgyny and Environmental Determinism in Herodotus and the Hippocratic περὶ ἀέρων ὑδάτων τόπων, in: Syllecta Classica 12 (2001), 33–73 (on climatological and cultural determinism); J.S.  Romm  Continents, Climates, and Cultures: Greek Theories of Global Structure, in: K.A.  Raaflaub / R.J.A.  Talbert (eds.), Geography and Ethnography: Perceptions of the World in Pre-Modern Societies, Chichester 2010, 215–235 (on climatology); G.  Irby, Climate and Courage, in: R.  Futo  Kennedy / M.  Jones-Lewis (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Identity and the Environment in the Classical and Medieval Worlds’, London 2016, 247–265 (on climatic models and ethnographical commonplaces); M.  Popović, Reading the Human Body. Physiognomics and Astrology in the Dead Sea Scrolls and Hellenistic-Early Roman Period Judaism, Leiden 2007 (on astrology and physiognomy). On essentialist knowledge templates

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This kind of knowledge also interacted with, and was propagated through, proverbial sayings (such as Punica fides), historical exempla, and rhetorical exercises.10 All these factors acted together to reify cultural stereotypes about the indelible qualities of peoples, which influenced not only the perception of subalterns in a society, but even the assessment of the qualities of the most powerful individuals. This can be seen, for instance, in the way in which Cassius Dio gives an ethnicised garb to his scathing assessment of the emperor Caracalla’s character faults: “Antoninus belonged to three ethnē, and though he had none of their virtues, he combined in himself all of their vices: the flippancy, cravenness and foolhardiness of Gaul, the harshness and savagery of Africa, and the deviousness of Syria from where he stemmed on his mother’s side.”11 The genealogical ethnicisation based on Septimius Severus’ North-African roots and Julia Domna’s Syrian parentage is here joined by a completely different essentialising template: that of the birth horoscope.12 Having been born in Lugdunum, Caracalla could (for the sake of the character assassination) be presented as participating in stereotypically “Gallic” character traits, with foolish bluster inescapably giving way to cowardice.13 and ancient ethnic perceptions, K.E.  Müller, “Ethnicity”, Ethnozentrismus und Essentialismus, in: W. Essbach (ed.), wir / ihr / sie. Identität und Alterität in Theorie und Methode, Würzburg 2000, 317–343; M.L.  Goldman, Ethnic Bodies. Physiognomy, Identity and the Environment, in: R. Futo Kenndy / M. Jones-Lewis (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Identity and the Environment in the Classical and Medieval Worlds, London 2016, 62–74. 10 Proverbial or “doxic” “knowledge” and commonsense perceptions are discussed e.g. in D.  Obbink, “What All Men Believe Must Be True”: Common Conceptions and consensio omnium in Aristotle and Hellenistic Philosophy, in: Oxford Studies in Ancient Philosophy 10 (1992), 193–231; D.  Dueck, Graeco-Roman Popular Perception of Africa: The Proverbial Aspect, in: D.M. Schaps / U. Yiftach / D. Dueck (eds.), When West Met East: The Encounter of Greece and Rome with the Jews, Egyptians, and Others, Trieste 2016, 211–223 (esp. 221); S.  Gozzano 2022, The Sources of Orality: Belief, Opinion, Acceptance, in: A.  Ercolani & L.  Lulli (eds.), Rethinking Orality, I: Codification, Transcodification and Transmission of “Cultural Messages”, Berlin 2022, 1–17. On the useful example of Punica fides as an immediately recognizable ethnically framed shorthand, see G. Waldherr, “Punica fide”: Das Bild der Karthager in Rom, in: Gym. 107 (2000), 193–222. 11 Cass. Dio, 78.6,1 ap. exc. Val. 361: ὅτι τρισὶν ἔθνεσιν ὁ Ἀντωνῖνος προσήκων ἦν, καὶ τῶν μὲν ἀγαθῶν αὐτῶν οὐδὲν τὸ παράπαν τὰ δὲ δὴ κακὰ πάντα συλλαβὼν ἐκτήσατο, τῆς μὲν Γαλατίας τὸ κοῦφον καὶ τὸ δειλὸν καὶ τὸ θρασύ, τῆς Ἀφρικῆς τὸ τραχὺ καὶ ἄγριον, τῆς Συρίας, ὅθεν πρὸς μητρὸς ἦν, τὸ πανοῦργον. 12 On astrological determinism, e.g. Barton, 1994; Popović, 2007 (see above fn. 9). 13 Similar assessments of Gauls (and other northern peoples), see e.g. Caes., bell. Gall. 2.1,3; 3.8,3; 3.19,6; 6.34,5; Str., 4.4,5; Tac., Germ. 29.4; see R. Ndiaye, L’image du barbarus gaulois

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Hand-in-glove with this essentialising rationale went the everyday stereotyping that was based on the assumption that physiognomical traits offered a valid way of inferring individuals’ and peoples’ immutable characteristics, as I have argued elsewhere.14 Such commonplaces among audience members were easily primed and triggered, in antiquity as they are still nowadays.15 A person bearing features that were commonly judged as “Syrian” would, for instance, have had to face a set of very bluntly stereotypical assumptions about not only the ethnic characteristics of Syrians themselves, but anybody supposedly looking like one. In Plutarch’s Life of Aratus, an attempt to deliver the Acrocorinth to Aratus almost falters due to the blithe ethnic assumptions of the Achaean strategos’ slave Technon: for him, all Syrians seem to be interchangeable due to their “curly hair, dark complexion and beardlessness”.16 This reliance on visual cues ties to migration and mobility in the sense that – as Claudia Moatti has pointed out – in the Roman imperial context, the recognition, authentication and identification of persons relied to a large extent on appearance.17

14 15

16

17

chez Cicéron et César, in: Vita Latina 177 (2007), 87–99. For Cassius Dio’s representation of Caracalla, see C. Davenport, Cassius Dio and Caracalla, in: CQ 62/2 (2012), 796–815; more for context, see A.  Kemezis, Greek Narratives of the Roman Empire under the Severans: Cassius Dio, Philostratus and Herodian, Cambridge 2014, 33. The same kind of implications shaped some of the senatorial criticism of the similarly Lugdunum-born emperor Claudius, called a Gallus germanus by Sen., Apocol. 6.1; 7.3. A. J. Lampinen, Physiognomy, ekphrasis, and the “Ethnographicising” Register in the Second Sophistic, in: J. Cale Johnson / A. Stavru (eds.), Visualizing the Invisible with the Human Body. Physiognomy and Ekphrasis in the Ancient World, Berlin 2019, 229–271. Generally on ethnophaulisms, E.B.  Palmore, Ethnophaulisms and Ethnocentrism, in: AJS 67 (1962), 442–445; Mullen / Leader, 2005; on triggering ethnic stereotypes in audiences, see also C.-G. Fedor, Stereotypes and Prejudice in the Perception of the “Other”, in: Procedia – Social and Behavioral Sciences 149 (2014), 321–326; Szakács / Bognár, 2021. In antiquity: see above fn. 10; also C.  Pelling, East is East and West is West – Or Are They? National Stereotypes in Herodotus, in: Histos 1 (1997), 51–66; S. O’Bryhim, Stock Characters and Stereotypes, in: G. F. Franko / D. Dutsch (eds.), A Companion to Plautus, London 2020, 123–133. Plut. Arat. 20.1. On Plutarch’s Aratus and the role of Hellenicity in it, see W. Tatum, Greece for the Greeks. Plutarch’s Aratus and Greek chauvinism, in: F. Marco Simón / F. Pina Polo / J.  Remesal  Rodríguez (eds.), Xenofobia y racismo en el mundo antiguo, Barcelona 2019, 69–83 (also note the general discussion on 69–70); relevant to Plutarch are A.G. Nikolaidis, Ἑλληνικός – βαρβαρικός. Plutarch on Greek and Barbarian Characteristics, in: WSt 20 (1986), 229–244; T. S. Schmidt, Plutarch’s Timeless Barbarians and the Age of Trajan, in: P.A. Stadter / L. van der Stockt (eds.), Sage and Emperor. Plutarch, Greek Intellectuals, and Roman Power in the Time of Trajan (98–117 A.D.), Leuven 2002, 57–72. C. Moatti, Translation, Migration, and Communication in the Roman Empire: Three Aspects of Movement in History, in: ClA 25 (2006), 109–140 (120).

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Another aspect about the endurance of stereotypes that produced and affirmed this imperial-era “ethnic essentialism” derives from the ease with which local and regional identities were valorized in the imperial system of indirect rule, producing and maintaining difference instead of de-emphasising it.18 Especially in the Greek east, local communities’ zeal to highlight their deep and strong connections to the remote past – especially but not exclusively the Hellenic past, as in the case of Hadrian’s “Panhellenion” – as a way of deserving administrative and fiscal benefits was a genuine factor that drew them to employ rhetoricians and other knowledge experts as a conduit to their selffashioning.19 This was nothing new in itself: genealogical claims had been an important method for creating and affirming Greek identities already during the Classical era.20 But what is notable is the intensity with which the speech acts articulated under the broad umbrella of the “Second Sophistic” tended to emphasise a complex but – either culturally or genealogically – essentialist type of continuation with the Hellenicity of the Classical era.21 These are what I will turn to examine in the fourth section of this chapter. 18

19

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J.  Burbank / F.  Cooper, Empires in World History: Power and the Politics of Difference, Princeton 2011, 16, 31, 35, 57; R.  Lachmann, Hegemons, Empires, and their Elites, in: Sociologia, Problemas e Práticas 75 (2014), 9–38 (16–18, cf. 24–27). Diachronic dynamics are explored also in H. Fischer-Tiné / S. Gehrmann, Introduction. Empires, Boundaries, and the Production of Difference, in: H. Fischer-Tiné (ed.), Anxieties, Fear and Panic in Colonial Settings: Empires on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, Cham 2016, 1–22. On these, see E.L. Bowie, Greeks and Their Past in the Second Sophistic, in: P&P 46 (1970), 3–41 (19–22, 28–35); T.  Whitmarsh, Greece is the World: Exile and Identity in the Second Sophistic, in: S.  Goldhill (ed.), Being Greek Under Rome. Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire, Cambridge 2001, 269–305 (273); Kemezis, Greek Narratives, 2014, 4–8.22.27–28.207; M.  Lavan, “Father of the Whole Human Race”: Ecumenical Language and the Limits of Elite Integration in the Early Roman Empire, in: M. Lavan / R.E. Payne / J. Weisweiler (eds.), Cosmopolitanism and Empire, Oxford 2016, 153–168 (155–157.159–160.163–168); a good example is the local elites of Aphrodisias: B.  Yıldırım, Identities and Empire: Local Mythology and the Self-Representation of Aphrodisias, in: B.E.  Borg (ed.), Paideia: The World of the Second Sophistic, Berlin 2004, 23–52. On the Panhellenion, I. Romeo, The Panhellenion and Ethnic Identity in Hadrianic Greece, in: CP 97 (2002), 21–40. Cf. for instance J.M.  Hall, Ethnic Identity in Greek Antiquity, Cambridge 1997, 67–106; R.R.  Thomas, The Fingerprint of the Foreigner: Colonizing the Criminal Body in 1890s Detective Fiction and Criminal Anthropology, in: ELH 61 (2001), 655–683; also P. Keyser, The Lineage of “Bloodlines”: Synecdoche, Metonymy, Medicine and More, in: J. Z. Wee (ed.), The Comparable Body – Analogy and Metaphor in Ancient Mesopotamian, Egyptian, and Greco-Roman Medicine, Leiden 2017. More on this, see Whitmarsh, 2001, 300; S. Swain, Polemon’s ‘Physiognomy’, in: S. Swain (ed.), Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul, Oxford 2007, 125–201 (130); A.  Kemezis, Greek Ethnicity and the Second Sophistic, in: J. McInerney (ed.), A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean, Malden 2014, 390–404 (396–398); P.  Lee-Stecum, Roman Elite

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Overall, even if we do not read the ancient literary and ideological material quite as strongly as Benjamin Isaac has done,22 it can be at least be argued that the mixing of peoples was generally in antiquity considered to lead to degeneration, which in turn was most commonly thought to have a moral dimension.23 If one was to look for more recent parallels to this type of moral panic, Victorian ideas about “reverse colonization” or contemporary mobilization of conspiracy-theories about “replacement” would probably overshoot the mark, but might in any case contain interesting comparanda. Scholars of Late Victorian British novels have often discussed the evident fear of rather hazily defined “corruption” seeping back from the colonies into the “heartland” of the empire, which could either be seen as being in danger of becoming sclerotic and moribund (as in Bram Stoker’s Dracula), or simply being overwhelmed by the strange and morally suspect foreign imports, whether goods or individuals (as e.g. in many Conan Doyle stories such as “The Adventure of the Yellow Face”).24 In some ways, this sort of fears could have been a feature in many imperial contexts where ethnic categories were relevant: in spreading its rule over many population groups, the “insiders” of the imperial power structure could well have begun to feel a certain vulnerability as the notional and spatial boundaries between ethnic categories became less defined.25

22

23 24

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Ethnicity, in: J. McInerney (ed.), A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean, Malden 2014, 455–469 (466); Lavan, 2016, 154–160; E.  Dench, Ethnicity, Culture, and Identity, in: D.S.  Richter / W.A.  Johnson (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Second Sophistic, Oxford 2017, 99–114. E.g. Isaac, 2004, 234; cf. the definitions and discussion in 17–39; also D.E.  McCoskey, On “Black Athena”, Hippocratic Medicine, and Roman Imperial Edicts: Egyptians and the Problem of Race in Classical Antiquity, in: R.D.  Coates (ed.), Race and Ethnicity: Across Time, Space and Discipline, Boston 2004, 297–330; and D.E. McCoskey, Race: Antiquity and Its Legacy, Oxford 2012. Isaac, 2004, 144.239.246.514 on suspicions about miscegenation (and even communication); see also A.  Acheraïou, Questioning Hybridity, Postcolonialism and Globalisation, London 2011, 42 on the deprecation and fear of “biological hybridity”. On Stoker,  S.D.  Arata, The Occidental Tourist: “Dracula” and the Anxiety of Reverse Colonization, in: Victorian Studies 33 (1990), 621–645 (esp. 626, 634–645); on Conan Doyle, Thomas, 1994, 677. More on the fears of “reverse colonization”, see C.  Clarke, Imperial Rogues: Reverse Colonization Fears in Guy Boothby’s A Prince of Swindlers and Late-Victorian Detective Fiction, in: Victorian Literature and Culture 41 (2013), 527–545. Isaac, 2004, 231 makes note of the theme of moral corruption by the empire’s eastern subjects. On state-created racial categories and boundaries: M.-K. Jung / T. Almaguer, The State and the Production of Racial Categories, in: R.D. Coates (ed.), Race and Ethnicity: Across Time, Space and Discipline, Boston 2004, 55–72; in antiquity, Lavan, 2016. On the “impostor problem” that affected the identities of the Second Sophistic and contributed to the constant diagnosing of interlopers and a wariness about insider status: K. Eshleman, The Social World of Intellectuals in the Roman Empire. Sophists, Philosophers, and Christians,

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‘Roman’ and ‘Greek’ Anxieties about Movement within the Empire

Whatever the usefulness of analogies from other periods of imperial insecurity, we should in any case remain open to the possibility that there may have been several different ways in which anxieties about population movement within the empire could have been expressed. Due to the divergent nature of the identity-building within the “Greek” and “Roman” discourses – though this distinction would in itself become hazier in the course of the Imperial era – it could be a worthwhile exercise to have a look whether we can distinguish differences between “Roman” and “Greek” reactions to human movement within the empire, and why it might make sense to examine Greek sources in relative isolation. Romans were not, on the whole, able to claim autochthony as the basis of their identity: their founding narrative was fundamentally about the comingtogether of disparate elements into a new whole – though this did not obviate a discourse on results of mobility.26 On the other hand, detecting any qualitative differences between Latin and Greek representations of intra-empire mobility is further complicated by the curiously lopsided survival of secondcentury Latin literature. From the second century CE we possess, genre-wise, a very skewed sample of Latin literature, and thus direct comparisons with the Greek material of the same era would in fact be rather difficult. From the first century CE, we have a plenty of negative and neutral – and even some positive – reactions in the Latin literature to the mobility of individuals and groups from the provinces into Italy and the city of Rome. Examples of condemnatory tone include Juvenal’s famous Satire 3, which is almost mandatorily cited in any discussions of ancient xenophobia and discrimination. Yet it is far from clear to what a degree the satirist expected his readers to agree with his speaker Umbricius’ moaning about foreign immigrants in the city. Umbricius’ inconsistent condemnation of foreign types in Rome, when he was actually announcing his intention to move to the “Greek” city of Cumae (a move, it is implied, nobody will be regretting), was surely meant to seem laughable.27 This said, we can at least assume that the xenophobic character

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Cambridge 2012, 34–54; cf. M.W. Gleason, Making Men: Sophists and Self-Representation in Ancient Rome, Princeton 1995, 37, 77–81; Swain, 2007, 134–145. Isaac, 2004, 134, 514; Moatti, 2006, 112; but cf. Tacoma, 2016, 208 on the discourse on the boundaries of Romanness staying relevant in a “situation in which a large part of the population originated from elsewhere”. T. Geue, The Loser Leaves (Rome’s Loss): Umbricius’ Wishful Exile in Juvenal, “Satire 3”, in: CQ 65 (2015), 773–787 has explored the ironies (and intertexts) of (self-)exile in this piece wonderfully.

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represented by Umbricius was well-enough known and believable to Juvenal’s audience.28 It can further be noted that the imagery in Satire 3 of drainage – of corrupting waters flowing to the cesspool that is the imperial centre – is strikingly similar to the beginning of Arthur Conan Doyle’s The Study of Scarlet.29 As David Noy has remarked, other first-century CE writers have also shown comparable hostility towards foreigners, even if the majority of references are in fact made in an ostensibly neutral fashion.30 Among the second-century sources – our primary concern in this instance – the relevant Latin references to anxieties about subaltern mobility within the empire come mostly from Tacitus, who wrote around the turn of the first and second centuries, and may largely reflect the attitudes of the previous generation.31 Even the two cases of second-century expulsions of minorities from the city of Rome in 99–100 CE and under Commodus did not address ethnically labelled groups, but actors.32 *** Greek sources from the second century furnish possibly more interesting – and certainly more plentiful – evidence for unease about or condemnation of human mobility within the empire. Interestingly, several of the ones which show connections to the movement known as the “Second Sophistic” exhibit an unambiguously negative attitude towards the effects that were thought to result from the settlement of population groups from the further-away provinces into the Hellenic heartlands. Despite it being often said that under the influence of the Second Sophistic, Hellenicity had become defined in cultural, not genealogical or ethnic terms, 28

29 30

31

32

On Umbricius and Juvenal’s aims in Satire 3, G.A. Staley, Juvenal’s Third Satire: Umbricius’ Rome, Vergil’s Troy, in: MAAR 45 (2000), 85–-98; E. Courtney, A Commentary on the Satires of Juvenal, Berkeley 2013, 126–129 (though not acknowledging Juvenal’s irony); Geue, 2015; Tacoma, 2016, 17–19.209–210. On Juvenal’s ethnic stereotypes, see e.g. Isaac, 2004, 42, 231– 232; Gellérfi, 2019. Juv., sat. 3.60–72; cf. Clarke, 2013, 528. Noy, 2000, 33–34. First-century negative references to mobility from the provinces to Rome include Lucan, de bell. civ. 7.400–406; 7.535–543; Juv., sat. 2.163–170; 3.60–72; 6.295–300; Plin., n.h. 29.8,15, quoting a letter from Cato but agreeing with the sentiment elsewhere, e.g. 29.9,19; 24.1,4–5 (paraphrasing Horace); Sen., Helv. 12(11).7,10; q.nat. 5.19,4; de superst. ap. Aug., civ. 6.11 (though mostly anti-Jewish). Cf. Tac., ann. 14.20; 14.44; 15.64; another relevant detail may be Tacitus’ clear emphasis on the Germans’ lack of mixture with other peoples in Germania 2. This theme would go on to have, as C.B. Krebs, A Most Dangerous Book: Tacitus’ Germania from the Roman Empire to the Third Reich, London 2011 has explored (179–244), remarkably tragic and destructive afterlife in the 19th and 20th centuries. Tacoma, 2016, 95.

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it has been recently affirmed that the change was never wholesale and complete. Adam Kemezis has noted that even during the second century CE “it is easy to find instances in which ‘the Greeks’ are spoken of as a descent group, or compared to other groups that seem to be ethnically defined”.33 Paideia and descent were in fact in a complex interplay, which allowed both for claims of “acquired Greekness” and ethnic, even nativist, arguments.34 As Simon Swain has pointed out, part of the emphasis on Greek ancestry during the Second Sophistic “was a kind of imaginary biology which enabled Greek and nonGreeks to claim kinship with the ancient Greeks”.35 This seems like a possible explanatory factor for the moral panic that the idea of ethnic mixture engendered in some second-century sophists. In the next section, I will discuss a selection of three case studies which seem to include either explicit or strongly implied desire to cast the mobility within the empire as a phenomenon with negative or harmful consequences. It is also worthwhile to pay attention to other speech acts that betray clear anxiety regarding the movement of non-Greek populations into Greek areas. 3

Moral Panics and the Fear of Mixture: The Perspective of Greeks under Rome

The three texts studied in this section all reflect the same broad second-century discourse taking place under the umbrella of the “Second Sophistic” on the effects of population movements on the Greek identity. Together, they allow us to distinguish some of the interactive dynamics between identity-building and claims of exclusion, and the way in which these were supported by the twin pillars of contemporary stereotypes and the ideology of essentialism. Our first text, Marcus Antonius Polemon’s Physiognomia, put forth a strict, genealogically, phenotypically and essentialistically framed definition of what being a “Hellene” signified.36 For this worldview, mobility was arguably a threat 33 34 35 36

Kemezis, Greek Ethnicity, 2014, 393. On paideia and identities, see also Gleason, 1995, xxi–xxiii.167–168, Whitmarsh, 2001, 303; Kemezis, Greek Ethnicity, 2014, 393–396.399. Swain, 2007, 197. On Polemon and his physiognomy, see Barton, 1994, 95–132; Gleason, 1995, 21–27.44–46; Swain, 2007; C.  Callon, Philostratus’ Omission of Polemo’s Physiognomic Skills: A Brief Reexamination and a Proposed Explanation, in: CPh  114 (2019), 163–172. On physiognomical inferences more broadly, M. Gleason, The Semiotics of Gender. Physiognomy and Self-Fashioning in the Second Century C.E., in: F. Zeitlin / J. Winkler (eds.), Before Sexuality, Princeton 1990, 389–415; M.  Ahonen, Ancient Physiognomy, in: S.  Knuuttila / J.  Sihvola

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and even a kind of contaminating factor. Polemon’s great adversary, the Gallic sophist Favorinus of Arelate, on the other hand, took overall a much more positive attitude to movement, migration, and acculturation taking place in the Imperial-era communities. One reason why Polemon attacked Favorinus so vehemently may well been their directly opposed ideas about the benefits of human mobility within the empire. Thirdly, Philostratus – who in his Lives of the Sophists tries to strike a middle path between Polemon’s sophistic lineage and his evident personal admiration for Favorinus – attributes to Herodes Atticus a curious story about a rural demi-hero Agathion, also known as “Herodes’ Herakles”. The anecdote also contains a scathing reference to the effects of population movements, and certainly ties into the inherited strain of Classicizing – indeed downright Periclean – nativism among the sophists.37 Polemon’s Physiognomical Nativism 3.1 Based on the extensive fragments and translations of its lost original, as well as Philostratus’ independent – though broadly positive – testimony, Marcus Antonius Polemon used his handbook of physiognomical inferences to advance his own nativist interpretations about Greekness. For instance, according to an anonymous late-fourth-century Latin redaction, the “signs of evil” are multiple – while in its ideological counterpoint, the very fundamentals of Polemonian physiognomy required a unitary perfection, represented by a wholly idealised “Greek” type.38 It was precisely from this that Polemon’s stereotype-based inferences drew their power: every individual’s looks could be claimed to deviate from the notional centre towards either animal, gendered, or ethnically framed analogies, or a combination of these.39 In the Greek adaptation by the similarly late-fourth century Adamantius of Alexandria, mobility is stated as the reason why “mixing of ethne to each other” has complicated the drawing of physiognomical analogies: “The signs from colours and hair are not sufficient in themselves for the purposes of physiognomy, and it is not easy to judge from them even in terms of races who is from a particular race, especially because there has

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(eds.), Sourcebook for the History of the Philosophy of Mind. Philosophical Psychology from Plato to Kant, Dordrecht 2014, 623–631; Goldman, 2016; Lampinen, 2019, 239–250. For the nativist ideology of Periclean Athens, see e.g. Loraux, 2000; Whitmarsh, 2001, 301; Isaac, 2004, 123; Acheraïou, 2011, 42–43; Kasimis, 2018, passim. [Anon. Lat.], de phys. 44 nam malitiae res multiformis est. See Lampinen, 2019, 249. E.g. [Anon. Lat.], de phys. 9; cf. (Ps.)Ar., phgn. 805a.

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been racial mixing (διὰ τὸ ἐπιμεμῖχθαι ἀλλήλοις τοὺς ἀπὸ τῶν ἐθνῶν), with Syrians spread in Italy, Africans in Thrace, and others elsewhere.”40 This is followed by a short recapitulation of the stereotypical qualities of ethnically tagged macrogroups, basically in the same guise they had been repeated and reified ever since the Hippocratic Airs, Waters, Places within a framework of a “continental” climatology.41 In a further passage, Adamantius sets out the Polemonian ideal: “Any who have guarded the Hellenic and Ionic race and kept it pure (εἰ δέ τισι τὸ Ἑλληνικὸν καὶ Ἰωνικὸν γένος ἐφυλάχθη καθαρῶς) are sufficiently large men, rather broad, upright, strong, with a rather white colour, pale, having a moderate and rather firm mixture of flesh, straight legs, shapely extremities, a round head of medium size, a strong neck, rather pale and soft hair that curls gently, a square face, thin lips, a straight nose and moist, dark blue, fierce eyes with plenty of light in them; for the Hellenic race has the best eyes of all races (εὐοφθαλμότατον γὰρ πάντων ἐθνῶν τὸ Ἑλληνικόν).”42 That this really represents Polemon’s and not Adamantius’ stance is confirmed by the independent branch of the tradition which led to the so-called Polemo Leidensis, preserved in two Arabic redactions that have been characterised as notably faithful to Polemon’s Greek original.43 The contents echo those of Adamantius: “I will mention the forms of the Greeks whose forms are pure and nothing from the other races is mixed with them. They are a people who share in their land. Others have become numerous among them, because people want them and their land, either for the pleasantness of their life and their moderate temperament and passion, or out of a desire for their 40

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Adamant., phgn. 2.31 (trans. I. Repath, 2007, The “Physiognomy” of Adamantius the Sophist, S.  Swain (ed.), Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul: Polemon’s “Physiognomy” from Classical Antiquity to Medieval Islam, Oxford 2007, 494–547; 533): ὅθεν οὐδὲ κατὰ ἔθνη ῥᾴδιον ἀποφήνασθαι, ὅστις ἀπὸ τοῦδε τοῦ ἔθνους, ἄλλως τε καὶ διὰ τὸ ἐπιμεμῖχθαι ἀλλήλοις τοὺς ἀπὸ τῶν ἐθνῶν καὶ Σύρους μὲν ἐν Ἰταλίᾳ, Λίβυας δὲ ἐν Θρᾴκῃ καὶ ἄλλους ἀλλαχοῦ διεσπάρθαι. See Chiasson, 2001; Romm, 2010; D. H. Kaufman, Race and Science, in: D. McCoskey (ed.), A Cultural History of Race in Antiquity, London 2021, 67–82. Adamant., phgn. 2.32 (trans. Repath, 2007, 533). See A. Ghersetti / S. Swain, Polemon’s “Physiognomy” in the Arabic Tradition, in: S. Swain (ed.), Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul, Oxford 2007, 309–325 (319).

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knowledge, their good way of life and their laws. They are the people of Argos (‘rmws), Corinth (Qrybws), and other lands of theirs. […] This is the description of the pure Greek.”44 Adamantius is generally agreed to have abbreviated Polemon’s original more, and comparing with the Arabic version he seems to have left out much of the discussion about reasons why threats to the “purity” to the Greeks has arisen in the guise of immigration. It seems then that these two independent reflections of Polemon’s Physiognomy both agree on the contents in what it came to “pure Greeks” being in danger of becoming less distinct through intermixture with “others”. The Arabic tradition preserves even what seems to be the names of Argos and Corinth, along with the “other lands of theirs” that typified the supposedly original and pure type of Greek, epitomized by having the best eyes (and, by implication, the soul) from all the peoples.45 The supposed “miscegenation” was clearly a problem for Polemon’s entire physiognomical enterprise due to the fundamental link between bodily signs and moral ideals; the mixing of what he called “pure Hellenes” into “others” thus called into question the entitativity (the “groupiness” or group distinctiveness) of the basic categories of his reasoning.46 Simon Swain thinks that these “others” can only mean Romans or Italians, especially in the context of the continental Greece that seems to be under discussion in the passage.47 On the other hand, if we pay attention to the Polemonian passage in Adamantius, cited above, it is not the Romans but completely different groups that are mentioned as having participated in the mobility within the empire: Adamantius refers to Syrians in Italy and Africans in Thrace – a rhetorical structure meant to highlight east-west and south-north movement.48 Although in 2.31 it is not the Roman mobility but mobility enabled by the Roman world-power that comes under criticism by the physiognomist, it is useful to bear in mind, as Swain notes, that Polemon’s teacher Dio Chrysostom of Prusa, “arguably the first Atticist writer”, was a prominent voice for criticism

44 45 46 47 48

Pol. Leid., 2.32. Translation R. Hoyland, A New Edition and Translation of the Leiden Polemo, in: S. Swain (ed.), Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul, Oxford 2007, 329–463 (427). On eyes as the acme of a physiognomist’s reading: Gleason, 1995, 32; Swain, 2007, 167–168.177.180–186. On “entitativity” as perceived group coherence, see D. A. Effron / E. D. Knowles, Entitativity and Intergroup Bias. How Belonging to a Cohesive Group Allows People to Express their Prejudices, in: JPSP 108 (2015), 234–253. Swain, 2007, 198. Adamant., phgn. 2.31. See above fn. 40.

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of the Roman rule.49 Dio was also interested in physiognomy.50 But the lineage is not the only way to explain Polemon’s nativism and unease about the blurring of phenotypic distinctions. His social and cultural context – the sophistic centres of Asia Minor, and perhaps Smyrna in particular – could be relevant for judging how broadly should the threatening “others” be seen. Smyrna was a hub where not only medical writers and paradoxographers but also the plentifully produced terracotta figurines often paid attention to exaggerated physical traits and disfigurement; an analytic gaze that could have emphasised the supposedly diagnostic potential of physiognomical inferences, as well.51 Other cosmopolitan cities like Ostia have also provided plentiful material evidence of “foreign” physiognomies and exaggerated, even grotesque, phenotypes adorning everyday objects.52 Though Polemon became known for his attachment to the city of Smyrna, it is ironic – but probably not insignificant – that his own origins were not unimpeachably “Hellenic”.53 While he was not as clearly an outsider (and a 49

50 51

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Examples of such sentiments are visible in Dio, or. 11.150; 34.15; 38–42; 34.48; 38.33–38; 43.11–12; 45.4–5. Swain, 2007, 134 also notes Dio’s recognition (and regret) of the dependency of Greek regional elites on Rome; id., 199 tracks the notion of “pure Greeks” back to Dio. Dio as the first Atticist: L. Kim, The Literary Heritage as Language: Atticism and the Second Sophistic, in: E.J. Bakker (ed.), A Companion to the Ancient Greek Language, Malden 2010, 468–482 (475). Dio, or. 4.85–88; 33.52–56. See Gleason, 1990, 393; Barton, 1994, 104. Smyrna’s cultural significance noted in M. den Dulk / A. Langford, Polycarp and Polemo: Christianity at the Center of the Second Sophistic, in: T.R.  Blanton / R.M.  Calhoun / C.K. Rothschild (eds.), The History of Religions School Today: Essays on the New Testament and Related Ancient Mediterranean Texts, Tübingen 2014, 211–240 (211–212). Polemon’s benefits to Smyrna are evident in inscriptions such as ISmyrna 697 (IK 23). On the medical tradition in Smyrna and wider Asia Minor, see D.  Leith, How Popular Were the Medical Sects?, in: W.V.  Harris (ed.), Popular Medicine in Graeco-Roman Antiquity: Exploration, Leiden 2016, 231–250 (236–240); on the links of paradoxography and medicine: J.  Doroszewska, Beyond the Limits of the Human Body. Phlegon of Tralles’ Medical Curiosities, in: G. Kazantzidis (ed.), Medicine and Paradoxography in the Ancient World, Berlin 2019, 117–140; also cf. P.J. van der Eijk, Medicine and Philosophy in Classical Antiquity. Doctors and Philosophers on Nature, Soul, Health and Disease, Cambridge 2005, 212–213 on the medical analogies with species and “dispositions”. On the terracotta figurines (with a potential for medical, comical, and physiognomical applications alike) produced there, see e.g. A. Laumonier, Terres-cuites d’Asie Mineure, in: BCH 70 (1946), 312–318 (315–318); R.A. Higgins, Greek Terracottas, 1967, 112; K. Laios / M.M. Moschos / G. Androutsos, Clinical Anatomy and Medical Education: The Role of Hellenistic Terracotta Figurines of Smyrna, in: IJAE 122 (2017), 192–195. On these, see R. Berg, Facing the Barbarian. Vessels in the Form of the Ethnic “Other” in Roman Ostia, and Beyond, in: C. Krötzl / K. Mustakallio / M. Tamminen (eds.), Negotiation, Collaboration and Conflict in Ancient and Medieval Communities, London 2022, 49–79. Laodicea on the Lycus and Polemon’s family origins: Swain, 2007, 157.

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migrant) as for instance Lucian may have seemed, his obsessive emphasis on the physical indicators of Hellenicity betray a certain degree of insecurity.54 We also know from other sources that Polemon apparently recruited his students somewhat chauvinistically: “[…] the youth flowed into [his school] from both continents and the islands; nor were they a dissolute and mixed rabble but selected and purely Greek.”55 Interestingly, none of the very negative physiognomical readings in Polemon’s Physiognomia come from ethnicities or cities in unambiguously “internal” Greek area: even the extremely hostile image of a “man from Corinth” who attempted to murder the emperor Hadrian would stem from a city that during the second century was being often spoken of as a “mixed city”.56 This is a good point to turn to another sophist, Polemon’s arch-enemy Favorinus, who ostensibly celebrated the mobility and immigration that the city of Corinth symbolised. 3.2 Favorinus and the Providentiality of Movement For Polemon, Corinth represented a mixed city that once upon a time had been representative of “pure Hellenes” but was now being taken over by “others”. Yet from his famous archenemy, the Gallic-born and supposedly hermaphroditic sophist Favorinus of Arelate, we have a different perspective that acts as a fascinating counterpoint to the nervousness felt by some sophists about the category of Hellenes. In some ways, Favorinus encapsulated hybridity – both gendered and identity-based – which Polemon could well have found personally threatening.57 Most relevantly to the discussion at hand, Favorinus’ 54 55

56

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On Lucian reacting ‘to a social climate in Greece or among Greeks in Greece and Asia Minor’, Isaac, 2004, 145. Philostr., v.s. 531: νεότητος αὐτῇ ἐπιρρεούσης ἐξ ἠπείρων τε καὶ νήσων οὐκ ἀκολάστου καὶ ξυνκλύδος, ἀλλ’ ἐξειλεγμένης τε καὶ καθαρῶς […]. On discrimination among the sophists based on regional pronunciation, see E.L. Bowie, The geography of the Second Sophistic: Cultural variations, in: B.E. Borg (ed.), Paideia: The World of the Second Sophistic, Berlin 2004, 66–75 (66–67). Pol. Leid., 1.12; cf. [Anon. Lat.], de phys. 31. The Arabic translation does, however, seem to refer to the “pure Greeks” of Corinth: see Swain, 2007, 198–199. On the reputation of Corinth, see J. König, Favorinus’ ‘Corinthian Oration’ in Its Corinthian Context, in: CCJ 47 (2001), 141–171 (for instance 148). Not only in his “hermaphroditism”, on which see Gleason, 1995, 131–158; Swain, 2007, 187–189 (and cf. the fascination with gender and sexual problems in the “medical “of the same era and cultural context: Doroszewska, 2019, 123–137), but also on his self-confessed

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only speech surviving (though only partially) under his own name, On exile, expresses sentiments such as: “The providence made humans mobile, and they cross lands and seas, constantly changing their country.”58 “That a fatherland (πατρίς) is not the country in which we ourselves were born is clear from the following: many people, though born in one place, regard another land as their fatherland. If our fatherland is this, the territory to which our ancestors have become accustomed, why by the same token should we not also love the country in which we currently reside?”59 Dislocation from one’s area of origin was of course also a sophistic trope.60 But in the Hadrianic empire, where many provincial (“Greek”) cities of the East were actively rewarded for emphasising their long roots and the importance of their local traditions, celebration of mobility was an ambiguous exercise. Jason König’s exploration of Favorinus’ Corinthian Oration – preserved among the speeches attributed to Dio Chrysostom, who not only taught Polemo but also Favorinus for a while – has brought these tensions out very well.61 In this playful, self-conscious and ironic speech, ostensibly given as a means of rebuking the Corinthians for having taken down a statue of himself – probably after Favorinus’ falling out with Hadrian – the sophist told his audience that just like himself, the Corinthians had, “although Roman, thoroughly Hellenized”.62 For Favorinus, Corinth’s mixed and acculturated reality formed a useful parallel to his own self-fashioning, but he also seems to be politely reminding the Corinthians that they should not be too focused on whether their genealogy is mixed or pure, but to concentrate on living up to their classical past, and in so

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mixture of “Roman”, “Gallic” and “Greek” identities (Philostr., v.s. 489): König, 2001, 167; Isaac, 2011, 507–508; B.  Rochette, Favorinos et ses contemporains. Bilinguisme et biculturalisme au IIe siècle apr. J.-C., in: E. Amato / M.-H. Marganne (eds.), Le traité Sur l’Exil de Favorinos d’Arles, Rennes 2015, 101–122 (passim). Favor., de exil. 6.1; cf. 15.2 (trans. Whitmarsh, 2001). Favor., de exil. 10.1–2 (trans. Whitmarsh, 2001). E.g. Gleason, 1995, 145–158; also H.-G. Nesselrath, Later Greek Voices on the Predicament of Exile: From Teles to Plutarch and Favorinus, in: J.F.  Gaertner (ed.), Writing Exile: The Discourse of Displacement in Greco-Roman Antiquity and Beyond, Leiden 2007, 87–108; on the Latin side, S. Montiglio, Should the Aspiring Wise Man Travel? A Conflict in Seneca’s Thought, in: AJPhil. 127 (2006), 553–586. König, 2001; Rochette, 2015, 101–103. (Ps.)Dio, or. 37.26.

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doing to “make themselves into Hellenes” just like Favorinus had done despite his own Gallic origins.63 Favorinus’ fashioning of Greek identity for himself, and his embracing of mobility as the creator of new fatherlands, was without doubt an additional theme that would have irked Polemon – whose negative physiognomical reading of Favorinus himself made him appear as the polar opposite of anything Hellenic, masculine and proper.64 So while Favorinus argued that “to seem was to be” (Greek),65 Polemon was adamantly focused on exposing those whom he saw as pretending to be Hellenes. Whereas Polemon disseminated a creed of essentialist, lineage-based and narrow Hellenicity, under which students might move to the localities of famed teachers but would have to prepare to be vetted for their “purity”, for Favorinus “mobility was not an allegory of the human condition, but his actual experience and perhaps even his strategy”, in the words of Claudia Moatti.66 In this sense, the Gallic-born sophist went beyond the tropes of the era – and he also was ready to examine the past regimes of nativism. In a pointed barb at the Periclean-era claims of autochthony of the classical Atticans, Favorinus also notes further in his On exile: “What is more, if these people affiliate themselves more closely to the earth than all others for this reason – well, one should not deal with one’s own region of the earth alone, but inhabit the whole earth, as it is the same mother and nourisher of all.”67 Favorinus seems to be espousing a universalist or cosmopolitan position here, but things are never quite so clear-cut in the second century. Aulus Gellius attributes to Favorinus an argument that opposed wet-nurses from enslaved backgrounds and of “foreign and barbarous birth” (externae et barbarae nationis).68 Such a sentiment appears to run contrary to the usual reconstructions of Favorinus’ views on migration. Yet it seems that this argument can be explained through Tim Whitmarsh’ point about how “Greekness” was nonetheless an exclusivist system for Favorinus; the category itself was very 63 64 65 66 67 68

König, 2001, 161–168, building up and expanding on Gleason, 1995, 10, 16–17; also Isaac, 2004, 133. Pol. Leid., 1.20; [Anon. Lat.], de phys. 40. Whitmarsh, 2001, 294–295 notes that Favorinus’ style and vocabulary was similarly “exploratory” and irked some of his more snobbish contemporaries. (Ps.)Dio, or. 37.25–27. Moatti, 2013, 11. Favor., de exil. 10.4. Gell., n.A. 12.1,17.

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real and desirable, even if Favorinus differed greatly from Polemon’s thinking about what role genealogy played in becoming Greek. Favorinus’ ideological stance was not one “of multiculturalism (in the idealized modern sense), but of reorientation of the means to the prestigious symbolic capital associated with Hellenism.”69 Mobility was a driver of acculturation, but you could still remain a barbarian if you did not strive to become a Greek – or indeed if you remained a slave, as wet-nurses would often have been (predictably there was a demand for freeborn ones).70 What is particularly striking is Favorinus’ implication that something essential will be transferred from a barbarian wet-nurse to the suckled infant: this can serve to take us back to second-century ideas of ethnic identities and hybridity, and our last case study. 3.3 Agathion in Philostratus In the lengthy and programmatic life of Herodes Atticus in his Lives of the Sophists, Philostratus includes a paraphrase of Herodes’ own letter to Antoninus Julianus, in which the patron of culture was supposed to have described Agathion, a not-quite-human being whom many had called “the Herakles of Herodes”. The whole description comes across almost as an allegorical ekphrasis.71 To begin with, we are offered a physiognomising description of the body of this new “Herakles”: the emphasis seems to be on balance, natural vigour and impulsivity moderated by moral excellence, and a toned body obtained “rather through work than diet”. The wildman wore a garment of wolf-skins and showcased scars gained in fights against wild beasts. His origins are similarly earthy: “Some say that this Herakles was ‘earth-born’ and sprang from the folk in Boeotia, but Herodes says that he heard him say that his mother was a woman so strong that she herded cattle, and his father was Marathon whose statue is at Marathon, and he is a rustic hero. Herodes asked this Herakles whether he also was immortal. To which he replied: ‘I am only longer lived than a mortal’. The he asked him what he lived on, and he said: ‘I live chiefly on milk, and am fed by goats and herds of cows and brood mares, and the she-ass also provides a sweet sort of milk and light to digest. But when I meet with barley meal, I eat ten quarts, and the 69 70 71

Whitmarsh, 2001, 303. On wet-nurses, see A. Abou Aly, The Wet Nurse: A Study in Ancient Medicine and Greek Papyri, in: Vesalius 2 (1996), 86–97 (esp. 88 and 93 n. 28; on ethnic “contagion”): Isaac, 2004, 140.229.233.239. Or as Bowie, 1970, 30 put it, a “fantasy”; cf. also id., 2004, 67.

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farmers of Marathon and Boeotia supply me with this feast; they also nickname me Agathion, because the think that I bring them luck.’”72 Herodes Atticus, himself hailing from Marathon and owning extensive properties around the Attic Tetrapolis, which moreover contained a famous sanctuary of Herakles, seems here to be conjuring up a vignette of a modern-day incarnation of the ancient hero. Herakles-Agathion is, in fact, himself “ἡρώδης” in the most basic meaning of the compound: looking like a hero. But at least as foregrounded as the physique of this latter-day Herakles is the purity of his speech: “‘And what about your speech?’ asked Herodes. ‘How were you educated and by whom? For you do not seem to be an uneducated man.’ ‘The interior of Attica educated me,’ Agathion replied, ‘a good school for a man who wishes to be able to converse. For the Athenians in the city admit as hirelings youths who come like a flood from Thrace and the Pontus and from other barbarian peoples, and their own speech deteriorates from the influence of these barbarians to a greater extent than they can contribute to the improvement of the speech of the newcomers. But the central district is untainted by barbarians, and hence its language remains uncorrupted and its dialect sounds the purest strain of Atthis.’” Philostratus’ anecdote about Herodes Atticus may indeed indicate that the obsession about mixture was not simply a Polemonian trait, and that the old classical-era nativism could find some currency among some of the most influential sophists. The “barbarians” and “hirelings” that Agathion refers to may of course be a classicisingly formulated reference to domestic slaves in keeping with the topos itself – the sentiment of the sea bringing corruption in the form of strangers is familiar already from Aristotle’s Politics – but a more likely reference is to the mobility of students who came to study in the city.73 In other words, the same kind of educational migration that Polemon responded to with nativistic discrimination is here condemned as something that supposedly dragged down the purity of the Attic dialect.74 This combination of 72 73 74

Philostr., v.s. 552–554 (translation lightly adapted from W. Cave Wright, Philostratus and Eunapius: The Lives of the Sophists, London 1922). Philostr., v.s. 553: οἱ μὲν γὰρ ἐν τῷ ἄστει Ἀθηναῖοι μισθοῦ δεχόμενοι Θρᾴκια καὶ Ποντικὰ μειράκια καὶ ἐξ ἄλλων ἐθνῶν βαρβάρων […]. Cf. Arist., pol. 1327a. More on educational mobility in this era, see Tacoma, 2016, 38–40; the topic was also a source for parody: M. Niehoff, Parodies of Educational Journeys in Josephus, Justin Martyr,

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local pride in a city’s educational “pull” and feelings of group identities coming under threat from arrivals could perhaps find some modern parallels, too. As a biographer of the Second Sophism – as well as the creator of the term itself – Philostratus occupied an uneasy middle ground between Favorinus and Polemon, which to a certain degree still endured even generations afterwards at his own time of writing. It has been recently argued that this may be one of the reasons why Philostratus had to avoid mentioning Polemon’s physiognomical knowledge, so as to avoid giving credence to the utterly hostile reading of Favorinus’ character.75 Moreover, the dedicatee of his Lives of the Sophists was Antonius Gordianus, a descendant of Herodes Atticus, who in turn was the best known of Favorinus’ pupils.76 Undoubtedly, Agathion-Herakles is meant to vouch for the purity of Herodes Atticus’ lineage and learning.77 Herodes claimed descent from Miltiades, the victor at the battle of Marathon. The story seems to emphasise the association between its mention of present-day seaborne influence and the site of the heroic battle, where foreign invaders had landed on the shores of Attica while the defenders were helped by Heracles and Pan.78 In addition to the symbolism of Marathon as the place to rebuff the invaders from overseas, the anecdote, apparently using a written source and pretty much in the form told by Herodes Atticus himself, makes the interior of Attica a sort of bulwark of earth-bound nativist classicism that harks back directly to the Periclean, exclusive idea of what it was to be a “real” Athenian. The contemporary sophistic trope of Attica as perfectly balanced mixture between the land and the sea is here tilted decisively in favour of its terrestrial component.79 What is striking is that the mesogeia, lying far from the “corrupting” influence of the sea, is not only “untainted”, is also said to be metaphorically

75 76 77

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and Lucian, in: M. Niehoff (ed.), Journeys in the Roman East: Imagined and Real, Tübingen 2017, 203–223. Callon, 2019, 169–171; also Rochette, 2015, 102. Philostr., v.s. 490. See Callon, 2019, 164; cf. Kemezis, Greek Narratives, 2014, 294–297; L. Holford-Strevens, Favorinus and Herodes Atticus, in: D.S. Richer / W.A. Johnson (eds.), The Oxford Handbook of the Second Sophistic, Oxford 2017, 234–244. A.  Kemezis, Narrative of Cultural Geography in Philostratus’ “Lives of the Sophists”, in: P. Fleury / T. Schmidt (eds.), Perceptions of the Second Sophistic and Its Times, Toronto 2010, 3–22 (10) notes that Herodes befriending Agathion should be seen as his self-fashioning that saw him “re-enacting” classical history. On Herodes Atticus, Miltiades and Marathon, see S. Nevin, The Idea of Marathon. Battle and Culture, London 2022, 167–170. E.g. Aristid., panath. 9; cf. 13–15 (where linguistic purity and the central position of Attica are, interestingly, discussed in close proximity to each other).

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in best health (ὑγιαίνει).80 The theme was one that Dio Chrysostom had also used in his Euboicus: the rustic hunters of rural Euboea are contrasted with the ills of the city-dwellers.81 Though the focus in Herodes’ anecdote is on Attic dialect, the description of Agathion shows overall a notable emphasis on his physiognomy, and one can certainly see the degree to which this cryptic anecdote (that goes on for a bit longer) is in fact connected to the sophistic emphasis on the links between ethnic, moral, linguistic and physiognomical purity.82 4

Mobility and Crises of Entitativity: Some Concluding Thoughts

The Roman empire ruled its far-flung and diverse provinces largely through a reliance on already-existing elites and local practices, modified and adapted to provide a maximum revenue and acceptable level of stability.83 Local population groups, too – at least in those cases where they had not been decimated by the conquest – were often recognised as entities through provincial nomenclature, and these provincial names tended to influence local identity-tags over time. Thus, we have for instance a coalescing of “African” identities within the province of Africa (as Brent Shaw has explored very interestingly), which slowly emerged as a tag used almost in an “ethnic” sense, while many lowerlevel local group names became subsumed to this new provincial-ethnic identity.84 City identities, on the other hand, stayed strong especially in the East of the Empire.85 This chapter has studied a small sample of somewhat interlinked speech acts from the Second Sophistic, examining in particular their expressions of unease at the thought of “Hellenic” identities being diluted as the result of population movements within the empire, as well as (in the case of Favorinus) 80 81 82

83 84 85

Philostr., v.s. 553: ἡ μεσογεία δὲ ἄμικτος βαρβάροις οὖσα ὑγιαίνει αὐτοῖς ἡ φωνὴ καὶ ἡ γλῶττα τὴν ἄκραν Ἀτθίδα ἀποψάλλει […]. About linguistic (in)purity being cast in terms of contagion: Bowie, 2004, 66. Dio Chrys., or. 7. Kemezis, Greek Narratives, 2014, 208: “Agathion, the wild man from the Attic countryside who portrayed himself as a throwback to autochthonous Athenian virtue”. On the emphasis on linguistic purity in the episode, Kim 2010, 468; also cf. 471 on the prevalent diglossia of the era between forms of Greek. G. Woolf, Inventing Empire in Ancient Rome, in: S.E. Alcock / T.N. D’Altroy / K.D. Morrison / C.M. Sinopoli (eds.), Empires. Perspectives from Archaeology and History, Cambridge 2001, 311–322 (311). B.D.  Shaw, Who Are You? Africa and Africans, in: J.  McInerney (ed.), A Companion to Ethnicity in the Ancient Mediterranean, Malden 2014, 527–540; cf. Moatti, 2006, 118. Kemezis, Greek Ethnicity, 2014, 396–399.

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the apparent negation of such fears. It is worth revisiting the suggestion made in the introductory notes about whether we are witnessing a kind of “fear of reverse colonization” in the second century expressions of anxiety about human mobility. 4.1 Was “Fear of Reverse Colonization” a Factor in the Second Century? As mentioned above, the concept “fear of reverse colonization” has been used in some analyses of the moralizing anxieties in late-19th-century middlebrow literature produced in France and Britain; such narratives often see some kind of moral or supernatural corruption or menace threatening the colonizing society. The anxieties themselves have usually been interpreted as a reflection of the colonizers’ guilt and shame, as well as the vague sentiment that the sordid practical aspects of running the empire had undermined the moral legitimacy of the imperial ideology.86 The latter, perhaps, is more likely in the case of Rome. But even though “reverse colonization” anxieties could be an apt description of some of the moralising worries found in the Latin literature – especially in that of the first century CE – it may not be adequate for explaining what is happening in the Greek literature. “Moral” degeneration was not the main worry: “true Greeks” did not go out into the further provinces of the empire and return somehow corrupted: instead, arrivals in areas that were considered “Greek” were the main perceived threat. The panic among some Greek writers thus has structurally more in common with the contemporary conspiracy theories of “replacement”.87 The expansion of the empire was not of their doing, even if the demographic mobility under it seemed threatening to some of them – and perhaps especially to the well-connected sophistic lineage of Dio Chrysostom and Polemo, leading all the way to Herodes Atticus and Philostratus. Of course, we do not necessarily need theoretical terminology for these processes and sentiments – and even if we did, the study of Late-Victorian literature may not be the right place to borrow. But at any rate, the analogy might reveal some similarities that help us to see what is specific and what is universal about the complexities of migration. The crucial aspect of the reaction among the Greek cultural elite we have examined is the fear for a loss of group distinctiveness. Then, as now, most of 86

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Arata, 1990, 622–623.626.633; Clarke, 2013, 528; cf. N. Etherington, Colonial Panics Big and Small in the British Empire (1865–1907), in: H. Fischer-Tiné (ed.), Anxieties, Fear and Panic in Colonial Settings. Empires on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, Cham 2016, 201–224 (205). For the “replacement” conspiracy theory, see P. Chatterjee, Alt-Right Movement: Dissecting Racism, Patriarchy and Anti-immigrant Xenophobia, Los Angeles 2021, 65.

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these anxieties seem to have been based on an essentialist conception of peoples, and the supposed results of métissage. Yet there are differences between the inflections in the ancient sources’ expressions of the fears of subaltern mobility. It is also worth noting that as in the contemporary “West”, it seems primarily the mobility of the subalterns and “others” that causes worry – while the mobility of the insiders (in our case sophists), apart from some moaning about “barbarian” students, is a given. Certain sophists seem to have chosen which kinds of mobility they would sound the alarm on: in short, it seems like the anxiety of the favoured insiders’ elite regarding the borders of their own identity.88 This idea of the “favoured insiders” jealously guarding their own entitativity as the cultural middlemen in a world-empire that was both extractive and “archival” in nature could, of course, allow for many group-psychological and postcolonial readings of the material, but this contribution is not the right occasion to have explored these. Yet we should not let the beguiling parallels with later eras to conjure up an image of the whole Second Sophistic cultural current as some sort of “Ancient Alt-Right”, either. If anything, the strain of xenophobia and nativism was in some ways limited to a handful of sophistic lineages, even though politically very well-networked ones. Perhaps one more parallelism with contemporary realities.89 4.2 Crisis in Entitativity If we really need a term for the Greek reaction legible in some of our sources, it might be more helpful to think about it as a “crisis in entitativity” due to the perceived mobility into Greek lands under Roman rule. The cultural agoraphobia of the second century led to the ingroup identity of educated Greek elites to occasionally have to deal with pressures that were not really affecting the Roman discourse to the same degree; the old inherited language of genealogical descent of Hellenicity came into tension with the role of Greek as the integrative language and cultural koine of the eastern half of the Roman empire.90 Partly, at least in Polemon’s rhetoric, the mixing of Greeks and “others” resulted from Roman colonization and was exemplified by such “mixed” 88 89

90

Greeks were not real subalterns, as they were not voiceless in the empire: cf. Whitmarsh, 2001, 273. E.g. Chatterjee 2021. See also A. Saini Superior: The Return of Race Science, London 2019 (esp. 86–163), arguing that the early-20th century (and earlier) racially articulated essentialism survived over the post-WWII period due to a tenuous but well interlinked network of theoreticians. Romeo, 2002 argues that Dio’s and Polemon’s views were able to influence the policies of the Hadrianic Panhellenion. Cf. Whitmarsh, 2001, 273.

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cities as Corinth. When thinking about Polemon’s way of speaking about “pure Greeks”, one feels compelled to agree with Simon Swain that it “verges on the nationalistic”.91 Incidentally, both the Victorian era and the second-century Roman empire represented golden eras for physiognomical theories and readings. Explicitly moralising judgements based on stereotypes of class and ethnic characteristics (among other analogies) made sense in a setting where the human phenotypic variety present in the empire had been weaponised in a rhetoric that was at least partly motivated by an imperial ingroup’s insecurities. Mobility within the empire was, in Polemon’s scheme, a threat towards the distinctiveness of “his” Hellenic ethnos; the approach represented by himself and possibly already by his teacher Dio was driven to bemoan the role of immigration into Greek heartlands. Similar, though more muted, worries seem to be behind the anecdote about Herodes and Agathion-Herakles; while expressed through the notion of linguistic purity, the idea of coastal areas being more prone to external arrivals and cultural influence, and thus becoming mixed and somehow corrupted, seems quite typical to the nativist strain of Second Sophistic. Herodes Atticus’ “role-playing” of Periclean autochthony seems connected to this ideological stance. Could one even see Agathion as an alter-ego or a nativist superhero character that Herodes has conjured up, with a barely-concealed pun on his own name and origins? Comparing the cases of Polemon and Herodes with Favorinus’ inclusive attitude and his rejection of nativistic definition of Hellenicity, it is no wonder that he ended up clashing with Polemon also on this matter; for Polemon, Favorinus personal straddling of categories – in this as in other questions – was clearly a source of great anxiety. What we call these Greek anxieties is, in the long run, not very important, but it is certainly rather interesting how internal mobility in the empire came to be a challenge to the sophists’ category of Greekness. Socially constructed identities tend to be most useful when they have a high distinguishing potential.92 I would suggest that in the light of Martin Ehala’s ideas about identities as ‘symbols of human beings’ belonging’, the insecurity of the second-century learned Greek elite regarding the possible dilution of their “Hellenic” ingroup identity (as they conceived of it) could be partly explained by anxieties about the visual and cultural symbols of outgroups’ and ingroups’ entitativity becoming less reliable. The physiognomical rhetoric of the sophists was all about recognising an impostor; when linguistic purism was not enough to weed out a less-than-perfectly acculturated arrival in the – conceptual or 91 92

Swain, 2007, 199; see also Kaufman, 2021, 78. Ehala, 2018, 60.66–68.80–85.

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geographical – heartlands of Hellenicity, physiognomy was able to furnish an infinite variety of imperfections, which could in the Polemonian doctrine be compared to the ideal perfection of the notional “pure Greek”. This would not have been a worry for most of the Greek-speaking inhabitants of the empire, but as we have seen in the modern discourse, as well, the influence of the anxious elites’ condemnation of subaltern mobility can have a long and unpredictable afterlife. For instance, the British scares and moral panics about intra-EU mobility from a set of countries that were perceived to form a distinct category of their own within the block – and implied to be somehow less desirable – have been indicated as having paved the way for the Brexit.93 Yet as often happens afterwards – human mobility being unceasing and natural – other kinds of immigrants are prone to take over as the next source of anxiety.

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Travelling Britannia: A Diachronic Perspective on Romano-British Mobility James Gerrard Abstract Archaeological narratives of travel in the ancient world are increasingly being focussed on establishing the origins ancient populations using scientific methods. These approaches are revolutionary but run the risk of reducing migration and mobility to origins and end points. This could be seen as dehumanising and akin to the use of provenancing studies in material culture. This paper argues that a more experiential approach to understanding ancient mobility is needed. The use of later medieval evidence widens our perspectives and enables the complexity of ancient travel to be explored through a consideration of social status and human-horse interactions. This provides a fuller and experiential appreciation of how people ideas and things ‘flowed’ to and from the Mediterranean’s periphery in antiquity.

Introduction

Britannia was a peripheral province of the Roman Empire. Located beyond the Ocean on the north-western fringes of the known world, Britain was perceived as a militarised, semi-barbarous frontier province: a distant place to which malcontents could be exiled, or rebellions fomented.1 One of the latest provinces to be conquered by Roman imperialism, it was also one of the earliest to fall from the Roman orbit in the fifth century. To accept that Britain was one of the geographical high water marks of Roman imperialism, a high water mark etched into the landscape in fortifications, frontier works, towns, roads and other physical infrastructure, is to accept that the province holds a relevancy

1 For Roman perceptions of Britain see P. Stewart, Inventing Britain: The Roman Creation and Adaptation of an Image, in: Britannia  26 (1995), 1–10. Exile: Ammianus Marcellinus, Res Gestae XXII.3; rebellion: Jerome, Epistula 131.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_005

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in any analysis of how ideas, individuals and objects flowed outwards from the Mediterranean to the peripheries of the Roman Empire.2 Understanding how this “Mediterranean flow” was received, transformed, reinterpreted and resisted in Roman Britain is more than a lifetime’s work. As an archaeologist, the hundreds of tonnes of imported pottery, terra sigillata from Gaul, oil amphorae from Spain and North Africa, wine amphora from Gaul, Italy, Greece and beyond could be one starting point.3 Another might be the architecture of Roman Britain.4 As an example, the fourth-century peristyle house built in the fort of Arbeia (South Shields) on Hadrian’s Wall is a particularly impressive evocation of the Mediterranean world at the limits of the Roman world.5 This list could be extended but instead I choose to focus, not on things or even ideas, but on the people of Roman Britain. These people have too often been dehumanised and commodified in scholarly discussions and to understand what travel and connectivity was like in the Roman world it is necessary to consider the experiential nature of ancient mobility. What follows is an attempt to describe how Romano-British mobility has been characterised and interpreted and to acknowledge the sometimes uncomfortable implications of these debates. In particular, the radical impact that archaeological science and especially stable isotope analysis has had on discussions of ancient mobility are investigated. This process is increasingly enabling us to identify the origins of individuals, in effect sourcing human remains in a similar manner to the provenancing of artefacts.6 This reductive approach allows us to identify people who are likely to have grown up somewhere distant from their point of burial and is beginning to dominate studies of ancient mobility. It is not my wish to demean or devalue such scientific research, which is impressive and revolutionary in its implications.7 Instead, 2 M. Millett, The Romanization of Britain: An Essay in Archaeological Interpretation, Cambridge 1990; D. Mattingly, An Imperial Possession: Britain in the Roman Empire 54 BC–AD409, London 2006. G. Woolf, The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System, in this volume. 3 For pottery generally see I. Tyers, Roman Pottery in Britain, London 1996. For terra sigillata see S. Willis, Samian Ware and Society in Roman Britain and beyond, in: Britannia 42 (2011), 167–242. For oil amphorae see C. Carreras and E. Morais, The Atlantic Roman Trade during the Principate: New Evidence from the Western Façade, in: Oxford Journal of Archaeology 31 (2012), 419–441. 4 D. Perring, The Roman House in Britain, London 2002. 5 N. Hodgson, A Late Roman Courtyard House at South Shields and its Parallels, in: P. Johnson / I. Haynes (eds.), Architecture in Roman Britain, London 1996, 135–151. 6 In a different historical context concerns have been raised about the implications of understanding “genetic origins” and social identities: S. Abel / H. Schroeder, From Country Marks to DNA Markers: The Genomic Turn in the Reconstruction of African Identities, in: CA 61 (2020), 198–209. 7 H.  Eckardt, Roman Diasporas: Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth 2010.

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it seems necessary to introduce some balance by emphasising what mobility may have meant to those who undertook it. For this we turn to a variety English medieval and later texts that provide useful analogies about the expectations of travel that different individuals may have held, depending on their social class and understandings of the world. The second half of this article explores this through an examination of the relationships between horses and travellers. The complex interplay of person and animal almost approaches posthumanism and shows how the very act of riding is a consequence of a network of relationships.8 Finally, the experience of a journey by horseback along the roads of Britannia, coupled with a consideration of some of the hazards of such a journey is considered. This is offered as a means of introducing human experience into the journey, without which travel is reduced to cartographic distance in our analyses. 1

Approaches to Mobility and Migration

The Roman Empire was a big place. At its height in the early second century it stretched, as all good text books remind us, from the Pillars of Hercules in the west to the Euphrates in the east and from the Caledonian mountains in the north to the deserts of North Africa in the south. The scale of this vast swathe of territory taxed the ability of the emperor and his representatives to effectively rule and one commentator has likened the emperor’s influence to a dim light bulb only able to cast fitful illumination over small parts of the Empire.9 Long ago Braudel argued that distance was the ‘enemy number one of civilisation’ and historians and archaeologists have been long driven to understand how this tyranny of distance shaped the Roman world.10 Economic historians have been particularly exercised to understand the costs of different forms of transportation, which have in turn highlighted the apparent expense of road transportation over movement by water.11

8 9 10 11

For this approach see D. Shaw, Horses and Actor-Networks: Manufacturing Travel in Later Medieval England, in: S. Nance (ed.), The Historical Animal, Syracuse 2015, 133–147. G. Halsall, Barbarian Migrations and the Roman West 376–568, Cambridge 2007, 110–111. F.  Braudel, La Méditerranée et le monde Méditerranéen à l’époque de Philippe  2, Paris 1966, 326. R. Duncan-Jones, The Economy of the Roman Empire, Cambridge 1974, 366–369; K. Greene, The Archaeology of the Roman Economy, London 1986, 60; W.  Scheidel, Explaining the Maritime Freight Charges in Diocletian’s Prices Edict, in: JRAr 26 (2013), 464–468.

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Yet textual and epigraphic evidence makes it clear that some people in the Roman Empire could and did travel long distances.12 The settlement of 5,500 Sarmatians in Britain by Marcus Aurelius in the second century is one example of a long-distance mobility.13 Similarly Tituliana Pussita was a Raetian who died and was memorialized at Netherby, the outpost fort of Castra Exploratorum, some twenty five miles north of Hadrian’s Wall.14 Better known is the tombstone of Regina from South Shields, an enslaved Catuvellaunian, who was herself a migrant to the frontier zone from southern Britain, but who went on to marry her master, a Palmyrenean immigrant called Barates.15 Similar textual and epigraphic evidence for the long-distance movement of peoples and communities can be found for other parts of the Empire.16 This kind of evidence demonstrates that whatever the consequences of the tyranny of distance, the Roman Empire was not solely formed of communities living in a form of sedentary autarky. In an attempt to reconcile the geographical scale of the Roman Empire with the existing textual and epigraphic evidence for mobility, during the latter half of the twentieth century ancient historians developed what has been termed the “common wisdom on mobility in the ancient Graeco-Roman world”: 1) Men had greater mobility than women; 2) The elite had greater social mobility than lower social classes; 3) Military personnel had greater mobility than civilians.17 In contrast, archaeologists had spent much of the early to mid-twentieth century placing human mobility, in the guise of migration, centre stage. Childe,18 following Kossinna,19 argued that it was migration and the movement of people that drove innovation and cultural change throughout prehistory and well into the historic period. It was thought that the history and prehistory of Britain were characterised by waves of migrants sweeping through the 12

13 14 15 16 17 18 19

D. Noy, Epigraphic Evidence for Immigrants at Rome and in Roman Britain, in: H. Eckardt (ed.), Roman Diasporas: Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth 2010, 13–26; M. Handley, Dying on Foreign Shores: Travel and Mobility in the Late Antique West, Portsmouth 2011. Cassius Dio, Historia LXII, 16. R. Collingwood / R. Wright, The Roman Inscriptions of Britain, Oxford 1995, RIB 984. Collingwood / Wright 1995, RIB 1065. Handley, 2011. G. Woolf, Female Mobility in the Roman West, in: E. Hemelrijk / G. Woolf (eds.), Women and the Roman City in the Latin West, Leiden 2013, 351–368 (363); G. Woolf, The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System, in this volume. V. Childe, The Danube in Prehistory, Oxford 1929. G.  Kossinna, Die Deutsche Vorgeschichte: Eine hervorragende nationale Wissenschaft, Leipzig 1921.

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islands. These started in the Bronze Age with the Beaker Folk, and continued with migrating Celts and Belgae in the Iron Age; followed by Romans; then Angles, Saxons and Jutes and Vikings too in the early mediaeval period, and ending with the Normans in 1066. All were seen as the harbingers of demographic, technological and socio-cultural change during archaeology’s culturehistorical phase. Critically, while some of the evidence for these supposed migrations was based on skeletal evidence or architectural styles, the typical way of tracing migrating people and ideas was through the movement of material culture and especially pottery and decorated metalwork. However, by the late twentieth century migration as an explanatory mechanism had fallen firmly from favour in archaeological thought.20 This was acutely felt in early medieval studies where the status and meaning of the “Anglo-Saxon” migrations were questioned.21 The return of archaeology and ancient history to considering past human mobility is a consequence of a broader paradigmatic shift in the humanities and social sciences: the so-called “mobility turn”.22 It is no surprise that this came at a time of ever-increasing mobility and connectivity in contemporary society. The fall of the Berlin Wall was followed by the expansion of the European Union and the extension of freedom of movement and residence to EU citizens. The growth in cheap air travel and increased technological connectivity all emphasised the inter-connectedness of the world and its apparent reformulation as a “global village”. Migration was cast as both a force for good and ill by commentators the world over: it played a central role in the UK during the Brexit campaign; it featured prominently in the 2016 election of Donald Trump in the US and has reverberated in other political debates around the globe. Given this it is hardly surprising to find the interest of archaeologists and ancient historians being reignited in the study of ancient mobility,23 with Horden and Purcell’s The Corrupting Sea being a particular spur to this 20 21 22

23

For a summary of some of this thinking in prehistoric archaeology see V. Heyd, Kossinna’s Smile, in: Antiquity 91 (2017), 348–359; J. Guilaine, Siret’s Smile, in: Antiquity 92 (2018), 1247–1259. N. Higham, Rome, Britain and the Anglo-Saxons, London 1992; S. Lucy, The Anglo-Saxon Way of Death, Stroud 2000. For instance: J. Larsen / J. Urry / K. Axhausen, Mobilities, Networks, Geographies, Aldershot 2006; J.  Urry, Mobilities, London 2007; T.  Cresswell / P.  Merriman (eds.), Mobilities: Practices, Spaces, Subjects, Farnham 2011; O.  Aldred, The Archaeology of Movement, London, 2020. For instance: T. Ingold, The Temporality of Landscape, in: World Archaeology 25 (1993), 152–174; T. Ingold, Culture on the Ground: The World Perceived Through Feet, in: Journal of Material Culture Studies 9 (2004), 315–340; Aldred, 2020.

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endeavour.24 That influential volume argued that the Mediterranean Sea provided a means of connecting ecological micro-regions and suggested that human mobility in the past had been under-estimated by historians, archaeologists and demographers.25 2

Provenancing People?

The mobility turn in archaeology and ancient history reorientated approaches to movement in the Roman Empire. New textual and epigraphic scholarship has sought to critique the three tenets of common wisdom noted above. This shift has been supported and augmented by emerging and maturing scientific techniques in the field of human bioarchaeology. Of these techniques, ancient DNA (aDNA) and isotopic analysis are the most significant in terms of their implications and applicability. The study of DNA in order to assess ancient migrations has been attempted for some decades, without always producing clear or uncontroversial results.26 More recently, the study of DNA from ancient skeletal material (aDNA) has opened up the possibility of determining the genetic characteristics of ancient individuals.27 This can reveal details such as eye colour, but also determine whether an individual shares their genetics with regionally distinct populations. The implications of this kind of research are quite profound and are already beginning to have wide-reaching consequences. Nevertheless, aDNA, for a variety of reasons, not least cost, is not yet routinely deployed. As a consequence, sample sizes remain small and conclusions drawn from such studies remain open to interpretation. Most importantly, aDNA alone can only reveal genetic ancestry. It may, in combination with other forms of evidence, indicate 24 25 26

27

P.  Horden / N.  Purcell, The Corrupting Sea: A Study of Mediterranean History, Malden 2000. Horden / Purcell, 2000, 382; see also G. Woolf, Movers and Stayers, in: L. de Ligt / L. Tacoma (eds.) Migration and Mobility in the Early Roman Empire, Leiden 2016, 438–462 (442–443). For instance: M.G Thomas / M.P.H.  Stumpf / H.  Härke, Evidence for an Apartheid-like Social Structure in Early Anglo-Saxon England, in: Proceedings of the Royal Society B 273, 2651–2657; J. Pattison, Is it Necessary to Assume an Apartheid-like Social Structure in Early Anglo-Saxon England? in: Proceedings of the Royal Society B 275, 2423–2429; Heyd, 2017; Guilaine, 2018. S. Schiffels / W. Haak / P. Paajanen, Iron Age and Anglo-Saxon Genomes from East England Reveal British Migration History, in: Nature Communications  7 (2016), see: https://doi. org/10.1038/ncomms10408; G.  Scorrano / S.  Viva / T.  Pinotti, Bioarchaeological and Palaeogenomic Portrait of two Pompeians that Died during the Eruption of Vesuvius in 79 AD, in: Scientific Reports 12 (2022), see: https://doi.org/10.1038/s41598-022-10899-1.

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mobility but an individual’s genetics do not reveal anything about their social identities or their movement from one geographical region to another. In contrast to aDNA, the analysis of stable isotopes, especially strontium (87Sr/86Sr) and oxygen (δ18O) but also sulphur (δ34S), are able to determine the mobility of an individual. This is because humans (and animals) ingest foodstuffs and liquids containing these isotopes derived from the natural environment. Oxygen isotopes are closely linked to the hydrological cycle and therefore water.28 Regionalised variations in rainfall, evaporation, proximity to the coast, altitude and a number of other factors influence the oxygen value and enable an individual to be located geographically.29 In a similar fashion, strontium values in human skeletal material are related to the underlying geology and thus have a geographical aspect. Stable isotope values are usually determined on the basis of an individual’s teeth, because they are fixed in childhood and thus contain isotopes consumed during childhood. In effect this allows us to provenance an individual in the same way that we would an artefact like a sherd of pottery. The teeth reveal a geographical origin that can be compared with the point of deposition/burial. The results of these types of analysis are fascinating as the following well-known examples drawn from Roman Britain will no doubt illustrate. In 1972, long before the current “mobility turn”, an inhumation burial was excavated in Gloucester (Glevum), in South Western Britain.30 The individual was an adult male, perhaps 30–40 years old, buried in a timber coffin in a grave that cut through a masonry structure interpreted as a mausoleum.31 The individual was buried with an iron knife, and an unusual group of silver objects: a belt buckle, a shoe buckle and strapends.32 The original interpretation emphasised the unusual nature of the gravegoods and highlighted possible “Anglo-Saxon” or “Frankish” parallels. It was concluded that, given the location of this grave in the west of England, its occupier could not have been 28

29 30 31 32

E. Lightfoot / T. O’Connell, On the Use of Biomineral Oxygen Isotope Data to Identify Human Migrants in the Archaeological Record: Intra-Sample Variation, Statistical Methods and Geographical Considerations, in: Plos One  11 (2016), see: https://doi.org/10.1371/journal. pone.0153850. S. Pederzani / K. Britton, Oxygen Isotopes in Bioarchaeology: Principles and Applications, Challenges and Opportunities, in: Earth Sciences Reviews 188 (2019), 77–107. H. Hurst, Excavations at Gloucester: Third Interim Report Kingsholm 1966–1975, in: AnJ 55 (1975), 267–294. C.  Heighway, Goths and Saxons? The Late Roman Cemetery at Kingsholm, Gloucester, in: Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucester Archaeological Society 130 (2012), 63–88 (77–78). Hurst, 1975, 290–294.

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a “Germanic” immigrant.33 Thus the unusual objects might be the accoutrements of a high status, early fifth-century Briton. Here the matter rested until Böhme drew attention to good parallels for the objects in Hungary, Ukraine and southern Russia.34 This prompted a reconsideration of the find that concluded that the stylistic characteristics of the objects indicated that the man in the grave must have been an immigrant from the lands bordering the Black Sea: the so-called “Gloucester Goth” was born, arguably an army officer or mercenary serving during the dying years of Roman rule in Britain.35 The Gloucester Goth usefully illustrates how identity and mobility were inextricably bound up with the provenancing of material culture. Similar arguments were also made about approximately contemporary burials at Lankhills, on the outskirts of Winchester (Venta Belgarum) in Hampshire. At that site a group of burials were interpreted as having Danubian or Pannonian origins because of associated gravegoods.36 More recently third-century cremation burials at Brougham (Brocavum, Cumbria) have also been interpreted as the remains of Danubians or even trans-Danubians due to the presence of, among other things, iron bucket pendants and evidence for horse cremation.37 Interestingly, the Brougham cemetery also produced some epigraphic evidence of immigrants. The name Bata was scratched on a jar and this name has Illyrian associations and there is also a gravestone of a 70 year old Pannonian from the same site.38 Both the Gloucester Goth and the Lankhills cemetery presented opportunities to test the artefactual-based interpretations of mobility using stable isotope analysis, although Brougham could not be studied in this way due to the use of cremation. For the Gloucester Goth the results were gratifyingly confirmatory.39 The oxygen values suggest that he had spent his childhood in colder European regions (such as Scandinavia, Poland, Belarus or Russia) or perhaps the Alpine regions of Southern Germany, Switzerland, Austria, Slovakia, northern Hungary and northern Romania. The strontium values ruled out Scandinavia and suggested a childhood in south-eastern Austria, Slovakia,

33 34 35 36 37 38 39

Hurst, 1975, 290–294. H. Böhme, Das Ende der Römerherrschaft in Britannien und die angelsächsische Besiedlung Englands im 5. Jahrhundert, in: Jahrbuch des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums Mainz 33 (1986), 469–574 (503). C. Hills / H. Hurst, A Goth at Gloucester?, in: AnJ 69 (1989), 154–158. G. Clarke, The Roman Cemetery at Lankhills, Oxford 1979. H. Cool, The Roman Cemetery at Brougham, Cumbria, London 2004, 464–466. Cool, 2004, 435; Collingwood / Wright, 1995, RIB 3243. Heighway, 2012.

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Hungary or Romania.40 Whether this meant that the individual held a Gothic ethnicity is a matter for debate, but the artefactual package and the isotopic evidence are consistent with an immigrant from south-central and eastern Europe. The sixteen burials identified on the basis of their funerary rite and gravegoods as being late Roman “Pannonian” immigrants at Lankhills were subjected to stable isotope analysis.41 This revealed that some of the individuals seen as “exotic” were probably “non-local”, but that there was considerable variation in possible geographical origins.42 Some of the burials considered to be “local” by the excavator were also sampled and fascinatingly some of these also produced “non-local” isotopic values. The fortuitous excavation of a further part of this large late Roman cemetery provided a further opportunity to undertake stable isotope analysis.43 This confirmed that there was not a clear-cut association between burial rites and geographical origins and that beyond the local population there seemed to be considerable variation.44 Isotopic analysis is undoubtedly a powerful method for considering ancient mobility. Yet practitioners recognise the caution needed in interpreting the results. Oxygen values can be influenced by the kinds of water an individual consumed during their life. Consumption of deep well water might have an impact, but more typically the so-called “brewing and stewing effect” needs to be accounted for.45 The consumption of dairy products, beer and stewed foods involve the consumption of water that has been heated and consequently contain an altered isotopic signature. The drinking of wine, essentially boiled imported water, exacerbates this phenomenon. Strontium values can be significantly impacted by the introduction of material from elsewhere. Typical natural and environmental processes that can cause these effect include: flooding,

40 41 42 43 44 45

C. Chenery / J. Evans, Results of Oxygen, Strontium, Carbon and Nitrogen Isotope Analysis for the ‘Kingsholm Goth’, in: Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucester Archaeological Society 130 (2012), 89–98 (94–96). Clarke, 1979. J. Evans / N. Stoodley / C. Chenery, A Strontium and Oxygen Isotope Assessment of a Possible Fourth Century Immigrant Population in a Hampshire Cemetery, Southern England, in: JArS 33 (2006), 265–272. P.  Booth, The Late Roman Cemetery at Lankhills, Winchester: Excavations 2000–2005, Oxford 2010. Evans / Stoodley / Chenery, 2006. R. Brettell / J. Montgomery / J. Evans, Brewing and Stewing: The Effect of Culturally Mediated Behaviour on the Oxygen Isotope Composition of Ingested Fluids and the Implications for Human Provenance Studies, in: Journal of Analytical Atomic Spectrometry  27 (2012), 778–785.

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dust storms and even the use of millstones.46 The use of lime fertilizer on fields can also alter modern day strontium values used to construct the reference maps.47 Thus to really understand an individual’s isotopic origins, a detailed understanding of present day regional variation in isotopic values is needed. One might even go further and say that understanding the isotopic profiles of ancient animal populations from the same site as the human samples, or from nearby sites would be valuable too. Some studies are beginning to address these concerns but this emphasises that understanding migration from isotopes is far from straightforward. The use of teeth as sample material has the advantage of providing isotopic values that can be used to identify a geographical region where an individual spent their childhood. The effect of this has been to essentially provenance an individual. The teeth provide an origin and the burial the location of a funeral and therefore death. In this our approaches have mirrored approaches to material culture studies. Thin-section analysis of ceramics, or elemental analysis of metals, can provide geographical origins for the raw materials used to manufacture artefacts. These origins can then be contrasted with the archaeological findspot. To say that this valourization of an origin is problematic is an understatement. There is often only limited consideration of what this information about where someone spent their childhood may have meant for their avowed and ascribed identities during their lifetime. Material culture specialists have been exercised for some time in considering how the anthropomorphic concepts of biography and life-cycles can be deployed to understand objects.48 It would thus seem to be something of a disservice to the dead to preclude similar approaches being used to understand their life-cycles and biographies in relation to their mobility. Approaches sampling multiple bones from a single individual may address this issue and provide a greater temporal context to mobility and movement but this approach is not yet routine and comes with significant additional costs. Finally, it is worth considering a purely archaeological challenge. To date the majority of the individuals from Roman Britain who have been subjected to isotopic study have been derived from either unusual burials (like the 46 47 48

J.  Evans / J.  Montgomery / G.  Wildman / M.  Boulton, Spatial Variations in Biosphere 86Sr/87Sr in Britain, in: Journal of the Geological Society 167 (2010), 1–4 (2). E.  Thomsen / R.  Andreasen, Agricultural Lime Disturbs Natural Strontium Isotope Variations: Implications for Provenance and Migration Studies, in: Science Advances  5 (2019), see 10.1126/sciadv.aav8083. C. Gosden / Y. Marshall, The Cultural Biography of Objects, in: World Archaeology 31 (1999), 169–178; J. Joy, Reinvigorating Object Biography: Reproducing the Drama of Object Lives, in: World Archaeology 41 (2009), 540–556.

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Gloucester “Goth”) or from large, urban cemeteries. Smaller urban centres and nucleated settlements, like Catterick and Scorton,49 are still under-represented and rural cemeteries, containing what have been described as “the dispersed dead”, hardly feature at all. Then there is the implicit assumption in most studies of Roman Britain that the burials we excavate are somehow representative of the living population. In the preceding Iron Age, other forms of funerary rites mean that formal inhumations and cremations are rarely encountered.50 If these ‘invisible’ forms of funerary rites continued into the Roman period then our inhumation burials, the majority of which are late Roman, may not be reflective of the entirety of society. Thus the small-scale nature of isotopic analysis to date may be over-emphasising ancient mobility simply because of sample bias. This is coupled with a not entirely comfortable interest in identifying long-distance migrants.51 Understanding past mobility and migration within Britain, let alone Roman Britain, through isotopic means is still in its infancy.52 In seeking to understand ancient mobility there is a pressing need to move beyond simple description, which is effectively provenancing and dehumanising people. Mobility should not be understood simply in terms of cartographic distance. Travel is an experiential mode in which individuals move through and engage with different forms of landscapes, taskscapes and relationships with people, animals and their environment. What follows is an attempt to draw on an English medieval analogy. Not because such an analogy can be understood in a formal sense, but because it can be used to understand how a pre-industrial society engaged with and understood mobility in a small region of northern Britain. Such an approach demonstrates the social context of ancient mobility that seems so sadly lacking in some of the previous work in this area. 49 50 51 52

H.  Eckardt / G.  Müldner / G.  Speed, The Late Roman Field Army in Northern Britain? Mobility, Material Culture and Multi-Isotope Analysis at Scorton (N. Yorks), in: Britannia 46 (2015), 191–223. D. Harding, Death and Burial in Iron Age Britain, Oxford 2015. For a discussion of some of the political context see R.  Hingley, Tales of the Frontier: Diasporas on Hadrian’s Wall, in: H.  Eckardt (ed.), Roman Diasporas: Archaeological Approaches to Mobility and Diversity in the Roman Empire, Portsmouth 2010, 227–243. For an attempt to look at migration within Britain from an isotopic perspective see: J. Kay, Moving from Wales and the West in Fifth-century Britain: Isotope Evidence for Eastward Migration, in: P.  Skinner (ed.), The Welsh and the World in the Middle Ages, Cardiff 2018, 17–47; O.  Czére / J.  Lawson / G.  Müldner, The Bodies in the “Bog”: A Multi-Isotope Investigation of Individual Life-Histories at an Unusual 6th/7th AD Century Group Burial from a Roman Latrine at Cramond, Scotland, in: Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences 14 (2022), see: https://doi.org/10.1007/s12520-022-01509-2.

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A Medieval English Perspective on Travel

During the medieval period, the Bishop of Durham was one of the most powerful men in England. Controlling a vast swathe of land in northern England that served as a buffer between the Kingdoms of England and Scotland this ecclesiastic was granted a variety of secular powers, including the right to strike his own coins, raise an army and levy taxes. These “prince bishops” were significant political players. Bishop Thomas Hatfield, with whom we are concerned here, even fought alongside the king at the Battle of Crécy.53 A series of exceptional documents discussed in detail the proceedings of a legal dispute in 1360 between Hatfield and the parishioners of St Oswald’s Church in Durham.54 The parishioners appealed to Rome and papal-judge delegates were set to hear the case in York, the seat of one of England’s two archbishoprics. Hatfield’s defence was an interesting one: he claimed that York was “a place too far away considering the person of the aforesaid reverend father, the difficulties of the journey and the time of year, which was much more than a day’s journey”; that York was further from the edge of his diocese than distance from Rochester to Canterbury, which was customarily considered a day’s journey; and that the roads were too muddy to travel on after Martinmas (11th November) in any case.55 In order to determine whether the bishop had an adequate defence the papal judge-delegates interviewed forty-four witnesses. Remarkably these ranged in social status from fishmongers and butchers to priests and notaries and the surviving accounts provide a unique glimpse into the perceptions and experiences of travel in pre-modern England. All of the witnesses considered that the bishop’s journey would have started at Darlington and would take the traveller south over a crossing of the River Tees (the boundary of the diocese) and onwards, via the settlements of Northallerton, Thirsk, Tollerton or Helperby, or perhaps via Sessay and Easingwold after Thirsk, to arrive at York.56 By modern roads this is a journey of approximately fifty miles (Fig 1). In their testimony, the witnesses were concerned with establishing a number of facts. A number drew attention to seasonality and the poor state of the roads in the winter with 53 54

55 56

A. Bash, Thomas Hatfield: Bishop, Soldier and Politician, Durham 2012. This account is based on M.  Harvey, Travel from Durham to York (and back) in the Fourteenth Century, in: Northern History 42 (2005), 119–130. For details of the underlying legal dispute see M. Harvey, Lay Religious Life in Late Medieval Durham, Woodbridge 2006, 85–89. Harvey, 2005, 119. Harvey, 2005, 123.

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thirty miles by horseback considered a day’s journey in winter and thirty-six to forty in summer. Yet one witness claimed to have ridden sixty miles in a day and another claimed that even on small, weak horses one could ride between Darlington and York in day. The experience of some individuals event went further. One Galfridus de Thornton, a servant, claimed to have walked behind his master’s horse from Darlington to York in a day and had even undertaken such a journey in the company of nuns. Roger of Dunnington, the servant of a knight, also claimed to have routinely walked from Darlington to York.57 The witnesses were not just concerned with distances, seasonality and the fitness of travellers or their beasts. They also expressed an awareness of the status of individuals travelling. Bishop Hatfield was a great man and it was considered fitting that he might need to travel in style, with his servants and encumbrances, but that this would significantly impede the speed of his journey.58 Another important consideration was whether travellers heard mass. One of York’s butchers said that travellers such as merchants and the like did not. Others considered that travellers might hear mass.59 A man such as the bishop would clearly have prioritised his religious devotions but this would shorten the time he had for travel in a day. One witness observed, perhaps wisely given the circumstances, that “he had not travelled much in the company of bishops” and thus could not be expected to know the ways of such high status individuals.60 Others professed to not travel much at all. This lengthy digression into a mediaeval English legal dispute is helpful because it provides the kinds of insights into ancient travel that are so rarely appreciated through the lens of cartography. The social context of travel is too often ignored or under-appreciated. A person of relatively low status, as with the servants who walked fifty miles a day in the example above, could routinely travel quite long distances. Meanwhile high status individuals, who might be intrepid travellers in their own right, could take much longer to traverse the same distance. This might be because they needed to travel in style, or needed to perform certain rituals or obligations. Overriding all of this were the physical factors: the fitness of people and beasts, the state of the roads and river crossings, the weather and seasons. It is not enough to consider a journey simply in terms of distance and notional time.

57 58 59 60

Harvey, 2005, 121–122. Harvey, 2005, 122. Ibid. Harvey, 2005, 127.

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Keeping Horses and Horse Gear

The Bishop of Durham’s legal troubles revealed much about travel that is probably applicable to movement in the same geographical area a millennium earlier. The role of horses as riding and draught animals played, as we have seen, a prominent role in those legal proceedings. Horses and other beasts of burden, such as donkeys, mules and oxen, were equally important during the Roman period and a consideration of what it takes to ride a horse provides some useful insights into the complex social and economic relationships that were articulated by going on a journey. Tituliana Pussita may have walked from Raetia to northern Britannia but it is far more likely that she travelled most of the distance either on the back of a horse, or in a carriage or wagon pulled by horses or other beasts of burden. Terrestrial movement has been driven by five revolutions. Of these, the last three (the steam locomotive, the internal combustion engine and the jet engine) have occurred since the Industrial Revolution. They have fundamentally transformed the world. No less momentous was the first, which saw our ape-like ancestors adopt bipedal locomotion some four million years ago. The second occurred comparatively recently, perhaps five to six thousand years ago, when the horse was domesticated in the Old World somewhere on the Eurasian Steppe. From then until the invention of the steam locomotive, the speed of terrestrial locomotion could not exceed that of a horse, a word whose Proto-Indo European root *ekwos was closely related to *okusis (swift).61 Horses had become extinct in Britain during the early Holocene and seem to have been reintroduced to the British Isles during the Bronze Age.62 Thus by the Roman period there was considerable indigenous expertise in horse breeding and riding. Archaeologically this is manifested in a wide-range of equestrian material culture and also in the presence of equid bones on almost every excavated Romano-British site, where soil conditions are conducive to the preservation of faunal remains. Evidence for horse breeding is harder to identify and usually extrapolated from the presence of immature horse bones and these too are present at a wide range of site types.63 The ubiquity of horse remains obscures the complex human-animal relationships that underpin the allegedly simple matter of using a horse for travel. 61 62 63

P. Kelekna, The Horse in Human History, Cambridge 2009, 61. R.  Bendrey, From Wild Horses to Domestic Horses: A European Perspective, in: World Archaeology 44 (2012), 135–157. M. Allen / L. Lodwick / T. Brindle / M. Fulford / A. Smith, The Rural Economy of Roman Britain, London 2017, Fig 3.50.

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Breeding a horse requires a horse-breeder to match their considerable knowledge of equine behaviour with their requirements for horseflesh. Thus, breeding a valuable riding or race horse would require carefully matching the right stallion with the correct mare when she was in heat. For workaday beasts the chosen stallion could be left to run with a small herd of mares: the ratio was probably somewhere between one stallion to ten or twenty mares.64 Ancient authors were much exercised by the demands and intricacies of horse breeding and this was driven,65 at least in part, by the lack of fecundity that horses display: it has been estimated that without modern veterinary care the odds of a mare bringing a foal to full term are around sixty percent.66 Gestation normally lasts for eleven and a half months and starts after mating in late spring. Depending on the breeder’s requirements a pregnant mare may be rested for most of that period or kept in moderate work until the late stages of the pregnancy. Mares were bred from the age of two and probably ceased being bred from between the ages of ten and fourteen. Stallions remain fertile into their twenties.67 The human investment in bringing a mare to foal was very extensive. Firstly, the mare had to be raised to the age of two, then she had to be mated. If conception was successful, the mare would then be pregnant for nearly a year, during which time she would not always be able to work. The birth of the foal was then just the start of a long process of training. Most colts and fillies would probably have begun this process at the age of two, although education could have started as early as eighteen months. How quickly a horse can be trained for riding depends on the personality and the intellect of the animal concerned. Hyland,68 writing from personal experience, suggests that it would take four to six weeks to train an animal in simple tasks and to ride under the saddle, with a further six weeks of training to bring the horse to a standard where it can “perform in very easy horse riding classes where nothing much is asked but to behave well and give a smooth performance”. Of course, Romano-British horse breeders were almost certainly willing to countenance more severe methods of training than would be accepted today,69 but even so the investment in time and resources in rearing a riding horse were significant. The animal had to be fed and cared for nearly twenty-seven months before any return could be anticipated. 64 65 66 67 68 69

A. Hyland, Equus: The Horse in the Roman World, London 1990, 31–32. For instance: Columella, Res. Rustica VI.28.1–11; Pliny the Elder, Nat. Hist. VIII.66. Hyland, 1990, 31. Hyland, 1990, 32–33. Hyland, 1990, 106. J. Dixon / P. Southern, The Roman Cavalry, London 1992, 124.

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It remains unclear how Roman horse breeding was organised. It may be assumed that most farmers and elite landowners raised horses for a variety of purposes. Some may even have raised herds of horses to fulfil specific demands. Stables located in Anatolia were famed for their excellent horseflesh but were confiscated from their owners by Valerian in the middle of the third century. These imperial stables were still known by their third-century owners’ names during the late fourth and fifth centuries but are, perhaps, a special case as they supplied horses to the hippodrome in Constantinople.70 It seems reasonable to assume, from the limited surviving evidence, that many horses bred for official purposes were, by the fourth century, bred on imperial studfarms and ranches.71 The Romano-British horse was a little smaller in stature than most modern horses with a withers height of between 1380mm and 1540mm.72 This is a slight improvement over Iron Age horse stature and is probably a result of better control of breeding and the introduction of new bloodlines.73 Keeping such beasts was no easy task. Horses have a famously ravenous appetite and in their natural environment they graze constantly, eating little but often. Stabled horses are fed perhaps three to four times a day and, as grass alone is insufficient to fulfil their nutritional needs, require supplementary foodstuffs that depend on the kind and quantity of work the horse is due to undertake. Pulling or carrying heavy loads and travelling long distances all require more energy and thus food than an existence at rest. It is difficult to quantify the economic consequences of keeping a horse. Most attempts have been focussed on the army, but a cavalry trooper and his commanding officer might have been keen to keep their mounts in tip-top condition. Civilian travellers may have been less concerned with their beasts and a merchant driving his beasts of burden to the point of exhaustion and starvation to save a penny on a bottom line can easily be imagined. Nevertheless, the military figures provide a useful baseline. Estimates for the Republican army, using Polybius’s figures, indicate that cavalry horses required 1.5lbs of

70 71 72 73

S. Mitchell, Horse-breeding for the cursus publicus in the Later Roman Empire, in: A. Kolb (ed.) Infrastruktur und Herrschaftsorganisation im Imperium Romanum, Berlin 2014, 246– 261 (257–258). Mitchell, 2014. C. Johnstone, A Biometric Study of Equids in the Roman World. Unpublished PhD thesis, Department of Archaeology, University of York 2004, 74. U. Albarella / C. Johnstone / K. Vickers, The Development of Animal Husbandry from the Late Iron Age to the End of the Roman Period: A Case-Study from South East Britain, in: Journal of Archaeological Science 35, 1828–1848 (1838).

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barley a day, supplemented daily by 10lbs of hay.74 Grazing would only provide calorific intake from mid-April until October, so for much of the year the horse depended on stored food stuffs.75 In practical terms this means that a single horse requires enough grazing to keep it fed from late spring until late autumn. During these months a horse may have to graze for at least four hours per day. Additional pasture has to be set-aside ungrazed so that the grass can be mown into hay. Large iron scythes, known from a handful of sites, would be suitable for this task and then the hay would have to be stored in carefully constructed haystacks or hayricks. These were once a common site in the English countryside but have been made redundant by mechanised baling and storage. The horse will also require barley, oats, beans and chaff in its diet, with the chaff helping to stop the horse from bolting its food.76 At 1.5lbs a day this would amount to 547.5lbs of grain a year in addition to the 3650lbs of hay. The barley, beans and oats were all foodstuffs that could have been eaten by people, so represents a diversion of resources away from the human population. The grain would also need to be ground or softened to make it digestible to the horse. At Vindolanda attrition visible on horse teeth has been thought to be due to grit-laden barley and this milling of grain was another laborious call on human labour.77 It is no exaggeration to claim that the expense of feeding a horse must have been enormous; the analysis of medieval documents demonstrates that a single carthorse ate its own value in feed every year.78 For most of the year a horse could be corralled outside but when the weather was particularly inclement, or the beast was ill, the animal would have to be brought inside. In the civilian sphere this would mean bringing the horses into barns and possibly even rural dwellings when the need arose. When stabled the horse requires bedding, which absorbs urine as well as cushioning the horse and keeping it warm. This is yet another economic drain, although it may be offset because soiled materials can be used as fertilizer on the fields.79 Veterinary care might also be necessary because equids suffer from a wide range of complaints and conditions and this is reflected in fifteenth-century English correspondence that details the concern that horse owners had for

74 75 76 77 78 79

Hyland, 1990, 90. Hyland, 1990, 90–94 and Table 3. Hyland, 1990, 42; Dixon / Southern, 1992, 209. A.  Bennett, Bones from the Severan Ditch Area A, 2004, in: A.  Birley / J.  Blake (eds.), Vindolanda Excavations 2003–2004, Hexham 2005, 115–185 (137). J.  Langdon, The Economics of Horses and Oxen in Medieval England, in: Agricultural History Review 30 (1982), 31–40 (33–34). Hyland, 1990, 92.

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their beasts and the ubiquity of complaints that the beasts suffered from.80 Similar concern for horse ailments can be discerned in a variety of ancient veterinary treatises and occasionally by archaeological discoveries.81 At Chichester (W.  Sussex) elements of a farrier’s tool kit were discovered and included a pair of emasculators for castrations and a butteris for tending to hooves.82 Elsewhere the Sandy Hoard of ironwork (Bedfordshire) included a butteris and a curry comb for grooming.83 These texts and objects presuppose that farmers, horse breeders, grooms and riders all had access to considerable knowledge and lore about the care of equids. Caring for ill or injured animals required considerable time and attention with uncertain results for the wouldbe horse-doctor. Once a horse has been suitably trained it can be used as a riding animal. This simple statement belies the additional complexities that conclude in an individual sitting astride the beast while being able to maintain their seat and simultaneously controlling the animal. Anyone who has tried to ride a horse will know that the process of being able to control it is a hard-won skillset. Once achieved, a skilled rider ought to be able to ride a horse bareback,84 indeed some barbarian groups are believed to have considered anything but bareback riding to be a sign of weakness.85 For most travellers in Roman Britain, a journey of any distance would have required a saddlecloth, if not a cushioned leather saddle. The riders depicted on the mosaics at the Piazza Armerina seem to depict this type of saddle,86 which would serve to protect the rider from constant friction against the horse’s sweaty body and help to provide a safer, firmer and more comfortable seat.87 Both cavalry and civilian riders also used a saddle constructed over a rigid wooden tree,88 which continued to be used in the early Middle Ages.89 Such saddles require padding under 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89

Shaw 2015, 141–143. Hyland, 1990, 49–60. A. Down, Chichester Excavations 6, Chichester 1989, 202–206. W. Manning, Catalogue of Romano-British Iron Tools: Fittings and Weapons in the British Museum, London 1985, 61–62. Hyland, 1990, 130. Caesar, Bell. Gall. IV.4. B. Pace, I Mosaici di Piazza Armerina, Rome 1955, Pl. X. J. Dixon / P. Southern, The Roman Cavalry, London 1992, 74–75. P.  Connolly, A Reconstruction of a Roman Saddle, in: Britannia  17 (1986), 353–355; P.  Connolly / C.  van  Driel-Murray, The Roman Cavalry Saddle, in: Britannia  22 (1991), 33–50. Fern, C. The Archaeological Evidence for Equestrianism in Early Anglo-Saxon England, in: A. Pluskowski (ed.), Just Skin and Bones? Perspectives on Human-Animal Relations in the Historical Past, Oxford 2005, 43–71 (57–61).

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them to protect the back of the horse from localized “pressure bumps”, which can develop into calloused areas.90 Saddles were held in place by a harness formed of a number of straps.91 The most important of these was the girth strap (or straps) that ran from the saddle under the belly of the horse. The breast strap, which runs around the front of the horse, stops the saddle sliding forwards and a further strap (the crupper strap), running under the horse’s tail stops the saddle sliding backwards. Various metal phalerae, or junction fittings, are known and these served to connect the different straps together. As might be expected, these items, along with decorative pendants, are common archaeological finds.92 The saddle may offer a seat and some control over the mount, but the bridle offers the primary means of control. A bridle is essentially a series of leather straps and fittings that the horse wears on its head. Its function is to secure the bit in place and to transmit pressure from the reins to the horse. As such it is the primary means (along with the rider’s legs) of controlling the animal. Archaeologically the most identifiable element of the harness is the bit. These metal fittings are pieces of horse tack designed to impress upon the horse the will of the rider. The bit is placed within the mouth of the horse where it rests on the gums of the interdental space between the front incisors and the rear molars. Pressure can be exerted by the rider on the bit via the reins and the horse is rewarded for correct behaviour by the relaxation of the bit. Two forms of bit were commonly used in Roman Britain for both riding horses and draught animals. The snaffle-bit is typically formed of two articulated, or jointed iron bars with rings at either end for the attachment of the reins. This form of bit works by exerting direct pressure within the mouth and is a relatively simple design that has barely changed to this day. The curb-bit, also still in use in altered forms, is a far more severe form of bitting. This system uses either a plain or jointed bar in the mouth and, in the most severe forms, can include an upwards pointing extension or spoon. Side pieces attach the curb-bit to both the reins and the headstall and a curb-chain links the bit beneath the horse’s jaw to keep it in place. When the reins are tightened the mouthpiece exerts pressure within the mouth and the side-pieces exert pressure on the poll of the horse and its jaws. Both forms of bit were routinely used and either form could cause significant discomfort to the animal when misused.93 90 91 92 93

Hyland, 1990, 136. Dixon / Southern, 1992, Fig 35. For instance: N. Crummy, The Roman Finds from Colchester, Colchester 1983, 105–106. Manning, 1985, 66–68; Hyland, 1990, 136–144.

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Finally, the horse’s hooves can be considered with the common equestrian adage “no hoof, no horse” emphasises the importance of hoof care. Lameness and injuries to the foot along with cuts, bruises and soreness from overuse, cracked heels and the like were all to be avoided. This was especially true as localised environmental conditions could cause a variety of problems. Prolonged exposure to wet and boggy ground may lead to a softening of the hoof and constant use on hard surfaces can abrade hooves.94 Today the use of nailed shoes is commonplace but these, despite occasional claims to the contrary,95 are a post-Roman innovation.96 So-called hipposandals, which are iron shoes tied to the horse’s hooves, may have served a similar purpose.97 5

Riding Horses

To ride a horse successfully was to articulate these entanglements of animal, person, materiality and landscape.98 For the Roman period there is abundant material evidence in terms of artefacts and faunal remains but being able to appreciate the wider context of horse riding requires something more. The utility of later medieval texts has already been demonstrated in the discussion above of Bishop Hatfield’s obscure legal case. A little later in the fourteenth century Chaucer was to describe the journey of a group of pilgrims from Southwark to Canterbury in the rather better known Canterbury Tales.99 For Chaucer’s pilgrims riding was a comfortable way of travelling and the status of each individual was in some way related to the breed of horse they rode. Thus the monk rode a palfrey and the wife of Bath an ambler, both types were easy riders with a comfortable gait. The knight rode a fine horse, presumably a “trotter” and the Shipman rode the trotting all-rounder known as a “rouncy”.100

94 95

Hyland, 1990, 36.124. C. Green, The Purpose of the Early Horseshoe, in: Antiquity 40 (1966), 305–308; Hyland, 1990, 123. 96 W.  Drack, Hufeisen – entdeckt in, auf und über der römischen Straße in Oberwinterthur (Vitudurum). Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Hufeisens, in: Bayerische Vorgeschichtsblätter 55 (1990), 191–239; Southern / Dixon, 1992, 233; N.  Crummy, Travel and Transport, in: L. Allason-Jones (ed.), Artefacts in Roman Britain: Their Purpose and Use, Cambridge 2011, 46–67 (61). 97 For discussions of hipposandals and whether they were used daily, or only for veterinary purposes see Manning, 1985, 66; Dixon / Southern 1992, 231, Fig 79; Hyland, 1990, 124. 98 Shaw, 2015, 138. 99 G. Chaucer / R. Boeing / A. Taylor, The Canterbury Tales, Peterborough 2012. 100 Shaw, 2015, 138–140.

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Similar interests in the animal’s gait can be found in Roman texts and may have been of greater importance in a period prior to the adoption of the stirrup.101 Horses were thus not simply indicators of status. The ambling, gentle horses were suited to less skilled riders and those in search of comfort than the trotting horses that more accustomed equestrians rode. We have seen that the witnesses in Hatfield’s case were concerned about the size and strength of the horse and these factors, gait, size and strength must surely have been just as important to a Romano-British rider as to a medieval horseman. Selecting a mount to ride thus depended on the rider’s ability and what sort of horseflesh and gear was available. The costs involved could be considerable. One fifteenth-century text put a horse’s value at 40s and its gear at an additional 6s.102 Thus owning a riding horse could be a significant financial outlay and we may suppose that only wealthy or at least well-to-do individuals had the means to choose from a stable of horseflesh. Most travellers cannot have been in this situation and either used horses that they owned, perhaps not primarily for riding, or presumably hired animals. Fifteenth-century texts suggest horses could be hired for around 4d a day, equivalent to an agricultural labourer’s wages but rates were also charged by distances travelled.103 In 1487 John Speryng paid 9d to hire a horse from London to Gravesend; 4d from Gravesend to Rochester; 12d for the leg Rochester to Canterbury (recalling that this was a customary day’s journey) and 8d for Canterbury to Sandwich.104 This was a total of 2s 9d for a journey along much of the route taken by Chaucer’s pilgrims and utilising elements of the Roman road known as Watling Street. There is relatively little comparable evidence from the Roman Empire. The cursus publicus with its networks of mansiones and mutationes were created to provide opportunities for official travellers to rest and change their animals.105 That similar services would have been extended, in exchange for a suitable fee, to the travelling public at these and other locations seems likely.106 Once equipped with a riding animal that suited one’s ability, temperament and purse, a Romano-British traveller could begin their journey. Many of those 101 102 103 104

Hyland, 1990, 240–241. Shaw, 2015, 144. Shaw, 2015, 141. A. Hanham, The Celys and their World: An English Merchant Family in the Fifteenth Century, Cambridge 1985, 342–343. 105 A.  Kolb, Transport and Communication in the Roman State: The cursus publicus, in C. Adams / R. Laurence (eds.), Travel and Geography in the Roman Empire, London 2001, 95–105; L. Lemcke, Imperial Transportation and Communication from the Third to the Late Fourth Century: The Golden Age of the cursus publicus, Brussels 2016. 106 As implied by epigraphic evidence: for instance S. Mitchell, Requisitioned Transport in the Roman Empire: A New Inscription from Pisidia, in: JRS 66 (1976), 106–131.

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travels will have taken place without upset but misadventure was always a possibility. Much depended, as was argued in Bishop Hatfield’s case, on the season and the weather. Even the major roads of Roman Britain could be difficult to traverse in wet conditions. Heavy usage and the impact of freight traffic in wagons, or cargoes like loads of timber being dragged by animals could damage the road, leaving rutted and potholed surfaces.107 Wet weather made the going hard, with cloying mud impeding the horse and providing slippery surfaces. The latter could lead to horse taking a fall and significantly injuring itself and this would in turn lead to the beast’s destruction. Even when the conditions for travelling were amenable misadventure could strike. Anything that causes the horse to bolt, stumble or buck uncontrollably, or any fault with the horse tack, could lead to the rider being thrown. Modern studies of injuries from horse-riding suggest that more than one in ten falls from a horse causes a traumatic brain injury.108 A survey of under-25s in the USA, who rode at least six times a year and subscribed to a horse-gear catalogue, showed that over a quarter of them had been treated by a doctor for a horse related injury in the preceding two years. Just over six percent had been admitted to hospital because of an injury caused by their horse.109 Osteologists routinely identify skeletal trauma in Romano-British populations and some of these fractured limb bones must be due to riding accidents.110 Further potential for misadventure might occur in places “off the beaten track”. The major roads of Roman Britain are well studied, but connected to these communication arteries, like a web of capillaries, were networks of local trackways, some of which ran for long distances.111 For a traveller unfamiliar with these local routes disorientation and becoming lost was a genuine possibility. Reining a horse to a stop the erstwhile traveller could hail a local rustic, perhaps a shepherd, and ask for directions. Such an encounter can be imagined in different ways. The shepherd, leaning on a spear and with his fearsome 107 For the illuminating eighteenth-century experience of road repair and maintenance see E.  Pawson, Transport and Economy: The Turnpike Roads of Eighteenth Century Britain, London 1977, 67; for an excavated example of a rutted Roman road surface found in excavation see D. Fell, Contact, Concord and Conquest: Britons and Roman at Scotch Corner, Barnard Castle 2020, Fig 4.48, Fig 4.82. 108 K. Thomas / J. Annest / J. Gilchrist / J.D. Bixby-Hammett, Non-fatal Horse Related Injuries Treated in Emergency Departments in the United States 2003–2006, in: British Journal of Sports Medicine 40 (2006), 619–626 (622). 109 Thomas / Annest / Gilchrist / Bixby-Hammett, 2006, 619. 110 C. Roberts / M. Cox, Health and Disease in Britain, Stroud 2003, Table 3.26. 111 P. Booth, Romano-British Trackways in the Upper Thames Valley, in: Oxoniensia 76 (2011), 1–14.

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herd dogs at his heel, might reply with a series of directions that were all but useless to an outsider: “Down the track, over the stream, take the fourth turning on the left, the one opposite the big oak tree – you can’t miss it. Go on a bit, keep an eye out for Camulos’ tumulus and make sure you go right. Past old Lucius’ pasture, where you can see hares, over the hill and left beyond the lightning struck tree and you’ll be there.” A grimy palm might then be extended for the obligatory gratuity. But was the yokel telling the truth? Or was he simply taking advantage of a misguided wanderer and diverting the traveller off of the beaten track so that he and his friends could take advantage? Crossing the line from legality to opportunistic banditry for some rural dwellers may have been commonplace.112 Robbing (or worse) a traveller or group of travellers might have been an attractive economic proposition in some circumstances. Similarly the peasant in his field, seeing a stranger approach might want to dissemble: what if this seemingly harmless and dusty traveller was a thief, or worse? The possibilities for missteps, misadventure and downright violence were very much present in such circumstances. Finding a hostelry on the road to spend the night en route to a destination might be a fraught experience too. For the higher status traveller it might involve sending a slave or servant ahead to ensure that the caretakers of a property make ready for your arrival.113 Alternatively, it could involve imposition on the networks of obligation between friends and patrons and clients. For many though, staying away from home would involve availing themselves of the hospitality of a roadside establishment. These might be formal, well-appointed buildings with stables and baths, like the mansiones serving the cursus publicus. Most roadside establishments offering a food and lodging for traveller and their animals were probably far more humble.114 The small roadside settlements of Roman Britain are typified by rectangular buildings with the gable

112 For “banditry” and its connotations see T. Grünewald, Bandits in the Roman Empire: Myth and Reality, London 1999. 113 For a mid-third-century Egyptian landowner from Fayyum instructing his servants and slaves to make ready another property see: Select Papyri  I, 140, in: A.  Hunt / C.  Edgar (eds.), Select Papyri 1, Harvard 1932, 347–349. 114 B. Luley / G. Piqués, Communal Eating and Drinking in Early Roman Mediterranean France: A Possible Tavern at Lattara, in: Antiquity 90 (2016), 126–142.

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end fronting the road and set within ditched cobbled yards and paddocks.115 Often dominated by evidence for agricultural activities, it seems perfectly reasonable to assume that some of these humble structures might have extended hospitality to the tired and needy traveller in exchange for payment. Innkeepers may have been keen to demonstrate that they ran wholesome and honest establishments,116 but such locations have probably always attracted venality, trickery, thievery and violence. At less salubrious establishments a traveller might be robbed and legislation was enacted to protect guests. A guest could, for instance, undertake legal proceedings against an innkeeper if they were robbed while staying.117 Even more alarming was the possibility of mistaken identity and its consequences. An entry in the Theodosian Code dated January 380 seems to suggest that persons “brought from an inn or from the service of notorious taverns” (seemingly both customers and staff) might get swept up by press-gangs looking for military “recruits”.118 Zosimus recounts a tall tale about Theodosius I going undercover to trap a barbarian spy in an inn on the Danube.119 The unfortunate spy “who said nothing and looked as if he wished to escape notice” was interrogated, subjected to a beating, wounded with swords and then beheaded. Such summary justice, meted out to wanderers, outsiders and other ne’er do wells, might have been a risk for poorer travellers.120 6

Conclusions

The road from origin to destination was not without risk for both the traveller and their animals. To undertake a journey was to engage with new experiences and inevitably led to different kinds of encounters, some positive, others negative. It would be unwise to discount the experiential from our narratives of ancient mobility. Status and identity influenced how people experienced travel and their expectations of journeys, but not in the ways we might think. A poor 115 Higham Ferrers is a typical roadside settlement: S.  Lawrence / A.  Smith, Between Villa and Town: Excavations of a Roman Roadside Settlement and Shrine at Higham Ferrers, Northamptonshire, Oxford 2009. 116 L. Casson, Travel in the Ancient World, London 1974, 206. 117 Justinian’s Digest IV.9.1. 118 Cod. Theod. VII.13.8. 119 Zosimus, Hist. nov. IV.48; C. Whittaker, Frontiers of the Roman Empire, Baltimore 1994, 192. 120 The evidence of judicial and extra-judicial violence in late Roman Britain has been discussed by R. Wiseman / N. Benjamin / F. Mazzili, Extreme Justice: Decapitations and Prone Burials in Three Late Roman Cemeteries at Knobbs Farm, Cambridgeshire, in: Britannia 52 (2021), 119–173.

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person might routinely travel long-distances happily and on foot, whereas a wealthy individual might find the same journey a terrible trial by horse or carriage. Appreciating this can move our discussions away from the problematic ‘common wisdom’ that Woolf has drawn attention to.121 In the place of this “common wisdom” we need to put the experience of the individual centre stage. This is not an easy task given our evidential basis and it requires, as this paper has tried to demonstrate, a somewhat footloose and nimble approach. Yet a diachronic approach to understanding travel enables the experience of the journey to at least be considered. This is important because it is the experience of travelling and the recognition that travel is often travail, that can be of great consequence to the individual. An isotopic signature that demonstrates that a person is a long-distance migrant is interesting. Yet to fully appreciate what that meant, or might have meant, for an individual’s ascribed and avowed identities it is necessary to understand that distance is time and that time is experience. To do otherwise is to ignore and even dehumanise the person, reducing them to an object with an origin and a point of deposition. The flow, to and from the Mediterranean, of people, ideas and things, can only be fully understood if this lived experience of travel is fully appreciated.

Fig. 4.1

A map of Bishop Hatfield’s route between Darlington, on the boundary of the Diocese of Durham, and the Archbishopric of York. © James Gerrard

121 Woolf, 2013, 363.

Reading Acts in Motion: Movement and Glocalisation in the Acts of the Apostles Pieter B. Hartog Abstract This chapter discusses the central role that travel, motion, and mobility play in the Acts of the Apostles. Written in the late 1st or early 2nd century CE, Acts uses motion as a topos to describe the early Jesus movement as a global, or supra-ethnic, group in which Judaeans and non-Judaeans come together. After showing how the term “the Way” – by which Acts denotes the Jesus movement – encapsulates a combination of proclamation and physical movement, I demonstrate how the apostles’ journeys and their encounters with local cultures result in the emergence of a glocal movement, in which local traditions are taken up within a global whole rooted in the ascended Jesus. This portrayal of the Way, as I argue in the final part of this chapter, combines the perspectives of Judaean eschatological expectations and Roman elite culture.

Introduction

Motion and movement are currently at the centre of heated debates in a variety of academic disciplines. The appeal of these concepts lies in the challenges that they pose to “boundary thinking” – that is, conceptualisations of the ancient world as being inhabited by a wide variety of more or less well-defined cultural, ethnic, or religious groups. In contrast to such boundary thinking, scholars who emphasise the ubiquity of motion and movement in the ancient world assume fluid identities and trans- and intercultural dynamics as the default condition of the complex societies that predate ours.

* Research for this article was made possible by a Postdoktorandenstipendium of the Alexander von Humboldt Stiftung. I thank Lutz Doering for hosting me as a visiting researcher at the Institutum Judaïcum Delitzschianum in Münster; Dorottya Nagy for introducing me to Ulrich Beck’s notion of methodological cosmopolitanism; the participants in the Mediterranean Flows symposium organised by the Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies for their helpful feedback; and Eelco Glas, Marc Bruinewoud, and Lydia de Kok-Meeuse for their stimulating comments and suggestions.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_006

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Two examples may illustrate this approach.1 In his 2014 article “Understanding Objects in Motion,” Miguel John Versluys makes a powerful case for the abandonment in Roman archaeology and history of historical models “rooted … in 19th-century nation-state discourses and their 20th-century deconstructions”.2 Instead, the models we apply in our study of the Roman world should be informed by the social-scientific of globalisation and foreground connectivity and mobility: [I]n material-culture terms, ‘Rome’ does not so much refer to a culture or a culture style, but rather indicates a period of remarkable connectivity and its material/human consequences. Artefacts we call ‘Roman’ are … concrete material presences part of a spatial relation in (historical) time and (geographical) space: Romanization is about understanding objects in motion.3 Versluys’ plea resonates with broader debates in the social sciences, which criticise the extent to which previous models reckoned with bounded entities – nation states in particular. Ulrich Beck, for instance, calls for a “methodological cosmopolitanism” depending on “the axiom of the incongruity of borders.”4 In globalised societies, writes Beck, “cultural, political, economic and legal borders are no longer congruent” and thus “can be chosen (and interpreted), but simultaneously also have to be redrawn and legitimated anew”.5 Understanding “in motion”, on this view, implies giving centre stage to connectivity and permeable boundaries in our historical reconstructions. This move from boundary thinking to thinking in motion has not made the impact it deserves in the study of literary sources – most particularly those

1 For a broader contextualisation of this development see Greg Woolf’s contribution to this volume. 2 M.J. Versluys, Understanding Objects in Motion: An Archaeological Dialogue on Romanization, in: Archaeological Dialogues 21 (2014), 1–20 (19). 3 Versluys, 2014, 19. – Note that, elsewhere, Versluys is critical of the term Romanization, suggesting the use of globalisation in its stead. Space precludes a full discussion of this debate, but see M. Pitts / M.J. Versluys, Globalisation and the Roman World: Perspectives and Opportunities, in: M. Pitts / M.J. Versluys (eds.), Globalisation and the Roman World: World History, Connectivity and Material Culture, Cambridge 2015, 3–31. 4 U. Beck, The Cosmopolitan State: Redefining Power in the Global Age, in: International Journal of Politics, Culture, and Society 18 (2005), 143–159 (144; Beck’s italics). See also U. Beck, The Cosmopolitan Vision, Cambridge 2006. 5 Beck, 2005, 144.

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written by ancient Judaeans and Christians.6 To be sure, various recent volumes demonstrate persuasively the centrality of movement and mobility as a topos in ancient literature;7 yet systematic analyses that understand ancient writings in motion remain rare. This is a pity, as the literary perspective has an important contribution to make to modern debates on motion and globalisation: that of intentionality. That is to say, literary writings demonstrate how individuals in antiquity’s globalised societies intentionally described themselves in globalising (or, rather, glocalising)8 terms. In this way, these literary writings offer a clearer window onto how ancient authors intentionally portrayed the protagonists in their writings and groups to which they belong in globalising terms than the material record affords. Whilst the intentions of those who produced, e.g., Isis-Fortuna statues cannot be gauged with certainty,9 authors of literary writings consciously present the Roman world as a globalised space and employ that image to craft a niche for their own group. Thus, literary works from the Roman world testify not merely to globalisation as an abstract, material phenomenon, but lend insight into what Manfred Steger and Paul James have dubbed “subjective globalisation”: the development of a “global consciousness” as represented as “various ideological articulations of globalization”.10

6 7

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Given the central role ethnic identity plays in my argument, I opt for the translation ‘Judaean’ for Greek Ioudaios. T.  Whitmarsh (ed.), Local Knowledge and Microidentities in the Imperial Greek World, Cambridge 2010; P.A.  Harland (ed.), Travel and Religion in Antiquity, Waterloo 2011; M.R. Niehoff (ed.), Journeys in the Roman East: Imagined and Real, Culture, Religion, and Politics in the Greco-Roman World 1, Tübingen 2017. The term “glocalisation” is a portmanteau, designed to express the intricate interconnectedness of the global and the local. See P.B. Hartog, Pesher and Hypomnema: A Comparison of Two Commentary Traditions from the Hellenistic-Roman World, STDJ 121, Leiden 2017, 16–28 (with references). Isis-Fortuna statues offer an illustrative case of glocalisation in the Hellenistic and Roman periods. On how such statues both fit into and bring about globalised spaces see L.A. Mazurek, Fashioning a Global Goddess: The Representation of Isis across Hellenistic Seascapes, in: A.  Kouremenos / J.M.  Gordon (eds.), Mediterranean Archaeologies of Insularity in an Age of Globalization, Barnsley 2020, 179–207; ead., Globalizing the Sculptural Landscape of the Sarapis and Isis Cults in Hellenistic and Roman Greece (doctoral thesis, Duke University, 2016), https://dukespace.lib.duke.edu/dspace/handle/10161/12291. More broadly on agency and intentionality as an object of archaeological research see J.L. Dornan, Agency and Archaeology: Past, Present, and Future Directions, in: Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory 9 (2002), 303–329. M.B. Steger / P. James, Three Dimensions of Subjective Globalization, in: ProtoSociology 27 (2011), 53–70 (53.56).

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In this article, I aim to show the book of Acts, written in the late 1st or early 2nd century CE,11 uses motion as a topos to describe the early Jesus movement as a global, or supra-ethnic, group in which Judaeans and non-Judaeans come together.12 Through its description of how this movement spread beyond Roman Palestine and eventually reached Rome, Acts characterises the Jesus movement as a glocal movement: that is, a movement that incorporates a wide range of local cultures and traditions – which Acts’ protagonists encounter on their journeys – within a global whole – the ascended Jesus and his teachings.13 This image of “the Way” – the term by which Acts denotes this glocal movement – portrays this movement both as the fulfilment of Judaean eschatological expectations and as a parallel to the Roman Empire, which was likewise conceived as a glocal space.

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The date of Acts is a notorious point of contention amongst New Testament scholars. Not only do several scholars consider the dates of Luke and Acts in tandem, therefore tending to deny a late date for the latter writing but even those scholars who take Acts on its own differ greatly in their datings. Arguing for a date in the 2nd century for a variety of reasons are the contributions to R.R. Dupertuis / T. Penner (eds.), Engaging Early Christian History: Reading Acts in the Second Century, Oxford 2013. Arguing for an early date is K.L. Armstrong, Dating Acts in its Jewish and Greco-Roman Contexts, LNTS 637, London 2021. Arguing for a middle position because of Acts’ alleged reflection of Roman imperial policies is D.W. Billings, Acts of the Apostles and the Rhetoric of Roman Imperialism, Cambridge 2017. I tend to agree with Matthias Klinghardt’s argument that Acts serves as an Integrationstext; this would suggest a later rather than earlier date. See M. Klinghardt, Das Aposteldekret als kanonischer Integrationstext: Konstruktion und Begründung von Gemeinsinn, in: M. Öhler (ed.), Aposteldekret und antikes Vereinswesen: Gemeinschaft und ihre Ordnung, WUNT 280, Tübingen 2011, 91–112; P.B. Hartog, Noah and Moses in Acts 15: Group Models and the Novelty of The Way, in: NTS 67 (2021), 496–513. I am not the first to draw attention to Acts’ portrayal of the Way as a trans-ethnic movement. See e.g. E.D. Barreto, Ethnic Negotiations: The Function of Race and Ethnicity in Acts 16, WUNT 2/294, Tübingen 2010; A.J. Kuecker, The Spirit and the ‘Other’. Social Identity, Ethnicity and Intergroup Reconciliation in Luke-Acts, LNTS 444, London 2011; A.J. Kuecker, Filial Piety and Violence in Luke-Acts and the Aeneid: A Comparative Analysis of Two Trans-Ethnic Identities, in: J.B. Tucker and C.A. Baker (eds.), T&T Clark Handbook to Social Identity in the New Testament, London 2014, 211–233; M.A. Buchholz, Considerations about the Theological Meaning of Migration in the Book of Acts, in: EJT 30 (2021), 87–117. On the centrality of travel in Acts see also V.K.  Robbins, By Land and By Sea: The We-Passages and Ancient Sea Voyages, in: C.H.  Talbert (ed.), Perspectives on Luke-Acts, Macon, GA, 1978, 215–242; L.C.A. Alexander, “In Journeying Often”: Voyaging in the Acts of the Apostles and in Greek Romans, in: C.M. Tuckett (ed.), Luke’s Literary Achievement, JSNTS 116, Sheffield 1995, 17–49.

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The Way: Beyond a Metaphor

A suitable starting point for reading Acts in motion is the terminology the book uses to describe the Jesus movement. Paul Trebilco shows that Acts exhibits various “self-designations,” most of which find parallels in other New Testament writings.14 The one exception is the phrase ἡ ὁδος – “the Way” – which, as a technical term denoting Jesus’ followers, features only in Acts.15 The background of this designation lies in Isa 40:3, which reads: “A voice calls out: ‘In the wilderness, prepare the way of the Lord (‫ ;)פנו דרך ה׳‬make straight in the desert a way for our God’”.16 In its Isaianic context this verse refers to God’s leading his people back to the land of Israel after the Babylonian exile. In the Second Temple period, an eschatological reading emerged, which took “preparing the Lord’s way” as referring to a preparation for the imminent eschaton by behaving in accordance with God’s will.17 One witness to this tradition is the longest recension of the Qumran Community Rule (1QS 8:12–16),18 where preparing the way of the Lord entails the study of the Mosaic law and acting “in compliance with all that has been revealed from age to age, and according to what the prophets have revealed through his holy spirit” (15–16).19 In the New Testament, this emphasis on acting in accordance with the law is less pronounced. References to “preparing the way of the Lord” occur mostly with reference to John the Baptist and his teaching;20 for the New Testament writers the best way to prepare for the eschaton is to accept Jesus’ teachings and recognise him as the Messiah.

14 15 16 17 18

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P. Trebilco, Self-designations and Group Identity in the New Testament, Cambridge 2011. See Acts 9:2; 19:9, 23; 22:4, and 24:14, 22. Bible translations are my own unless otherwise indicated. On the importance of Isa 40 in Luke and Acts see D.W. Pao, Acts and the Isaianic New Exodus, WUNT 2/130, Tübingen 2000, 37–69. See 1 En. 1:6; 53:7; Bar 5:7; probably also 4Q176 1:6–7. The various Qumran manuscripts of the Community Rule (or S) tradition differ in how they present Isa 40:3. A quotation of the Isaiah verse appears absent from 4Q258 (4QSd), but an allusion to Isa 40:3 may still be present. 4Q259 (4QSe) does contain the Isaiah quotation but lacks the reference to revelation and the prophets. The relationship between the various recensions of the Community Rule tradition is still under debate. On the basis of this passage, it seems most plausible that 1QS, which contains the most elaborate recension, is a conflation or development of the recensions found in 4Q258 and 4Q259 and so testifies to a later stage in the transmission of this passage than the Cave 4 manuscripts. Text and translation of the Qumran scrolls follow F. García Martínez / E.J.C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition 1, Leiden 1997; F. García Martínez / E.J.C. Tigchelaar, The Dead Sea Scrolls Study Edition 2, Leiden 1998. Mark 1:2–3; Matt 3:3; Luke 1:76; 3:4–6.

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This metaphorical meaning of “the Way” has long been recognised. Less evident are the literal connotations of the term. George Brooke argues that the quotation of Isa 40:3 in 1QS carries both metaphorical and literal significance, as is evident from the formulation that “when these have become a community in Israel … they are to be segregated from within the dwelling of the men of sin to walk to the desert in order to open there His path” (1QS 8:12–13).21 Seeing that the movement that cherished the Community Rule – or parts of that movement – did indeed retreat to the desert shows that, for them, “preparing the way of the Lord” implied physical movement alongside correct behaviour. The same holds for Luke-Acts,22 whose protagonists combine proclamation with physical movement. In Luke 1–3, Isa 40:3 appears twice to characterise John the Baptist as “preparing the way of the Lord” (Luke 1:76; 3:4–6). In so doing, John “went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins” (3:3).23 As John’s successor, Luke’s Jesus did not “prepare,” but “teach” the way of God (20:21). Even so, his ministry, like John’s, combined teaching and travelling.24 Some of Jesus’ movements in Luke find parallels in other gospels;25 yet in general Luke is more outspoken than the other gospels in portraying Jesus as an itinerant preacher. The clearest evidence for this is Luke’s insertion into his gospel of the so-called “travel narrative” (Luke 9:51–19:41), which describes the final journey of Jesus and the twelve towards Jerusalem.26 In Luke’s account, therefore, both John and Jesus are constantly in motion as they prepare and teach “the way of God/the Lord”. Jesus’ disciples follow the example set by their master. In Luke 9:1–6, Jesus sends out the twelve “to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal” (9:2), telling them to “take nothing on the way” (εἰς τὴν ὁδόν). If we compare this formulation 21 22

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G.J. Brooke, Isaiah 40:3 and the Wilderness Community, in: G.J. Brooke (ed.), New Qumran Texts and Studies: Proceedings of the First Meeting of the International Organization for Qumran Studies, Paris 1992, Leiden 1994, 117–132. Traditionally approached as a Doppelwerk written by a single author, the books of Luke and Acts are commonly read in tandem. I would hesitate slightly to attribute both works to the same hand, but I do think that Acts was consciously composed as a sequel to Luke. This would validate a reading of Acts as develops themes already apparent in Luke, though I would be more cautious to attribute Luke’s author with consciously anticipating themes found in Acts. On the importance of John’s movement in Luke see H. Conzelmann, Die Mitte der Zeit: Studien zur Theologie des Lukas, BHT 17, Tübingen 1954, 12–21. Conzelmann, 1954, 21–86. Think e.g. of Jesus’ retreat in the desert (Luke 4:1–13, par. Matt 4:1–11; Mark 1:12–13). On the travel narrative see e.g. R. Feldmeier, The Wandering Jesus: Luke’s Travel Narrative as Part of His Hermeneutical Strategy of ‘Double Codification’, in: M.R. Niehoff (ed.), Journeys in the Roman East: Imagined and Real, Culture, Religion, and Politics in the Greco-Roman World 1, Tübingen 2017, 343–353.

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to its parallels in the other synoptic gospels, Luke can be seen to add the definitive article; Matt  10:10 and Mark  6:8 read εἰς ὁδὸν. This need not amount to much,27 but Acts’ use of “the Way” as a self-designation may suggest that the addition of the article brings out a parallel between Jesus’ teaching of “the way of God” and his disciples’ treading “on the way”. In this way, the Lukan formulation εἰς τὴν ὁδόν points forward towards Acts’ use of “the Way” to describe the Jesus movement. This suggestion finds support in Luke  10:1–12, a passage unique to Luke. In these verses Jesus sends out seventy-two of his disciples, giving them an instruction very similar to the one given to the twelve in Luke 9: “greet no one on the way” (κατὰ τὴν ὁδὸν; 10:4). If we take Luke 9 and 10 together, it appears that Jesus’ directions for correct behaviour on “the way” in these two chapters mark a turning point in the Lukan narrative: as ambassadors of their Lord, who proclaim his teaching, Jesus’ disciples become followers of “the way” that their master had taught. After Jesus’ ascension, they would take over his role and travel across the oikoumene (Acts 24:5) to spread his teachings. Here too, proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah joins hands with physical motion. Seen in light of this gradual literary development of “the Way” as a designation for the Jesus movement throughout Luke and Acts, the term and the journey motif it evokes can be seen to permeate the narrative in Luke and Acts and constitute an integral part of Luke’s agenda. Luke-Acts creates a literary world in which the way of the Lord, later simply “the Way”, sets in motion the coming together of Judaeans and non-Judaeans within a movement preparing for the imminent end of the world. This programmatic importance of terminology related to motion is evident already in Luke 3:4–6, where Luke, unlike the other synoptic gospels, quotes not just Isa 40:3, but extends the quotation to verses 4–5. The final words of this quotation, “all flesh shall see the salvation of God,” imbue the quotation with a universal significance. As the divine plan of history unrolls, Luke-Acts claims, the truth of Jesus’ teachings will become visible to the ends of the earth (cf. Acts 1:8) and all flesh shall join Israel and turn towards its God. Acts’ self-designation “the Way” encapsulates and stresses this dynamic aspect of the early Jesus movement.

27

The Septuagint uses both εἰς τὴν ὁδόν and κατὰ τὴν ὁδὸν in the sense of “on the way.” For εἰς τὴν ὁδόν see e.g. Gen 42:25; 45:21; for κατὰ τὴν ὁδὸν see e.g. Josh 5:7; 3 Macc 7:14. The formulations with or without the article are often synonymous; cf. εἰς τὴν ὁδόν in Gen 42:25; 45:21 and εἰς ὁδόν in Gen 45:23; or καθ’ ὁδὸν τῆς πύλης in Ezek 42:15 and κατὰ τὴν ὁδὸν τῆς πύλης in Ezek 43:2, 4; 44:1, 4; 46:8, 9; 47:2.

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The Way as a Global Mélange

The central role that motion plays in Luke and Acts plays out in how these works portray the Jesus movement. As  I aim to show, Acts conceives of the Way as a glocal movement in which an overarching global outlook, grounded in Jesus residing in heaven, merges with local traditions on earth. The centrality of travel in Luke’s account serves to bring about this characterisation of the Way as what Jan Nederveen Pieterse has called a “global mélange”. I have introduced Nederveen Pieterse’s concept of the global mélange elsewhere,28 so I will restrict myself here to the example of King Herod. On him, Nederveen Pieterse writes: The area that is now Jordan was located on the caravan routes from the Red Sea, Aden, and Yemen to Damascus and straddled the old kingdoms of the Ammonites (hence Amman) and Nabateans. King Herod, who was appointed king of Judea by the Romans, was “by birth an Idumean (i.e., Edomite), by profession a Jew, by necessity a Roman, by culture and by choice a Greek”.29 The point here is not about the historical accuracy of Nederveen Pieterse’s portrait.30 Rather, Herod serves as an example of how cultural and ethnic identities in the ancient world could surpass their local significance without wholly leaving this local significance behind after having been taken up in an overarching, global, whole. The result, Nederveen Pieterse holds, is a global mélange in which the sum of local traditions, tendencies, and identities amounts to more than its individual parts. Acts’ presentation of the Way can, I submit, be understood as such a global mélange. The ethnic identities of the various groups Luke describes remain valid and significant, but are taken up within a larger, overarching movement, just as King Herod combines various sources within an overarching self. 28

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See  P.B.  Hartog, Where Shall Wisdom be Found? Identity, Sacred Space, and Universal Knowledge in Philostratus and the Acts of the Apostles, in: P.B.  Hartog / S.  Laderman / V.  Tohar / A.L.H.M.  van  Wieringen (eds.), Jerusalem and Other Holy Places as Foci of Multireligious and Ideological Confrontation, JCPS, Leiden 2021, 131–149. J. Nederveen Pieterse, Pants for an Octopus: Ethnicities and Global Multiculture, Lanham 2007, 9, quoting C. Burgess, Maintaining Identities: Discourses of Homogeneity in a Rapidly Globalizing Japan, in: Electronic Journal of Contemporary Japanese Studies, April 19, 2004, https://www.japanesestudies.org.uk/articles/Burgess.html, page 10. On Herod’s biography see recently e.g. A.  Kasher, King Herod: A Persecuted Persecutor: A Case Study in Psychohistory and Psychobiography, Berlin 2007; J.  Bourgel, Hérode, roi d’Israël?, Paris 2019.

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Acts’ first verses outline the global context in which local traditions are taken up. In Acts 1:8–9, Jesus appoints the Twelve as his “witnesses (μάρτυρες) in Jerusalem and in all Judaea and Samaria, and until the end of the earth”, whereafter he is taken up into heaven. Matthew Sleeman has called attention to the spatial rhetoric of these verses, demonstrating persuasively that they outline the course of what is to follow in Acts’ narrative.31 The play with the hendiadys οὐρανός and γῆ stresses the universal reach of Jesus’ teachings. At the same time, it stresses the different positions that Jesus and the Twelve occupy in the proclamation of these teachings: whilst Jesus takes place in heaven, the Twelve roam the entire earth. As a result, the post-ascension Jesus provides the global context for the local encounters of his followers on their earthly travels. The starting point of the apostles’ proclamation-by-travel is the Pentecost event described in Acts  2. After Jesus’ ascension, the apostles retreat to Jerusalem and replace Judas (1:12–26), until the Holy Spirit, at Pentecost, compels them to proclaim Jesus and so sets in the motion the growth of the Jesus movement. Limited at first to Jerusalem, this movement gradually spreads first to Judaea and Samaria (8:1–25), then to the entire oikoumene (24:5). Despite its concentration on Jerusalem, the Pentecost story prefigures the glocal developments that unfold later on. To begin with, Luke stresses that those present in Jerusalem were “Judaeans, devout men from every nation under heaven (ἀπὸ παντὸς ἔθνους τῶν ὑπὸ τὸν οὐρανόν),” listing their various localities in 2:9–11. At the same time, these various groups all hear the apostles speak in their own language (2:6–8) and are so taken up into the global movement that emerges at this point. It is significant, as Sleeman shows, that the sound that accompanies the outpouring of the spirit comes “from heaven” (ἐκ τοῦ οὐρανοῦ; 2:2) – i.e. from the place whither Jesus was taken.32 As in Acts  1, heaven provides the global context in which local attachments – symbolised here by language – are taken up and united. The remainder of the Acts narrative, especially after chapter 8, reads as an ongoing series of encounters of the apostles (including Paul)33 with local groups and individuals.34 In the speeches that the apostles deliver at these various 31 32 33 34

M. Sleeman, Geography and the Ascension Narrative in Acts, Society for New Testament Studies Book Series 146, Cambridge 2009. On the importance of the heavens in the ascension narrative see Sleeman, 2009, 95–102. On Paul’s inclusion amongst the apostles see P.B.  Hartog, ‘I Must Also See Rome’ (Acts 19:21): Eyewitness Discourse in Luke and Acts, in: NTT Journal for Theology and the Study of Religion 75 (2021), 197–211 (206–207). Cf. K.  Backhaus, Religion als Reise. Intertextuelle Lektüren in Antike und Christentum, Tria Corda  8, Tübingen 2014, 123: “Von der Urphase in Jerusalem abgesehen sind [die] Hauptakteure [der Apostelgeschichte] ständig unterwegs.”

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localities they address each group or individual in terms suited to their local context. I give three examples of this procedure. First, Cornelius. Cornelius was a centurion in Caesarea who had “feared God with all his household, gave alms generously to the people, and prayed continually to God” (10:2). Summoned to appear before the centurion, Simon Peter tells him how Jesus died and was raised, and how he shall judge “the living and the dead” (10:43) at the eschaton. Noteworthy is Peter’s formulation in Acts 10:36: As for the word that [God] sent to Israel, preaching good news of peace (εἰρήνη) through Jesus Christ (he is Lord of all) (οὗτός ἐστιν πάντων κύριος), you yourself know … The phrases “peace” and “Lord of all” can be taken as reflections of Cornelius’ position as a Roman official. Judging from Acts 24:2, Luke knows of the Romans as peace-bringers, as do other authors from the Judaean diaspora.35 Moreover, the expression “lord of all” occurs in Polybius and Strabo with reference to the Romans.36 The combined use of these terms puts the peace that Jesus brings on a par with the pax Romana. When Cornelius joins the Way, therefore, his local situation and sensitivities as a Roman official remains intact. Put differently: Peter’s speech shows that it is precisely in his capacity as a Roman official that Cornelius accepts the message of the risen Lord. A similar incorporation of local traditions in the message of the apostles occurs in Lystra, where Paul and Barnabas, after healing a crippled man, are almost mistaken for Zeus and Hermes come down in human form (14:8–18).37 The first thing to note about the apostles’ speech is that, in contrast to other speeches, it omits any reference to Jesus, but portrays the apostles’ God in universal terms as “a living God, who made the heaven and the earth and the sea and all that is in them” (14:15). This absence of Jesus’ name can be explained from the preceding episode: if Paul and Barnabas in their speech refute the idea that they are gods incarnate, it would not suit them to refer to Jesus, who in Acts takes on divine roles, such as that of end-time judge, and could easily give new life to the idea of divine incarnation. Moreover, the Lystra speech defines Paul and Barnabas’ God explicitly as a god of bounty: “He did good 35 36 37

E.g. Philo, Leg. 8, 309. On the first passage see also below. Polyb. 36.4.4; Strabo 9.2.2. Strabo does not, however, apply the expression solely to the Romans; see Strabo 11.14.15; 12.3.37; 14.5.18; 16.1.11. On the incorporation of local traditions in the Lystra and Areopagus episodes see also P.B.  Hartog, Joodse reizigers in het Romeinse rijk: Tussen globalisering en zelfbehoud, in: NTT Journal for Theology and the Study of Religion  74 (2020), 23–38 (33–37); Hartog, 2021, 142–145.

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by giving you rains from heaven and fruitful seasons, satisfying your hearts with food and gladness” (14:17). It is worthwhile to read this element from the apostles’ speech together with Strabo’s comments on the region surrounding Iconium: Tatta and the region around Orkaorkoi and Pitnissos, as well as the Lykaonian mountain plains, are cold, bare, and grazed by asses. Water is exceedingly scarce, and where it can be found the wells are the deepest that exist, just as in Soatroi (a village city near to Garsaoura), where water is sold. Although the territory is without water, it is remarkably productive of sheep. Although their wool is rough, some have acquired great wealth from them. Amyntas had over 300 flocks in this region.38 It appears that Paul’s portrayal of his God as giving rain resonates with local Lycaonian tradition: given the scarcity of water, rain would have been particularly important for the Lycaonians. By identifying his god as the provider of rain, Paul seeks to persuade the Lystrians to leave behind their “vain things” (14:15) and turn towards the God he proclaims. Yet, just as Peter in the case of Cornelius, Paul does not represent a one-mold-fits-all movement but speaks explicitly to local concerns and traditions. In short: it is precisely as Lystrians that his audience is invited to join the Way. The final example concerns Paul’s Stoic and Epicuraean interlocutors in Athens. As has often been noted, Paul’s Areopagus speech, in its use of the term οἱκουμένη (17:31) and its portrayal of Paul’s god as the father of all human beings (17:24–26), reflects a Stoic cosmopolitan attitude39 – except for the fact that, for Paul, it is his god who has generated all humans that inhabit the oikoumene and shall judge them at the end of time. Moreover, the Aratus quotation which Paul includes in his speech subtly equates his god with Aratus’ Zeus. “We are also his offspring”, wrote Aratus, referring to Zeus (Phaen. 5); and Paul applies the same quote to his god (17:28–29). Again, Paul’s interlocutors, 38

39

Strabo 12.6.1; cf. 12.2.10 (trans. D.W. Roller, The Geography of Strabo: An English Translation, with Introduction and Notes, Cambridge 2014, 543). For a broader discussion see S. Mitchell, Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor 1, Oxford 1993, 143–149; C. Breytenbach, Early Christianity in Lyaconia and Adjacent Areas: From Paul to Amphilochius of Iconium, Early Christianity in Asia Minor 101, Leiden 2017, 323 and passim. On the intellectual background of Paul’s speech see D.L. Balch, The Areopagus Speech: An Appeal to the Stoic Historian Posidonius against Later Stoics and the Epicureans, in: D.L. Balch / E. Ferguson / W.A. Meeks (eds.), Greeks, Romans, and Christians: Essays in Honor of Abraham J. Malherbe, Minneapolis 1990, 52–79; J.D. Charles, Engaging the (Neo) Pagan Mind: Paul’s Encounter with Athenian Culture as a Model for Cultural Apologetics (Acts 17:16–34), in: TJ 16 (1995), 47–62 (54–60).

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just like Cornelius and the Lystrians, retain their local identity should they recognise Israel’s god and Jesus as his appointed judge. As these examples show, the travel motif in Acts constructs an image of the Way as a cosmopolitan movement in which local affiliations remain, to an extent, in place, whilst also being re-contextualised and redefined within a global whole. In this way, the centrality of travel and movement in the Acts narrative supports the answer that this writing gives to the main question it addresses: how should we conceive of the Way as a new movement consisting of Judeans and non-Judaeans? And what is the role of ethnic identity within this movement?40 By the time Acts was written, this mixed make-up of the Way was already in place and needed explanation in view of local conflicts. By presenting the development of the Way as a “road movie” – to adopt Knut Backhaus’ term41 – the author of Acts writes a cosmopolitan attitude into the very first beginnings of the early Jesus movement. 3

Judaean Eschatology Meets Roman Elitism

Acts’ glocal portrayal of the Way portrays this novel movement in familiar terms, though without fully equating the Way with these terms.42 Two perspectives, I would suggest, are particularly important to Acts’ portrayal of the way: a Judaean expectation of universal acceptance of Israel’s God at the end of days and a Roman elite perspective that viewed the Roman world as a global unity in which a wide range of local groups were united under a single ruler, the emperor. In the book of Acts, the motif of travel and its ensuing cosmopolitan outlook enables Acts’ author to combine these two categories and so to answer the question: what is the Way? To begin with the former, we have seen that the term “the Way” goes back to an eschatological reading of Isa 40:3–5, which predicts that “all flesh shall see the salvation of God” (Luke 3:6; cf. Isa 40:5). The same expression “all flesh” occurs in Acts 2:17, where Peter quotes Joel 3:1 (2:28): “And in the last days it shall be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh.” If this biblical quotation is compared to the Septuagint rendering of Joel 3:1 (2:28), the phrase 40 41 42

Space precludes a full discussion of Acts’ purpose. Suffice it to say that I side with those scholars who read the book primarily as an attempt at identity-making or selfunderstanding on the part of the Jesus movement. Backhaus, 2014, 86. I have discussed this rhetorical and literary strategy in Acts more elaborately in P.B. Hartog, Noah and Moses in Acts 15: Group Models and the Novelty of The Way, in: NTS 67 (2021), 496–513.

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“in the last days” (ἐν ταῖς ἐσχάταις ἡμέραις) turns out to be a Lukan formulation, which replaces “subsequently” (μετὰ ταῦτα) in the Septuagint. This Lukan formulation explicitly defines the outpouring of the Spirit at Pentecost as an endtime event. As a result, the Way features here as an eschatological movement in which the universal turn towards the God of Israel foretold by the ancient prophets is realised. This universal outlook implies the coming together of Judaeans and nonJudaeans. Acts 15:16–17, part of the story of the Jerusalem council that discusses the relationship between Judaeans and non-Judaeans within the Way, quotes Amos 9:11–12 in adapted form: After this I will return, and I will rebuild the tent of David that has fallen; I will rebuild its ruins, and I will restore it, that the remnant of mankind may seek the Lord, and all the ethne who are called by my name, says the Lord, who makes these things known from of old. Like the Joel quotation in Acts 2, this passage defines the Way as a universal eschatological movement. Yet the Amos quotation is more explicit about the double character of this movement as a coming together of “the tent of David” and “all the ethne who are called by [God’s] name”. As a movement of Judaeans and non-Judaeans, the Way appeals to all peoples of the world, who are called to join Jesus’ apostles in their preparations for the end of time and the final judgement. It is noteworthy that Luke develops this eschatological portrayal of the Way not on the basis of prophetic passages such as Isa 2:1–4 (par. Mic 4:1–5), which emphasise the centrality of Zion/Jerusalem in the end-time scenario, but on passages with a more open spatial orientation. This intricately allows Luke to combine Judean eschatological expectations with a Roman elite perspective, in which the city of Rome functions as the telos of the Acts narrative. Much ink has been spilt on Acts’ attitude towards the Romans. Given the unhindered access Acts’ protagonists have to Roman officials43 and the way in which Acts presents Paul as a Roman citizen with access to the emperor (25:1–12), I consider Acts to be confirmative of the structures of Roman rule overall. As Christina Petterson has argued, “Acts is a product of empire”, and “structures of imperialism are present in the text and its readers, who themselves are embedded in structures of empire”.44 One way in which Acts’ 43 44

See e.g. Acts 10 and 13. C. Petterson, Acts of Empire: The Acts of the Apostles and Imperial Ideology, Sino-Christian Studies Supplement Series 4, Taiwan 2012, xiv.

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imperial perspective shines through is the way in which Luke models the Way on the Roman Empire. In Peter’s speech to Cornelius, as we have seen, Jesus, like the Roman emperor, features as peace-giver and lord of all. Elsewhere Acts presents Jesus, again like the Roman emperor, as judge of the entire oikoumene (17:31) and the Way as an oikoumene-wide movement (24:5).45 This terminology takes up the trope of Roman rule as uniting the whole world under a single head, which features both in Roman literature and in Judaean literature in Greek. Consider e.g. this passage in Philo’s Legatio: For after Tiberius Caesar’s death Gaius inherited an empire over the whole earth and sea (τὴν ἡγεμονίαν πάσης γῆς καὶ θαλάσσης), which was at peace with itself, under good laws, and experiencing complete harmony between all its regions, North, South, East, and West: barbarian was at one with Greek and Greek with barbarian, the soldiery with the civil authorities and the civilians with the men on active service, sharing and enjoying peace (εἰρήνη) together. He had succeeded to  … an empire not merely consisting of most of the most essential parts of the world (οἰκουμένη) … but … an empire stretching from the sunrise to the sunset and comprising lands both within and beyond the Ocean. At all this the Roman people, the whole of Italy, and the nations of both Asia and Europe rejoiced (τά … Ἀσιανὰ καὶ Εὐρωπαῖα ἔθνη).46 Philo, as this quote testifies, acknowledged the Romans as universal rulers, who had brought the ends of the oikoumene together under their rule.47 Judging from his use of terms such as εἰρήνη and οἰκουμένη, Luke shared Philo’s perspective. Building on the image of the Roman Empire as bringing together the various ethne that inhabited the known world, Luke can thus paint the Way as a movement that exhibits a translocal outlook similar to that of the Roman Empire. Just as the Roman Empire is a thoroughly translocal entity united under its emperor, so the Way is a thoroughly translocal movement 45 46 47

On oikoumene as a term for the territories under Roman rule see e.g. Polyb. 1.1.5; 1.2.1; 1.2.7. Philo, Leg. 8, 10 (trans. E. Mary Smallwood, Philonis Alexandrini Legatio ad Gaium, Leiden 1970, 56). For Philo, this passage sets the stage for the imminent downfall of Gaius. As I have argued elsewhere, Philo’s strong rejection of Gaius does not mean that he rejected Roman rule, but, rather, that he conceived of Gaius as a non-Roman emperor and the Judaeans as the true defenders of Roman values. See Pieter  B.  Hartog, Contesting Oikoumenē: Resistance and Locality in Philo’s Legatio ad Gaium, in: G.H. van Kooten / J. van Ruiten (eds.), Intolerance, Polemics, and Debate in Antiquity: Politico-Cultural, Philosophical, and Religious Forms of Critical Conversation, Themes in Biblical Narrative  25, Leiden 2019, 205–231.

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united under its head, the ascended Jesus. In Acts, the universal movement of the end time predicted in the Israelite prophets materialises in a movement on a par with the Roman Empire, whose networks and power structures it reflects. 4

Conclusion

Travel and mobility are central elements in the Acts narrative. Following in their teacher’s steps, Jesus’ followers combine proclamation with physical movement. Thus, their movement – aptly referred to as “the Way” – assumes a glocal shape, in which local traditions remain relevant, but are also incorporated into the global context of the ascended Jesus. In the process, both elements are affected. The teachings of and about Jesus, whilst originally directed towards Judaeans, now become accessible also to non-Judaeans, as the universal portrayal of the God of Israel in Paul’s Lystra and Athens speeches reflects. At the same time, local traditions remain partially intact, but the veneration of local gods is to be abandoned in the wake of joining the Way and the God of Israel recognised as the sole, universal deity. The result is a “global mélange” in which local and global tendencies are intricately intertwined. By promoting this glocal image of the Way, Luke writes the early Jesus movement into familiar categories. On the one hand, Acts presents the Way as the fulfilment of Judaean eschatological hopes; on the other, the Way resembles the Roman Empire, of which Luke, like other Judaean diaspora authors, conceives as a glocal space. In modern terms, this could be considered a case of subjective globalisation: intercultural awareness is here used to present one’s own movement as participating in the global world in which it originated.

Sabbath as a Temporal Marker in Luke-Acts Sigurvin Lárus Jónsson Abstract This article explores temporal markers in Luke-Acts, as they relate to the author’s narrativisation of the spread of the early Christian message through the Mediterranean world. Among these temporal markers is Sabbath, which becomes in the narrative of Luke-Acts an eschatological category and a prominent setting for the transmission of early Christian teaching. The result of this study is that reflections about time contributed to both the urgency and the historiography of the spread of Christianity.

Introduction

The title of this volume, “Mediterranean Flows: People, Ideas and Objects in Motion”, contains two concepts of movement or change. While the terms explicitly refer to the actual motion of ‘People, Ideas and Objects’, they can also be seen as aspects of time. Early Christianity is characterised by the motion of people and ideas, as the message(s) of the emerging movement flowed through the Mediterranean world.1 Christianity as a religion started with the life and teaching of Jesus2 and developed into a literary movement,3 primarily through the letters of Paul written in the years 50 to 56 (terminus ante quem 63).4 One * This article is based on a paper presented on March  18th 2021 at the Yale University ISM Conference, Keeping the Sabbath from Antiquity to Modernity: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Time, Rest, and Cosmos, entitled “Time and History in Luke-Acts: Sabbath as Setting”. 1 D.-A.  Koch, Geschichte des Urchristentums: Ein Lehrbuch, Göttingen 22014, 429–437; U. Schnelle, Die ersten 100 Jahre des Christentums 30–130 n. Chr.: Die Entstehungsgeschichte einer Weltreligion, Göttingen 32019, 156–225. 2 For a compendium of the state of research into the Historical Jesus, see T. Holmén / S.E. Porter (eds.), Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus, Leiden 2011. 3 Gerd Theissen emphasises the literary history of early Christianity naming 90 books as belonging to its earliest stage (G. Theissen, The New Testament: A Literary History, Minneapolis 2012, 1) and Udo Schnelle describes early Christianity as a “Stadt- und Bildungsreligion”. U. Schnelle, 2019, 494–505. 4 There is a scholarly discussion about which letters are the latest, Romans is generally dated to 56 (O. Wischmeyer, Römerbrief, in: O. Wischmeyer / E.-M. Becker (eds.), Paulus: Leben – Umwelt – Werk – Briefe Tübingen 32021, 429ff.); Philippians either to 55 (if written in Ephesus)

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_007

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objective of this article is to show that the spread of the gospel through Paul’s “mission among the Gentiles” (εὐαγγελίζωμαι αὐτὸν ἐν τοῖς ἔθνεσιν, Gal  1:16) was a result of his reflections about the end of time (eschatology), at least the urgency of his missionary activity. The narrativisation of the early Christian message began with the Gospel of Mark, written in the wake of the Jewish War (66–70 CE),5 where the imminency of the end-time is comparable to the urgency of Paul’s mission.6 The Gospel of Luke, the first volume of the two-part narrative addressed to Theophilus (Luke 1:3; Acts 1:1), uses Mark directly as a literary source and the Acts of the Apostles, the second volume written by the auctor ad Theophilum, presents Paul as the main character as the gospel reaches Rome and thus stands in the tradition of his letters.7 A second important point that this article makes is that reflections about time in Luke-Acts, specifically the concept of Sabbath, become the temporal setting for the ‘flow’ of early Christian ‘ideas’ as its messengers traverse the Mediterranean world. This is important because the subject of time and temporal markers in Luke-Acts are connected to the topic of teaching in the narrative – that is the dissemination of early Christian ideas. Finally, the factors that led to the spread and eventual Triumph of Christianity,8 have been explored and popularised in scholarship, yet early Christian reflections about time have in this respect generally not been regarded as a factor.9

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or 61–63 (if written in Rome) (L. Borkmann, Philipperbrief, in: Wischmeyer / Becker (eds.) 2021, 397ff.). E.-M. Becker, Birth of Christian History: Memory and Time from Mark to Luke-Acts, AYBRL, New Haven 2019, 88: “[T]he year 70 CE might very well have been the historical trigger for the writing of the gospel account”. See also E.-M.  Becker, Der jüdisch-römische Krieg (66–70 n.Chr.) und das Markus-Evangelium. Zu den ‘Anfängen’ frühchristlicher Historiographie in ead. (ed.) Die antike Historiographie und die Anfänge der christlichen Geschichtsschreibung, BZNW 129, Berlin 2005, 213–236. O. Wischmeyer, Konzepte von Zeit bei Paulus und im Markusevangelium, in: O. Wischmeyer / D.C. Sim / I.J. Elmer (eds.), Paul and Mark: Comparative Essays 1: Two Authors at the Beginnings of Christianity, BZNW 198, Berlin 2014. R.I. Pervo, Acts: A Commentary, Hermeneia, Minneapolis 2009, 13: “It is almost impossible to claim that the author of Acts had not heard of the epistles, and it is difficult to propose circumstances in which he had not come into contact with them. The choices are either that Luke knew of the letters but declined to consult them or that he made such use of them as suited his needs and purposes. Tertium non datur.” B.D. Ehrman, The Triumph of Christianity: How a Forbidden Religion Swept the World, New York 2018; R. Stark, The Rise of Christianity: How the Obscure, Marginal Jesus Movement Became the Dominant Religious Force in the Western World in a Few Centuries, San Francisco 1997. See L.E. Waage, Ancient Religious Rivalries and the Struggle for Success: Christians, Jews, and Others in the Early Roman Empire, in: id. (ed.), Religious Rivalries in the Early Roman Empire and the Rise of Christianity, Waterloo 2006, 3–19; id., Why Christianity Succeeded (in) the Roman Empire, in: id. (ed.), 2006, 253–278. – A notable exception is Helmut Koester who

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This article seeks to ratify this in part by discussing temporal markers from Paul to Luke-Acts and to show how they connect to the portrait of the flow of people and ideas in the two-part historiographical narrative. 1

Concept(s) of Time

Time, as defined by modern physics, refers to the regular interval of motion or change as “a dimension that enables two otherwise identical events that occur at the same point in space to be distinguished”.10 In physics,11 as in modern philosophy,12 time and space are interrelated and the ideas of movement and change lie behind their definitions. Ancient conceptions of time have been the subject of much recent study, exploring how they are found in Ancient Greek,13 Roman14 and Jewish15 texts and traditions, as well as the narrative function of time in Ancient Greek literature,16 especially in Historiography.17 states that “Paul envisions a role for the eschatological community that presents a Utopian alternative to the prevailing eschatological ideology of Rome”. See H. Koester, Imperial Ideology and Paul’s Eschatology in 1 Thessalonians, in: R.A. Horsley (ed.), Paul and Empire: Religion and Power in Roman Imperial Society, Harrisburg 1997, 166. 10 “Time” in: R.R.  Lennie / J.  Law (eds.), A Dictionary of Physics, Oxford 2019. See: https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/acref/9780198821472.001.0001/ acref-9780198821472-e-3098. 11 “Space-time” in Lennie / Law (eds.), 2019. See: https://www.oxfordreference.com/ view/10.1093/acref/9780198821472.001.0001/acref-9780198821472-e-2845: “In Einstein’s concept of the physical universe, based on a system of geometry devised by Hermann Minkowski (1864–1909), space and time are regarded as entwined, so that two observers in relative motion could disagree regarding the simultaneity of distant events”. 12 S. Prosser, Experiencing Time, Oxford 2016, ix. 13 R.K.  Persky, Kairos: A Cultural History of Time in the Greek Polis, Ph.D.  Diss., University of Michigan, 2009; R.  Hannah, Greek and Roman Calendars: Constructions of Time in the Classical World, London 2005; id., Time in Antiquity, London 2009; C.H.  George, Expressions of Time in Ancient Greek, Cambridge Classical Studies, Cambridge 2014. 14 G. Forsythe, Time in Roman Religion: One Thousand Years of Religious History, Routledge Studies in Ancient History 4, London 2012. 15 S.K. Gribetz, Time and Difference in Rabbinic Judaism, Princeton 2020; S. Beyerle / M. Goff (eds.), Notions of Time in Deuterocanonical and Cognate Literature, Berlin 2021. 16 I.J.F. de Jong / R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative 2, Mn 291, Leiden 2007. 17 A. Lianeri (ed.), The Western Time of Ancient History: Historiographical Encounters with the Greek and Roman Pasts, Cambridge 2011; F. Montanari / A. Rengakos (eds.), Knowing Future Time in and through Greek Historiography, Trends in Classics Supplementary Volumes 32, Berlin 2016; E.-M. Becker (ed.), Die antike Historiographie und die Anfänge der christlichen Geschichtsschreibung, BZNW 129, Berlin 2005; ead., The Birth of Christian History: Memory and Time from Mark to Luke-Acts, New Haven 2017; ead., Zeit-Begriffe

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The flow of time is an analogy found in antiquity,18 as Aristophanes describes – “time flows by”.19 The terminology of time in Greek is broad, but some central lexemes are καιρ-based, the substantive ὁ καιρός, the adjective καίριος, ‑α, ‑ον, as well as the compound verb καιροφυλακέω – to “watch for the right time”,20 and χρον-based, the substantive ὁ χρόνος, the adjective χρόνιος, ‑α, ‑ον, the verb χρονίζω, as well as a host of compounds.21 Reflections about time are widespread in Greek Philosophy and Aristotle is a central figure, where the Presocratics in “[v]arious aspects point forward to Aristotle, such as [with] the distinction between χρόνος as a temporal duration and καιρός as a favourable point in time” and Aristotle himself “[i]n his Physics, […] 4:10–14 starts out from the question of whether time (χρόνος) is the cause of change (κίνησις; motion)”.22 Concepts of time are of seminal importance for the development of early Christianity, and Luke-Acts is a foundational document for the construction of a Christian calendar, which mostly used and adapted the Jewish calendar – yet Luke-Acts is our only source for some distinctive features, such as Pentecost (Acts 2:1–42).23 The theology of time in Luke-Acts focuses i.a. on three aspects, the delineation of time as Salvation history (Heilsgeschichte24 or Epochengeschichte),25 the end of time (eschatology) and the Sabbath, as a time and space for rest and the dissemination of teaching.26 This last aspect will be the focus of our discussion, since as we will show, Sabbath becomes a time and space for the flow of ideas in the historiographical portrait of Luke-Acts. To understand this portrait, we need to take into account the emergence and

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

und -Konzepte in historiographischen Texten des 1. Jhs. n. Chr., in: Beyerle / Goff (eds.), 2021, 111–129. TLG Online: A proximity search (within 5-words) of ὑπορρέω and ὁ χρόνος with lemma gives three results from BCE, Aristophanes, Nubes 1289; Hippocrates, Prorrheticon 2.15,15; and Eudemes, Frag. 97.7. Aristophanes, Nubes 1289. “καιροφυλακέω”, LSJ. A TLG search shows that καιρός with lemma is found 4578 x before NT, 485 x in LXX and 85 x in NT; καίριος is not found in NT and in LXX only in Prov 15:23. LSJ. A TLG search shows that χρόνος with lemma is found 12719 x before NT, 140 x in LXX and 54 x in NT; χρόνιος is not found in NT nor in LXX, yet χρονίζω is found 32 x in LXX. H. Westermann, “Time, concepts of” in H. Cancik (ed.) Brill’s New Pauly: Encyclopaedia of the Ancient World, Leiden 2002–2011. See: doi: http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1574-9347_ bnp_e12215210. See R.Τ. Beckwith, Calendar and Chronology, Jewish and Christian: Biblical, Intertestamental and Patristic Studies, Leiden 1996. F. Mildenberger, Heilsgeschichte, in: RGG see: http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/2405-8262_rgg4_ COM_09533. Fundamental in this regard is H. Conzelmann, Die Mitte der Zeit: Studien zur Theologie des Lukas, BHT 17, Tübingen 1954, 128–135. M. Wolter, Das Lukasevangelium, HNT 5, Tübingen 2008, 26. E. Otto et al., Sabbath, RGG see: http://dx.doi.org/10.1163/1877-5888_rpp_COM_024677.

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development of these topics in the letters of Paul and the Gospel of Mark, with the aim to show how disruptions in the flow of time prompt the dissemination of ‘ideas’ and the movement of ‘people’ in these documents. 2

Time in the Letters of Paul and the Gospel of Mark

The idea that time could end (eschatology) can be found in various forms in Antiquity27 and took on a distinctive importance in Jewish texts of the Hellenistic and Roman Periods,28 such as in the Enochian tradition,29 in the works of Philo,30 in the Dead Sea Scrolls31 and Fourth Ezra / Second Baruch.32 Eschatology was fundamental to the message of the historical Jesus, according to a majority of scholars,33 and lies at the heart of Paul’s thinking. Oda Wischmeyer provides an overview of the vocabulary of time in Paul and Mark, that clearly shows that for Paul “[d]ie Zukunft ist … hauptsächlich Endzeit”.34 This is true for his use of χρόνος, time, and καιρός, specific points in time, as well as for αἴων, meaning either the ‘past age’ or the imminent ‘end of the ages’ (τέλη τῶν αἰώνων, 1 Cor 10:11) inaugurated by the Christ event. Paul’s eschatological

27 28 29 30 31

32

33

34

H.  Marlow / K.  Pollmann / H.  van  Noorden (eds.), Eschatology in Antiquity: Forms and Functions, Rewriting Antiquity, London 2021. J. Verheyden / G. Roskam / G, van Riel (eds.), From Protology to Eschatology: Competing Views on the Origin and the End of the Cosmos in Platonism and Christian Thought, STAC 130, Tübingen 2022. G. Macaskill, Revealed Wisdom and Inaugurated Eschatology in Ancient Judaism and Early Christianity, JSJ.S 115, Leiden 2007. K.M. Penner, Philo’s Eschatology, Personal and Cosmic, in: JSJ 50 (2019), 383–402. J.L. Angel, Otherworldly and Eschatological Priesthood in the Dead Sea Scrolls, STDJ 86, Leiden 2010; A. Hogeterp, Expectations of the End: A Comparative Traditio-Historical Study of Eschatological, Apocalyptic and Messianic Ideas in the Dead Sea Scrolls and the New Testament, STDJ 83, Leiden 2009; C.A. Evans / P.W. Flint (eds.), Eschatology, Messianism, and the Dead Sea Scrolls, SDSS Grand Rapids 1997. M. Henze / G. Boccaccini (eds.), Fourth Ezra and Second Baruch: Reconstruction after the Fall, JSJ.S 164, Leiden 2013; A.Y. Collins, The Uses of Apocalyptic Eschatology, in: Henze / Boccaccini (eds.), 2013, 253–270; O.  Wischmeyer, Zeitkonstruktion im 4. Esrabuch. Eine Skizze, in: Beyerle / Goff, 2021, 473–484. See C. Wassen / T. Hägerland, Jesus the Apocalyptic Prophet, transl. by C.J. Power, London 2021; T. Holmén / S.E. Porter (eds.), Handbook for the Study of the Historical Jesus, Leiden 2011, esp. J.S. Kloppenborg, Sources, Methods and Discursive Locations in the Quest of the Historical Jesus, in: Holmén / Porter (eds.), 2011, 241–290 and S.M. Bryan, Jesus and Israel’s Eschatological Constitution, in: Holmén / Porter (eds.), 2011, 2835–2854. O. Wischmeyer, Konzepte von Zeit bei Paulus und im Markusevangelium, in: Wischmeyer / Sim / Elmer (eds.), 2014, 371.

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perspective means that his letters assume that time is short, yet eschatology is the causal concern only of his earliest letter – 1 Thessalonians.35 The proof text in that regard is found in chapter 4, where Paul discusses the problem of those who have passed away (or fallen asleep – τῶν κοιμωμένων, 1 Thess 4:13), and will then not experience the parousia (παρουσίαν τοῦ κυρίου, 1 Thess 4:15), in contrast to the ‘we’, who will still be alive when he comes (ἡμεῖς οἱ ζῶντες οἱ περιλειπόμενοι, 1 Thess  4:15). The eschatological thinking of Paul develops in his later letters,36 in Philippians where he writes about his impending death yet has the parousia in view (σωτῆρα ἀπεκδεχόμεθα κύριον Ἰησοῦν Χριστόν, Phil 3:20–21), and in Romans where he reveals his ambition to reach Spain (Rom 6:28) as part of his mission to spread the “Good News about Jesus” (εὐαγγέλιον τοῦ Χριστοῦ) from Jerusalem to Illyricum and beyond (Rom 15:19). The Pauline mission37 is the focus of Romans and Eve-Marie Becker suggests that this concern far exceeds eschatological issues,38 yet focuses on the Time That Remains to cite Giorgio Agamben.39 My point is that the impetus behind and the urgency of Paul’s mission is drawn from his reflection(s) about time. With the Gospel of Mark, the earliest gospel, the theology of time is organised into a (historiographical) narrative, where time becomes an organising mechanism for facilitating and preserving the story of early Christianity as a movement based on a historical event. The Gospel of Mark achieves this implicitly in the opening statement, where the author narrates “the beginning of the gospel of Jesus Christ” (Ἀρχὴ τοῦ εὐαγγελίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ, Mark 1:1), and 35

36

37 38

39

E.-M.  Becker, Eschatology: Pauline and Catholic Epistles, in: Marlow / Pollmann / van Nooden (eds.), 2021, 420: “The delay of the παρουσία/parousia remained a constant problem in earliest Christianity; however, this was only occasionally the causal reason for letter-writing (1 and 2 Thessalonians, 2 Peter).” See E.-M. Becker, Die Person des Paulus, in: O. Wischmeyer / E.-M. Becker (eds.), Paulus: Leben – Umwelt – Werk – Briefe, Tübingen 32021, 201: “Der Gefangene Paulus (Phil 1,7.13f.) formuliert im Phil zwar auch einzelne eschatologische Erwartungen (Phil 3,20f.), bringt aber vor allem seine persönliche Todessehnsucht zum Ausdruck: Die Sehnsucht zu sterben, zielt darauf, schon jetzt bei Christus sein zu können (Phil 1,21ff.).” E. Ebel, Das Missionswerk des Paulus, in: Wischmeyer / Becker (eds.), 32021, 173–185. E.-M. Becker, Eschatology, in: Marlow / Pollmann / van Noorden (eds.), 2021, 411: “While eschatological debates and their consequences for community life and ethics (1 Thess 4:1– 12; 5:1–11) are the crucial motivating factors behind Paul’s composition of 1 Thessalonians, the letter to the Romans, in contrast, can rather be seen as a comprehensive discussion of Paul’s missionary agenda in general. Such a discussion far exceeds eschatological quests – Romans rather appears to be a letter which focuses basically on the “Time That Remains” (see the title of G. Agamben’s commentary on Romans, in the English translation, 2005), and thus to a certain degree de-eschatologises Paul’s theological thinking.” G. Agamben, The Time That Remains: A Commentary on the Letter to the Romans, transl. by P. Dailey, Stanford 2005.

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more explicitly in Mark 1:15, with Jesus’ programmatic statement that the time (ὁ καιρός) is fulfilled (πεπλήρωται). This idea of the fulfilment of time reflects the same urgency that we find in the letters of Paul, where the end is near, and the narrative pace of the Gospel reflects this with an abrupt style and vocabulary indicating immediacy, such as the frequent use of the adverb εὐθύς, meaning ‘at once’ or ‘suddenly’.40 This eschatological urgency of Mark, which is based on the prophetic books of the Jewish Bible, leads Adele Yarbro Collins to describe the genre of the Gospel as “Eschatological Historical Monograph” – an “apocalyptic counterpoint to the biblical foundational histories”.41 Mark 9:1 makes explicit that the author expects the end to come in his own lifetime, as some who stand here (τινες ὧδε τῶν ἑστηκότων) will not taste death (μὴ γεύσωνται θανάτου) before the coming of the kingdom of God (ἕως ἂν ἴδωσιν τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ θεοῦ ἐληλυθυῖαν ἐν δυνάμει, Mark  9:1). The ramifications of this are developed in Mark’s longest speech in chapter 13, that delineates the end of time.42 The period of the absent Lord is at the same time the beginning of the end times and part of the apocalyptic concept of time. Time in Mark is not only apocalyptic and Christological,43 but also narrative – a consequence of the shift in genre from Paul’s letters to a historiographical narrative. The narrative aspects of time are the subject of a volume on Ancient Greek Narratives, that explores how narrative devices, such as prolepsis and analepsis as well as parallel stories, serve to “draw attention to particularly important motifs in the narrative”.44 In connection to our discussion on εὐθύς above, the editors acknowledge the role of “rhythm” as a temporal narrative device,45 yet most importantly the “handling of time is one of the central tasks of a narrator and one of the most powerful instruments which he has at his disposal 40

41 42 43 44 45

TLG, εὐθύς is found 41 times in the gospel of Mark and 11 times in the opening chapter. The other gospels do not reflect this use, Matthew has only 5 occurrences, John has three and Luke-Acts only two (εὐθὺς συνέπεσεν, Luke 6:49; εὐθὺς ἀνελήμφθη τὸ σκεῦος εἰς τὸν οὐρανόν, Acts 10:16). Interestingly Luke 6:49 is a Q text where Matthew does not include εὐθύς, yet the IQP includes it in Q 6:49. See J.M. Robinson / P. Hoffmann / J.S. Kloppenborg (eds.), The Critical Edition of Q: A Synopsis Including the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, Mark and Thomas, Leuven 2000, 100–101. Adela Yarbro Collins, Mark: A Commentary (Hermeneia; Minneapolis, MN: Fortress Press, 2007), 42. C.  Breytenbach, Das Wissen und Nicht-Wissen um die Zeit als Verhaltensregel: Eine textpragmatische Analyse der Endzeitrede in Markus 13, in: id., The Gospel according to Mark as Episodic Narrative, NT.S 182, Leiden 2020, 274–291. O. Wischmeyer, Konzepte von Zeit bei Paulus und im Markusevangelium, in: Wischmeyer / Sim / Elmer (eds.), 2014, 361–392 (382–383). J.W. van Henten / L. Huitink, Josephus, in: I.J.F. de Jong / R. Nünlist (eds.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature: Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative 2, Mn 291, Leiden 2007, 213–230 (217). Jong / Nünlist (eds.), 2007, 10–14.

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to influence the interpretation by the narratees, by placing accents and foregrounding or downplaying events”.46 A case in point is the narrative of the fall of Jerusalem in Josephus’ Bellum Judaicum, where both events described and temporal narrative devices, such as prolepsis and analepsis, lead up to and point to this motif.47 A reflection of the narrative aspects of time in Mark is found in Eve-Marie Becker’s monograph on the Birth of Christian History,48 which devotes a final section to “Conceptualizing Time in Historiography.” Paul’s influence is according to Becker evident in that the gospel writer’s “approach to time [(καιρός, Gal 4:4)] is based on the assumption that time can change rapidly”.49 Mark shares Paul’s urgency of Mission and eschatological outlook and in chapter 13 Jesus states that the good news must first be proclaimed to all nations (εἰς πάντα τὰ ἔθνη πρῶτον δεῖ κηρυχθῆναι τὸ εὐαγγέλιον, Mark 13:10) – a statement that the Gospel of Matthew finishes with “… and then the end will come” (καὶ τότε ἥξει τὸ τέλος, Matt 24:14).50 3

Time in Luke-Acts

Luke-Acts differs from the Gospel of Mark in that “Luke transforms eschatological time, which is future-oriented, into historical time depicting the past as past” and the author “programmatically identifies himself as a historian”, employing narrative devices such as ecumenical dating and exempla.51 Time in Luke-Acts is multidimensional, one aspect concerns the conceptual mechanisms of The Birth of Christian History,52 another aspect involves what Michael Wolter has termed Epochengeschichte, that is the biblical background of the events as they unfold in continuation of the story of Israel,53 and a third aspect is theological, where the eschatological immediacy of Paul and Mark is replaced with an expectation that assumes that the church may have some time before the end-time and thus stands in “Die Mitte der Zeit” to quote Hans

46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53

Ibid., 14. Henten / Huitink, 2007, 217. E.-M. Becker, The Birth of Christian History: Memory and Time from Mark to Luke-Acts, New Haven 2017. Ibid., 154. B.  Carrier, Earthquakes and Eschatology in the Gospel According to Matthew, WUNT II/534, Tübingen 2020, 206–207. Becker 2017, 144. Ibid. M. Wolter, Das Lukasevangelium, HNT 5, Tübingen 2008, 26.

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Conzelmann’s seminal work on the theology of Luke.54 The author employs temporal markers in a variety of ways. He establishes his authority on the basis of his access to sources that were there from the beginning (ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς, Luke 1:2), he utilises historiographical temporal markers both in a neutral sense (Ἐγένετο ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις …, Luke 1:5) as well as emphasising the sacred nature of time. Examples of religious temporal markers, in addition to Sabbath discussed below, are temple service (τῇ ὥρᾳ τοῦ θυμιάματος, Luke 1:10), biographical markers in the lives of John and Jesus, such as circumcision (ἐν τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τῇ ὀγδόῃ, Luke 1:59; ἡμέραι ὀκτὼ, Luke 2:21) and purification (αἱ ἡμέραι τοῦ καθαρισμοῦ, Luke 2:22) and most importantly in the salvation history (Heilsgeschichte) of Luke-Acts, which is according to Conzelmann tripartite: i. ii.

The period of Israel (Luke xvi, 16). The period of Jesus’ ministry (not of his ‘life’), characterized in passages such as Luke iv, 16 ff., and Acts x, 38. iii. The period since the Ascension, on earth the period of the ecclesia pressa, during which the virtue of patience is required, and it is possible, by virtue of looking back to the period of Jesus, also to look forward to the Parousia. The Parousia itself does not represent a stage within the course of saving history, but the end of it. It corresponds to the other extreme, the Creation.55

Importantly, Conzelmann goes on to argue that the ministry of Jesus, the ‘flow’ of ‘ideas’ in the Gospel of Luke, unfolds as a direct consequence of this tripartite Heilsgeschichte.56 The salvation history of Luke-Acts has been extensively explored in subsequent scholarship, e.g. by Gregory Sterling, who describes the genre as Apologetic Historiography,57 Michael Wolter, who sees “the theological place of the story of Jesus in Luke-Acts […] [as] an epoch of the history of Israel”58 – thus Epochengeschichte,59 and most recently Kylie Crabbe, who on the basis of an examination of temporal marker in Luke-Acts (αἰών, καιρός, χρόνος, ὥρα, ἡμέρα)60 argues contra Conzelmann for a return to seeing Luke-Acts 54 55 56 57 58 59 60

H.  Conzelmann, Die Mitte der Zeit: Studien zur Theologie des Lukas, BHT  17. Tübingen 1954. H. Conzelmann, The Theology of St. Luke, transl. by G. Buswell, Philadelphia 1961, 17. Conzelmann, 1961, 17–18. G.E.  Sterling, Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts and Apologetic Historiography, NT.S 64, Leiden 1992. M. Wolter, The Gospel according to Luke, transl. by W. Coppins, Waco 2016, 30–31. Wolter, 2008, 26. K. Crabbe, Luke/Acts and the End of History, BZNW 238, Berlin 2019, 345–351.

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as deeply eschatological: “To Luke, from his perspective within the final period of history, the end-time events leading to judgement are already underway”.61 The proof text connecting Luke’s concept of history and time to the flow of ideas (mission) as topics is Acts 1:6–8: Οἱ μὲν οὖν συνελθόντες ἠρώτων αὐτὸν λέγοντες· κύριε, εἰ ἐν τῷ χρόνῳ τούτῳ ἀποκαθιστάνεις τὴν βασιλείαν τῷ Ἰσραήλ; εἶπεν δὲ πρὸς αὐτούς· οὐχ ὑμῶν ἐστιν γνῶναι χρόνους ἢ καιροὺς οὓς ὁ πατὴρ ἔθετο ἐν τῇ ἰδίᾳ ἐξουσίᾳ, ἀλλὰ λήμψεσθε δύναμιν ἐπελθόντος τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύματος ἐφ’ ὑμᾶς καὶ ἔσεσθέ μου μάρτυρες ἔν τε Ἰερουσαλὴμ καὶ [ἐν] πάσῃ τῇ Ἰουδαίᾳ καὶ Σαμαρείᾳ καὶ ἕως ἐσχάτου τῆς γῆς. (NA28) So when they had come together, they asked him, “Lord, is this the time when you will restore the kingdom to Israel?” He replied, “It is not for you to know the times or periods that the Father has set by his own authority. But you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you, and you will be my witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth.” (NRSV) The question concerns χρόνος (Acts  1:6), yet the risen Jesus addresses both χρόνος and καιρός (Acts 1:7), terms that are found over 100 times in proximity before Acts,62 importantly in 1 Thessalonians (Περὶ δὲ τῶν χρόνων καὶ τῶν καιρῶν, 1 Thess 5:1) and the Gospel of Luke in the Parable of the Tenants (Luke 20:9–19). For Paul the context is eschatological in that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night (ἡμέρα κυρίου ὡς κλέπτης ἐν νυκτὶ οὕτως ἔρχεται, 1 Thess 5:2)63 and Luke makes the distinction that χρόνος describes a period (χρόνους ἱκανούς, Luke  20:9) and καιρός a point in time (καιρῷ, Luke  20:10) – a biblical distinction,64 but one that is not consistent in Greek.65 The language employed in these verses is according Daniel Marguerat and others, distinctively eschatological: The expectation of receiving the holy spirit is in Jewish texts connected 61 62 63

64 65

Crabbe, 2019, 339. A TLG search of χρόνος and καιρός plus lemma with a proximity of 5 words retrieves 100 results before Acts 1:7 and there are also contemporary results, such as Josephus. This analogy is also found in Q 12:39 (Luke 12:39 / Matt 24:43) as well as in Gos. Thom. 21:5–7 and is thus likely Jesus tradition handed down by Paul. See J. Schröter, Das Verhältnis zum irdischen Jesus und zur Jesusüberlieferung, in: F.W. Horn (ed.) Paulus Handbuch, Tübingen 2013, 283. D. Marguerat, Die Apostelgeschichte, KEK 3, Göttingen 2022, 64 no. 37: “Χρόνος bezeichnet die Zeit im quantitativen Sinn, während καιρός die Zeit im qualitativen Sinn beschreibt […] Die Redundanz ist biblisch: Dan 2,21; Pred 3,1; SapSal 8,8”. “χρόνος;” “καιρός,” LSJ.

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to the end of time and the verb ἀποκαθιστάνω becomes in the LXX a terminus technicus to denote the eschatological restoration of the chosen people to their rightful place and for the end of the tyranny of the unbelievers on their soil (Jer 16:15; 23:8; 24:6; Hos 11:11; Ezek 16:55).66 Time is in this programmatic section the basis for the spread of the gospel – the flow of idea(s) – from the centre of the Jewish world (Jerusalem) to the ends of the non-Jewish world (ἕως ἐσχάτου τῆς γῆς, Acts 1:8), either Rome (Acts 19:21; 28:14) or Spain (Rom 15:24, 28). The connection between reflections about time and movement through space thus lies at the heart of the narrative of Acts, articulated in the programmatic statement of Acts 1:16–18. This then plays out in the narrative with an emphasis on witnessing (ἔσεσθέ μου μάρτυρες, Acts 1:8) and teaching (διδάσκειν, Acts 1:1), which as I will show is concentrated on the Sabbath. 4

Sabbath and Time in Mark and Luke-Acts

This leads us to the role of the Sabbath as a narrative device. Σάββατον is a terminus technicus for the seventh Jewish day of rest and is interestingly a Greek transliteration. The substantive τὸ σάββατον consistently transliterates ‫ַׁש ָּבת‬ in the Septuagint and Σαββατίζω as a verb.67 This is not self-evident, as the Septuagint and/or Greek Jewish literature for example never transliterate ‫ּתֹורה‬ ָ into Greek, but use instead very general terms, predominantly νόμος.68 A key text in the Pentateuch in this regard is Exodus 16:23/30: BSH: ‫יהו֖ה … וַ ּיִ ְׁש ְּב ֥תּו ָה ָ ֖עם ַּב ֹ֥יֹום ַה ְּׁש ִב ִ ֽעי׃‬ ָ ‫תון ַׁש ַּבת־ ֛קֹ ֶדׁש ַ ֽל‬ ֺֹ ֧ ‫ַׁש ָּב‬ LXX: σάββατα ἀνάπαυσις ἁγία τῷ κυρίῳ […] καὶ ἐσαββάτισεν ὁ λαὸς τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τῇ ἑβδόμῃ. NETS: sabbata, a rest holy to the Lord […] And the people sabbatized on the seventh day. Josephus describes the meaning of σάββατον to a non-Jewish audience, correcting Apion, as “cessation from all work” or ἀνάπαυσις (C. Ap. 2.27).69 Heather A. McKay’s study of Sabbath and Synagogue shows that while we have little evidence about communal Jewish worship on the Sabbath prior to the late 66 67 68 69

Marguerat, 2022, 63. T. Muraoka (ed.), A Greek-English Lexicon of the Septuagint, Leuven 2009. Muraoka (ed.), 2009. Josephus, C.  Ap.  2.27: σάββατον κατὰ τὴν Ἰουδαίων διάλεκτον ἀνάπαυσίς ἐστιν ἀπὸ παντὸς ἔργου: “[S]abbaton in the Jews’ language denotes cessation from all work.”

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first century CE,70 both Philo and Josephus testify to the importance of studying the scriptures on the Sabbath and Philo paints a picture “of educational gatherings in προσευκτήρια where religious, social and moral topics are discussed”:71 … to be observed is the sacred (ἱερὰ) seventh day, recurring with six days between […] when He forbids bodily labour on the seventh day, He permits the exercise of the higher activities, namely, those employed in the study of the principles of virtue’s lore. For the law bids us take the time for studying philosophy and thereby improve the soul and the dominant mind. So each seventh day there stand wide open in every city thousands of schools (διδασκαλεῖα) of good sense (φρονήσεως), temperance (σωφροσύνης), courage (ἀνδρείας), justice (δικαιοσύνης) and the other virtues in which the scholars sit in order quietly with ears alert and with full attention, so much do they thirst for the draught which the teacher’s words supply, while one of special experience rises and sets forth what is the best and sure to be profitable and will make the whole of life grow to something better.72 Philo’s description accentuates the sacralisation of time involved in the observance of Sabbath, yet defines this sacral nature through categories that are Hellenistic – philosophy, education and the transmission of the cardinal virtues: Prudence (φρόνησις), temperance (σωφροσύνη), fortitude (ἀνδρεία) and justice (δικαιοσύνη). This educational connection to sacred time is a theme that Luke-Acts develops. Α Thesaurus Linguae Graecae search for τὸ σάββατον and σαββατίζω with lemma, sorted by date shows that the term is found widely in Jewish literature.73 The earliest listing of σάββατον is 5 occurrences in the Oracles of Astrampsychus, but scholars have dated the terminus post quem of this anonymous collection as late as second century CE.74 The oldest attestation is thus 70

71 72 73 74

H.A.  McKay, Sabbath and Synagogue: The Question of Sabbath Worship in Ancient Judaism, RGRW  122, Leiden 1994. See also L.  Doering / A.R.  Krause (eds.), Synagogues in the Hellenistic and Roman Periods: Archaeological Finds, New Methods, New Theories, Ioudaioi 11, Göttingen 2020. McKay, 1994, 66. Philo, Spec 2.2.56, 61–62 (Colson, LCL). A TLG search of Σάββατον with lemma retrieves by date: [Sortes Astrampsychi]  5 x; Septuagint 129 x; Aristobulus, Frag. 1 x; Enoch 1 x; Jubilees 1 x; Philo 8 x; Josephus 46 x; Antiochus of Athens 1 x. Σαββατίζω is found in Septuagint 9 x. G.M.  Browne, The Origin and Date of the “Sortes Astrampsychi”, in: Illinois Classical Studies 1 (1976), 53–58.

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likely the Septuagint, where the substantive is found 129 times, as well as in the cognate writings of 1 Enoch and Jubilees and the fragments of Aristobulus. In the New Testament the noun is only found once in Paul, in a passing reference about setting aside money for collection (1 Cor 16:2), once in the deuteroPaulines (Col 2:16) also in passing and never in Q. Sabbath was thus not a topic of discussion in our earliest sources. The Gospel of Mark has 11 occurrences of σάββατον, Matthew has the same number as Mark and Luke-Acts importantly expands Mark’s discussion significantly. The treatment in Mark can be divided into four categories: The first is a correlation between teaching and the Sabbath where Jesus inaugurates his teaching ministry in the synagogue (Mark 1:21; 6:2);75 the second are controversies regarding Sabbath law where Jesus plucks grain and heals on the Sabbath;76 which leads thirdly to a theological proclamation that “the Son of Man is lord even of the Sabbath” (Mark 2:27–28)77 and the final category is the chronological setting of the resurrection narrative in Mark 16:1–2.78 In Mark, the Sabbath serves as a temporal marker against which the identity of Jesus is discussed, while in Luke-Acts references to the Sabbath illustrate the intellectual world of the narrative, thus giving his audience a broader understanding of the context in which Jesus was acting. Among Greek sources the gospels uniquely connect σάββατον and συναγωγή, as no earlier or contemporary Greek writing has these terms in proximity,79 and adds the third element of teaching (Mark 1:21; 6:21; Luke 6:6; 13:10). The inaugural speech of Jesus in the synagogue on a Sabbath in Nazareth (Luke  4:16–22) is put to the fore to facilitate a summary of the message of Jesus as it is accentuated in the Lukan narrative, before transmitting the 75 76 77

78

79

Mark 1:21: “when the Sabbath came, he entered the synagogue and taught” (καὶ εὐθὺς τοῖς σάββασιν εἰσελθὼν εἰς τὴν συναγωγὴν ἐδίδασκεν.); Mark 6:2: “On the Sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue” (καὶ γενομένου σαββάτου ἤρξατο διδάσκειν ἐν τῇ συναγωγῇ). Mark  2:23–28 (Plucking grain on the Sabbath); Mark  3:1–6 (Healing on the Sabbath). See L. Doering, Sabbath Laws in the New Testament Gospels, in: R. Bieringer et al. (eds.), The New Testament and Rabbinic Literature, JSJSup 136, Leiden 2010. Mark  2:27–28: “The Sabbath was made for humankind, and not humankind for the Sabbath; so the son of Man is lord even of the Sabbath”. (τὸ σάββατον διὰ τὸν ἄνθρωπον ἐγένετο καὶ οὐχ ὁ ἄνθρωπος διὰ τὸ σάββατον· ὥστε κύριός ἐστιν ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου καὶ τοῦ σαββάτου). Mark 16:1–2: “When the Sabbath was over (διαγενομένου τοῦ σαββάτου), Mary Magdalene, and Mary the mother of James, and salome bought spices, so that they might go and anoint him. And very early on the first day of the week (λίαν πρωῒ τῇ μιᾷ τῶν σαββάτων), when the sun had risen, they went to the tomb …”. A TLG search for σάββατον and συναγωγή with lemma in a 10-word proximity retrieves two Septuagint results, Ex 35:4 and Num 15:33, but neither refers to a synagogue as such. The next results are Mark 1:21; 3:1; 6:2; Luke 4:16; 6:6; 13:10; Acts 13:14, 42; 15:21; 18:4.

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narrative about Jesus’ teaching in the synagogue on a Sabbath in Capernaum (Mark 1:21; Luke 4:31). Luke then adds in 6:6 context to the healing narrative from Mark 3:1–6, that Jesus was in the synagogue on a Sabbath to teach. Finally, Luke 13:10, again narrates that Jesus “was teaching in one of the synagogues on the Sabbath”. Occurrences of σάββατον Teaching on the Sabbath in the synagogue Teaching on the Sabbath in the synagogue Plucking grain on the Sabbath Lord of the Sabbath Teaching on the Sabbath in the synagogue Healing on the Sabbath Teaching on the Sabbath in the synagogue Healing on the Sabbath Healing on the Sabbath Fasting Women and the burial of Jesus Women and the empty tomb

in Matthew

12:1.2.5 12:8

in Mark (6:2) 1:21 2:23.24.27 2:28

12:10.11.12

3:2.4

16:1.2

in Luke 4:16 4:31 6:1.2 6:5 6:6 6:7.9 13:10 13:14.15.16 14:1.3.5 18:12 23:54.56 24:1

Our findings show that the theme of Sabbath in Mark is substantially expanded in Luke, both in connection to healing narratives (Luke 13:14–16; 14:1–5) and importantly for our purposes as a temporal setting of teaching in Luke 6:6 and 13:10, both of which are followed with accounts of healing. The tripartite coupling of synagogue, Sabbath and teaching is continued in Acts, with a full nine references to the connection between scriptural education and the Sabbath, predominantly in a synagogue setting. The ministry of Paul is the major theme of the second half of Acts and Paul’s speeches become the primary medium for the author’s message as the narrative reaches its climax. Echoing Jesus’ first teachings in the synagogues of Nazareth and Capernaum on the Sabbath (Luke 4:16, 31), Paul delivers his inaugural speech in a synagogue on the Sabbath (Acts 13:15–41). The setting of Paul’s teaching is made explicit with all three terms on four occasions (13:14; 13:42, 44; 17:2; 18:4), in addition to other references to teaching in the synagogues that do not mention the Sabbath. Occurrences of σάββατον “A Sabbath day’s journey away”

in Acts 1:12

125

Sabbath as a Temporal Marker in Luke-Acts (Paul) Teaching on the Sabbath in the synagogue “The prophets are read every Sabbath” (Paul) Teaching on the Sabbath in the synagogue “Moses is read every Sabbath in the synagogues” (Paul) Teaching on the Sabbath (Paul) Teaching on the Sabbath(s) in the synagogue (Paul) Teaching on the Sabbath(s) in the synagogue (Paul) Teaching on the Sabbath

13:14 13:27 13:42.44 15:21 16:13 17:2 18:4 20:7

The primary setting for the dissemination of ‘idea(s)’, the teaching(s) of early Christianity, was thus according to the narrative of Luke-Acts the synagogue and the Sabbath. While Oda Wischmeyer’s overview of the vocabulary of time in Paul and Mark does not include Sabbath as a chronological marker – her conclusion that time in Mark is apocalyptic, Christological and narrative in nature applies to σάββατον as well.80 Sabbath is a marker of time and/or setting in the gospels, as well as having a pronounced theological content. Mark creates a thematic inclusio with Jesus’ ministry opening and closing in connection to the Sabbath (Mark 1:21; 16:1–2) and Luke expands this connection, both for Jesus in the Gospel and in Acts in relation to Paul. Jesus’ ministry opens with him reading from scripture in the synagogue on the Sabbath (Luke 4:16) and Paul’s apostolic ministry is inaugurated with a speech in the synagogue on the Sabbath (Acts 13:16–41). And he (Jesus) came to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, and went according to custom, on the day of the Sabbath (ἐν τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τῶν σαββάτων) to the synagogue (εἰς τὴν συναγωγὴν), and stood up to read … (Luke 4:16). … they went to the synagogue (εἰς τὴν συναγωγὴν) on the day of the Sabbath day (τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τῶν σαββάτων) and sat down. After the reading of the law and the prophets (ἀνάγνωσιν τοῦ νόμου καὶ τῶν προφητῶν), the officials of the synagogue sent them a message, saying, “Brothers, if you have any word of exhortation (λόγος παρακλήσεως) for the people, give it.” Paul stood up and with a gesture began to speak … (Acts 13:14-16).

80

O. Wischmeyer, Konzepte von Zeit bei Paulus und im Markusevangelium, in: Wischmeyer / Sim / Elmer (eds.), 2014, 388.

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This is in part a distinctive feature of the Lukan narrative and in part fully in line with the emphases of Philo and Josephus, who defend their Sabbath observance on the basis of literary education.81 All three chronological markers converge in the concept of Sabbath: The Christological aspect is received from Mark 2:28 in the statement that Jesus is lord of the Sabbath (κύριός ἐστιν τοῦ σαββάτου ὁ υἱὸς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου, Luke 6:5); the eschatological e.g. in the opening announcement of Jesus’ ministry that the spirit is upon him (πνεῦμα κυρίου ἐπ᾽ ἐμὲ, Luke  4:18) an eschatological statement82 with following signs and wonders;83 and the narrative in that the Sabbath becomes a temporal setting for the dissemination of the ‘good news’ (εὐαγγελίσασθαι, Luke 4:18; ἡμεῖς ὑμᾶς εὐαγγελιζόμεθα, Acts 13:32). Isaac W. Oliver advocates for a re-evaluation of Luke’s Jewish Eschatology in light of his hope for the restoration of Israel,84 and asks if the Sabbath in this regard is eschatological in nature: For Luke, the programmatic mission as foretold in Isa 61:1–2 and 58:6 and announced in Luke 4:18 takes place not only on the Sabbath but also on a daily and uninterrupted basis. […] Luke seems to have set a basis that invites interpreting the Sabbath as a day symbolizing eschatological rest and liberation from demonic oppression and physical suffering. […]

81 82

83 84

See above, Philo, Spec. 2.2.56, 61–62; Josephus, C. Ap. 2.27. I.W.  Oliver, Torah Praxis after 70 CE: Reading Matthew and Luke-Acts as Jewish Texts, WUNT II/355, Tübingen 2013, 75: “Luke has in turn interpreted Isaiah  61:1–2 and its jubilary language in an eschatological way, centering its fulfillment on the ministry of Jesus. By Luke’s time, some Jews had already applied an eschatological interpretation to Isa 61:1–2. Thus, 11Q13 (Melchizedek) eschatologically appropriates Isa 61, although the beneficiaries of the Isaian prophecies belong to a select group, who are promised, among other things, freedom from the oppression of the evil spirits of Belial (11Q13 2:12–25). Luke’s eschatological-social horizon, however, is broader. He does not restrict the benefits promised in Isa 61 to one elected group, but envisions its blessings as contagiously affecting the poor and afflicted in general”. Luke 4:18–19: “πνεῦμα κυρίου ἐπ’ ἐμὲ οὗ εἵνεκεν ἔχρισέν με εὐαγγελίσασθαι πτωχοῖς, ἀπέσταλκέν με, κηρύξαι αἰχμαλώτοις ἄφεσιν καὶ τυφλοῖς ἀνάβλεψιν, ἀποστεῖλαι τεθραυσμένους ἐν ἀφέσει, κηρύξαι ἐνιαυτὸν κυρίου δεκτόν.” The text is a reformulation of Isaiah 61:1–2 and 58:6. I.W. Oliver, Luke’s Jewish Eschatology: The National Restoration of Israel in Luke-Acts, New York 2021, 140: “In Luke, Jesus’s interventions that spiritually rescue Jews from demonic possession do not exhaust his mission to set Israel free from captivity (Luke  4:18–19). These initial excursions into demonic territory form part, rather, of a more comprehensive attempt to liberate Israel from suffering in all its dimensions”.

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For Luke, the Sabbath day is an (but not the only) appropriate time for Jesus to proclaim eschatological liberation and to free the children of Israel from their oppression.85 Oliver is right to argue against the exclusivity of Sabbath as an eschatological setting in Luke-Acts, but it is an important nexus of the author’s deliberation about time and his narrativisation of the spread of ‘ideas’ and ‘people’ in early Christianity. “Sabbath symbolises eschatological rest and liberation for the audience of his two-volume narrative”,86 as well as providing the primary setting for the dissemination of ideas in the Lukan narrative – that flow from Israel to Rome and beyond to the ‘end of the earth’ (ἕως ἐσχάτου τῆς γῆς, Acts 1:8). The end product of the salvation historical narrative is the figure of Paul who in many ways exemplifies the ideal missionary. Katja Hess accentuates the idealised portrait of Paul in Acts, where the topic of education in the two-part narrative is personified in the figure of Paul as Rhetor, Philosoph, Geistträger.87 Hess shows how the author receives the ideals of both Greco-Roman education and the Hellenistic-Jewish emphasis on scripture throughout his writings, which then culminate in Paul as an exemplary figure who exhibits these traits by outwitting both philosophers, in the Areopagus speech (Acts 17:16–34), and the elders of the synagogues.88 The narrative conclusion of Acts describes Paul in Rome, where he welcomed all who came to him (ἀπεδέχετο πάντας τοὺς εἰσπορευομένους πρὸς αὐτόν, Acts 28:30), preaching the kingdom of God (κηρύσσων τὴν βασιλείαν τοῦ θεοῦ, Acts 28:31) and teaching about Jesus with boldness (διδάσκων τὰ περὶ τοῦ κυρίου Ἰησοῦ Χριστοῦ μετὰ πάσης παρρησίας ἀκωλύτως, Acts  28:31) – the philosophical ideal of parrhesia. The narrative conclusion sums up the message of Jesus as portrayed in the Gospel of Luke and early Christian teaching as portrayed in Acts. “Travel and mobility are central elements in the Acts narrative” as Pieter B. Hartog shows in his article in this volume,89 yet in the end Paul comes to a halt – albeit with an enigmatic temporal marker of “two whole years” (διετίαν ὅλην, Acts 28:30). Paul has reached his destination and the ‘flow’ 85 86 87 88 89

Oliver, 2013, 78–79. Oliver, 2013, 79. K.  Hess, Rhetor, Philosoph, Geistträger: Die Bildungsthematik in der lukanischen Paulus­ darstellung, FB 137, Würzburg 2019. Acts 9:20–22; 13:14–52; 14:1–2; 17:1–5; 18:4–17; 19:8–9. P.B. Hartog, Reading Acts in Motion: Movement and Glocalisation in the Acts of the Apostles, in this volume, 96–110 (110).

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of people is now reversed, instead of Paul being ‘in motion’, those that would hear and disseminate the ‘ideas’ of early Christianity subsequently come to him to receive teaching and preaching – Paul is at ‘rest’ (a point of overlap with the topic of Sabbath) in Rome, to where all roads lead.

Words and Concepts in Motion: Hilary of Poitiers between East and West Samuel Fernández Abstract The present article studies the Latin translation of the Greek technical theological terms by Hilary of Poitiers during the so-called Arian crisis. On the one hand, the study of these words shows the Bishop of Poitiers as the main translator of doctrinal documents related to the theological controversy of the fourth century. On the other hand, these translations of technical terms produced during the controversy witness the way the Latin-speaking bishops understood or misunderstood these crucial Greek terms. 1

Introduction

The Christian historian Socrates of Constantinople described the so-called Arian crisis as a night battle.1 The key weapons of this battle were letters, pamphlets, faith formulae and other documents.2 In fact, Alexander’s Encyclical letter affirms that Eusebius of Nicomedia, one of the crucial supporters of Arius, sent letters in all directions,3 and other contemporary sources refer to a “letter campaign”. Letters indeed were sent “in all directions”, but the original battlefield of the Arian crisis was the East. It is true that a few Latin bishops, such as Ossius of Cordova, were involved in the first stages of the crisis, yet their activity developed in the East. Admittedly, the Arian controversy broke out in Alexandria, and its first phases developed in the eastern regions of the Roman Empire. Thus, the first discussions of the crisis were conducted and written in Greek.4 1 See Soc., h.e. 1.23,6–7. 2 See Thdt., h.e. 1.6,10. 3 See Alex. Al., ep. encycl. 5: H.G.  Opitz (ed.), Urkunden zur Geschichte des arianischen Streites (henceforth Urk.), Athanasius Werke (henceforth AW) 3.1, Lief. 1–2, Berlin 1934–1935, Urk. 4b, 5. 4 See G. Bardy, L’Occident et les documents de la controverse arianne, in: RevSR 20 (1940), 28–63.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_008

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A couple of decades later, due to various factors, including the presence of Eastern bishops in the West, such as Athanasius of Alexandria and Marcellus of Ancyra, Western bishops became more and more involved in the disputes until they were fully part of them.5 Synodic activity related to Arianism, initially reserved for the East, began to develop extensively in the West, in the Latin language. The synod of Sardica in 343 can be seen as a milestone. From then on, crucial documents of the controversy were discussed and written in Latin. These Christian discussions took place while a significant cultural process was taking place, namely, the decline in the knowledge of the Greek language in the West.6 The weakening of the Greek in the West, combined with the growing involvement of Western bishops in the controversy, implied an additional difficulty to the dispute: the lack of linguistic understanding between Latin-speaking and Greek-speaking bishops. Socrates affirms that, after the break between the Eastern and Western bishops at Sardica (343), a commission of Eastern bishops brought a faith exposition to Milan in 345 to resume the broken dialogue with Western bishops. However, according to the historian: “The bishops of the Western part on account of their being of another language (διὰ τὸ ἀλλογλώσσους εἶναι) and not understanding (διὰ τὸ μὴ συνιέναι) rejected this [exposition], saying that the Nicene Creed was sufficient (ἀρκέω), and that they would not pay much attention on anything beyond it”.7 The Greek formula covered the distance between Antioch and Milan, but it did not bridge the gap between Greek and Latin. This episode reveals the serious difficulty that the language difference meant for the understanding between Greek and Latin bishops. In addition, the episode shows the relevance that translations had during the theological controversy of the fourth century. Hilary of Poitiers was the first Latin bishop with a full awareness of the complex religious reality of the East.8 Exiled in Phrygia in 356, he devoted himself to the search for understanding between the great theological traditions of East and West. He was convinced that Western bishops did not comprehend 5 See M. Simonetti, La crisi ariana nel IV secolo, Roma 1975, 99–160. 6 See I. Gualandri, L’eredità tardo-antica, in: G. Cavallo (ed.), Lo spazio letterario del Medioevo. 1. Il Medioevo latino, vol. 1, tomo 1. La produzione del testo, Roma 1992, 18–44; P. Chiesa, Le traduzioni in latino di testi greci, in: G. Cavallo (ed.), Lo spazio letterario del Medioevo. 3. Le culture circostanti, vol. I. La cultura bizantina, Roma 2004, 491–518. 7 Soc., h.e. 2.20,1 (GCS.NF 1, 117). 8 See Simonetti, 1975, 249.

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the terms of the so-called Arian crisis, and that they tended to support the idea that almost all Eastern bishops were Arians.9 Hence, his literary activity during his exile included the translation of many theological documents from Greek into Latin. This article, therefore, aims to study the translations of doctrinal documents from Greek into Latin by Hilary of Poitiers during the Arian controversy. 2

Bilingual Documents10

Many records pertaining to the “document campaign” of the Arian crisis have been preserved. Indeed, a large number of documents contemporary to the controversy of the fourth century have been transmitted by indirect tradition, i.e. cited within other works.11 According to our ongoing research,12 the historical and polemical works of Eusebius, Athanasius, Hilary, Epiphanius, Rufinus, Philostorgius, Socrates, Sozomenos, Theodoret and Cyzigenus, to mention the main ones, transmit more than 300 documents written between 320 and 381, all related in some way to the Arian controversy. If the repeated documents are discarded, 211 are left. Of these texts, 148 are preserved in Greek, 59 in Latin and a few in Syriac. Most of these documents are preserved in their original Greek or Latin text. Other documents are preserved only in translation. The most paradoxical case is that of the synod of Sardica: the Latin Formula of Faith of the Western bishops is preserved only in Greek,13 whereas one of the main Greek documents of the Eastern bishops is preserved only in Latin.14 In addition, the canons of the same synod are preserved in both Greek and Latin; however, it is not evident 9 10

11

12 13 14

See M. Simonetti, Hilary of Poitiers and the Arian Crisis in the West, in: A. di Berardino (ed.), Patrology 4, Allen / Texas 1983, 33–38. The present article takes up the paper Hilario de Poitiers como traductor durante la crisis arriana that will be published in the proceedings of the conference Tradurre Tradire Tramandare: I Padri Greci nell’Occidente Latino e nell’Oriente Siriaco, Dipartimento di Studi Umanistici, Università di Roma Tre. The first comprehensive anthology devoted to Nicaea and its reception is volume 3 of AW Opitz, 1935, Urk. (AW 3,1, Lief. 2–1). It has then been continued by H.C. Brennecke et  al. (ed.), Dokumente zur Geschichte des arianischen Streites, AW  3,1, Lief.  3–5, Berlin 2007–2020. See  S.  Fernández, The Fourth-Century Controversies: Reevaluating the Evidence towards the Next Centenary of Nicaea (325–2025), in: StPatr 123 (2021), 289–302. See Thdt., h.e. 2.8,37–52 (GCS 19, 112–118); S.G. Hall, The Creed of Sardica (343), in: StPatr 19 (1989), 173–183. See Hil., frag. hist. A14 (CSEL 65, 48–67).

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which version is the original or whether the canons had two original versions.15 Fortunately, some documents are preserved in both their original text and their translation. As the present article studies concepts in motion during the controversy, it deals only with those translations that were made during the development of the polemics and does not study the translations made after 381, such as those contained in the works of Rufinus or in the Codex Veronensis XL. The following documents are preserved in both the original texts and in translations made during the Arian controversy: Latin translations of Greek texts: Arius, Letter to Alexander. Greek original text in Athanasius, syn. 16,2–5 (AW 2, Opitz, 243–244); Latin translation in Hilary, trin. 4.12–13 (CChr. SL 62, 112–114).16 Arius, Letter to Eusebius of Nicomedia. Greek original text in Epiphanius, panar. 69.6,1–7 (GCS 37, 156–157); Latin translation in Candidus, ep. ad Mar. Vict. 2.1 (SC 68, 176–180).17 Eusebius of Nicomedia, Letter to Paulinus of Tyre. Greek original text in Theodoret, h.e. 1.6,1–8 (GCS.NF 5, 27–29); Latin translation in Candidus, ep. ad Mar. Vict. 2.2 (SC 68, 180–182). Synod of Nicaea (325), Profession of Faith and Canon. Original Greek texts in Athanasius, decr. 33.8 (AW 2, 30); Latin translation in Lucifer of 15

16

17

See P. Joannou, Les canons des synodes particuliers (Pontificia commissione per la redazione del codice di diritto canonico orientale. Fonti, Fasc. 9, tom. 1/2), Grottaferrata 1962, 159–189; C. Dell’Osso, Il sinodo di Serdica, in: A. di Berardino (ed.), I Canoni dei Concili della Chiesa Antica 2,1, Roma 2008, 317–337. Nevertheless, these disciplinary canons do not deal with the theological controversy, which is the focus of this article. It is possible that an earlier Latin version of this letter by Arius may have circulated in the West, for Phoebadius of Agen alludes to this writing in Contra Arianos, a work written before Hilary completed De Trinitate. The main text is as follows: “Mortuis enim auctoribus huius ueneni, scelera tamen eorum et doctrina non mortua; illis, inquam, auctoribus in tantum a Patre separantibus Filium ut ore sacrilego protulerint: ‘Filium Dei ante saecula quidem creatum et fundatum, sed uiuere et esse a Patre suscepisse et fuisse antequam nasceretur’; et: ‘Deum quidem esse, sed non esse uerum Deum’”, Phoebad., c. Arian. 8 (CChr.SL 64, Turnhout 1985). There is also another Latin version, possibly from the 4th century, by an anonymous translator, preserved in a Cologne manuscript, cf. D.  de  Bruyne, Une ancienne version latine inédite d’un lettre d’Arius, in: RBen 26 (1909), 93–95; Opitz, Urk. 1.

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Cagliari, non parc. 18 (CSEL 14, 247–248); Hilary, syn. 84 (SC 621, 390– 392) and frag. hist. B2 10 (CSEL 65, 150).18 Synod of Antioch (341), Second Formula of Faith. Greek original in Athanasius, syn. 23.2–10 (AW 2, 249–250); Latin translation in Hilary, syn. 29–30 (SC 621, 252–256). Synod of Sirmium (351), Formula of Faith. Greek original in Athanasius, syn. 27.2 (AW 2, 254); Latin translation in Hilary, syn. 38 (SC 621, 276–278). Synod of Sirmium (351), Anathematisms. Greek original in Athanasius, syn. 27.3 (AW  2, 254–256); Latin translation in Hilary, syn. 38 (SC  621, 278–290). Synod of Ancyra (358), Canons. Greek original in Epiphanius, panar. 73.10–11 (GCS 37, 280–284); Latin translation in Hilary, syn. 13–26 (SC 621, 206–244). Greek translations of Latin texts: Ursacius and Valens, Letter to Julius. Latin original text in Hilary, frag. hist. B2 6 (CSEL 65, 143–144); Greek translation in Athanasius, apol. sec. 58.1–4 (AW 2, 138). Ursacius and Valens, Letter to Athanasius. Original Latin text in Hilary, frag. hist. B2 6 (CSEL 65, 145); Greek translation in Athanasius, apol. sec. 58.5 (AW 2, 138). Synod of Sirmium II (357), Second Formula of Faith. Original Latin text in Hilary, syn. 11 (SC 621, 198–204); Greek translation in Athanasius, syn. 28.2–12 (AW 2, 256–257).

18

Of course, many other Latin versions of the Nicene Creed are preserved, cf. C.H. Turner, Ecclesiae occidentalis monvmenta ivris antiqvissima, I, 1,2, 106–111; 174–177; 297–328; Y.-M. Duval, Une traduction latine inédite du symbole de Nicée et une condamnation d’Arius a Rimini. Nouveau fragment historique d’Hilaire ou pièces des Actes du concile?, in: RBen 82 (1972), 7–25.

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Synod of Rimini (359), To Constantius II. Original Latin text in Hilary, frag. hist. A5 1 (CSEL 65, 78–85); Greek translation in Athanasius, syn. 10.1–12 (AW 2, Opitz, 237–238). Synod of Rimini (359), Synodal Decree. Original Latin text in Hilary, frag. hist. A9 3 (CSEL 65, 96–97); Greek translation in Athanasius, syn. 11.1–3 (AW 2, 238–239). Of these 13 documents, preserved in both original text and translation, six are found in the works of Hilary, five in those of Athanasius and two in those of Marius Victorinus (Candidus). If we add to Hilary’s numerical superiority the fact that there is no certainty as to the identity of the translator(s) from Latin into Greek of the five documents preserved in the works of Athanasius, the Bishop of Poitiers appears all the more as the central figure in the translations made during the great theological controversy of the fourth century. This confirms the following statement by Gustave Bardy: “Only Saint Hilary, among the Latin–speaking bishops, seems to have understood the importance of the authentic texts”.19 3

Hilary as a Translator

Although Hilary “received a brilliant literary education”,20 which implies knowledge of Greek language and culture, at least until before the exile, he did not show any particular interest in the theology of Eastern Christianity. In fact, his pre-exilic Commentary on Matthew does not reflect any use of Greek sources. According to his own admission in 356, when he was exiled, he was not yet acquainted with the Nicene Creed.21 His exile in Phrygia brought him into contact with the theological richness of the Eastern theological tradition and undoubtedly deepened his mastery of the Greek language. Indeed, a passage in the Contra Constantium testifies to the Bishop of Poitiers’ fluent use of Greek.22 19 20 21 22

Bardy, 1940, 63. See A. Blaise, Saint Hilaire de Poitiers: De Trinitate et ouvrages exegetiques, Namur 1963, 11. See Hil., syn. 91. See Hil., c. Const. 14: “Quod cum contrarium ipsis sensu audientium esset, ipse ego quendam eorum qui forte ad me pertemptandum accesserat, quasi ignorans rerum gestarum percontatus sum quid sibi uellet istud ut qui unam substantiam Filii esse cum Patre damnassent, uel esse similis substantiae denegassent, dissimilitudinem damnarent. Tunc

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Hilary, in the first chapters of the De synodis, refers to himself as the translator of the formulae of faith, as opposed to their author (interpretans / auctor).23 This is confirmed in several ways. A few months elapse between the Greek original of the Canons of Ancyra (358) and its Latin translation, which makes it very unlikely that, in exile, he could have had access to a Latin translation.24 In Contra Constantium, he quotes the canon 11 (16) of Ancyra in a different translation from the one he gives in De synodis,25 which indicates that the Bishop of Poitiers was not using a Latin version of these documents but translated them ad casum. Likewise, the differences between the two translations of the Nicene symbol found in Hilary’s work show that the bishop did not follow a translation but did the translation himself.26 Moreover, in the De synodis, Hilary alludes to the activity of the translator: “Therefore, I think it right and proper, before I pass on to the discussion of suspicions and disagreements of words, to explain, in the most precise terms possible, what has been said and established by the Eastern

23

24

25

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mihi ait Christum Deo similem non esse, sed similem Patri esse. Rursus hoc obscurius mihi adhuc uidebatur. De quo cum iterum interrogarem, tune haec ita locutus est: ‘Dico eum dissimilem Deo esse, similem Patri posse intellegi, quia Pater uoluisset creaturam istius modi creare quae similia sui uellet, et idcirco similem Patti esse, quia uoluntatis esset potius filius quam diuinitatis; dissimilem autem Deo esse, quia neque Deus esset neque ex Deo, id est de substantia Dei, natus esset.’ Haec audiens hebui neque credidi, donec cum publice ex consensu omnium eorum profanissimae huius similitudinis ratio praedicaretur” (SC 334, 196–198). The text describes a debate between Hilary and an anomean bishop at the Synod of Seleucia in 359. See also Sulp. Sev., chron. 2.42,2. Cf. Hil., syn. 7: “Si quid uero rectum atque ex doctrinis apostolicis praescriptum deprehenditur, nemo ambigit non interpretantis in eo esse gloriam, sed auctoris” (SC 621, 190). Gustave Bardy states, with regard to the Latin version of Arius’ letter to Alexander, that “la traduction est son œuvre personnelle”, Bardy, 1940, 30. The De synodis was written in late 358 or early 359 and gives the translation of the canons of the synod of Ancyra as they were presented to Constantius at the third synod of Sirmium in June 358. See S. Fernández, San Hilario de Poitiers, Sobre los sínodos, Madrid 2019, xxxi–xxxiii. See Hil., c. Const. 23: “Et si qui seniorem temporis Patrem dicat Filio esse unigenito, iuniorem autem Filius Patri, anathema sit” (SC 334, 214,32–34); Hil., syn. 24: “Et si quis seniorem tempore Patrem dicat Filio ex se unigenito, iuniorem autem Filium a Patre: anathema sit” (SC 621, 240). The multiplicity of Latin versions of the Nicene symbol shows that there was no official translation even for a document of such importance. See Turner, 1939, I, 1,2, 106–111; 174–177; 297–328.

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bishops against the heresy written in Sirmium. Not because it has not all been published by others in a very clear manner, but because the translation from Greek into Latin, expressed word for word, involves much obscurity, and at the same time the precise association of the terms is not able to retain the same accuracy for the simplicity of understanding”.27 On the one hand, Hilary shows that he is aware of the difficulties involved in translation and that he knows the various models of translation established by Cicero (ad verbum / ad sensum).28 Furthermore, the text shows that the Bishop of Poitiers does not attribute to the translations of the documents any literary purpose but the function of making the Greek texts comprehensible to Latin readers.29 In addition, Hilary’s activity as a translator is described by Jerome, who recalls that the Bishop of Poitiers translated ad sensum Origen’s tractatus on the Psalms and his homilies on Job.30 Furthermore, in letter 57, devoted to the correct way of translating, Jerome praises Hilary’s technique.31

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29 30 31

Hil., syn. 9: “Et quidem rectum ac conveniens existimo, ut, antequam de uerborum suspicionibus ac dissensionibus ineo sermonem, ea quae ab orientalibus episcopis aduersum conscriptam apud Sirmium haeresim dicta et constituta sint, uerbis quam possim absolutissimis demonstrem. Non quod non ab aliis planissime omnia edita sint, sed quod ex graeco in latinum ad uerbum expressa translatio affert plerumque obscuritatem, dum custodita uerborum collatio eamdem absolutionem non potest ad intelligentiae simplicitatem conservare” (SC 621, 194–196). The distinction between translation ad uerbum and ad sensum is found in Cic., opt. gen. 14; fin. 3.15; see P. Chiesa, Ad verbum o ad sensum? Modelli e coscienza metodologica della traduzione tra tarda antichità e alto medioevo, in: Medioevo e rinascimento 1 (1987), 1–51. Christianity in the West, especially in Rome, used the Greek language as its own language at least until the third century. Both the official documents and the liturgy of this period were in Greek. However, during the fourth century, there was a severe decline in the use and knowledge of Greek in the West. In turn, “l’Orient chrétien, au IVe siècle, a manifesté la plus superbe indifférence à la langue latine”, G.  Bardy, La question des langues dans l’église ancienne, Paris 1948, 155. In this controversial context, the translations did not aim to have literary value, like Latin versions of classical Greek works, produced for an audience able to read Greek. These translations sought to widen the audience able to read these works. See Chiesa, 1987, 7–10. See Hier., in Mich. 2.4; adv. Rufin. 1.2,3; epist. 5.2; 61.2; 82.7; 112.20. Hier., epist. 57.6: “Sufficit in praesenti nominasse Hilarium confessorem, qui homilias in Iob et in Psalmos tractatus plurimos in latinum uertit e graeco nec adsedit litterae dormitanti et putida rusticorum interpretatione se torsit, sed quasi captiuos sensus in suam linguam uictoris iure transposuit” (CSEL 54, 512).

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Hilary’s Translations of Documents

Given the characteristics of the documents and their translations, it is most interesting to study the way in which the technical terms of theological significance were translated, in particular the term οὐσία and its derivatives. 4.1 The Translation of Arius, Letter to Alexander32 Arius’ letter to Alexander contains 13 recurrences of the verb γεννάω and its cognates (γεννάω, γέννημα, ἀγέννητος, ἀγεννήτως, συναγέννητος). This is undoubtedly the most interesting set of terms for the purpose of the present article. When the cognates of γεννάω are excluded regarding the Father, they are translated with terms derived from the Latin verb facio, thus: ἀγέννητος = infectus (in-factus); ἀγεννήτως = non factus; so, also, the single occurrence of the neologism συναγέννητος = simul non factus (referring also to the Son). In turn, when γεννάω has the Son as its object, it is translated six times with the Latin verb nascor (or derivatives); twice with facio; once with gigno; and once with edo (editus). In addition, on one occasion, applied to the Son and the Father, ἀγεννήτος is translated with non natus. The verb ποιέω, referring to the creative work of the Father through the Son, appears only once in the letter, and it is translated by the verb facio (πεποίηκε = fecit). This single occurrence of ποιέω translated with facio acquires particular significance if one takes into account that on two occasions Hilary translates γεννάω with the verb facio, which is undoubtedly a source of confusion for the Western reader who only had access to the Latin translation. For its part, the term κτίζω, together with its derivatives (κτίζω, ἐπικτίζω, κτίσμα), is found five times. All of them refer to the status of the Son (while Arius applied it to the Son, Alexander did not) and it is consistently translated with the Latin verb creo or its cognates (supercreo, creatura). The term which had become the key to Nicene theology by the middle of the fourth century, namely, ὁμοούσιος, appears twice, and in both occurences it is translated with unius substantiae. From this translation it is possible to deduce the equivalence between οὐσία and substantia according to Hilary. This equivalence is problematic, for the only time in the letter that the term ὑπόστασις appears, it is also translated with substantia. Thus Hilary’s translation tends to favour the identification between ὑπόστασις and οὐσία in the mind of the Latin reader. 32

Greek original in Ath., syn. 16.2–5 (AW 2, 243,26–244,20); Latin translation in Hil., trin. 4.12–13 (CChr.SL 62, 112–114).

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Hilary twice translates προβολή with prolatio, already traditional, and once the philosophical equivalence between τὰ πρός τι and ad aliquid. Finally, the Greek superlative μονώτατος, applied by Arius to the one God, is translated by Hilary with the Latin adjective solitarius. This equivalence is important because the term solitarius, denied by Hilary for the Father, will be central to the argumentation of the Bishop of Poitiers in his theological treatise De Trinitate. In fact, the only time the term solitarius appears in In Matthaeum (3,3) it does not refer to God, while in the many times it appears in De Trinitate, it has a precise theological function, sometimes anti-Arian, sometimes anti-Monarchian.33 In summary: γεννάω referring to the Father = facio (x3); γεννάω referring to the Son = nascor (x6), facio (x2), gigno (x1), edo (x1); ἀγεννήτος applied to the Father and the Son = non natus (x1); ὁμοούσιος referring to the Son regarding the Father = unius substantiae (x2); ὑπόστασις = substantia (x1); ποιέω referring to creation = facio (x1); κτίζω affirmed or denied of the Son = creo (x5). 4.2 Translation of the Nicene Documents (325), Profession of Faith The Nicene Symbol and its dogmatic canon, written in 325, is transmitted in its original Greek by several sources, the most important being Athanasius, De decretis 37.2 and the Letter of Eusebius of Caesarea to his Church.34 The first Latin translation seems to be that transmitted by Luciferus of Cagliari.35 Additionally, Hilary translated these documents twice in his works, in De synodis 84 and in Fragmenta historica B2, 10. The expressions of the Nicene Symbol and the dogmatic canon, which contain the technical terms of the theological debate, are the following:

33

34 35

Hilary frequently affirms that God, being one, is not solitary. See Hil., trin. 7.5: “Non enim solitarium significat Ego et Pater unum sumus” (CChr.SL 62, 265). See Hil., trin. 1.17; 1.24; 1.38; 4.17–19; 4.24; 4.32–33; 4.40; 5.39; 7.2–3; 7.5; 7.8; 7.21–22; 7.32; 7.38–39; 8.4; 8.36–38; 8.52; 9.1; 9.19–20; 9.28; 9.44; 10.5; Hil., syn. 14; 23; 37; 68; 81; 84. See also Socr., h.e. 1.8,29–30; 1.8,44–45; Thdt., h.e. 1.12,8; Philost., h.e. 1.9a; Gel. Cyz., h.e. 2.27,2–62; 2.35,8. Lucif., non parc. 18: “Credimus in unum deum patrem omnipotentem, uisibilium et inuisibilium factorem, et in unum dominum Iesum Christum filium dei natum de patre, hoc est de substantia patris, deum de deo, lumen de lumine, deum uerum de de deo uero, natum non factum, unius substantiae cum patre, quod Graeci dicunt ὁμοοούσιον, per quem omnia facta sunt siue quae in caelo siue quae in terra sunt, qui propter nos homines et propter nostram salutem descendit, incarnatus est, homo factus est, passus est, resurrexit tertia die, ascendit in caelum uenturus iudicare uiuos et mortuos; credimus et in spiritum sanctum. […]. eos autem qui dicunt: erat quando non erat et priusquam nasceretur non erat, et quia ex nullis extantibus factus est uel ex alia substantia, dicentes mutabilem et conuertibilem filium dei, hos anathematisat catholica et apostolica ecclesia” (CSEL 14, 247–248).

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Greek original text according to Alberigo, COD.36 1. πάντων ὁρατῶν τε καὶ ἀοράτων ποιητήν 2. γεννηθέντα ἐκ τοῦ πατρὸς μονογενῆ 3. ἐκ τῆς οὐσίας τοῦ πατρός 4. γεννηθέντα οὐ ποιηθέντα 5. ὁμοούσιον τῷ πατρί 6. δι᾿ οὗ τὰ πάντα ἐγένετο 7. πρὶν γεννηθῆναι οὐκ ἦν 8. ἐξ οὐκ ὄντων ἐγένετο 9. ἢ ἐξ ἑτέρας ὑποστάσεως ἢ οὐσίας37 Translation of Hilary, De Synodis 84: 1. omnium visibilium et invisibilium factorem 2. natum ex patre unigenitum 3. de substantia patris 4. natum non factum 5. unius substantiae cum patre, quod graece dicunt homousion 6. per quem omnia facta sunt 7. ante quam nasceretur non erat 8. de non exstantibus factus est 9. vel ex alia substantia aut essentia Translation of Hilary, Fragmenta historica B2 10: 1. uisibilium et inuisibilium factorem 2. natum de patre 3. de substantia patris 4. natum non factum 5. unius substantiae cum patre, quod graeci dicunt omousion 6. per quem omnia facta sunt 7. priusquam nasceretur, non erat 8. ex nullis extantibus factus est 9. uel alia substantia 36

37

See  G.  Alberigo (ed.), Conciliorum Oecumenicorum Generaliumque Decreta  1: The Oecumenical Councils: From Nicaea  I to Nicaea II (Corpus Christianorum Texts and Studies), Turnhout 2006. On the reconstruction of the Nicene creed, see G.  Dossetti, Il simbolo di Nicea e di Costantinopoli: Edizione critica, Roma 1967. Alberigo, 2006, 19.

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The noun ποιητής, which derives from the verb ποιέω, has God the Father as its subject and refers to the creation of the universe; in both versions it is translated with factor ( facio). The verb γεννάω appears three times describing the origin of the Son; in both versions, it is translated with the Latin verb nascor. When γεννάω is placed in opposition to ποιέω (γεννηθέντα οὐ ποιηθέντα), the Latin translation of ποιέω is facio (natum non factum). The expression ἐκ τῆς οὐσίας τοῦ πατρός, in both versions of Hilary, is translated with de substantia patris, which implies that, for Hilary, οὐσία is equivalent to substantia, at least in this context. The phrase ὁμοούσιον τῷ πατρί is translated and explained by Hilary with a clause containing a lexicographical calque of the Greek term: unius substantiae cum patre, quod graece dicunt homousion, which again indicates that Hilary considered οὐσία an equivalent to substantia (De synodis and Fragmenta historica differ in minor matters). The verb γίγνομαι occurs twice in these documents: the first is an allusion to John 1:3 (δι᾿ οὗ τὰ πάντα ἐγένετο) and refers to God’s work of creation; the second condemns those who claim that the Son comes from nothing (ἐξ οὐκ ὄντων ἐγένετο). The two versions by Hilary translate the two recurrences of γίγνομαι with the Latin verb facio. Hilary’s two translations of the dogmatic canon express the problematic understanding of some important technical terms of the controversy. The most significant sentence is ἢ ἐξ ἑτέρας ὑποστάσεως ἢ οὐσίας because it contains the terms ὑπόστασις and οὐσία. In De synodis, ὑπόστασις is translated with substantia, while οὐσία, with essentia. This translation is problematic because, a few lines above, in the same text, the Bishop of Poitiers had twice translated οὐσία with substantia. Moreover, in Fragmenta historica, the expression ἢ ἐξ ἑτέρας ὑποστάσεως ἢ οὐσίας is translated with uel alia substantia, i.e. both terms, ὑπόστασις and οὐσία, are translated with substantia. The same choice is found in the Latin version of the canon transmitted by Luciferus of Cagliari (De non parcendo, 18). Thus, in Hilary’s translations of the crucial creed and canon of Nicaea, the Latin term essentia is translated twice οὐσία, once ὑπόστασις and once ὑπόστασις ἢ οὐσία. These translations suggest the problematic equivalence between οὐσία and ὑπόστασις. In summary: γεννάω referring to the eternal Son = nascor (x6); οὐσία = substantia (x4); οὐσία = essentia (x1); ὁμοούσιος indicating the Son’s relation to the Father = unius substantiae (x2); ὑπόστασις = substantia (x1); ὑπόστασις ἢ οὐσία = substantia (x1); γίγνομαι referring to creation and rejected regarding the Son’s origin = facio (x4); ποιητής applied to the Father = factor ( facio) (x2); ποιέω rejected regarding the Son’s origin = facio (x2).

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4.3 Translation of the Second Formula of the Synod of Antioch (341)38 The Greek text of this important formula of faith – the official formula in the East for several decades – 39 is transmitted by Athanasius, De synodis, 23.2–10. Its Latin translation is found in Hilary, De synodis, 29–30. This document consists of a creed and two canons containing various technical terms of the theological debate. The title ποιητής, applied to God the Father as the creator of the universe, is translated with factor ( facio). The single occurrence of γίγνομαι, used to indicate the work of creation (John 1:3), and the two occurrences of ποιέω, used to differentiate Son from creatures, are also translated with the Latin verb facio. The verb γεννάω and its cognates appear five times in the document of Antioch (341). They always have the Son as object; four of them refer, explicitly or implicitly, to the eternal origin of the Son and have the Father as their agent; the other occurrence has the Son as object, indicating the incarnation, and the agent the Virgin. Two occurrences of γεννάω are translated with the Latin verb genero, and three with the verb nascor. The only occurrence of οὐσία is translated by Hilary with essentia. And the two times that ὑπόστασις appears, the Bishop of Poitiers translates it with substantia (one of them opposing συμφωνία). The verb κτίζω and its cognates appear three times. The first applies to creation, and is translated with creo; the other two occurrences, used to differentiate the Son from creation, are translated by Hilary with cognates of the verb conditio. In summary: γεννάω referring to the eternal birth of the Son = genero (x2) and nascor (x2); γεννάω referring to the incarnation of the Son = nascor (x1); οὐσία = essentia (x1); ὑπόστασις = substantia (x1); ποιητής applied to Father = factor ( facio) (x1); ποιέω to differentiate Son from creatures = facio (x2); γίγνομαι to indicate creation = facio (x1); κτίζω = creo (x1) and condo (x2). 4.4 Translation of the Creed and Canons of the Synod of Sirmium (351)40 H. G. Opitz argues that the original text of the Synod of Sirmium is the Latin text transmitted by Hilary;41 in turn, A. Hahn, G. Bardy, M. Simonetti, A. Weckwerth 38 39 40 41

Original Greek text in Ath., syn. 23.2–10 (AW 2, 249–250); Latin translation in Hil., syn. 29–30 (SC 621, 252–256). This formula “di volta in volta un po’ modificata, rappresenterà d’ora in poi il punto di vista ufficiale degli orientali, in materia cristologica, fino al 357”, M. Simonetti, Il Cristo 2: Testi teologici e spirituali in lingua greca dal IV al VII secolo, Milano 1995, 126. Greek original in Ath., syn. 27.2–3 (AW  2, 254–256); Latin translation in Hil., syn. 38 (SC 621, 276–290). “Den lateinischen Originaltext gibt Hilarius, de syn. 38”, H.G. Opitz, AW 2, 254.

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and H. Ch. Brennecke maintain, with convincing arguments, that the original text is the Greek version preserved by Athanasius.42 Creed The terms κτίστης and ποιητής, both applied to the Father, are translated as creator and conditor respectively. The two occurrences of γεννάω, referring to the eternal birth and incarnation of the Son, are translated as nascor. The only recurrence of γίγνομαι (John 1:3) is translated by Hilary with facio. Canons In the canons, there are 13 occurrences of γεννάω and its cognate ἀγέννητος. The two times the verb γεννάω refers to the temporal birth of the Son of God it is translated with nascor.43 Moreover, there are four occurrences of γεννάω referring to the eternal birth; two of them are translated with nascor and the other two with gigno. The term ἀγέννητος appears seven times; all instances refer to the Father and are translated with the Latin tern innascibilis (nascor). The term ὑπόστασις appears once and the word οὐσία occurs three times, all of which are translated with substantia. The translation of both ὑπόστασις and οὐσία with the same term substantia was a cause of confusion for the Latin-speaking bishops. Furthermore, as was already traditional, πρόσωπον is translated with persona. The verb γίγνομαι is present twice, and in both cases, it is translated as facio. On the other hand, ποιέω, which also occurs twice, is translated once as facio and once as creo. In summary: γεννάω referring to the eternal birth of the Son of God = nascor (x3) and gigno (x2); γεννάω referring to the incarnation of the Son = nascor (x3); ἀγέννητος applied to the Father = innascibilis (x7); οὐσία = substantia (x3); ὑπόστασις = substantia (x1); πρόσωπον = persona (x1); κτίστης applied to the Father = creator (x1); ποιητής indicating the Father = conditor (x1); ποιέω referring to creation = facio (x1), creo (x1); γίγνομαι = facio (x3). 42

43

See  A.  Hahn, Bibliothek der Symbole und Glaubensregeln der alten Kirche, Hildesheim 1962, 196; Simonetti, 1975, 203, no. 11; Bardy, 1940, 54. According to Weckwerth, “uerisimile est huius synodi documenta Graece esse conscripta”, A. Weckwerth, Clavis Conciliorum Occidentalium septem prioribus saeculis celebratorum (CChr.SL, Claves Subsidia  3), Turnhout 2013, 327. Moreover, Brennecke offers good arguments to prove that the Greek text is the original; see Brennecke, 2007, 338. In canon 4 (Ath., syn. 23.3), the manuscript tradition and the modern editors are divided between two readings: γεγεννῆσθαι (manuscripts KP; Socrates; Martin-Morales) and γεγενῆσθαι (manuscripts BOR; Opitz). In this case, I opt for γεγεννῆσθαι since Hilary translates it with natus.

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4.5 Translation of the Canons of Ancyra (358)44 Hilary, in De synodis 12–26, offers a Latin translation of the canons of the Synod of Ancyra (358). The original Greek text is transmitted by Epiphanius (haer. 73. 10–11). If we consider that the Bishop of Poitiers wrote De synodis in the first months of the year 359,45 it becomes clear that not even a full year elapsed between the composition of the Greek canons and their translation into Latin. The most apparent difference between the Greek and Latin versions is the number of canons: only 12 of the 19 Greek canons are extant in the Latin version. It seems that the Bishop of Poitiers decided to include in his work only the 12 canons that would have been presented at the third synod of Sirmium, in the same year, 358, in the presence of Constantius.46 Having clarified the question of the number of canons, it is time to examine the Latin translation of the technical terms. The term οὐσία appears 15 times, eight of which correspond to the technical expression κατ᾽ οὐσίαν, which indicates the likeness of the Son to the Father (ὅμοιος). The Latin translations of these occurrences are the following: κατ᾽ οὐσίαν is translated as iuxta essentiam (x4), as secundum essentiam (x2), as essentia (x1) and as ex similitudine essentiae (x1). Moreover, the crucial term οὐσία is translated as essentia (x6) and as substantia (x1). Thus, the expression κατ᾽ οὐσίαν is translated in three different ways, and the term οὐσία, while almost always translated as essentia, is translated at least once as substantia. On the other hand, the term substantia appears a second time, in canon 12 (17), as a translation of ὑπόστασις, and furthermore, in canon 8 (13), the verb ὑφίστημι is translated into Latin as subsisto. Again, the traditional equivalence between πρόσωπον and persona appears. Moreover, the expression κατ’ ἐνέργειαν (which is opposed to κατ᾽ οὐσίαν) is translated once as iuxta efficacia and another time as secundum efficacia. These data indicate, on the one hand, that still, at the beginning of 359, Hilary did not treat – at least in his 44 45 46

Greek original in Epiph., haer. 73.10–11 (GCS 37, 280–284); Latin translation in Hil., syn. 13–26 (SC 621, 206–244). See Fernández, 2019, xxxi–xxxiii. See Soz., h.e. 4.15,2. The reason for this difference is made clear by one of the Apologeticum responsum II, possibly a marginal annotation by Hilary himself to chapter 13 of De synodis: “Expositiones omnes, si quid habent criminis, intra se habent; caeterum non habere in publica facie existimantur. Sed quia scirem eas solas Sirmium esse delata …” (SC 621, 431). The Apologetica responsa are brief statements that do not belong to the original text of the De synodis but are statements with which Hilary himself defends and clarifies his own doctrine to address the criticism that his work has received from the circle close to Lucifer of Cagliari. These statements may have been written in the margin of the Bishop of Poitiers’ own exemplar. See. P. Smulders, Two Passages of Hilary’s Apologetica Responsa Rediscovered, in: TU 133 (1987), 539–547.

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translation – the term οὐσία and the idiom κατ᾽ οὐσίαν as established technical expressions. On the other hand, this evidence shows, once again, the oscillation between translating οὐσία as essentia and substantia, a term which is the Latin calque of ὑπόστασις. The term ἀνόμοιος, which is rejected as an expression of the relation between the Son of God and the Father, appears twice and is translated as non similis, while the expression μὴ ὅμοιος is translated as dissimilis. The verb γεννάω, referring to the eternal birth of the Son of God, occurs five times: once it is translated as genero and the other four, related to Prov. 8:22 and 8:25, are translated with the Latin verb gigno. The expression ἀγέννητος appears once, applied to the Father, and is translated as innascibilis. Canon 5 (10), following Prov. 8:22 and 8:25, opposes κτίζω to γεννάω, and the term ἔκτισέ (κτίζω) is translated once as condidit vel creavit and four times with derivatives of the Latin verb condo. In summary: γεννάω referring to the eternal birth of the Son of God = genero (x1) and gigno (x4); ἀγεννήτος applied to the Father = innascibilis (x1); οὐσία = essentia (x6) and substantia (x1); κατ᾽ οὐσίαν indicating the relation between the Son and the Father = iuxta essentiam (x4), secundum essentiam (x2), essentia (x1) and ex similitudine essentiae (x1); ὑπόστασις = substantia (x1); ὑφίστημι = subsisto (x1); πρόσωπον = persona (x1); κτίζω referring to Son = condo (x4) and condidit vel creavit (x1); ἀνόμοιος rejected to indicate the origin of the Son = non similis (x2); μὴ ὅμοιος = dissimilis (x1). 5

Conclusion

After this detailed survey, it is time to propose some general conclusions concerning the translation of the main technical terms of the Trinitarian controversy. Naturally, the terms of greatest importance for the discussion of this theology can be grouped into two classes: on one hand, those describing the origin of the Son, i.e. γεννάω in opposition to γίγνομαι, ποιέω and κτίζω that correspond to creation, and in opposition to ἀγέννητος that correspond to the Father; on the other hand, those expressing the being of the Son in relation to the Father, namely, οὐσία, ὁμοούσιος, ὑπόστασις and πρόσωπον. 5.1 The Verb γεννάω and its Derivatives On the one hand, Hilary translates the four occurrences of γεννάω referring to the incarnation of the Son with the Latin verb nascor. Moreover, when γεννάω refers to the eternal origin of the Son of God, Hilary translates it 16 times with nascor, three times with genero, seven times with gigno, once with edo and – in

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a manner that seems problematic – twice with facio. However, it should be noted that the two times Hilary translates γεννάω with facio, he is dealing with the letters of Arius. In addition, the term ἀγέννητος is applied to the Father by the synods eight times; Hilary translates each of these with innascibilis (nascor). The three times that the same term is used in the letters of Arius, however, the Bishop of Poitiers translates ἀγέννητος and its derivatives with terms related to the Latin verb facio. On the other hand, the verbs γίγνομαι, ποιέω and κτίζω, which appear 33 times, are translated as facio, creo and condo. Despite this apparent confusion, it is possible to recognise a rationale in Hilary’s translations of this group of words. The Bishop of Poitiers accurately observes the difference sanctioned in the Nicene Symbol by the statement “begotten not made” (γεννηθέντα οὐ ποιηθέντα). Hence, in his versions of the synodal texts, he uses one set of synonyms to translate γεννάω (nascor, genero, gigno and edo) and another to translate γίγνομαι, ποιέω and κτίζω ( facio, creo and condo). The only exception is found in his translations of Arius’ texts; in these, Hilary translates γεννάω and its derivatives with terms related to facio. That means that the Bishop of Poitiers understands that Arius – unlike the synods – uses γεννάω as a synonym for γίγνομαι, ποιέω and κτίζω.47 If this conclusion is correct, Hilary does not make a mechanical translation, verbum de verbo, but offers a true ad sensum translation of the technical terms describing the origin of the Son. The fact that the translation of γεννάω is different when it appears in a synod (= begetting) or when it is used by Arius (= making), shows that the Bishop of Poitiers is aware that the same term, pronounced by different authors, can have a different, even opposite, meaning. In several places in the De synodis, Hilary assumes the distinction between the term (nomen / verbum) and its meaning (sensus / intelligentia).48 In theological terms, he recognises the difference between the content of faith (res ipsa) and its formulation (verbum),49 which is based on the radical mismatch between theological discourse and God’s being.50 In De synodis, the Bishop of Poitiers expresses this acute awareness of the difference between the term and its meaning, applying it not only to the interpretation of the documents but to his technique of translation. In fact, a translation is always an interpretation.

47 48 49 50

See Ar., ep. Eus. 5: καὶ [scil. ὁ υἱὸς] πρὶν γεννηθῇ ἤτοι κτισθῇ ἤτοι ὁρισθῇ ἢ θεμελιωθῇ, οὐκ ἦν (Urk. 1, 3). See Hil., syn. 12; 67; 83. Hil., syn. 83: “Inane enim est, calumniam uerbi pertimescere, ubi res ipsa cuius uerbum est non habeat difficultatem”. (SC 621, 388). See Hil., trin. 1.19; 2.2–12; 3.18–20; 4.2; 11.5; Hil., syn. 17; 24; 62.

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5.2 The Relationship between οὐσία and ὑπόστασις An overview of the data studied indicates that οὐσία is translated eight times as substantia and seven times as essentia; ὁμοούσιος is equivalent to unius substantiae four times; and κατ᾽ οὐσίαν is translated four times as iuxta essentiam, twice as secundum essentiam, once as essentia, and once as ex similitudine essentiae. In summary, οὐσία and its derivatives are translated fifteen times as essentia and eleven times as substantia. This oscillation is undoubtedly an important factor in the confusion of the Latin-speaking bishops, especially if one considers that six times Hilary translated the term ὑπόστασις as substantia. In the Latin version of the Nicene symbol preserved in De synodis, Hilary translates οὐσία twice as substancia and once as essentia, whereas in the Nicene canon he uses substantia to translate ὑπόστασις. The oscillation in the meaning of οὐσία and ὑπόστασις is evident in Fragmenta historica, in which the Bishop of Poitiers translates both terms (οὐσία and ὑπόστασις) with the single Latin word substantia. In turn, some years after the first Council of Constantinople (381), Rufinus of Aquileia, a Latin author well acquainted with the theology of the East, translates the same sentence of the Nicene canon as follows: ἢ ἐξ ἑτέρας ὑποστάσεως ἢ οὐσίας = aut ex alia subsistentia vel substantia.51 That is, the Latin version of Rufinus translates the terms very precisely according to the clarifications developed by the theology of the Cappadocians (ὑπόστασις = subsistentia and οὐσία = substantia). At first glance, the translation of Rufinus might seem more accurate than that of Hilary. But in a historical perspective, it is necessary to stress that the version of the Bishop of Poitiers better reflects the ambiguity of the content of the terms used by the Nicene canon, whereas the Rufinian version, which seems more accurate, could be accused of being anachronistic, since it understands the Nicene text, written in 325, in the light of the theology developed by the Cappadocian Fathers by the end of the fourth century and sanctioned by the synod of Constantinople (381). The Bishop of Poitiers took the risk of moving concepts from East to West.52 For that reason, he produced translations of many Greek theological documents into Latin. However, some studies say that translations have been an additional factor in the terminological confusion of the mid–fourth century, which obscured the already unclear labyrinth of formulae.53 On the one hand, 51 52 53

Rufin, h.e. 10.6 (GCS.NF 6/2, 966). P. Galtier, Saint Hilaire trait d’union entre l’Occident et l’Orient, in: Gr. 40 (1959), 609–623. R.P.C.  Hanson, The Search for the Christian Doctrine of God, Edinburgh 1988, 486–488; L.  Ayres, Nicaea and Its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology, Oxford 2004, 183.

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Hilary is consistent in his translations ad sensum of γεννάω, γίγνομαι, ποιέω and κτίζω. On the other hand, however, his oscillations in the translation of the terms οὐσία and ὑπόστασις, while not the cause of the confusion, are a reflection of it.

Educational and Ritual Aspects of Reading and Publishing Practices from the Greek Philosophical Schools to Latin Monasticism Anna Usacheva Abstract The chapter addresses the topic of motion from the perspective of authorial publishing, and dissemination of ideas through varies reading practices. Shaped by their characteristic ritual and educational routine, reading practices of the Greek philosophical schools and Christian monastic communities regulated the ways in which ideas and texts were studied and disseminated. With a specific focus on the publishing practices in the monastic communities of Jerome at Bethlehem and of Rufinus at the Mount of Olives, the chapter explores the transformation from the pre-eminently oral book culture of pagan Antiquity to the chiefly written culture of Christian epoch.

Introduction

The topics of objects, people and ideas in motion naturally suggests an inquiry into the practices that involve all three. For example, the practice of reading, publishing and book circulation encapsulates the concept of motion in both the theoretical and material domains. The complex symbiosis of sociological, ideological, manufacturing and logistical aspects that comprise the production, dissemination and reading of books has many specific nuances that are unique to any given environment in any era. This chapter explores the motion of ideas and objects at two levels. First, it will demonstrate how reading practices that emerged in the philosophical schools in the course of the first century BCE until the fifth century CE were adopted in Christian monastic circles. Secondly, it will be demonstrated that those approaches to reading involved two specific ways in which objects and ideas, namely books and their content, were produced and set in motion. To elucidate such action, the final discussion of this paper uses the concept of * The research for the present article was financed by the project Authorial Publishing in Early Medieval Europe (APEME, Academy of Finland, no. 324246).

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_009

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authorial publication. One of the characteristics of scholarship on authorial publishing is a methodological emphasis on the physical evidence of manuscripts. In the context of this essay, such an approach is not available for the obvious reason that there are too few surviving books from the period under scrutiny. Even so, the concept of publishing offers a tool by which to appreciate how objects and ideas were set in motion in the fourth and fifth centuries. It is also hoped that our discussion will provide new approaches to study publishing in historical settings from which negligible numbers of manuscripts survive. The study of authorial publishing is now a burgeoning scholarly field. Several conceptualizations, classifications, and methodological approaches have been proposed in recent years. While P. Meyvaert conceptualizes publishing as the act of the first issue,1 D. Hobbins argues persuasively that it was a process, consisting of various “publishing moments”.2 R.  Sharpe has demonstrated how actively a medieval author could publish his writings and how these efforts may be reflected in the physical aspect of extant manuscripts.3 Construing publishing as social action, J. Tahkokallio has coined the term “a publishing circle”, which has gained currency in subsequent scholarship.4 While S. Niskanen has explored how papal patronage affected publishing in late Antiquity, the chronological focus of these studies has predominantly been on the high and later Middle Ages.5 The evidence of manuscripts, textual, palaeographical and codicological, has been a methodological emphasis. Because of the near-absolute absence of contemporary manuscripts pertinent to our exploration, that approach cannot be replicated here. Even so, authorial publishing not only helps us read the studied texts in context, our evidence reveals an important aspect that has not previously been addressed. What follows proposes a notion of publishing environment. I argue that the setting of philosophical schools prompted certain forms of literary production. Thus, extempore lectures that were mainly devoted to the interpretation of the authoritative texts and recorded 1 P. Meyvaert, Medieval Notions of Publication: The ‘Unpublished’ Opus Caroli regis contra synodum and the Council of Frankfort (794), in: Journal of Medieval Latin 12 (2002), 78–89. 2 D. Hobbins, Authorship and Publicity Before Print: Jean Gerson and the Transformation of Late Medieval Learning, Philadelphia 2009. 3 R. Sharpe, Anselm as Author: Publishing in the Late Eleventh Century, in: Journal of Medieval Latin 19 (2009), 1–87. 4 J.  Tahkokallio, The Anglo-Norman Historical Canon Publishing and Manuscript Culture, Cambridge 2019, 2. 5 S.  Niskanen, Publication and the Papacy in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Cambridge 2021.

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by students constituted one of the forms of publication typical of the scholarly environment. In a similar vein, Christian monastic setting emulated some scholastic methods of dealing with authoritative texts, such as publishing via oral lecture through stenographers. To explore this pattern, I first delineate the key features of the philosophical schools’ publishing environment and then focus on the Christian monastic setting with its characteristic reading and dissemination practices. The spread of Christianity with its characteristic text-centred rituals and concomitant promotion of passive or active reading, and, eventually, of literacy, had a pronounced effect on intellectual culture and book production in the Roman empire. The ambition of the new religion took over Hellenic education, literature, ethical codes and even the shift of the most widespread book format from roll to codex.6 A vibrant field in contemporary multidisciplinary studies of Christian monasticism focuses on the reflections of Classical paideia and book culture in Christian ascetic teaching and institution.7 Building on Samuel Robinson’s approach to the emerging monastic tradition as an educational movement,8 this chapter addresses the reading and dissemination practices of the philosophical schools and Christian monasteries. Study, interpretation, memorisation, contemplation, copying, discussion and reading of the authoritative and sacred texts comprised a great deal of the daily activity of these institutions. Moreover, non-intellectual ritual reading of the sacred texts was also very important for the environments of the Neoplatonic school and Christian monasteries.9 In this way, the channels of motion and dissemination of ideas and texts to a considerable degree depended on the ritual and educational routine of the philosophical and monastic communities.

6 Cf. M. Larsen / M. Letteney, Christians and the Codex: Generic Materiality and Early Gospel Traditions, in: JECS 27 (2019), 383–415. 7 L.I. Larsen / S. Rubenson, Introduction, in: L.I. Larsen / S. Rubenson (eds.), Monastic Education in Late Antiquity: The Transformation of Classical Paideia, Cambridge 2018, 1–11. 8 S. Rubenson, Early Monasticism and the Concept of a “School”, in: L.I. Larsen / S. Rubenson (eds.), 2018, 13–33. 9 Neoplatonism, especially in its later form of theurgy, encompassed the religious and philosophical tradition of Hermetism that reflected Hellenistic adaptation of Egyptian religion and involved such practices as oracle reading and divination. Cf. M. Broze / C. van Liefferinge, L’Hermès commun du prophète Abamo: Philosophie grecque et théologie égyptienne dans le prologue du De mysteriis de Jamblique, in: F.  Labrique (ed.), Religions méditerranéennes et orientales de l’Antiquité: Actes du colloque des 23–24 avril 1999 à Besançon, BdE 135, Cairo 2002, 35–44.

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Publishing Environment of the Philosophical Schools

While the teaching activity of Socrates, Plato and the old Academy mainly consisted in the dialectical discussion, by the first century BCE the method of philosophical education had shifted towards an exegetical form. This method of teaching consisted in the interpretation of the foundational texts of the school, which was followed by discussion of the exegetic material.10 Thus, reading and interpretation of the authoritative texts constituted the core of philosophical education. At the beginning of their studies, students began with memorisation of short portions and brief summaries of the authoritative texts, which served as a foundation for their ensuing studies.11 As the learning progressed, students expanded their understanding of the different levels of meaning of the authoritative texts and preferably, also acquired personal experience of these meanings.12 In this way, the chief trends of the so-called Middle Platonic discourse comprised systematisation of Platonic teaching and harmonisation of Platonic philosophy with the teachings of other schools.13 It is noteworthy that both tendencies stemmed from the scholastic environment so that typical educational goals and practices shaped the form and content of the philosophical discussion along with the reading, publishing and dissemination practices of the scholarly community. In this way, systematisation took the form of grouping Plato’s dialogues and establishing an order in which they should be published and read by the students. We have the testimony of Diogenes Laertius,14 who recorded the division into groups of three

10

11 12

13

14

Cf. the testimony of Aulus Gellius, who conveyed the story of a Platonist named Taurus, who taught in Athens: “After reading [which consisted in exegeting Plato’s dialogues], he indeed gave everyone the opportunity to question him on a subject of his choice”. (Aulus Gellius, Noct. Att. 1.26,1; original text and English translation by J.C. Rolfe, Oxford 1927, see: http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Gellius/home.html). Cf. I. Hadot, Épicure et l’enseignement hellénistique et romain, in: Actes du VIIIe Congrès de l’Association Guillaume Budé, Paris, 5–10 avril 1968, Paris 1969, 347–354. Cf. Plotin, Enn.  1.6,9: “As the sculptor cuts away and polishes what is still uneven and rough, so the philosopher has to chisel himself until the godlike beauty of virtue (τῆς ἀρετῆς ἡ θεοειδὴς ἀγλαία) surfaces”. (Translation by S. MacKenna and B.S. Page, London 1917–1930, see: https://www.sacred-texts.com/cla/plotenn/enn000.htm). Cf. M. Bonazzi / J. Opsomer (eds.), The Origins of the Platonic System: Platonisms of the Early Empire and their Philosophical Contexts, Leuven 2009; I.  Hadot, Athenian and Alexandrian Neoplatonism and the Harmonization of Aristotle and Plato, transl. M. Chase, Leiden 2015. Cf. Diogenes, VPh 3.61; 3.62.

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texts, and a diaeretic grouping by Alcinous.15 Besides, Diogenes and Alcinous advised on the order in which Plato’s works should be read.16 It is notable that before the study of Plato’s works, students went through some prolegomena schemata.17 From the third century and onwards, studies at the Neoplatonic school began with Porphyry’s Isagoge, followed by the exegesis of Aristotle and then of Plato.18 Lectures devoted to the exegesis of authoritative texts were normally transcribed by a few students. Hence, a tradition of the Neoplatonic commentaries that runs uninterrupted until the seventh century CE pays witness to the oral discussions and routine exegetic practice of the school.19 The school-room provenance of this secondary literature (e.g., lectures-commentaries) is reflected in the specific genre of notes (ὑπομνήματα), in which some of the commentaries were written.20 Besides the genre of notes, lectures-commentaries also took the form of reminiscences or memories (ἀπομνημονεύματα), introductions (εἰσαγωγή) and manuals (ἐγχειρίδιον).21 A vivid example of the lecture-notes published by a student is Arrian’s Discourses of Epictetus.22 In a prefatory letter to the issue of his teacher’s lectures, Arrian related:

15 16 17 18

19 20

21 22

Cf. Alcinous, Didask. 3; 6. Ibid. See also: F.  Ferrari, Esegesi, commento e sistema nel medioplatonismo, in: A.  Netschke-Hentschke, Argumenta in dialogos Platonis  1: Platoninterpretation und ihre Hermeneutik von der Antike bis zum Beginn des 19. Jahrhunderts, Basel 2010, 51–76. P. Remes / S. Slaveva-Griffin (eds.), The Routledge Handbook of Neoplatonism, New York 2014, 41–42. The Aristotelian cycle began with “instrumental writings” (logical corpus), “practical writings” (political and ethical writings), and “theoretical writings” (going from the Physics to the Metaphysics). Cf. I. Hadot et alii (eds.), Simplicius: Commentaire sur les Catégories 1, PhAnt 50, Leiden 1989, 80–93. Cf. K.  Praechter, Review of the Commentaria in Aristotelem Graeca, in: R.  Sorabji (ed.), Aristotle Transformed: The Ancient Commentators and Their Influence, Ithaca 1990, 31–55 (41). The so-called secondary literature (περί-literature) included paraphrases, questionsand-answers, introductions, etc. Its main purpose was to arrange the relevant fragments on the specific topics preserved in the authoritative texts. For details see I. Sluiter, The Dialectics of Genre: Some Aspects of Secondary Literature and Genre in Antiquity, in: M. Depew / D. Obbink (eds.), Matrices of Genre: Authors, Canons, and Society, Cambridge 2000, 183–203. Cf. P.  Hadot / I.  Hadot, Apprendre à philosopher dans l’antiquité-inédit (Références): L’enseignement du Manuel d’Épictète et son commentaire néoplatonicien, Livre de Poche, Paris 2004, 10. For a discussion of this example in the context of the Roman publishing practices see M.  Larsen, Accidental Publication, Unfinished Texts and the Traditional Goals of New Testament Textual Criticism, in: JSNT 39 (2017), 362–387.

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“I did not write these discourses of Epictetus as one might normally write books of this kind, nor did I myself release them to the public, since I can in fact declare that I did not even write them. But rather, I tried to note down whatever I heard him say, in his own words as far as possible, so as to preserve memoranda for myself in the future of his manner of thought and frankness of speech. These are, then, as one might expect, the kind of things that one person would say to another on the spur of the moment, and not such as he would write to find a readership in later times. Being such as they are, they have fallen somehow or other, without my consent or knowledge, into the hands of the public. But to me it is of no great matter if I shall be thought incapable of writing a book, and to Epictetus it will not matter in the slightest if anyone views his discourses with disdain, because even when he was speaking, he plainly had no other aim than to move the minds of those who were listening towards what is best. If these discourses should achieve that same effect, they would be producing the result, I think, that the words of a philosopher ought to produce …”23 Lecture notes taken by the students and subsequently disseminated among the school circles could hardly be identified as authorial publications, although they normally preserved the name of the lecturer along with the name of the transmitter. In the specific scholarly setting, the notion of the publishing environment demonstrates its usefulness, because it allows for multiple actors and textual fluidity. Giving a lecture to a group of students is different from recording a text through a stenographer because there is no accounting for deliberate authorial intention in publishing a text. Thus this specific situation does not necessarily match the definition of oral publication. On the other hand, the educational setting implies that students take notes and disseminate them in their community. Hence, this status quo amounts to a specific educational publishing environment, where such technical texts as preparatory notes of the teachers or lecture notes of the students were created and, either with authorial intention or in the course of transmission, some of these texts could acquire the status of literary compositions. The educational setting precipitated various possible scenarios, where publishing momentum could belong either to the lecturer or to the stenographer/editor, or even to the reader. This vagueness was a natural component of the transition from the pre-eminently

23

Pref. Letter of Arrian to Lucius Gellius  1–5, from: R.  Hard / C.  Gill (eds.), Epictetus: Discourses, Fragments, Handbook, Oxford World Classics, Oxford 2014, 129–131.

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oral culture of the Classical era towards the incremental dominion of the written culture in the Middle Ages and later times. 2

Ritual Aspect of the Neoplatonic Reading Practices

In the Neoplatonic school, exegetic classes were accompanied by spiritual practices. These comprised invocations of deities, prayers, visualisations and meditations on the sacred texts and divine names. Especially at the advanced level of Neoplatonic schooling, spiritual reading was considered indispensable for the penetration of unintelligible enigmas found in the authoritative texts. Thus, in his Philosophy from Oracles, Porphyry argued that the reading and interpretation of oracles has the potential to divinise the reader.24 In his view, grasping the meaning of divine words uplifted the mind of the reader and brought him closer to divinity. It was believed that insightful and profound reading practically transformed the reader and granted him/her an opportunity to imitate the divine author of oracles, to become like god. In this way, the divinising power of oracles was associated with the principle of likeness, which goes back to the dawn of Greek philosophy.25 In the later Neoplatonic translation of Plotinus, the trace (ἴχνος) or image (εἰκών) of divine likeness in man was linked to the human intellect, which possesses an inherent connection with the One, or with divine Intellect.26 Iamblichus asserted in De Mysteriis that the practice of prayer and oracle reading could activate the divine potential of man.27 In the technical terms of theurgy, the effective 24

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Fragments of Porphyry’s treatise are preserved in Eusebius’ Praeparatio Evangelica. Cf. Eus., p.e. 6.6,3: “And our present collection will contain a record of many philosophical doctrines, as the gods declared by oracle the truth to be; but to a small extent we shall also touch upon the practice of divination, which will help us in relation to contemplation, and for the general purification of life.” (Translation of E.H. Gifford, Oxford 1903, see: https://www.tertullian.org/fathers/eusebius_pe_00_eintro.htm). – About Porphyry’s approach to oracle reading cf. A. Crystal, Divination and Theurgy in Neoplatonism: Oracles of the Gods, London 2014, 43–44. Aristotle in De anima affirmed that the principle of likeness goes back to Democritus, Pythagoreans, Anaxagoras and Empedocles (cf. DA 404a-b). About the epistemological and theological aspects of this principle see A.  Usacheva, The Contact Theories of Epistemology in Aristotle, Apostle Paul and Gregory Nazianzen: “Then Shall I Know, even as also I am Known” (1Cor 13:12), in: A.-C. Jacobsen / A. Usacheva (eds.), Christian Discourse in Late Antiquity. Hermeneutical, Institutional and Textual Perspectives, Leiden 2020, 125–145. Cf. Plotinus, Enn.  6.7.23,1–5 (ἴχνος); 6.9.11,5–9 (εἰκών). See  Z.  Mazur, Unio Magica  2: Plotinus, Theurgy, and the Question of Ritual, in: Dionysius 22 (2004), 29–56 (48). Cf. Iambl., DM 1.15: “For that element in us which is divine and intellectual and one – or, if you so wish to term it, intelligible – is aroused, then, clearly in prayer, and when aroused,

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connection between the practitioner of ritual and the divinity was sustained by the tokens (σύνθημα) or symbols (σύμβολον) of the divine love that permeated the whole universe.28 Thus, according to Iamblichus, the beauty and harmony of the created cosmos manifested the love and intelligent design of its creator, and the symbols of this love and design preserved the trace or image of divinity.29 Intellectual and linguistic aspect of the process of divine creation is particularly important in the context of theurgy because in Neoplatonic view, the human mind constitutes the image, token or symbol of the divine intellect. Hence, when man thinks and speaks, he applies his divine capacity for creation. Even more so when s/he thinks, contemplates and visualises the words of god, reads divine oracles and other authoritative texts, invokes the names of the deities, and mentally rehearses some portion of the memorised sacred writings. The bedrock of all these practices lies in training the attention of the practitioner to maintain sharp focus on some divine symbol, be it a sacred text, an image or a name of the deity. Eventually, as Neoplatonists believed, this concentrated attention could divinise the practitioner.30 Consequently, such various modalities of spiritual reading as oracle interpretation, exegesis of the authoritative texts, prayer, invocation of divine names and mental visualisation

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strives primarily towards what is like to itself, and joins itself to essential perfection”. English transl. by E.C. Clarke / J.M. Dillon / J.P. Hershbell, from: Iamblichus, De mysteriis, Atlanta 2003, 57. Cf. Iambl., DM 1.21: “It [cult] possesses eternal measures of what truly exists and wondrous tokens, such as have been sent down hither by the creator and father of all, by means of which unutterable truths are expressed through secret symbols, beings beyond form brought under the control of form, things superior to all image reproduced through images, and all things brought to completion through one single divine cause, which itself so far transcends passions that reason is not even capable of grasping it”. (transl. Clarke / Dillon / Hershbell, 2003, 79). Cf. Iambl., DM 3.15: “They reveal through symbols the purpose of the gods, even giving advance notice of the future, “neither talking nor concealing,” as Heraclitus says, but “giving indication by signs,” since they impress, as with a likeness, the manner of creation actually by giving advance notice. Thus even as they create all things by images, so also they signify them in the same way by agreed-upon signs; and perhaps they even awaken our understanding, by the same impulse to a greater acuteness”. (transl. Clarke / Dillon / Hershbell, 2003, 159). Cf. Iambl., DM 7.4: “And, moreover, we preserve in their entirety the mystical and arcane images of the gods in our soul; and we raise our soul up through these towards the gods and, as far as is possible, when it has been elevated, we experience union with the gods”. (cf. DM 1.12). (Transl. by Clarke / Dillon / Hershbell, 2003, 297).

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of the fragments of sacred writings were regarded as instruments of theurgic divination.31 Notably, the power of spiritual reading was considered automatic and independent of conscious control. In other words, maintaining the focus of attention was believed to be enough for successful practice even if the practitioner did not fully grasp the working mechanism of spiritual reading.32 This automatic effect of theurgy, however, does not mean that the practitioner was considered a passive recipient of the divine power. Nor is it accurate to identify theurgic prayer as petitionary. Iamblichus consistently conveyed the idea that deities were simultaneously immanent and transcendent, embracing and permeating the entire cosmos.33 Consequently, the focus of attention simply activated the hidden divine power already present in the practitioner. This power enabled theurgist to experience his/her inherent unity with gods, perceived as altered states of consciousness.34 Although from the outset, it may appear that Neoplatonic school applied contrasting and mutually exclusive practices of unconscious spiritual reading and sophisticated exegesis, philosophers considered them two sides of the same process of reading. Thus the reading-writing culture of the philosophical school was shaped by its routine educational activities, and at the same time it was interwoven with the religious and philosophical doctrines of the time.35 In this way, the motion of ideas was filtered through religious and philosophical maxims of scholastic communities and shaped by their specific pedagogical practices of reading, discussion and dissemination of the texts.

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Cf. G. Shaw, The Geometry of Grace: A Pythagorean Approach to Theurgy, in: H.J. Blumenthal / E.G. Clark (eds.), The Divine Iamblichus: Philosopher and Man of Gods, Bristol 1993, 124. Cf. Iambl., DM 2.2: “Hence, we do not bring about these things by intellection alone; for thus their efficacy would be intellectual, and dependent upon us. But neither assumption is true. For even when we are not engaged in intellection, the symbols themselves, by themselves, perform their appropriate work, and the ineffable power of the gods, to whom these symbols relate, itself recognises the proper images of itself, not through being aroused by our thought”. (transl. Clarke / Dillon / Hershbell, 2003, 115). Cf. Iambl., DM 1.8: “For neither is it the case that the gods are confined to certain parts of the cosmos, nor is the earthly realm devoid of them. On the contrary, it is true of the superior beings in it that, even as they are not contained by anything, so they contain everything within themselves”. (transl. Clarke / Dillon / Hershbell, 2003, 37). About theurgic prayer see J.  Dillon, The Platonic Philosopher at Prayer, in: J.  Dillon / A. Timotin (eds.), Platonic Theories of Prayer, Leiden 2016, 7–26. On the correlation between education and the cult of Gods cf. Libanius, Or. 18.157; 18.161.

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Social Setting of the Studying and Reading of the Sacred Texts

Interpretation of the authoritative and sacred texts and practices involving oracle reading constituted the backbone of the philosophical curriculum and an important element of the formation of the Roman elite. Analysis of the correspondents of Iamblichus suggests that the readers of Neoplatonic works held powerful positions in the imperial administration.36 Interestingly, it has been noted in modern scholarship that the closest thematic analogy to these letters could be found in the pastoral epistles of Christian bishops with the difference being that Christian letters were generally addressed to wider audience.37 In the times of religious syncretism, political patronage was especially important for those religious and philosophical writers whose legal position was vulnerable. Although Neoplatonists markedly emphasised the distinction between their theurgic teaching and magical practice, anti-magical legislation was not quite precise and left room for interpretation that sometimes led to ill-founded persecutions of philosophers, rhetors and other literati.38 Libanius mentioned in his Autobiography a false accusation in magic by a rival sophist that caused him to leave Nicomedia, where he had been teaching successfully.39 Ammianus Marcellinus conveyed stories about legal trials against people who were rightly or wrongly accused of magic during the reign of Valens.40 The magic hunt described by Ammianus included public burning

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For details see S. Swain, Themistius, Julian, and Greek Political Theory under Rome: Texts, Translations, and Studies of Four Key Works, Cambridge 2013, 13–20. Cf. J. Dillon / W. Polleichtner (eds.), Iamblichus of Chalcis: The Letters, Atlanta 2009, xviii. Cf. an example from the CTh  9.16.6,5: “If any wizard therefore or person imbued with magical contamination who is called by the custom of the people a magician … should be apprehended in my retinue, or in that of the Caesar, he shall not escape punishment and torture by the protection of his high rank” (dated July 358). (“… si quis magus vel magicis contaminibus adsuetus, qui maleficus vulgi consuetudine nuncupatur … in comitatu meo vel Caesaris fuerit deprehensus, praesidio dignitatis cruciatus et tormenta nonfugiat”). Latin text by T. Mommsen / P.M. Meyer (eds.), Theodosiani libri XVI cum constitutionibus Sirmondianis et leges Novellae ad Theodosianum pertinentes, Berlin 1905, see: http:// ancientrome.ru/ius/library/codex/theod/tituli.htm; English transl. by C. Pharr, from: The Theodosian Code and Novels and The Sirmondian Constitutions, New Jersey 1952. Cf., Lib., Or. 1.48,57. Cf. Ammianus Marcellinus, Res Gestae, Leipzig 1808. – English transl. by C.D. Yonge, from: Ammianus Marcellinus, Complete Works of Ammianus Marcellinus, Hastings 2016.

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of books belonging to the accused people,41 executions42 and voluntary destruction of private libraries by parties who feared possible accusation.43 The double standard policy regarding oracle reading and interpretation of authoritative texts surfaced in the debate about the statues of gods that involved Iamblichus, Porphyry, Eusebius of Caesarea, and Julian the emperor. The argument went that properly educated people know “how to read from statues, just as from books, the things written there concerning the gods” (p.e. 3.7,1). Iamblichus, in his treatise On the Statues of the Gods, Porphyry in his work On the Statues (the title preserved in Stobaeus’ Anthology, the excerpts – in Eusebius’ p.e.), Eusebius in his Praeparatio Evangelica (where he argued with Porphyry) and Julian the Emperor in his Hymn to the Mother of God and Epistle 89 discussed whether the statues of gods and sacred scriptures facilitated spiritual ascendance or were a rudiment of religious superstition. Curiously, while in their different ways all these authors revered sacred writings, they disagreed about what books should be held sacred and about the method of their reading and interpretation.44 41

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Cf. Amm., RG 29.41: “Then, innumerable writings and many heaps of volumes were hauled out from various houses and under the eyes of the judges were burned in heaps as being unlawful, to allay the indignation at the executions, although the greater number were treatises on the liberal arts and on jurisprudence”. (“Deinde congesti innumeri codices, et acervi voluminum multi, sub conspectu iudicum concremati sunt, ex domibus eruti variis ut illiciti, ad leniendam caesorum invidiam, cum essent plerique liberalium disciplinarum indices variarum et iuris”). Cf. Amm., RG  28.26: “At about that same time Lollianus, a youth just growing his first beard, son of the ex-prefect Lampadius, as the result of a strict examination by Maximinus, was convicted of having written a book on destructive magic arts, when adult age had not yet endowed him with sound judgment. And when it was feared that he would be exiled, by his father’s advice he appealed to the emperor and was ordered to be taken to his court; but he went from the smoke (as the saying is) into the fire; for he was handed over to Phalangius, consular governor of Baetica, and died at the hand of the dread executioner”. (“Circa hos dies Lollianus, primae lanuginis adulescens, Lampadi filius ex praefecto, exploratius causam Maximino spectante, convictus codicem noxiarum artium nondum per aetatem firmato consilio, descripsisse, exsulque mittendus (ut sperabatur) patris impulsu, provocavit ad principem, et iussus ad eius comitatum adduci, de fumo (ut aiunt) in flammam, traditus Phalangio (Baeticae consulari) cecidit funesti carnificis manu”). Cf. Amm., RG  29.4: “As a result, throughout the oriental provinces owners of books, through fear of a like fate, burned their entire libraries; so great was the terror that had seized upon all”. (“Inde effectum est per orientales provincias, ut a dominis metu similium exurerentur libraria omnia: tantus universos invaserat terror”). For instance, Porphyry accused those “impious and atheistic [people] who have abandoned ancestral customs” (Eus., p.e. 1.2,2) in favour of the oracles and writings of the Hebrews. Eusebius tried to argue that all the ideas of the Greek philosophers could be traced back to Hebrew wisdom (p.e. 15.62,16–18). And Julian reproached “the impostor

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These theoretical disagreements had serious practical implications. For instance, Julian’s educational legislation introduced a moral inspection of the teachers of grammar and rhetoric, who worked at the public schools established by the city councils.45 The law demanded that “everyone who wishes to practice the teaching profession should not suddenly and arbitrarily rush into this task, but that he should, (once) endorsed by the decision of the city council, obtain a corresponding resolution of the council members, with the approval of the best (citizens)”.46 In an explanatory Epistle 61c Julian specified that candidates who were not keen on pagan religion should be considered impious and unqualified for the job.47 The edict was followed by the dismissals of Christian teachers and a sharp Christian reaction to this reform.48 It is noteworthy that in his edict Julian cemented an intrinsic connection between the realm of religion and ritual, and the sphere of education. Revolving around the study of the sacred texts, these two domains constituted a matter of no small socio-political significance. The schoolroom was not only a place of dissemination of knowledge and books, it was also a place where texts were published and networks of like-minded people with similar literary tastes were established. The correspondence of Iamblichus and Libanius attests to the fact that most of their addressees were their students, readers and/or patrons. While the scholarly environment propelled reading and writing activity and shaped the genres of scholastic literature, the elite networks of the authors’ students, colleagues and patrons established the dissemination circuits. Although Christian authors were brought up in the same educational environment, their religious loyalties and literary preferences lay elsewhere

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Eusebius” for his false claims that the Hebrews have poems in hexameter and the science of logic (Jul., CG fr. 53.222a; Eus., p.e. 11.5,5). Cf. R. Cribiore, Libanius the Sophist: Rhetoric, Reality, and Religion in the Fourth Century, New York 2013, 219–237. Cf. CTh 13.3,5 (transl. by Cribiore, 2013, 219). Cf. Jul., Ep. 61c: “The gods were guides of all learning for Homer and Hesiod and Demosthenes and Herodotus and Thucydides and Isocrates and Lysias  … I think it is absurd that men who expound the works of these writers should dishonour the gods who were honoured by them … But I do not assert that they ought to change their opinion in order to instruct the young. I give them a choice, either not to teach what they do not think is excellent or if they wish to teach, first they must persuade their pupils that neither Homer nor Hesiod … are guilty of impiety, folly, and error in regard to the gods … Any youth who wishes to go to school is not excluded, for it would not be fair to shut out from the best path boys who are still too ignorant to know which way to turn”. (transl. by Cribiore, 2013, 219). Cf. A.  Usacheva, Agonistic Mimêsis and Genre Bending in Gregory Nazianzen’s Orations against the Emperor Julian, in: BBGG 17 (2020), 167–195.

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than those of their pagan peers. Eager to protect themselves from suspicions of magic, or accusations of stealing and misinterpreting Hellenic heritage, Christian authors generated a sui generis replacement culture, where specific Hellenic educational reading and dissemination practices were emulated in new religious settings.49 These included the Christian monastic environments that emerged in Egyptian deserts and spread to the further East and West. In his contribution to this volume Antti Lampinen explored fascinating examples of the stereotypisation of various ethnic groups as opposed to the image of “true Hellen”. Following these identity-building patterns Christian authors at the same time challenged and mimicked the established image of “Panhellenion”.50 4

Reading Practices in Christian Monastic Communities

4.1 Transition from the East to the West With respect to the general topic of motion, it appears particularly interesting to explore the transmission of the reading monastic practices from the Greek East to the Latin West. As Greg Wolf has justly remarked in the first chapter of this volume, although general proportion of the mixed group of travellers that included pilgrims, monks, students, and teachers was comparatively insignificant, the social impact of their mobility was significant because they established cultural and educational bridges between Greek and Latin parts of the Empire.51 One of the figures who connected Eastern and Western monastic traditions was Evagrius Ponticus. Importantly, Evagrius’ indebtedness to Hellenic philosophical and rhetorical schools, whose didactic practices he emulated in his ascetic teaching, have been demonstrated in recent scholarship.52 A student of Macarius of Egypt and Gregory Nazianzen, Evagrius received an ordination at the monastery of Melania the Elder and Rufinus. Even after his relocation to a monastery in Lower Egypt, Evagrius maintained correspondence with Rufinus, 49 50 51 52

About Christian replacement culture cf. Usacheva, 2020, 167–195. See also S. Elm, Sons of Hellenism: Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome, London 2012, 250–280. Cf. A. J.  Lampinen, Condemning Mobility: Nativist and Exclusionist Rhetoric in the Second-Century “Sophistic” Discourse on Human Movement, in this volume, 45–70. Cf. Greg Woolf, The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System, in this volume, 1–16. Cf. E.  Muehlberger, Affecting Rhetoric: The Adoption of Ethopoeia in Evagrius of Pontus’ Ascetic Program, in: L.I. Larsen / S. Rubenson (eds.), Monastic Education in Late Antiquity: The Transformation of Classical Paideia, Cambridge 2018, 182–194. See also A. Guillaumont, Un philosophe au désert, Évagre le Pontique, Paris 2004.

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Melania and the monks of their community. Gabriel Bunge identified six letters Evagrius wrote to Melania and Rufinus and nine letters in which he probably addressed them.53 It has been also argued that Evagrius wrote his treatises Exhortation to a Virgin, To Monks in Monasteries and Communities and Chapters on Prayer specifically for Melania’s and Rufinus’ communities. We have evidence that Melania and Rufinus encouraged pilgrimages to Evagrius and, in all likelihood, the anonymous Historia Monachorum that Rufinus translated into Latin emerged from one such journey. Moreover, Andrew Cain declared that “Prior to his departure for Italy in 397, Rufinus had transformed his monastery in Jerusalem into a hub for disseminating Evagrius’ writings at home and abroad, and he employed his monks, who occupied themselves in their cells with copying texts, as the front-line workers in this cottage industry”.54 The magnitude of the dissemination of Evagrius’ teaching was attested by Jerome, who in so doing apparently referred to Rufinus, although the latter was not the only Latin publicist of Evagrian doctrines.55 John Cassian and Palladius of Galatia also contributed to the spread of Egyptian and specifically Evagrian ascetic ideas and practices.56 In the Great Letter (ep. 64) “to Melania” Evagrius argued for the spiritual value of literacy. In addition to the straightforward didactic effect of the skill of reading, Evagrius pointed out the symbolic facet of written characters. Not only did he compare them to the symbols of reality and oracles of God in so far as “visible and corporeal creation depicts the letters of intelligible and incorporeal creation”, he also associated the Logos and the Spirit with “the letters of the Father”.57 Thus, in tune with the philosophical principle of likeness, which like the cosmic hologram embraces and structures the whole universe, Evagrius added a divinising power to the process of reading because, through the medium of written characters, the reader could be brought near their creator and eventually to the Creator. The pillars of this concept constitute a Christian analogy to the principle of likeness – a biblical notion of human 53 54 55 56 57

Cf. G. Bunge (ed.), Evagrios Pontikos: Briefe aus der Wüste, Weisungen der Väter 18, Beuron 2013, 176–207. Cf. Rufinus of Aquileia, Inquiry about the Monks in Egypt, transl. by A. Cain, Washington 2019, 53. Hier, ep. 133.3,5–7: “Huius libros per orientem Graecos et interpretante discipulo eius Rufino Latinos plerique in occidente lectitant”. (CSEL 56, 246 Hilberg). Cf. S.D. Driver, John Cassian and the Reading of Egyptian Monastic Culture, London 2002, 15–17; 30–45. Cf. M. Parmentier, Evagrius of Pontus’ Letter to Melania, in: Bijdragen 46 (1985), 2–38. – On Evagrius’ ascetic instructions concerning prayer and their connection with magic see D. Brakke, Evagrius of Pontus, Talking back: A Monastic Handbook for Combating Demons, CistSS 229, Minnesota 2009, 25–78.

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creation in the image of God and a concept of divine wisdom (logos) that sustain the entire creation and establish direct access to God.58 It is easy to grasp a surface semblance of these ideas to the Neoplatonic concepts of the universal likeness, immanent/transcendent divine love/power and the symbols/oracles/divine names that interlink creation with its Creator and enable human divination. Spiritual and intellectual immersion in the sacred texts set out the routine of Neoplatonic philosophers and Christian ascetics. Both environments emphasised the methods of reading and, above all, training an ability to maintain one’s focus of attention on the text, to visualise, emotionally experience and imitate it. Reading in its various forms of active individual reading or passive listening was the sine qua non of the monastic life. The Rule of Pachomius requested an illiterate novice to “go at the first, third, and sixth hours to someone who can teach and has been appointed for him. He shall stand before him and learn very studiously with all gratitude. Then the fundamentals of a syllable, the verbs, and nouns shall be written for him, and even if he does not want to, he shall be compelled to read” (RP 139).59 Moreover, the Rule went as far as to stipulate that “There shall be no one whatever in the monastery who does not learn to read and does not memorise something of the Scriptures. [One should memorise] at least the New Testament and the Psalter” (RP 140).60 John Cassian affirmed that haphazard reading that disregarded the suggested monastic curriculum procured little or no benefit to the reader, rendering him “only a toucher or taster of spiritual meanings, not an author and possessor of them” (Conf. 10.13).61 In the third book of his Institutes of Coenobia, which is fully devoted to the canonical system of the daily prayers and psalms, John Cassian wrote a chapter on “How among the Egyptians they apply themselves 58

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Similar ideas could be found in the Seven Great Letters of Anthony, who emphasised an inherent unity of the whole cosmos that is “created of the same invisible substance” as God (ep. 6), and therefore “he who knows himself, knows God” (ep. 4). Most importantly, Antonius linked these notions to what seems to be his version of a Platonic doctrine of essential provenance of language that goes back to Cratylus. Antonius claimed that divine/universal unity was reflected in some kind of true names that God set upon his creation (ep. 5), to the result that “If a man knows his true name, he will see also the name of truth” (ep. 3). Cf. S. Rubenson, The Letters of St. Antony, Minneapolis 1990, 51–54. Cf. A.  Veilleux, Pachomian Koinonia, Pachomian Chronicles and Rules  2, CistSS  46, Kalamazoo,1981, 166. Veilleux, 1981, 166. Cf.: “palpator tantummodo spiritalium sensum ac degustator, non generator nec possessor effectus”. Latin text: D.E. Pichery (ed.), Jean Cassien: Conférences VIII–XVII, SC 54, Paris 1958, 94; English translation by C. Luibheid, in: J. Farina (ed.), John Cassian: Conferences, New York 1985, 139.

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all day long to prayer and Psalm continually, with the addition of work, without distinction of hours”.62 The amount of repetitive reading and prayer shows that the function of monastic reading was not only didactic but also spiritual and ritual. For instance, in the second book of his Institutes, Cassian emphasised the quality of reading over its quantity,63 while in the Conferences he marked out spiritual reading as a quintessence of monastic life.64 Cassian saw the reward of “frequent reading and continual meditation on the Scriptures” in the discovery of a capacity for spiritual interpretation of divine oracles.65 To meet this goal, Cassian stipulated that “the whole series of the Holy Scriptures should be diligently committed to memory and ceaselessly repeated”.66 He specified that “this continual meditation brings a twofold fruit: first, that while the attention of the mind is taken up in reading and preparing the lessons it cannot possibly be taken captive in any snares of bad thoughts” and secondly, “those things which were conned over and frequently repeated and which while we were trying to commit them to memory we could not understand as the mind was at that time taken up, we can afterward see more clearly, when we are free from the distraction of all acts and visions, and especially when we reflect on them in silence in our meditation by night”.67

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Cf. Cass., Inst.  2.2: “Quod apud Aegyptios sine horarum discretione per totum diem cum operis adiectione et oraationibus iugiter insistatur et psalmis”. Latin text: J.-C.  Guy, Jean Cassien: Intitutions Cénobitiques, SC 109, Paris 1965, 90. English translation by C.S. Gibson, NPNF 2/11, New York 1894, see: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/3507.htm. In Inst. 2.5, Cassian related how, in the monasteries of Egypt, the number of the Psalms to be read at worship was limited to twelve. He maintained that when “the great mass of the brethren” proved unable to agree on a proper number of the Psalms because each of them tried “to fix an enormous number”, they received guidance from an angel. (see also Inst. 2.4 and 2.6). In Conf. 10.8, John Cassian compared the system of alphabet and the skill of reading to the system and discipline of spiritual contemplation. Cf. Cass., Conf. 1.17: “… frequens lectio et iugis adhibetur meditatio scripturarum …” (Latin text: E.  Pichery [ed.], Jean Cassien, Conférences  I–VII, SC  42, Paris 1955, 98). See also Conf. 1.17; 14.9; 14.10. Cf. Cass., Conf.  14.10: “Quamobrem diligenter memoriae conmendada est et incessabiliter recensenda sacrarum series scripturarum” (Latin text: E.  Pichery (ed.), Jean Cassien, Conférences 2 (VII–XVII), SC 54, Paris 1958, 196). Cf. Cass. Conf. 14.10: “Haec etenim meditationis iugitas duplicem nobis conferet fructum: primum quod, dum in legendis ac parandis lectionibus occupatur mentis intentio, necesse est ut nullis noxiarum cogitationum laqueis captiuetur: deinde quod ea, quae creberrima repetitione percursa, dum memoriae tradere laboramus, intellegere id temporis obligata mente non quiuimus, postea ab omnium actuum ac uisionum inlecebris absoluti praecipueque nocturna medititatione taciti reuoluentes clarius intuemur …” (SC 54, 196 Pichery).

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Jerome expressed similar views about the benefits of memorisation. In the first volume of his Homilies on the Psalms addressed mainly to his monastic community in Bethlehem, he explicated this practice: “We read the Scriptures; we commit the psalms to memory; we master the Gospels; we expound the prophets; but we must not do this so as to win praise and glory in the presence of our brothers, but to please Christ, that His word may resound from our lips. Men and monks, and even women, often vie with one another in committing Holy Writ to memory, and the more they learn by heart the better they think they are. He who truly has learned more is the one who does more; besides, what you are committing to memory, I am putting into practice. My works preserve the sacred writings more truly than your discourse that rings hollow”.68 Publishing Environment of Hieronymian Monastic Community in Bethlehem The first volume of the aforementioned Homilies on the Psalms (1–59) comprises extempore lectures for a mixed audience of Bethlehem community that included monks and catechumens of Latin and Eastern origin.69 Simplicity of style as well as direct and informal address distinguish these sermons from the typically polished and sophisticated compositions of Jerome. Snapshots of daily exegetical teaching, recorded by the stenographs,70 these sermons resonate with the publishing environment of the contemporary Neoplatonic school, where lecture-notes were taken by the students. Oral presentations of Hieronymian impromptu exegetical lectures recorded by stenographers constituted the fact of their official publication.

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Hom. 46. Cf. Hier., Hom. de Ps. CXXXIII: “Scripturas legimus, psalmos ediscimus, euangelia tenemus, prophetas edisserimus: non debemus hoc ita facere, ut gloriemur apud fratres, sed ut Xpisto placeamus, ut sermo ipsius in ore nostro resonet. Solent et uiri, solent et monachi, solent et mulierculae hoc inter se habere certamen, ut plus ediscant scripturas; et in eo se putant esse meliores, si plus edidicerint. Ille plus edidicit, qui plus facit: ceterum quod tu ediscis, ego facio: magis mea opera scripturas retinet, quam tuus sermo qui uane resonat”. (CChr. SL 78, 289 Morin); English translation by M.L. Ewald, The Homilies of Saint Jerome 1–59: Homilies on the Psalms, FaCh 48, Washington 1964, 348. Cf. Hier, Hom. 3 de Ps VII: “In septimo vero, quia et ipse sub alleluia cantatus est, quia in illa alia dominica die lectus est sextus psalmus, et nos pro aegrotatione interpretari non potuimus: nunc autem lectus est septimus psamlus.” (CChr.SL 78, 19 Morin); English translation by Ewald, 1964, 25: “Last Sunday, we read the sixth psalm, but because of my illness, we could not interpret it; today, however, we have read the seventh, which, likewise, is sung after the Alleluia”. Cf. Hier., Apol. adv. libr. Ruf., 2.24 (PL 23, 468).

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In the preface to his translation of Origen’s Two Homilies on the Song of Songs, performed for pope Damasus, Jerome testified that such impromptu lectures for general audiences were a typical form of literary composition. Indeed, he professed that Origen’s Homilies was an example of this kind of literary production.71 The question remains whether these lectures were a literary fiction or a real-life performance before an audience, transcribed by stenographers. In the epilogue to his translation of Origen’s Commentary on the Epistle to Romans, Rufinus attested to Origen’s giving impromptu hortatory lectures in the church, recorded by stenographers.72 It is noteworthy that Origen’s student Didymus the Blind also gave extempore exegetical lectures on the Psalms and Ecclesiastes, and the questions of his students were recorded in the text of these lectures, normally at the end of a section.73 These examples resemble the educational setting of the philosophical schools along with their specific publishing environment. The question of whether the lectures of Origen and Didymus held the status of authorial publications is more complicated and requires specific exploration, but it is safe to say that Origen’s homilies clearly had an acknowledged status of extempore issues, which invited literary polishing.

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Cf. Hier., Interpretatio Homiliarum Duarum Origenis in Canticum Canticorum, praef.: “… hos duos tractatos, quos in morem quotidiani eloquii parvulis adhuc lactentibus composuit, fideliter magis quam ornate interpretatus sum, gustum tibi sensum ejus, non cibum offerens”. (PL 23, 1173–1174). English translation by W.H. Fremantle, Preface to the Translation of Origen’s Two Homilies on the Song of Songs, NPNF 2/6, New York 1893, see: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/3002.htm.: “… and I have translated these two short treatises, which he composed in the form of daily lectures for those who were still like babes and sucklings, and I have studied faithfulness rather than elegance”. Cf. Ruf., Epilogus in explanationem Origenis super Epistulam Pauli ad Romanos  7–9: “immo potius labor, dum supplere cupimus ea quae ab Origene in auditorio ecclesiae ex tempore, non tam explanationis quam aedificationis intentione perorate sunt”. Latin text: CChr. SL 20, 276 Simonetti. English translation by W.H. Fremantle, NPNF 2/3, New York 1892, see: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/2712.htm. Cf. B. Stefaniw, The School of Didymus the Blind in Light of the Tura Find, in: L.I. Larsen / S. Rubenson (eds.), Monastic Education in Late Antiquity: The Transformation of Classical Paideia, Cambridge 2018, 159, no. 20. Stefaniw specified “that the questions included in the commentaries on the Psalms and Ecclesiastes are authentic questions from actual students and not formulaic queries inserted by the author to move a systematic treatise forward. The student questions frequently reflect the inelegance of real classrooms, whether ordinary misunderstandings or inattention or efforts to recover from a digression”.

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Turning back to Hieronymian homilies on the Psalms, it should be noted that Jerome’s authorship is not beyond doubt. Peri74 and Rondeau75 argued that these homilies are based on Origen’s Commentaries on the Psalms, while Jay76 emphasised Jerome’s original contribution to this work. It is not unlikely that the answer to this question is a compromise between translation and original composition. In a preface to his translation of Eusebius’ Chronicle, Jerome explicitly acknowledged this twofold nature of his work.77 Be this as it may, it is relevant to the current discussion that the fluid character of Origen’s exegetic homilies, generated in the educational setting, arguably motivated Jerome to transmit his ideas in his own homilies. Even more interesting is that the Hieronymian exegesis of the Psalms was issued in two different sets: homilies 1–59, which had an unfinished and fluid character, and homilies 60–74,78 whose style, length, and phraseology betray a polished, written, literary production. Apparently, this second collection was intended for textual publication and reading rather than for oral delivery and transcription through stenographers. In these sermons, Jerome gave elaborate deliberations and extended citations, used many Greek expressions and often addressed his reader in a

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Cf. V.  Peri, Omelie origeniane sui Salmi: Contributo all’identificazione del testo latino, StT 289, Rome 1980. Cf. M.-J. Rondeau, Les travaux des Pères grecs et latins sur le Psautier: Recherches et bilan, OrChrAn 219, Rome 1982, 158–161. Cf. P. Jay, Jérôme à Bethléem: Les tractatus in psalmos, in: Y.-M. Duval (ed.), Jérôme entre l’Occident et l’Orient, Paris 1988, 367–380. Notably, prior to composing the homilies on the Psalms, Jerome authored notes on select passages in the Psalms based on the exegetical notes of Origen (cf. S. Risse [ed.], Hieronymus, Commentarioli in Psalmos: Anmerkungen zum Psalter, FC 79, Turnhout 2005, 29–30; M. Graves, Jerome: Epistle 106 [On the Psalms], Atlanta 2022, 30–31). Cf. Hier., Chron., praef. 3: “Sciendum etenim est, me et interpretis et scriptoris ex parte officio usum, quia et Graeca fidelissime expressi, et nonnulla quae mihi intermissa videbantur, adjeci in Romana maxime historia, quam Eusebius, huius conditor libri, non tam ignorasse, ut erudit[issim]us, sed ut Graece scribens, parum suis necessariam perstrinxisse, mihi videtur”. Latin text: R.  Helm (ed.), Die Chronik des Hieronymus, GCS  47 = Eusebius Werke, Berlin 1956). English translation by W.H.  Fremantle, NPNF  6, New York 1893: Jerome, Preface to the Chronicle of Eusebius 3, see: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/3002.htm: “The truth is that I have partly discharged the office of a translator and partly that of a writer. I have with the utmost fidelity rendered the Greek portion, and at the same time have added certain things which appeared to me to have been allowed to slip, particularly in the Roman history, which Eusebius, the author of this book, as it seems to me, only glanced at; not so much because of ignorance, for he was a learned man, as because, writing in Greek, he thought them of slight importance to his countrymen”. Cf. Latin text by G. Morin, CChr.SL 78, Turnhout 1958; English translation by M.L. Ewald, The Homilies of Saint Jerome: 60–96, FaCh 57, Washington 1966.

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written-style manner.79 Compared to the audience of the first collection, the reader of the second collection appears to be an advanced student of biblical exegesis, with whom Jerome conversed on an equal professional level, with frequent references to variant biblical readings, Greek translations of Aquila and Symmachus, and Hebrew texts.80 The internal evidence of the first collection suggests that Jerome gave regular extempore lectures.81 Hence, it seems that the collection of fifty-nine sermons is but a small portion of his lectures recorded through stenographers. Naturally, most of his extant corpus consists of polished literary works, often addressed to a connoisseur. Production of a finished literary work still involved a secretary, but unlike giving a lecture, dictation to a secretary could not be identified as an act of publishing; rather, this was a pre-publication task, often followed by authorial revision. The fact of publishing should rather be associated with official presentation of the finished composition to a friend, a colleague, or a group of readers. The educational setting of the philosophical schools implied that exegetical lectures were recorded by the studentsstenographers and disseminated among colleagues. Arguably, the setting of the monastic community in Bethlehem also had an educational atmosphere and Jerome’s lectures on the Psalms were transcribed by the stenographers, like the lectures of Origen and Didymus. In addition to these oral publications, Jerome also produced polished literary homilies on the Psalms, which were not intended for oral delivery. A preface to Jerome’s translation of the Chronicle of Eusebius of Caesarea distinguishes between a lecture in an educational setting, transcribed by a stenographer, and a scholarly work dictated to a stenographer in a private setting. Jerome conveyed that he dictated this work “with great rapidity” to his secretary.82 He addressed this composition to his friends Vincentius and 79

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Hier., Hom. 61 de Ps. XV: “Sed et illud forsitan curiosus lector obiciat”; “Simulque consideret, quod non dicatur” (CChr.SL 78, 379–380 Morin). English translation by Ewald, 1966, 30–31: “Perhaps now the inquiring reader will raise this objection  …”; “At the same time, the reader should examine carefully that it does not say …”. Consider Jessica van ‘t Westeinde’s captivating contribution to this volume, where she gives an accurate account of Jerome’s pedagogical connections (cf. Miles Make the Mind: Jerome on Travel, Learning, and Knowledge Exchange, 180–210). Cf. R.E. Heine, Reading the Old Testament with the Ancient Church: Exploring the Formation of Early Christian Thought, Michigan 2007, 164. Heine refers to the fragments of the homilies, where Jerome described the setting of his lectures, which took place in the course of the ritual monastic readings of the psalms. Cf. Hier., Chron., praef. – Latin text: R. Helm (ed.), 1956. The electronic Patrologia Latina Database text corrected against the edition of J.  K.  Fotheringham, see: http://www. tertullian.org/fathers/jerome_chronicle_04_latin_prefaces.htm; English translation by

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Gallienus, to whom he explained specific professional difficulties that he faced while working on the translation. The friends and correspondents of Jerome, Vincentius and Gallienus belonged to a circle of Christian literati, among whom Hieronymian writings were disseminated. Shaped by a quasieducational setting, the oral extempore and written/dictated literary types of Hieronymian publications and the two types of audience (basic-level, mixed groups of listeners and advanced readers) indicated the poles of Jerome’s literary production. The educational network and publishing practices of Jerome were not very different from those of other specialists, who were keen on preserving professional ties and spreading their knowledge, even when these specialists lived several centuries before Jerome and wrote in Greek. Thus, Galen remarked about some of his works that they were written at the request of his friends and colleagues in the genre of notes (ὑπομνήματα). The medical profession at Galen’s level of success involved a great deal of travelling, public lecturing, and networking. Galen’s friends and colleagues often asked him to write notes or aide-memoires that could help them to remember his presentations and that they could study in his absence.83 In a similar manner, Jerome in his preface to the Commentary on Ecclesiastes, addressed to Paula and Eustochium, stated that the motif for this composition was inspired by his former student Blesilla. During his sojourn in Rome, Jerome read and explained the Book of Ecclesiastes to her. When he was forced to fly from Rome Blesilla asked him, in his own words: “to throw my remarks upon all the more obscure passages into the form of a short commentary, so that, when I was absent, she might still understand what she read”.84 Unlike an extempore lecture recorded by stenographers, this type of composition resembles the preparatory notes of the lecturer, published through private correspondence with the students. Curiously, Jerome yielded to Blesilla’s request only after her death, hence his commentary was addressed to his other Roman students, Paula and

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W.H.  Fremantle, NPNF  2/6, New York 1893, see: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/ 3002.htm. Cf. Gal., In Hipp. Epid. III Com. 17a.576k: “I have not written a single book except by request of one or another of my friends or companions (τινας ἢ φίλους ἢ ἑταίρους), particularly when they are setting out on a long journey and think that it would be helpful to have a reminder/commentary (ὑπόμνημα) on the things I’ve said and demonstrated”. For details about Galen’s publishing strategies see W.A. Johnson, Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire: A Study of Elite Communities, Oxford 2010, 86. Cf. Hier., Comm. in Eccl., praef.: “rogatum ab ea, ut in morem Commentarioli obscura quaeque dissererem, ut absque me posset intelligere quae legebat”. Latin text by M.  Adriaen: CChr.SL 72, Turnhout 1959, 249–361. English translation by Fremantle, 1893, 487.

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Eustochium. Nevertheless, this rotation of addressees did not alter the educational motif of his composition. A pedagogical description of the commentary provided by Jerome testified to the advanced philological skill of his readers and Jerome’s familiarity with their tastes and expectations: “I have occasionally referred also to the versions of Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodotion, but so as not to alarm the zealous student by too many novelties, nor yet to let my commentary follow the side streams of opinion, turning aside, against my conscientious conviction, from the fountainhead of truth”.85 The evidence presented above suggests that the educational motif of Jerome’s literary activity was echoed in the scholastic setting of Bethlehem’s community, the genres of Hieronymian compositions and the methods of their publication and dissemination. However, the pedagogical zeal of Jerome’s work was coupled with ritual and religious aspirations. For instance, in Homily 5, devoted to Psalm 14 (15) and delivered during Lent, Jerome noted that an explanation of Psalm 14 should be given precisely during this period of religious liturgical year because this sacred text is especially useful to catechumens.86 Preparation for the baptisms that normally took place during Easter festivities constituted a regular part of Lent. This testimony demonstrates that exegetic lectures on the biblical texts that constituted regular monastic readings were an essential element of the monastic paideia. Another facet of the ritual monastic reading consisted in the symbolical role of the Scripture, the value of its spiritual interpretation and the specific altered states of consciousness that were associated with Christian divination. In tune with John Cassian, Jerome also spoke about the significance of these factors for his literary activity. Thus, Jerome affirmed that literal reading of the Bible was of no use for the reader because it produced no transformative effect 85 86

“Interdum Aquilae quoque, et Symmachi, et Theodotionis recordatus sum, ut nec novitate nimia lectoris studium deterrerem, nec rursum contra conscientiam meam, lonte Veritatis omisso, opinionum rivulos consectaretur”. (CChr.SL 72, 249–361 Adriaen). Hier., Hom. 5 de Ps. XIIII, 1–6: “In quadragesima ad eos qui ad baptisma accedunt. Oportune quartodecimus psalmus lectus est; et secundum ordinem ita euenit, ut propemodum de industria lectus esse uideatur. Secundum ordinem lectus est psalmus: ex dispensatione Dei puto factum esse, ut quod uobis proderat, in ordine exponendi hodie recitaretur”. (CChr.SL 78, 30 Morin). English translation by Ewald, 1964, 38: “To those preparing for baptism: most opportunely do we read the fourteenth psalm; so place in the proper course of the liturgy seems to fall there almost by plan. The psalm, moreover, in its regular sequence. This has happened, the dispensation of God, so that what would be profit to you might be read aloud today in the process of exegesis”.

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on his/her personality, while spiritual reading and the ability to grasp spiritual meaning could completely transfigure the reader and bring him/her closer to God. Jerome repeatedly highlighted this religious motivation in his homilies and used it as an exhortation to study the Bible under his tutelage.87 4.3 Publishing Environment of the Community on the Mount of Olives The community of Rufinus and Melania the Elder was another monastic centre with an ostensive scholastic profile of monastic occupation. Thus, in the preface to his translation of the Books of Recognitions of St. Clement, addressed to Bishop Gaudentius, Rufinus professed the educational motivation of his work. He related how he collected Clement’s manuscripts from the Greek libraries with the intention to educate Latin readers.88 This didactic mission resonated in Rufinus’ literary projects, in his method for translating the texts, transmitting the ideas, and disseminating his works. The educational setting of Rufinus’ literary activity motivated him to adjust his translations to his pedagogical purposes. Like Jerome, who combined the roles of translator and writer, Rufinus did not feel bound by the original text but rearranged it and added to it to make it more informative and accessible to his readers. In other words, he treated most of his compositions as lectures, intended for audiences at various levels, and devoted to various topics, but nevertheless as lectures. For instance, in his translation of Origen’s Commentary on Psalms 36, 37, and 38, he restructured material for the convenience of his readers “having first arranged it in nine of the short sermons”, he then “incorporated it into one whole; and thus this discourse which in all its parts aims at the correction and the advancement of the moral life, is collected into a single

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In Hom. 57, Jerome compared the Gospel to the body of Christ; in homilies 1 and 11, he claimed that unlike Jews, who grasped only the literal meaning of the Scripture, Christians who had spiritual insight gathered the fruit of the sacred writings; in Hom. 17 and 80, Jerome spoke about the spiritual transfiguration of the reader who did not only discover the meaning of divine oracles but also experienced spiritual union with Christ. Cf. Ruf., Prol. in Clementis Recogn. 9–13: “… tamen aliquando restituimus, praedamque, ut opinor, non paruam Gaecorum bibliothecis direptam nostrorum usibus et utilitatibus conuectamus, ut quos propriis non possumus, peregrina, interdum uero et utiliora”. (Rufinus, The Preface to the Books of Recognitions of St. Clement addressed to Bishop Gaudentius: “It is a part of the booty, and in my opinion no small one, which I have carried off from the libraries of the Greeks, and which I am collecting for the use and advantage of our countrymen. I have no food of my own to bring them, and I must import their nourishment from abroad”.) Latin text by M. Simonetti: CChr.SL 20, 281. English translation by Fremantle, 1893, see: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/2712.htm.

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volume”.89 The rationale of this structure was to “put the reader without effort in possession of the meaning of the author … with clearness of thought and in simple words; and thus the voice of prophecy may reach not men alone but also god-fearing women”.90 It is noteworthy that this simple homiletic style of lectures on the Psalms, written by Origen and translated in the same style by Rufinus, reminds us of Jerome’s Homilies on the Psalms. Hence, we detect a link between certain biblical text (psalms), the genre of their interpretation (unsophisticated homily), and heir pedagogical value (ethical instruction). As we noticed in the case of Jerome’s Homilies on the Psalms, this chain could also include a specific method of publication: oral delivery and transcription. A proof for this hypothetical connection between homiletic genre and its default mode of publication could be found in the epilogue by Rufinus appended to his translation of Origen’s Commentary on the Epistle to the Romans, addressed to Heraclius at Aquileia. Rufinus conveyed that Origen’s Commentary had the form of extempore lectures in the church aimed at “edification rather than the exposition of the text”.91 While Origen to all appearances delivered his commentary in oral form, Rufinus obviously dictated his translation to a scribe. He admitted that he preserved Origen’s hortatory manner of speech in his translations of the Homilies, short lectures on Genesis and Exodus and on the book of Leviticus. The same applies to Rufinus’ translation of Origen’s homiletic commentaries on the book of Jesus Nave, the book of Judges and on Psalms 36, 37 and 38, where he maintained the original genre.92 However, in his translation of Origen’s Commentary on the Epistle to Romans, Rufinus used the form of an exposition. His rationale for a deliberate change of genre consisted in supplying information Origen omitted due to his homiletic manner of speech. Rufinus remarked that this was a typical feature of Origen’s colloquial style – while his text inspired many questions, he frequently left 89

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Cf. Ruf., Prol. in explanationem Origenis super Psalmos XXXVI, XXXVII, XXXVIII, 5–9: “in nouem oratiunculis, quas Graeci omelias uocant, uelut in uno corpore digestam in Latinum transtuli, ut intra unum codicem conlectam haberes dictionem, quae ad emendationem uel profectionem morum tota respiceret”. (CChr.SL 20, 251 Simonetti). Ibid.: “Hoc sane beneficia praestabit haec lectio, quod absque labore lectoris intellegentia eius in propatulo habeatur, quo scilicet uitae simplicitas sensu lucido et simplici sermone doceatur, ex quo prophetia peruenire non solum ad uiros, uerum etiam ad religiosas feminas possit et excolere simplices mentes”. Ruf., Epil. in expl. Origenis super Epistulam Pauli ad Romanos 9: “non tam explanationis, quam oedificationis”. (CChr.SL 20, 276 Simonetti). English transl. by W.H. Fremantle, 1893, see: https://www.newadvent.org/fathers/2712.htm. Ruf., Epil. in expl. Origenis super Epistulam Pauli ad Romanos 15–20.

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them unsolved.93 In case of the Epistle to Romans, Rufinus decided to correct this feature because he believed it could have proved “distasteful to the Latin reader”.94 A more elaborate form of commentary addressed to a more advanced and demanding reader once again reminds us of the two types of Jerome’s homilies, also intended for different levels of audience. Rufinus related that the task of supplying what Origen had omitted proved to be an immense labour for him, and full of complexity. Presumably, this remark explains why Rufinus did not embark on correcting all the homiletic texts of Origen that he translated. Another reason had to do with the reception of Rufinus’ supplemented translations. Apparently, advanced readers who could ascertain the magnitude of Rufinus’ additions believed it to be confusing to ascribe the corrected text to the original author.95 Although Rufinus tried to talk down this critique by referring to his conscience, which forbade him to take credit for the work of others, it is not unlikely that he was also concerned about his reputation. Should he ascribe Origen’s compositions, even in their supplemented form, to himself, his reputation was no less at risk than when he asserted authorship. Besides, given the controversial character of Origen’s text, preserving his name insulated Rufinus from condemnations of heresy, even if it did not prevent accusations and hostile rumours.96 Professional networks and friendship ties were crucial to inspiring certain of Rufinus’ literary projects and to their subsequent dissemination. From 93

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Ruf., Epil. in expl. Origenis super Epistulam Pauli ad Romanos 7–16: “immo potius labor, dum supplere cupimus ea quae ab Origene in auditorio ecclesiae ex tempore, non tam explanationis quam aedificationis intentione perorate sunt: sicut in omeliis siue in oratiunculis in Genesim et in Exodum fecimus, et praecipue in his quae in librum Leuitici ab illo quidem perorandi stilo dicta, a nobis uero explananda specie translate sunt. Quem laborem adinplendi quae deerant, idcirco suscepimus, ne pulsatae quaestiones et relictae, quod in omelitico dicendi genere ab illo saepe fieri solet, Latino lectori fesidium generarent”. (CChr. SL 20, 276 Simonetti). Ruf., Epil. in expl. Origenis super Epistulam Pauli ad Romanos 16. Ruf., Epil. in expl. Origenis super Epistulam Pauli ad Romanos epil.: “In his quae scribis, quoniam plurima in eis tui operis habentur, da titulum nominis tui, et scribe: Rufini, verbi gratia, in Epistolam ad Romanos Explanationum libri, sicut et apud auctores inquiunt, sae­ culores non illius qui ex Graeco translates ets, sed illius qui transtulit nomen titulus tenet”. (CChr.SL  20, 276 Simonetti). English translation by Fremantle, 1893, see: https://www. catholicculture.org/culture/library/fathers/view.cfm?recnum=2895: “They say to me; When you write these things, in which are found many pieces the composition of which is due to yourself, you should place your own name in the title, and let it run thus: ‘The books of Rufinus’ commentary on (for instance) the Epistle to the Romans;’ for so, they say, in the case of profane writers, the name in the title is not that of the Greek author who is translated but of the Latin author who translates him”. Cf. C.M. Chin, Rufinus of Aquileia and Alexandrian Afterlives: Translation as Origenism, in: JECS 18 (2010), 617–647.

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Rufinus’ correspondence with Paulinus of Nola we learn that not only did he induce Rufinus to expound the Benedictions on the twelve Patriarchs but he also asked him to explain the prophecy relating to Judah, because, in the words of Paulinus: “I may myself become possessed of the truth by your means and may also gain through your help the favour and the praise which will accrue to me; for I shall thus be able to make answer to those who have thought well to consult me on the difficulties of this passage of Scripture not with foolish words drawn from my own understanding but with divine truth flowing from your inspiration”.97 Beyond natural scholarly progress, this professional support and exchange of ideas was mutually beneficial in terms of book dissemination. Paulinus clearly promoted the circulation of Rufinus’ compositions in his circles, while Rufinus used Paulinus’ authority as a quality mark for his own writings. Thus, in his reply to Paulinus’ request, Rufinus wrote: “I wrote this work in the days of Lent, while I was staying in the monastery of Pinetum, and I wrote it for you. But  I found it impossible to conceal this poor work from the brethren who were there: and they, considering that a thing which had been honoured by your approval must be of great importance, extorted from me the permission to copy it for themselves. Thus, while you demand from me food for yourself you give refreshment to others also”.98 The practice of using networks of close friends, colleagues and patrons for book dissemination sometimes took the form of literary and publishing collaboration. Thus, Ambrose, in a letter to his friend and colleague Sabinus, bishop of Placentia, asked him to edit his works and assist their further circulation.

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Ruf., Ben. 2 prol. 2: “Cujus jam principium mihi exposita circa personam Judae Prophetia, triplici ut jussum est interpretatione, conscriptis paginis, edidisti: per reliquos filios distributam digneris exponere, ut et ipse per te fiam conscius Veritatis, et magnae gratiae ac laudis auctorem habeam, si his qui de me supra me propter operis consulendum me putaverunt, divina potius et tuo spiritu, quam de meo sensu inepta respondeam”. (PL 21, 311). Ibid.: “Quia autem Quadragesimae diebus, in monasterio Pineti positus, haec rescripsi ad te, etiam Fratribus qui aderant, ineptias meas celare non potui; sed ipsi magnum putantes aliquid esse, quod tibi placer potest, extorserunt tamen, ut haec describerent sibi. Sic me et cum escas tuas poscis, etiam aliis propinas”. (PL 21, 313).

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Importantly, how Ambrose set out his request creates the impression that it was a regular procedure: “You have sent me back my volumes, and I shall hold them in greater esteem owing to your judgment. I have therefore sent you others … I have not so much desired that what I publish from time to time should be read by you, as that they [Ambrose’ works] should be submitted to the account which your judgment shall take of them”.99 Ambrose provided details about the editing process. He related that his book was “in a condition, which cannot be defended without a champion”, therefore he asked Sabinus to “affix a mark on words of doubtful weight and which are deceitful in the scales”.100 Ambrose underscored the importance of Sabinus’ authorisation of his composition: “A book which goes forth without a mediator has to speak for itself; my book however shall not go forth from me, unless it receive authority from you”.101 At the same time, he specified that editorial correction concerned only the stylistic aspect of his writing, because its content and orthodoxy was flawless.102 This remark, presumably, was addressed not so much to Sabinus as to the readers, who were made aware of the editorial proceedings because Ambrose conveyed his intention to attach his letter as an introduction to the book.103

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Ambr., ep. 48.1: “Remisisti mihi libellos, quos tuo judicio probatiores habebo. Ideo misi alios non judicii favore delectatus, sed promissa a te, et petita a me veritate illectus: malo enim tuo corrigatur judicio, si quid movet, priusquam foras prodeat, unde jam revocandi nulla facultas sit; quam laudari a te, quod ab aliis reprehendatur. Itaque arbitrum te eorum quae postolas rogavi; neque enim legi a te mea, quae nonumquam tribuo in vulgus, sed in tuae calculum venire sententiae desideravi”. (PL 16, 1152). English translation by J. Parker: The Letters of S. Ambrose, Bishop of Milan, Oxford 1881, see: https://www.gutenberg.org/ files/58783/58783-h/58783-h.htm#b314a. Ambr., ep. 48.3: “… male se habet liber, qui sine assertore non defenditur.”, “Notam appone ad verbum dubii ponderis, et falbeis staterae …” (PL 16, 1152). Ibid.: “Ipse igitur pro se loquutur, qui procedit sine interprete: noster hic tamen non egredie­ tur a nobis, nisi a te acceperit auctoritatem”. Ambr., ep. 48.6. Ambr., ep. 48.7: “Haec tecum prolusimus, quae nostrarum epistolarum referam, sip lacet, atque in numerum reponam; ut tuo commendentur nominee, et tuis ad nos, et nostris ad vos litteris augeatur mutuus amor per Dominum” (PL 16, 1153). English translation: “This preface then I send you, and will insert it, if you please, in the books of our letters, and place it among their number; that so it may be recommended by your name, and by our letters to each other our mutual love in the Lord, may be increased”.

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4.4 Educational Setting of the Latin Church Even if the monastic/scholarly settings of Jerome’s and Rufinus’ communities were in many ways exceptional, the evidence that we have seen in the Institutes of John Cassian and in the Rule of Pachomius amounts to a uniform conclusion about the distinct educational/ritual profile of the monastic environment that was reflected in the reading and publishing practices of this institution. Thus, demanding reading assignments for the monks was corroborated by the Latin monastic regulae. For example, the Rule of Augustine, written in 397, outlined the schedule of monastic daily routine. It requested that every waking hour of monastic life should be devoted to various types of reading, including individual and communal reading, silent prayer, psalmody, listening to the reading of scriptures, and instructions.104 In his treatise On the work of monks, Augustine playfully wondered what else but reading and prayer could occupy a monk when s/he was free from bodily work. And even “while working with his hands” he could rehearse what sacred writing was stored up in his memory because the more “he reads good things, the quicker he is in doing what he reads” (Op. Mon. 17.20).105 Naturally, these reading requirements draw attention to the question of monastic and clerical literacy. Ambrose, in his treatise On the duties of the clergy, professed that when free from their church duties clerics should busy themselves with reading “the sacred oracles of God” (De off. 1.20,88).106 Jerome also emphasised the necessity of active study (as opposed to passive listening) of the Bible because literacy and basic philological skills, in his view, were indispensable for penetrating the hidden meanings of the Scripture. He encouraged his monastic community in Bethlehem to read the Bible, to 104 Thus, morning reading included psalmody: 2 antiphons, 3 psalms and a closing prayer (Aug., Op. mon. 2–3). Then the rule prescribed work till noon followed by “leisure for reading from noon till 3 pm” (Aug., Op. mon. 3: “Operentur a mane usque ad sextam, et a sexta usque ad nonam uacent lectioni”). Next came nourishment that was accompanied by reading. Then followed a meal and work in the garden or other occupation, e.g., copying of a manuscript or similar scholarly task (ibid.). In the evening, lessons were read with everyone seated, afterward the customary psalms were said before sleep (Aug., Op. mon. 2.16–18: “omnibus sedentibus, legantur lectiones; post haec autem consuetudinarii psalmi ante somnum dicantur”). Night reading included 12 antiphons, 6 psalms, and 3 readings. (Latin text and English transl. by Lawless, G., Augustine of Hippo and his Monastic Rule, Oxford 1987, 74–75). Similar reading regulations could be found in the Rule of Basil (transl. by Rufinus 397–400) and Rule of Pachomius (transl. by Jerome 404). 105 Cf. Aug., Op. mon. 17.20: “Quis enim nesciat tanto citius quemque proficere cum bona legit, quanto citius facit quod legit?” (PL 40, 565). 106 Cf. Latin text: J.G. Krabinger (ed.), Ambrosius: De Officiis Ministrorum Libri Tres, Tübingen 1857. English translation by H. de Romestin / E. de Romestin / H.T.F. Duckworth, NPNF 2/10, New York 1896, 1–89, see: https://www.ccel.org/ccel/schaff/npnf210.iv.i.ii.i.html.

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analyse and discuss it, and day and night to “ponder over its every syllable, every letter” (Hom. 44).107 In Homily 41 on Ps CXIX, Jerome exemplified why illiterate persons should hope for little success in understanding the Scriptures, let alone biblical exegesis. He referred to Psalm 118, which “is alphabetical in form and moral in character and contains instruction for our life”.108 Hence, argued Jerome, an illiterate person could grasp neither the form nor the ethical teaching of this text.109 The explicit emphasis on specifical scholastic study of the Bible that entails meticulous reading, copying, commenting and discussing of the sacred texts is reminiscent of the exegetic classes in the Neoplatonic school. Indeed, some evidence suggests that certain monastic communities specialised in scribal occupations. An account of a typical monastic life-course, given by Jerome in Homily 41, implied that after taking up monastic vows, novices were expected to devote their life to scribal tasks: “We have given up our property, abandoned our country, renounced the world; and in the monastery, we quarrel over a reed pen!”.110 In one of his literary homilies, Jerome conveyed the educational purpose of his composition and his didactic method, which consisted in learning by imitation.111 To strengthen the scholarly flavour of the Christian environment, Ambrose, in describing his episcopal duties, brought to the fore his teaching 107 Cf. Hier., Hom. de Ps. CXXXI 6.43–46: “Legamus scripturas sanctas, et diebus et noctibus singulas syllabas et litteras uentilemus”. (CChr.SL 78, 274 Morin). 108 Hier., Hom. de Ps. CXIX  15–16: “Centesimus ergo octauus decimus psalmus alfabetites moralis est, et instruit uitam nostram.” (CChr.SL 78, 246 Morin). 109 Hier., Hom. de Ps. CXIX 11–15: “Ergo centesimus octauus decimus psalmus alfabetites est. Si uolumus legere epistulam, non possumus legere nisi prius sciamus litteras: sic igitur nos non possumus scripturam cognoscere, nisi 15 prius alfabetum nouerimus”. (CChr.SL 78, 246 Morin); English translation by Ewald, 1964, 300: “Thus, Psalm 118 is alphabetical in structure. Now, if we intend to read a letter, we cannot read it unless we know the characters in which it is written, in like manner we cannot understand the Scriptures without first knowing the alphabet”. 110 Cf. ibid.: “Dimisimus possessionem, dimisimus patriam, dimisimus saecuhim: et propter calamum rixam facimus in monasterio”. (CChr.SL 78, 259 Morin). English translation by Ewald 1964, 314. 111 Cf. Hier., De oboed. 6–9: “Nemo uadit ad magistrum, et docet magistrum suum. Venisti ad me, ut docerem te litteras: si tibi scripsero, et dixero tibi, Scribe quomodo et ego scribo, utique imitari debes quem magistrum elegisti”. (CChr.SL 78, 552 Morin). English translation by Ewald, 1966, 255: “No one goes to a teacher to instruct him; you have come to me in order that I might teach you your letters. If I should write for you and say: You write now, just as I do, surely, you would have to imitate the one whom you have chosen for your teacher. Is somebody or other a man of skill? Straightway, the pupil rushes over to the more skilful teacher”.

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responsibilities, which he compared to those of ancient Greek and Latin philosophers: “as Cicero wrote for the instruction of his son, so I, too, write to teach you, my children” (De off. 1.7,24)112. In his treatises, Ambrose developed a speculation, popular among the Christians, that the choicest ideas of Greek philosophy were of Jewish origin, and therefore Christians had an advantage over their pagan peers in teaching these philosophical doctrines. Besides, Ambrose pointed out the stylistic convenience of Christian preaching that was more accessible to a general audience than sophisticated philosophical deliberations: “those who do not read their writings may read ours if they will – if, that is, they do not require great adornment of language or a skilfully-treated subject, but are satisfied with the simple charm of the subject itself” (De off. 1.9,29)113. In a similar vein, Augustine also recalled the reception and publishing patterns of the Platonic school to support his argument for the harmony of the gospels. Interestingly, the very task of harmonisation is a typical feature of the analytical scholastic process, which we observed in the Middle- and Neoplatonic schools. Augustine pointed out the textual provenance of the disagreement about the consensus between the evangelists: instead of the authorial publication of Christ, his teaching was recorded in several accounts of his disciples. To rebut this obstacle, Augustine referred to the usual practice of philosophical schools, where students were eager to record and publish not so much their own thoughts as the ideas of their teacher.114 One of the obvious distinctions between monastic and philosophic school environments consisted in the number and social profile of the members of these institutions. Jerome noted this distinction in his Homily 18: “Plato wrote books, but he did not write for all people but only for a few, for there are not many more than two or three men who know him. But the princes of the Church and the princes of Christ did not write only for the few, but for everyone without exception”.115 While elite philosophical education was not intended for the hoi polloi, Christian preaching and explanation of the Bible 112 Cf. Ambr., De off. 1.7,24: “Et sicut Tullius ad erudiendum filium, ita ego quoque ad vos informandos filios meos …”. (Krabinger, 1857, 39). 113 Cf. Ambr., De off. 1.9,29: “Deinde qui illa non legunt, nostra legent, si volent; qui non sermonum supellectilem, neque artem dicendi, sed simplicem rerum exquirunt gratiam”. (Krabinger, 1857, 41). 114 Cf. Aug., Cons. Ev. 1.10. 115 Cf. Hier., Hom. 18 de Ps. LXXXVI 201–204: “Plato scripsit in scriptura: sed non scripsit in populis, sed paucis. Vix enim intellegunt tres homines. Isti uero, hoc est principes ecclesiae et principes Xpisti, non scripserunt paucis, sed uniuerso populo”. (CChr.SL 78, 109 Morin). English translation by Ewald, 1964, 142.

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was all-inclusive and this specification was reflected in the genres and publishing strategies of Christian authors. 5

Conclusion

While the significance of the reading, interpretation, teaching, and dissemination of sacred and authoritative texts had been uniformly acknowledged throughout the Roman Empire, these practices took on somewhat different forms in various socio-cultural and religious settings. The educational profile of the philosophical schools, along with the distinct theurgic focus of the Neoplatonic ideas and practices, outlined the specific publishing environment of these institutions. It was characterised by memorisation, thorough and structured studies of the authoritative texts and the creation of a secondary literature in the forms of lecture-notes, manuals, introductions and commentaries. The classroom provenance of these texts implied various forms of fluid publication such as oral delivery and transcription disseminated through professional and friendship/patronage networks. The religious profile of the Christian monastic communities had a conspicuous educational facet. Determined to set themselves apart from their pagan peers, Christian authors spared no effort to distinguish the sacred texts and methods of their spiritual and intellectual reading. Nevertheless, the principles of spiritual reading in the Neoplatonic and Christian communities comprised the principle of likeness and divination through the medium of the sacred scriptures. The educational setting of the monastic environment prompted specific scholarly and publishing practices such as the meticulous study and memorisation of the authoritative and sacred texts, and the creation, translation and dissemination of secondary literature. With the large number and varied social contours of Church institutions, didactic Christian compositions were specified for the readers of basic and advanced levels of the exegetic and theological expertise. The schedule and topics of the exegetic lectures followed the liturgical calendar and this twofold structure of ritual reading and interpretation created a sui generis curriculum of monastic education. Professional and friendship/patronage networks constituted the primary channels of book dissemination for monastic authors. In returning to the topics of mobility and authorial publication, I wish to emphasise the educational and ritual aspects of the philosophical and monastic environments. The pedagogical zeal of the Neoplatonic and Christian teachers and the didactic motivation of their activity laid the foundation for the scholarly and religious institutions that they ran. The specific

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educational-ritual environments of the philosophical schools and monastic settlements (especially, the observed communities on the Mount of Olives and in Bethlehem) resonated in the practices of the reading of the sacred texts, and the composition and publication of the secondary literature. The example of Origen and Didymus demonstrated that the type of publication of their exegetic homilies, delivered in the church, resembled the schoolroom provenance of some kinds of the philosophical ὑπομνήματα. Jerome also gave extempore lectures recorded by stenographers for the general audience. However, he also created more elaborate homilies for advanced students of biblical exegesis. These works were also recorded by stenographers but not intended for oral delivery. Rufinus also attested to these two types of homily publication: oral through stenographers and private dictation to a secretary released through professional correspondence. These types of creation and presentation of the literary work mark out a process of gradual transition from the pre-eminently oral to the chiefly written character of the book culture.

Miles Make the Mind: Jerome on Travel, Learning, and Knowledge Exchange Jessica van ‘t Westeinde Abstract Travel and mobility for “leisure” were characteristic of the privileged few in the world of Late Antiquity. Therefore, they should be interpreted as status symbols. Although basic education was by-and-large accessible, undertaking long-distance travel to study with the brightest minds of one’s time was not. Jerome cleverly fashions himself as a mobile person who went to study under Donatus in Rome; he went on to learn from desert fathers, exchanged ideas in Constantinople, studied in Alexandria. As such, he emphasises his social status to prove he is a match for peers and patrons. In this chapter, I will first demonstrate how exactly Jerome created this profile, with particular focus on his early letters. Subsequently, I will show how he employs the existing “Grand Tour” models, and incorporates them into his epistolary exchange with his patrons: his (prospective) “students”. Naturally, it is clear that by then Jerome is the teacher who should be visited by his students, again, putting himself on par with (ancient) viri illustres. Yet, his own ideas – put to paper – have become mobile, also. If his correspondents cannot visit the teacher, at least they will have the opportunity to access his teachings. In sum, if one had the means, one could cover great distances to expand the mind and count oneself among the “happy few” who, in the footsteps of the great classics, are worthy of memoria dignus.

Introduction

“According to the law of custom, and perhaps of reason, foreign travel completes the education of an English gentleman”.1 These words by Edward Gibbon beautifully illustrate the connection between travel and learning. A broadened horizon expands the mind. At the same time, this citation acknowledges the “elitist privilege” of such opportunities. These journeys were exclusively reserved to those with the means and time for foreign travel. Edward Gibbon is, of course, 1 E. Gibbon, The History of the Fall and Decline of the Roman Empire 1, London 1862, 77.

© Brill Schöningh, 2023 | doi:10.30965/9783657795130_010

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referring to what had become fashionable since the seventeenth century: the romantic Grand Tour of Europe. Although it had been mostly young male aristocrats who would embark on these tours, some elite women have gained fame for their travel adventures, too.2 The idea was, as Gibbon suggests, to complement a liberal education with a tour of cities and sites from the classical world. The Romantic era travel itineraries echo the ideals of classical antiquity. In the ancient world, undertaking long-distance travel for educational purposes, to expand the mind, and to be inspired, was very much a status symbol. This peregrinatio was an otium for those who had the freedom of such leisurely activities.3 As other contributions to this volume elaborate, being mobile was a luxury feat: travel and mobility were characteristic of the privileged few.4 If (long-distance) travel was undertaken at all, it was chiefly for trade, for the purpose of diplomatic embassies, or warfare. Even in those instances, Greg Woolf prompts, “very few travelled long distances”.5 True, people working in trade or the military would move sometimes across greater distances, but, as Woolf suggests, the scale of such mobility tends to be overestimated.6 In this context, 2 One may think of a range of examples, such as there are Mary Shelley, Dorothy Wordsworth, Anne Lister, Lilian Leland, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, or Lady Mary Wortley Montagu. For more on women who embarked on such long-distance tours, see E.  Bohls, Women Travel Writers and the Language of Aesthetics, Cambridge 1995. 3 Interestingly, Pliny the Younger defined otium as a luxury time for the elite (as opposed to material luxury), see E. Winsor Leach, Otium as Luxuria: The Economy of Status in the Younger Pliny’s Letters, in: Arathusa 36 (2003), 147–165. One should consider this background when analysing Jerome’s instructions to his correspondents, where he emphasises the study of Scripture (and other texts). Likewise, Cicero’s dictum (with regard to his understanding of ‘otium’) may have played at the back of Jerome’s mind when he wrote to several of his addressees that it is best to leave the busy city in favour of rural calm, see especially Hier. ep. 43.3 to Marcella. 4 However, Irmgard Männlein-Robert seems to argue contrary, and she claims that rather, “our sources indicate that human mobility was rather high in the Roman Empire  … the wide and well-developed road infrastructure also played an important role by providing convenient travel routes and fast communication structures, facilitating a real ‘culture voyageuse’ especially in the 1st and 2nd centuries CE”. See I. Männlein-Robert, Move Your Self: Mobility and Migration of Greek Intellectuals to Rome, in: M.R. Niehoff / J. Levinson (eds.), Self, Self-Fashioning, and Individuality in Late Antiquity. New Perspectives, Tübingen 2019, 331–352 (332). The term culture voyageuse derives from André & Baslez, see J.-M. André and M.-F. Baslez, Voyager dans l’Antiquité, Paris 1993, 7. 5 G. Woolf, The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System, in this volume, 1–16 (15). 6 Id., 1–16 (10–12). See also C.  Grey, Letters of Recommendation and the Circulation of Rural Laborers in the Late Roman West, in: L. Ellis / F.K. Kidner (eds.), Travel, Communication and Geography in Late Antiquity. Sacred and Profane, London 2016, 25–40. Grey demonstrates how landowners facilitated labourers’ mobility, which would to some extent challenge the assumption that workers were always at the mercy of landowners and largely immobile, but that rather, there was scope for negotiation.

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to think of travel for leisure – and that includes educational purposes – is quite exceptional. Ultimately, the experience of travel or mobility depended of one’s social status: unidirectional human mobility across greater distance was, for example, possible in the case of slave trade, or for soldiers being sent to northern frontiers.7 However, “circulatory” mobility for leisure may be reasonably assumed as rather exquisite. It clearly points to an elite social context.8 Jerome’s correspondence with his aristocratic patrons offers a fine case study. His correspondents all belong to the elite, the senatorial class. They have the means to travel across great distances, and they have the means to acquire exotic ideas shipped in from faraway lands. They travel to learn from the great minds of their time, or they host scholars who have travelled to the centre of the empire. One could thus argue, that the expansion of the mind was only available to this upper layer of society. Yet, this was not entirely true, as Antti Lampinen demonstrates in his contribution to this volume. Some members of the ruling class seemed to have been convinced that population movement and the mixing of ‘commoners’ might form a threat (for example, to the pureness of the Greeks): through their mobility, common people would have access to an array of topica that would corrupt their own Greekness, and as such, it was a case for worry.9 However, one might also interpret it differently, namely that in fact, this encounter with other cultures enabled them to expand their minds, too. Furthermore, not only do Jerome’s letters witness the journeys his patrons embark on – most famously, his beloved Paula -, Jerome cleverly fashions himself as someone who travels in the pursuit of knowledge, to learn from the brightest minds of his day. In doing so, he emphasises his social status, demonstrating that he – almost as an equal, a peer – is worthy of their patronage. In this chapter, I will first illustrate how Jerome fashioned his profile of a well-educated, well-travelled man who would make an ideal teacher for members of Roman high society.10 Subsequently, I will demonstrate how the “grand 7

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See also G. Woolf, The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System, in this volume, 1–16 (11). Naturally, slaves – domestic servants – would be obliged to accompany their dominus or domina if they set out on such long-distance journeys, as I address in my forthcoming study, “Forced Mobility of Servants and Slave-Girls in Jerome’s Letters”. J.  Gerrard, Travelling Britannia: A Diachronic Perspective on Romano-British Mobility, in this volume, 71–95 (74). A.  J. Lampinen, Condemning Mobility. Nativist and Exclusionist Rhetoric in the Second-Century ‘Sophistic’ Discourse on Human Movement, in this volume, 45–70 (62, 67–69). Lampinen convincingly shows how the elites consider themselves as ‘immune’ to this threat of corruption, it would only affect the ‘subalterns’. Compare Hier., Vit. Mal., where Malchus may be understood as Jerome’s alter ego, since it appears to be an allegory on Jerome’s journey to Bethlehem – including details of

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tour” model is rooted in a long tradition going back to Ancient Greece. I will show how Jerome incorporates this into his epistolary exchange with his patrons: his (prospective) “students”. Naturally, it is clear that by then Jerome is the teacher who should be visited by his students, again, putting himself on par with (ancient) viri illustres. Finally, if Jerome’s students are not able to learn with him in person, Jerome’s mind is mobile: his ideas and teachings in written form can be distributed across the Roman Empire, travelling across great distances to advance the knowledge of their recipients. This places Jerome and his circle in a wider, long-standing, and ever-expanding network of knowledge exchange. 1

Miles Make Jerome: Mobility for Status and Reputation

Jerome of Stridon was born into a modestly well-off provincial family, of landed gentry, so to speak, who owned an estate in the border region between Dalmatia and Pannonia. He received his first education from a private tutor at home, but was later sent to attend a local school. Upon completing this first stage of education, he was sent to Rome to study with the famous grammarian Donatus.11 Jerome was not unique in this respect: up-and-coming young provincial men would come to Rome for further studies to have a chance to advance on the social ladder. It may be considered a crucial stepping stone for upward social mobility.12 Rome’s pull-factor for these ambitious provin­cials did not come without problems, as a law issued by Emperor Valens demonstrates: it seeks to restrict such provincial presence in the capital by ordering students to leave as soon as they have completed their studies.13

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education, or better, travel for educational purposes, see K.  Heyden, Orientierung: Die westliche Christenheit und das Heilige Land in der Antike, Münster 2014, 232. Similarly, Hier., Vit. Hilar. (see below). This suggests the rather “modest” social status of the family: Jerome did not have the privilege of full private tutoring. See J. van ‘t Westeinde, Roman Nobilitas in Jerome’s Letters, Tübingen 2021, 33. Recent studies on social mobility and aspirational provincials include M.R.  Salzman (2002), The Making of a Christian Aristocracy: Social and Religious Change in the Western Roman Empire, Cambridge Mass. 2002; K. Cooper / J. Hillner (eds.), Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome 300–900, Cambridge 2009. For education in particular see H.-I. Marrou, L’Histoire de l’éducation dans l’antiquité, Paris 71971, P. Gemeinhardt, Das lateinische Christentum und die antike pagane Bildung, STAC 41, Tübingen 2007. C.Th. 14.9,1 (Valentinianus, Valens et Gratianus, Trier, 370). Similar laws are in use today to restrict foreign student mobility.

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Compliant with this imperial order, upon completion of his education in Rome Jerome set out for Trier, crossing the Alps in the pursuit of a likely promising career at the imperial court.14 However, an alleged instance of ‘spiritual conversion’ caused him to abandon his secular ambitions, and he returns to Italy. Settling in the port city of Aquileia, he establishes an ascetic community with a group of like-minded friends, most of whom he knows from his studies in Rome.15 Unknown circumstances lead to the dissolution of this group, and a disillusioned Jerome sets sail for the east.16 An early letter to Rufinus testifies that Jerome did not immediately set sail for Syria, but that he first wandered around, mostly in Asia Minor: “Thrace, Pontus, Bithynia, the whole of Galatia and Cappadocia, Cilicia … one after another shattered my energies”.17 In Antioch Jerome finds the opportunity to study with – among others – Apollinaris of Laodicea, whom he regards well-versed in exegesis, but whose doctrinal ideas are too alien for Jerome’s Latin taste.18 Abandoning urban crowds for an overcrowded “desert” to gain much acclaimed “solitary desert experience”, Jerome likely settled in a cave somewhere on the estate of Evagrius of Antioch.19 Here he learns languages; encounters Eastern theology, and gets 14

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On this journey he seemed to have been accompanied by his childhood friend Bonosus, with whom he also completed his studies in Rome, see Hier., ep. 3.5: “Scis ipse … ut ego, et ille pariter a tenera infantia ad florentem usque adoleverimus aetatem, ut iidem nos nutricum sinus, iidem amplexus foverint bajulorum: et cum post Romana studia ad Rheni semibarbaras ripas, eodem cibo, pari frueremur hospitio.” This group may have consisted of Bonosus, Heliodorus, Rufinus, probably also Chromatius, Jovinus, and Eusebius; Jerome also mentions Innocent (for whom see Hier., ep. 1), but it is unclear if he was part of the Acquileian group, see Hier., epp. 3; 7; 14. See also S. Rebenich, Jerome, London 2002, 9–11, who prompts Jerome’s first ascetic community is shrouded in mystery. In Hier., ep. 3.3 (374 CE), Jerome refers to the “sudden whirlwind that dragged” him away from Rufinus and the rest of the group; something that “severed with its impious wrench the bonds of affection in which we were knit together”. See also Rebenich, 2002, 12 for the break-up and motives to move east. Hier., ep. 3.3: “Tandem in incerto peregrinationis errant, cum me Thracia, Pontus, atque Bithynia, totumque Galatiae et Cappadociae iter, et fervido Cilicum terra fregisset aestu […].” Hier., ep. 84.3: “Apollinarium Laodicenum audivi Antiochiae frequenter, et colui; et cum me in sanctis scripturis erudiret, nunquam illius contentiosum super sensu dogma suscepi.” One does well to remember that Jerome, at all times, had his library carried along wherever he went. This implies he had a significant cohort of servants who would accompany him: scribes, luggage carriers, etc. For this, see Hier., ep. 5.2 to Florentius, where he acknowledges that he is “rich in volumes of the sacred library” (multis sacrae bibliothecae codicibus abundamus), and that he has “students devoted to the art of copying” (habeo alumnos, qui antiquariae arti serviant). It is interesting to note that Jerome calls his scribes “students” rather than servants or slaves, but that discussion goes beyond the scope of this contribution. For the logistics of his enterprise, see J. van ‘t Westeinde, Mapping Jerome’s

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into disputes with people supporting different (“foreign”) theological views.20 These are the principal grounds that prompt him to return to Antioch,21 where he secures a job in the service of (schismatic) bishop Paulinus.22 Although a letter to Florentius suggests that Jerome did have the intention to visit the Holy Land during his time in the east, he did not manage to achieve that.23 In the episcopal entourage of Paulinus, Jerome travels to Constantinople in 381. Here they attend what was to become known as the Second Ecumenical Council. More importantly, introductions are made to the imperial court of Theodosius.24 Stefan Rebenich has suggested it was through Gregory of Nazianzen, then-bishop of Constantinople, that Jerome was introduced to the Theodosian court.25 The veracity of Jerome’s claim that he was taught by Gregory is questionable; it has been suggested that Jerome might have just heard him preach in a liturgical context.26 However, regardless if it was true

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Noble Network. The Logistics and Socio-Economic Aspects of Connectivity, in: StPatr (forthcoming). On the question whether Jerome was in a proper desert, or rather somewhere on Evagrius’s estate see A. Cain, The Letters of Jerome: Asceticism, Biblical Exegesis, and the Construction of Christian Authority in Antiquity, Oxford 2009, 13–24; on a wider discussion of Jerome’s relation with Evagrius see S.  Rebenich, Hieronymus und sein Kreis: Prosopographische und sozialgeschichtliche Untersuchungen, Stuttgart 1992, 85–98. Hier., ep. 7.2; see Rebenich, 1992, 104–108. In a letter to Theodosius – seemingly a leading figure among a group of anchorites in the Syrian desert – Jerome expresses his wish to permanently join the group of anchorites, although he has some reservations pertaining to his own state of mind (that is seemingly filled with lust and desire), Hier., ep. 2. However, in a letter to three of his friends he complains about life in the desert, and the barbarous language that is heard all around him, see Hier., ep. 7.2. He often states poor health as a reason to abandon the anchorite lifestyle, see Hier., epp. 2; 5; 14. Hier., ep. 5. – I wonder if it could be at all possible if this Florentius may have been the same Florentius who was proconsul of Palestine in 385, and who was acquainted with Paula’s family, offering her a room to stay at his villa when he had heard of her arrival in Jerusalem, see Hier., ep. 108.10, see also A.H.M. Jones / A.H. Martin / J.R. Martindale / J. Morris (eds.), The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire 1, Cambridge 2006, 1025 (Anonymus 133). Later letters hint at Jerome’s ill-fitted or perhaps failed attempts to maintain this connection, see his letter to Salvina, whom he addresses upon the death of her husband, Nebridius. Jerome may have been introduced to Nebridius – or at least Nebridius’ father – at the Theodosian court when he was in Constantinople, although he seems to suggest he had not had the pleasure to meet Salvina in person, see Hier., ep. 79.1–2. For a detailed study of Jerome’s time in Constantinople, see S.  Rebenich, Asceticism, Orthodoxy, and Patronage: Jerome in Constantinople, in: StPatr 22 (1997), 358–377. This might be the context in which to read a remark made by Jerome in a letter to Nepotian, Hier., ep. 52.8, where he refers to Gregory of Nazianzen as his teacher (praeceptor). In the answer Gregory gives him, however, Gregory says “I will tell you about it in

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or not, the claim does demonstrate the importance and willingness to travel in order to hear renown teachers. When Jerome makes his grand rentrée into Rome, it is in the company of Paulinus of Antioch and Epiphanius of Salamis. These bishops likely enabled his introduction to Damasus, bishop of Rome, and to the Roman aristocracy that hosted them. Jerome’s study- and travel record, and his (self-professed) tri-lingual proficiency equip him with an appealing visiting card for both the episcopal court and the learned and ascetic-minded aristocracy, where the appetite for exotic eastern teachings – and desert spirituality in particular – had become rather fashionable.27 Jerome has had first-hand experience with desert life in the east, and is therefore able to present himself as the ideal mentor.28 Yet, his sojourn in Rome was not to last, either. After three to four years in the capital, Jerome is forced out for good.29 He decides to retreat to the east, and he returns to Antioch. However, although his final destination is the Holy Land, it is not until after Paula joined him in Antioch that they travel south towards Jerusalem and Bethlehem (cf. infra). The tour that he undertakes with Paula further strengthens his credentials: not just for eyewitness accounts for the Biblical sites, but the tour – and his resettlement in general – allows him extended stays in the library of Caesarea, it offers him a chance to study with

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church”, which, in fact, would suggest that the context in which Jerome posed the question was not a liturgical setting. Jerome also briefly refers to Gregory as his teacher of exegesis in a letter to Domnio, Hier., ep. 50.1. For the ambiguity of Jerome’s claim, see Rebenich, 2002, 21. This interest has been growing steadily in the capital since Athanasius’ visit to Rome in the 360s. Anna Usacheva illustrates the continuity between learning and reading practices and -rituals in classical Antiquity through to Christian monastic communities, see A. Usacheva, Educational and Ritual Aspects of Reading and Publishing Practices from the Greek Philosophical Schools to Latin Monasticism, in this volume, 148–179. Helped by the publication and distribution of Jerome’s Life of Paul the First Hermit, amongst others, see Cain, Letters, especially chapters 1 and 2. Jerome’s expulsion from Rome is vague at best, although it does seem that it came to a court case in which Jerome seems to have been presented with an ultimatum that forced him to leave Rome. Naturally, he promotes his departure from the centre of civilisation as a deliberate move, abandoning the chaos of urban life for peace and quiet of the country, see Hier., ep. 43 to Marcella. In a letter to Asella, Jerome complains about the accusations that had been made at his address, but he claims a pot-kettle scenario of his antagonists against him, see Hier., ep. 45.1. For a discussion on Jerome’s expulsion, see J. van ‘t Westeinde, Not that Far from a Madding Crowd: Jerome “Exiled” in Bethlehem, in D. Rohmann / J. Ulrich / M. Vallejo Girvés, Mobility and Exile at the End of Antiquity, ECCA  19, Frankfurt/Main 2018, 229–245 (229–237); T.  Hunt, Jerome of Stridon and the Ethics of Literary Production in Late Antiquity, Leiden 2020, 30–33.

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rabbis, and their tour grants him study time at Alexandria where Jerome claims to have been instructed by Didymus the Blind.30 Jerome summarises his education in a letter to Pammachius and Oceanus, dated to 391 CE, where he alludes to his great passion for learning. He acknowledges how he studied with Apollinaris at Antioch, but Jerome assures his correspondents that he was only interested in the Laodicean’s exegesis, and that he was never tempted by his doctrinal teachings. Furthermore, Jerome seems to allude that one ought never to stop learning, for even “at length my head became sprinkled with gray hairs so that I looked more like a master than a disciple, yet I went on to Alexandria and heard Didymus”.31 Importantly, Jerome remarks that Apollinaris and Didymus taught opposing doctrines. Hereby, he demonstrates the rich variety and benefits that learning at different schools, across different countries or regions, might bring. It underlines his passion for lifelong learning, even if one has already become a teacher oneself.32 This passion for learning also crossed by then more or less established religious boundaries, as Jerome, so he reports to Pammachius and Oceanus, managed to study with Baraninas in Israel.33 In the pursuit of knowledge, one may, so it would seem, cross both religious and “orthodox” boundaries. Jerome’s relatively extensive travelling does not only enable him to study with a wide array of teachers, it also allows him to build up quite an impressive library. He keeps a good record of his correspondence, which he can use to the advance of his “brand”; it also demonstrates his “connectivity”, his social network that stretches across the entirety of the empire. The miles covered over his lifetime certainly shaped Jerome’s mind, and created this vir trilinguis, vir illustris who is worthy of memoria dignus.

30 31 32 33

A brief reference is found in Jerome’s letter to Domnio, Hier., ep. 50.1; Comm. Eph. praef. – See also Hier., ep. 84.3. Hier. ep. 84.3. – Jerome adds how he has “much to thank him for: what I did not know I learned from him, and what I knew already I did not forget. So excellent was his teaching.” This is compatible with the philosophical tradition (incl. of askeisis), see below. From whom he likely also borrowed and/or copied works, see Hier., ep. 84.3. Jerome alludes to the difficulties (and expenses) he had to go through in order to be taught by Baraninas. However, for a critical analysis of Jerome’s claims of having studied with Jewish masters see H. Newman, Jerome and the Jews, PhD diss., Jerusalem 1997; id., Jerome’s Judaizers,in: JECS 9 (2001), 421–452, W.  Krewson, Jerome and the Jews: Innovative Supersessionism, Eugene 2017, and A. Jacobs, Remains of the Jews: The Holy Land and Christian Empire in Late Antiquity, Stanford 2004.

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Grand Tours to Expand the Mind

Jerome has thus fashioned himself as a well-travelled teacher, his mind and his knowledge expanded by the distances he covered to acquire and exchange exotic ideas. In doing so, he has modelled himself after the great scholars of classical antiquity. It was common in the philosophical traditions from the pre-Socratics onwards that students would travel to the leading schools of their day, such as Athens, or later, Alexandria.34 Similarly, scholars (alumni) of prominent schools would travel to remain part of the culture of these intellectual centres.35 Irmgard Männlein-Robert argues that the defeat of Greece at the hands of a victorious Rome in the 2nd century BCE triggered a what she coins “momentous cultural transfer” (translatio studii) that prompted mobility and migration of philosophers from the Greek world to Rome.36 Her observation that “spatial changes … are always to be understood as phenomena, symptoms, or starting points of individual change and personal reorientation, and inventing or reinventing the self,”37 underlines the basic motivation of travel, of ‘grand tours’ to expand the mind. In this case, travel may be read as an indicator of how the intellect develops and expands through the miles accumulated.38 Yet, at the same time some ancient authors expressed scepticism about travelling purely to go sightseeing.39 Lien Foubert has argued that Seneca’s comment that “social peers go to places simply out of interest, because they want to see them” reflects on a type of behaviour that is rather uncommon, 34

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Naturally, there existed competition between individual schools, see e.g. the competition between Epicureans and Stoics, cf. Heraclitus inscription (TAM II.910). The Epicurean community in Athens heralded Heraclitus as the Homer in the field of medical poetry, but the Stoics seemed to have contested that claim when they added this title for their fellow Sarapion on his funerary inscription, as Edward Watts illustrates. See  E.  Watts, Student Travel to Intellectual Centres: What Was the Attraction?, in: L. Ellis / F.K. Kidner (eds.), Travel, Communication and Geography in Late Antiquity: Sacred and Profane, London 2016, 13–23 (14 no. 9). Watts, 2016, 14. I. Männlein-Robert, Move Your Self: Mobility and Migration of Greek Intellectuals to Rome, in: M.R. Niehoff / J. Levinson (eds.), Self, Self-Fashioning, and Individuality in Late Antiquity. New Perspectives, Tübingen 2019, 331–352 (331). Männlein-Robert, 2019, 331. Männlein-Robert, 2019, 331, calls this the “visible traces of philosophers’ social and intellectual acculturation and personal readjustment.” L.  Foubert, Men and Women Tourists Desire to See the World: ‘Curiosity’ and ‘a Longing to Learn’ as (Self )-Fashioning Motifs (First–Fifth Centuries  C.E.), in: Journal of Tourism History  10 (2018), 5–20 (10–13). See: https://doi.org/10.1080/1755182X.2018.1458909. See also S. Montiglio, Should the Aspiring Wise Man Travel? A Conflict in Seneca’s Thought, in: AJP 127 (2006), 553–586.

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given the logistics and especially the cost that ancient travel brought.40 Travel for education, the category into which many of the philosophers below fall, would, according to those standards, still be a valid, substantiated reason for travel. Travel just to see another place, would have been considered a “frivolity”, as Foubert has it.41 This is exactly the sentiment Colin Adams identifies in Pliny the Younger’s criticism of travellers who are but interested in sites if they are far away from home, even if nearby places offer the same wonders.42 Similarly to Pliny, although Seneca recognises educational benefits of (long-distance) travel, he also criticises adventurous travel behaviour, stating it “does not make better men of us”.43 Colin Adams’s study, challengingly titled ‘Travel Narrows the Mind’, also demonstrates a more negative approach of people’s motives to embark on touristic journeys, and in his study he concludes that tourist motivation was mostly driven by imperialist attitudes where sightseeing of foreign places only serves to reinterpret and reinforce one’s understanding of one’s own culture.44 40 41

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Foubert, 2018, 6. Foubert, 2018, 6. – One may consider seeing the ‘Grand Tour’ in terms of curiosity, for which see M.  Leigh, From Polypragmon to Curiosus. Ancient Concepts of Curious and Meddlesome Behaviour, Oxford 2013. His study covers a wide time frame from the fifth century BCE to the first century CE. C.  Adams, “Travel Narrows the Mind”: Cultural Tourism in Graeco-Roman Egypt, in: C.E.P. Adams / J. Roy (eds.), Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece, Egypt and the Near East, Oxford 2007, 161–184 (163–164). Pliny states that “we are always ready to make a journey and cross the sea in search of things we fail to notice in front of our eyes, whether it is that we are naturally indifferent to anything close at hand while pursuing distant objects, or that every desire fades when it can easily be granted, or that we postpone a visit with the idea that we shall often be seeing what is there to be seen whenever we feel inclined. Whatever the reason, there are a great many things in Rome and nearby which we have never seen nor even heard of though if they were to be found in Greece, Egypt, or Asia, or any other country which advertises its wealth of marvels, we should have heard and read about them and seen them for ourselves”, Pliny, ep. 8.20. Seneca, ep. 104.15. Adams, 2007, 161–184. One must take note that Adam’s study is restricted to Greek and Roman tourist attitudes when visiting Egypt. That said, similar attitudes which may be labelled “imperialist” may be detected in Livy’s account of the Roman general Aemilius Paullus on his victory tour through Greece, see J. van ‘t Westeinde, Roman Awe for Hellenistic Santuaries, in: A.  Mueller / A.  Haug (eds.), Hellenistic Architecture and Human Action: A Case of Reciprocal Influence, Leiden, 2020, 151–165. Jerome’s description of Paula’s tour of the Holy Land (see below), and the evident act of “claiming” and “Christianising” space, could potentially be interpreted along similar lines of imperialist or colonising attitudes, see ead., “The Sails were Set and the Strokes of the Rowers Carried the Vessel into the Deep” (Ep. 108.6). A Study of Travel and Perception in Jerome’s Writings, in: NTT 75 (2021), 251–273 (269–271). Compare Antti Lampinen’s comprehensive discussion of the tension between and effect of mobility on (i.e. the exposure to foreign cultures

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A Tradition of Travel for cupiditas noscendi and curiositas

Adam’s valid criticism notwithstanding, there exists a rich tradition of travel out of curiositas or with the intention to learn, to expand the mind (even if restricted to expand the knowledge within the realm of one’s own culture, tradition, or religion). This motivation may be found across “boundaries” of cultural and religious traditions. It was not just the philosophical tradition of travelling for educational purposes that inspires the “grand tour” model. Travel to religious or mythological sites purely to see them may also be classified as travel for leisure, and moreover, it is inspired by that what one had learned through reading and instruction. These forms of travel have to be distinguished from travel undertaken for political embassies, or religious travel that is undertaken to partake in a festival, fulfil a ritual command, or travel undertaken for healing purposes (e.g. visit an Asclepius sanctuary).45 There exist several accounts of Jewish “touristic” travel, that is for the sole purpose of seeing sites known from stories, legends, myths, or the Scriptures. Both Philo and Aristeas acknowledge how tour guides would operate at such locations to take visitors around.46 One may also consider Josephus, who offers numerous examples of travellers who wish to “see” sites, far more in a touristic sense of the word than purely religious.47 Similarly – and not unlike in the Greek philosophical tradition – in the later Roman Empire rabbis would travel both for educational purposes – visit other schools or individual teachers48 – or, as Rachel Neis claims, rabbinic travel itineraries seek to “visualise the past (and sometimes the future) into the landscape (just like Greco-Roman and Christian pilgrimage writings)”.49

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or peoples) identity. Lampinen, Condemning Mobility. Nativist and Exclusionist Rhetoric in the Second-Century ‘Sophistic’ Discourse on Human Movement, in this volume, 45–70 (66–70). For these forms of travel see I. Rutherford, State-Pilgrims and Sacred Observers in Ancient Greee: A Study of Theōriā and Theōroi, Cambridge 2013. See also the collective volume of P. Harland (ed.), Travel and Religion in Antiquity, Waterloo 2011. For Aristeas see B.G. Wright, Seeing is Believing: The Travelogue in the Letter of Aristeas, in: NTT  75 (2021), 161–176. For Philo’s travels see M.R.  Niehoff, Philo of Alexandria: An Intellectual Biography, New Haven 2017, 1–20, yet compare his (diplomatic) journey to Rome at 25–90. Jos., Ant. Iud. 1.93; 1.186; 1.203, and especially 5.125; also Jos., Bell. Iud. 4.530–533. See also van ‘t Westeinde, The Sails Were Set, 2021, 272–273, and R.  Bloch, Andromeda in Jaffa: Mythische Orte als Reiseziele in der jüdischen Antike, Münster 2015, 16–17. Particularly relevant is the comprehensive study by C. Hezser, Jewish Travel in Antiquity, Tübingen 2011. R.  Neis, Pilgrimage Itineraries: Seeing the Past through Rabbinic Eyes, in: JSQ  20 (2013), 224–256 (226).

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Similarly, Strabo’s Geography may certainly be understood both as a report of an explorer’s adventure as well as a travel guide for readers wishing to follow in his footsteps.50 Within that same tradition, Pausanias’ exploration of Greece in his monumental Periegesis offers an almost perfect picture of the travellerexplorer.51 Ian Rutherford speaks of “sacred tourism” in the case of Pausanias’ travel adventures.52 He does stress that the distinction between sight-seeing and pilgrimage is difficult to make: a dilemma that may reveal more about our modern interpretation than about the reasoning behind travel undertaken by our ancient subjects.53 Naturally, as already alluded to above, there are obvious examples of travel to learn from philosophical schools such as the Stoics, who, understanding “humankind as citizen of the universe”, see it as a need for humans to explore the world and learn from it.54 Thus, in spite of some criticism ancient or modern, it seems rather broadly accepted that humankind sets out to travel and explore if this stimulates the intellect and thus that it expands the mind, rather than that it would “narrow the mind”. Following Lien Foubert, one could interpret cupiditas noscendi (desire to learn) as core motivation in Greek and Latin culture and connect it to an ancient equivalent of the “Grand Tour model”. From the Hellenistic period onwards, one finds philomatheia connected to philosophical knowledge or learning, which helps understand patterns of mobility and migration in an educational context. Männlein-Roberts offers examples of “non-permanent migration” of Greek philosophers to Rome in the first and second centuries CE, where in the capital “Greek intellectuals gave lectures as temporary migrants, travellers, and guest lecturers”.55 She explains that the city’s “cosmopolitan and … intellectual ‘urban identity’” was a strong 50 51

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For his text see Strab., Geographica. Full Greek text available via http://data.perseus.org/ texts/urn:cts:greekLit:tlg0099.tlg001 (last consulted 16.06.2022). Paus., Perieg. Hell. – See also M. Pretzler, Greek Intellectuals on the Move: Travel and Paideia in the Roman Empire, in: C.E.P.  Adams / J.  Roy (eds), Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece, Egypt and the Near East, Oxford 2007, 123–138, see also id., Travel Writing in Ancient Greece, London 2007. I. Rutherford, Tourism and the Sacred: Pausanias and the Tradition of Greek Pilgrimage, in: S.E. Alcock et al. (eds.), Pausanias: Travel and Memory in Roman Greece, Oxford 2001, 40–52 (43 and 46). Rutherford, 2001, 40–52. – See also the discussion on this distinction in G. Clark, Pilgrims and Foreigners: Augustine on Travelling Home, in: L.  Ellis / F.K.  Kidner (eds.), Travel, Communication and Geography in Late Antiquity. Sacred and Profane, London 2016, 149–158. See for example Cicero, div. 2.142, Seneca, helv. 8.5. I. Männlein-Robert, Move Your Self: Mobility and Migration of Greek Intellectuals to Rome, in: M.R. Niehoff / J. Levinson (eds.), Self, Self-Fashioning, and Individuality in Late Antiquity. New Perspectives, Tübingen 2019, 331–352 (336).

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pull-factor.56 In fact, the influx of Greek intellectuals was such that Juvenal expressed his dismay about these Graeculi.57 Likewise, one ought not underestimate the positive effect of “Hellenic-friendly policies” introduced by Roman Emperors – especially of the Antonine dynasty – that prompted Greek philosophers to set sail for Rome.58 It stimulated – or made fashionable perhaps – Roman patronage of Greek teachers or “doctors”. Galen is a fine example of such a visiting philosopher-physician, hosted by Eudemos. He managed to attract students and forge a strong network, which led him to become an established name within Roman high society.59 Yet, Rome as an attractive intellectual centre was long preceded by Athens: city of education and philosophy.60 Athens had long attracted students from across the Mediterranean, being host to a variety of influential schools.61 As Männlein-Robert and Pretzler emphasise, although other cities such as Rome and Alexandria would gain intellectual prominence, Athens remained the “traditional epicentre of paideia and philosophy.”62 This tradition was still very much alive in Late Antiquity. Edward Watts offers the example of Euxitheos 56 57

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Männlein-Robert, 2019, 336. Männlein-Robert, 2019, 335, with reference to Iuvenal, Sat. 3–6. Among such intellectuals were the Platonist Thrasyllus (court astronomer under Tiberius), Plutarch of Chaironeia of the same school – employed by the Roman Senate, and Dio Chrysostomos, a philosopher from the competing Stoic-Cynical school, see also no. 20 on the same page. Männlein-Robert 2019, 335, offers the example of Apollonius of Chalcedon, who was hired by Antoninus Pius to teach young Marcus Aurelius, see Hist. Aug. Ant. P. 10,4, Lucianus, Dem. 31. She sketches a detailed picture of an ambitious imperial support programme to put Rome on the cultural and intellectual map, starting with Hadrian’s initiative to found a state-funded Athenaeum where the artes liberales were taught. Here, public lectures were held, and the emperor patronised “grammarians, rhetoricians, poets, sophists, and lawyers” (337). Interestingly, it was Marcus Aurelius as emperor who would go on to subsidise the foundation of four chairs of philosophy (Platonic, Aristotelian, Stoic, and Epicurean) in 176 CE, alongside the privately organised existing philosophical schools, see p. 337, with further notes and references. Männlein-Robert, 2019, 335–336. The author emphasises the need of such a local patron as “leverage” to forge networks and establish a name. As a matter of fact, during the Republican Period it was common for Romans to travel for studies to Greece, see Männlein-Robert, 2019, 334–356. She adds that Greek philosophers in Rome would for a long time not hold the most prominent positions. As demonstrated, this changed in the imperial period. See for example Thucydides who records how Athens as a whole is described as educational institution for Greece, Thuc. 2.41,1. Männlein-Robert, 2019, 336, lists a plethora of examples of philosophical schools: “Platonic Academy, Aristotelian Peripatos, the Stoa, the Kepos of Epicurus, the Cynics”. Männlein-Robert, 2019, 336, see also M. Pretzler, Greek Intellectuals on the Move: Travel and Paideia in the Roman Empire, in: C. E. P. Adams / J. Roy (eds), Travel, Geography and Culture in Ancient Greece, Egypt and the Near East, Oxford 2007, 123–124.

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who, in spite of having already studied philosophy, felt that his education was incomplete and had therefore set sail for Athens: “for intellectuals like Euxitheos, a trip to the schools of Athens was an essential part of philosophical education”.63 It resonates with what Jerome alluded to above: even old age (gray hair) should not stop one from learning to expand the mind. Moreover, travel not only allowed students to become part of the intellectual life and tradition of famous schools and teachers, it also forged networks that lasted long after graduation, and travel kept these networks alive.64 A parallel – perhaps concurrent – Christian intellectual tradition emerged, although it must be stressed that the pagan philosophical tradition was thriving well into the fifth century and beyond.65 It is Jerome’s De viris illustribus that demonstrates an established Christian equivalent was indeed already existing; one of his examples is Firmilian, who is said to have travelled to Caesarea to study with Origen.66 Likewise, Tatian went to study with Justin in Rome,67 and Marcion travelled to Rome were he established a circle of students around him.68 These examples demonstrate how Christians adopted, or better, were intrinsically immersed in and influenced by a long-standing tradition of travel for the purpose of education as set by the Greek philosophers. Plotinus, Longinus, and Porphyry are equally fine (non-Christian) examples of a continuous and vibrant intellectual travel tradition. The former two had studied in Alexandria, but went on to Rome as teachers, with Longinus later

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E.  Watts, Student Travel to Intellectual Centres: What Was the Attraction?, in: L.  Ellis / F.K.  Kidner (eds.), Travel, Communication and Geography in Late Antiquity. Sacred and Profane, London 2016, 13–23 (13). The story of Euxitheos is drawn up in fifth-century author Aeneas of Gaza, Theophrastus, a dialogue between Euxitheos and Aegyptus. Another, slightly earlier example would be Libanius. Watts, 2016, 14. Watts offers the example of Libanius and Diogenes. Again, it is Watts, 2016, 15, who points to the history and success of the Athenian Neoplatonic school, particularly under Plutarch, Syrianus, and Proclus, which also attracted students from Alexandria, see Watts, 2016. See Watt’s chapter for more detail on this particular case study. He hypothesises how it is curious that Alexandrian students left for Athens whilst Alexandria had Hypatia, but he suggests this is because she taught a different kind of philosophy (not strictly Platonic and therefore impure). Hier., vir. ill. 54.5: “Firmilianus, Caesareae episcopus … sub occasione sanctorum locurum Palaestinam veniens diu Caesareae ab eo in sanctis scripturis eruditus est”. On Justin as a teacher in Rome, H.G. Snyder, “Above the Bath of Myrtidus”: Justin Martyr’s ‘School’ in the City of Rome, in: HThR 100 (2007), 335–362. M. Vinzent, Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels, StPatr.S 2, Leuven 2014. See also H. Wendt, At the Temple Gates: The Religion of Freelance Experts in the Roman Empire, Oxford 2016.

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taking over Fronto’s rhetorical school in Athens.69 Porphyry, from Phoenicia, went to study with Longinus in Athens, and later with Plotinus in Rome.70 In a way, Plotinus’ biography – as drawn up by Porphyry – presents relatively strong parallels to Jerome’s own story. Like Jerome, Plotinus a century earlier “met a wealthy widow” in Rome, who “provided him with a house, slaves, and all his needs”.71 Furthermore, he had an enthusiastic female following. Männlein-Robert prompts this may hint at existing networks Plotinus could make use of, since he was now clearly endorsed by Gemina (on the basis of her hosting him in her house, and providing him with amenities).72 Her support also enabled him to further develop his thought and, importantly, it financed the dissemination of his scholarly output. Whereas Maribel Dietz has argued that although “these pagan, Neoplatonic travellers played their part in the general culture of movement of the late antique Mediterranean, their travels seldom resembled anything like “pilgrimage” and had little to do with later Christian notions of monastic travel”,73 the examples that I have presented in this section, and especially the example of Plotinus, demonstrate an undeniable resemblance to Jerome and his circle of patrons and matrons. I think that the travels of Jerome and his circle are very much modelled on the examples of 69

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Männlein-Robert, 2019, 338–341. Interestingly, instead of heading for Athens after Alexandria, Plotinus decided to go to Rome. Longinus, originally from Syria, would eventually return to his home turf and settle in Palmyra, likely serving the court of Queen Zenobia. See also Marinus of Neapolis’ Life of Proclus (5th century) and Eunapius’ Lives of the Philosophers and Sophists (4th century). Männlein-Robert, 2019, 342. Porphyry, Vit. Plot. 9, 1–3; for slaves see 11.1–6. Männlein-Robert, 2019, 340. Clear parallels with Jerome’s circle of Roman patrons spring to mind when one takes a look at students included in Plotinus’ circle, as Männlein-Robert lists “besides Amelius and Porphyry, there were not only women, like the aforementioned Geminae and a certain Amphiclea, the daughter-in-law of Iamblichus, but also doctors (Paulinus, Eustochius, the Arab Zethus), the poet-philologist Zoticus, a rhetorician named Serapion, as well as some politically active Romans (e.g., Zethus, Castricius Firmus). Among the interested listeners were numerous senators, of whom Marcellus Orontius and Sabinillus were most taken with Plotinus’s philosophizing, as well as Rogatianus, who, under Plotinus’ influence, relinquished his political ambitions and possessions, resigned his senatorial status, and did not take up his office as praetor at the last moment before the inauguration. Thus, Plotinus’s circle in Rome included Roman personalities and officials of high rank and status, as well as intellectual migrants from the Greek East from different ethnic groups. In this way, the circle seems to mirror the hybridity of an “elitist sub- culture” in Rome. Moreover, Plotinus also maintained close personal contacts with the Roman emperor Gallienus and his wife Salonina, who were his friends (φιλία is mentioned in the text).” M.  Dietz, Wandering Monks, Virgins and Pilgrims: Ascetic Travel in the Mediterranean World, AD 300–800, Philadelphia 2005, 33.

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the tradition as set out above, primarily because the common denominator is learning. I will demonstrate why I am convinced this is the case in the remainder of this contribution. 4

Jerome’s Travelling ‘Patron-Students’

The previous sections demonstrate that Jerome, as a well-travelled scholar, may confidently place himself in an ancient and established tradition of (longdistance) travel for curiositas and especially for cupiditas noscendi. Now that his credentials are secured, he is able to address (potential) patrons to “follow in his footsteps”, to consider themselves among the great and well-travelled minds. Jerome’s hagiographies may certainly also be seen in this context. In the Life of Paul the First Hermit we find Anthony travelling to learn from Paul (a highly educated man, in contrast with the idealised “illiterate” desert fathers).74 The Life of Hilarion narrates the journey of Hilarion, that is nearly the direct opposite of Jerome’s own journey to the Holy Land: Hilarion was born in Palestine, was sent by his parents to study with a renown grammarian in Alexandria. He travelled into the Egyptian desert to study with Anthony. Together with some monks he eventually decides to return to Palestine to settle in “the wilderness which stretches to the left seven miles from Majoma, the port of Gaza, as you go along the coast of Egypt”.75 Jerome’s careful geographical description likely serves to turn this site into an item on his readership’s travel itinerary to the Holy Land. Yet, Hilarion does not stay in Palestine. His peregrination takes him further to Syria, Sicily, then indirectly to Rome, Dalmatia (where Jerome was born), to finally come to rest on Cyprus. Again, for hagiographies and the need to visit “holy men” rather than sites76 one may compare one of the “pagan” equivalents presented above, namely Plotinus. Porphyry’s Vita Plotini, according to Irmgard Männlein-Robert, presents a deliberate “pagan” “antidote” or concurrent version of the holy man as presented in Christian hagiographies: “with his Vita Plotini Porphyry sought to bring to centre stage an ideal Platonic philosopher – Plotinus – was fashioned,

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Hier., Vit. Pauli. Hier., Vit. Hilar. 3. For this see Katharina Heyden who repeatedly emphasises how Jerome wants his correspondents to visit holy people rather than stones: K. Heyden, Orientierung: Die westliche Christenheit und das Heilige Land in der Antike, Münster 2014. However, I think it is a more general sentiment of “teachers” or “mentors” rather than that they need the prefix holy.

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programmatically as a pagan ‘holy man’.77 But second, we must remember that in Porphyry’s Vita Plotini, Plotinus as a ‘holy man’ or Platonic saint, situated between men and gods, turns out to be a philosophical ‘alternative’ to the emperor Gallienus, who likewise is represented between the supreme god and normal men as an intermediate power on coins”.78 Thus, these hagiographies, written for a Roman elite audience, stimulate their readers to embark on a long-distance journey to learn about the sites these holy figures visited, to see the sites where they lived, and, if possible, to learn from them or their successors. The hagiographies inspire travel, but in itself travel will inspire the longing for more learning, and it will expand the mind. Naturally, part of Jerome’s recruitment strategies to acquire more patrons is to present them with this model of a Grand Tour. It serves as an attempt to convince them that they ought to visit him in the Holy Land. On par with Cicero’s claims for a classical education,79 Jerome argues a visit to the Holy Places would complete their Christian education: “Time forbids me to survey the period which has passed since the Lord’s ascension, or to recount the bishops, the martyrs, the divines, who have come to Jerusalem from a feeling that their devotion and knowledge would be incomplete and their virtue without the finishing touch, unless they adored Christ in the very spot where the gospel first flashed from the gibbet. If a famous orator blames a man for having learned Greek at Lilybaeum instead of at Athens, and Latin in Sicily instead of at Rome (on the ground, obviously, that each province has its own characteristics), can we suppose a Christian’s education complete who has not visited the Christian Athens?”80

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See also I. Männlein-Robert, Biographie, Hagiographie, Autobiographie. Die Vita Plotini des Porphyrios, in: M. Erler / T. Kobusch / I. Männlein-Robert (eds.), Metaphysik und Religion. Zur Signatur des spätantiken Denkens, München 2002, 581–609 (601). Männlein-Robert, 2019, 345. Cicero, Q. Caec. 12. Hier., ep. 46.9: “Longum est nunc et ab ascensu domini usque ad praestentem diem per singulas aetates currere, qui episcoporum, qui martyrum, qui eloquentium in doctrina ecclesiastica uirorum Hierosolymam uenerint putantes se minus religionis, minus habere scientiae nec summam, ut dicitur, manum accepisse uirtutum, nisi in illis Christum adorassent locis, in quibus primum euangelium de patibulo coruscauerat. Certe, si etiam praeclarus orator reprehendendum nescio quem putat, quod litteras Graecas non Athenis, sed Lilybaei, Latinas non Romae, sed in Sicilia didicerit, quod uidelicet unaqueque prouincia habeat aliquid proprium, quod alia aeque habere non possit, cur nos putamus absque Athenis nostris quemquam ad studiorum fastigium peruenisse?”.

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In other words, Christian education cannot be considered complete without a visit to the Holy Land.81 Jerusalem is presented as “Christian Athens”. Marcella, who is the recipient of this letter, is told how many nations precede her in having undertaken this peregrination. Britons, Armenians, Persians, peoples from India and Arabia, Egypt, Pontus, Cappadocia, Caele-Syria, Mesopotamia, and even further east.82 They have come to Jerusalem in order to see with their own eyes that what they have learned from the Scriptures. Naturally, as Katharina Heyden corroborates, Jerome is well aware that his correspondent and her associates understand education and the study of the Scriptures as intrinsically connected to piety.83 It is even considered essential for its fulfilment, since “Bildung und Schriftstudium zur Vervollkommnung der Frömmigkeit unabdingbar sind”.84 Yet, Christians are particularly encouraged to follow Abraham’s example.85 However, Abraham left his homeland to find a new homeland, to start a new nation. This signifies an essential differentiation from pilgrimage, because it implies a permanent settlement rather than a visit.86 This presumes a unidirectional flow of travel, to borrow Greg Woolf’s terminology. The “Grand Tour” implies a return and may thus be considered “circulatory”: upon completing one’s Christian education (study of the Bible), one visits the sites in the Holy Land, as mentioned in the Scriptures, to complement that what was learned from books with a visual and sensual experience in the physical encounter with these sites.87 It was not anticipated that these Christian aristocrats would 81 82 83 84 85 86

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See Heyden, 2014, 230. Hier., ep. 46.10. And probably also to virtue, considering travel for education was considered a virtuous act in the Greek philosophical tradition with which Jerome’s correspondents were well-acquainted. Heyden, 2014, 230. For the use of this model to encourage Christians to visit the Holy Land, either physically or spiritually, see Heyden, 2014, 230–231. Heyden, 2014, 231. Contrary to what would be understood by circulatory mobility in a “Grand Tour” model (possible exception: Paula, see below), Heyden argues that the letter to Marcella, ep. 46, cannot be understood “als Werbung für eine vorübergehende Pilgerfahrt nach Palästina […]. Es geht vielmehr um den Entschluss zu einem endgültigen Leben im Heiligen Land”. This is the primary argument put forward in a letter to Marcella, where Jerome’s “team” (Paula and Eustochium) try to convince their Roman friend to join them in Bethlehem, see Hier., ep. 46.1. In this letter the ultimate goal is to convince Marcella to embark on the journey to the Holy Land, ideally that she decides to move in with them – with an emphasis on “ideally speaking”: it is a plea for her to visit them, if she would decide to stay once she gets there, that would be up to her. In the final paragraph of the letter, the “authors” go to great length to describe the ideal itinerary they have prepared for their friend (Hier., ep.

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uproot from their Roman mansions or provincial estates to settle in the Holy Land.88 It is only Jerome himself who has “left [his] home and people” like Abraham,89 to take up permanent residence in Bethlehem. His patrons, on the other hand, are permitted to spiritually dwell in the desert rather than physically move there: it is, Jerome assures Paulinus, the “desert of his faith” on which a believer is judged, not his residency on earth.90 The first letter Jerome sent to Paulinus of Nola concisely illustrates the idea of the “Grand Tour”, rooted in classical tradition, where students embark on adventurous journeys in order to study with renown teachers. “Men traversed provinces, crossed seas, and visited strange peoples,” Jerome narrates, in order to “see face to face the persons whom they only knew from books.”91 “… Pythagoras visited the prophets of Memphis, and Plato, besides visiting Egypt and Archytas of Tarnetum, most carefully explored that part of the coast of Italy which was formerly called Great Greece. In this way the influential Athenian master with whose lessons the schools of the Academy resounded became at once a pilgrim and a pupil choosing modestly to learn what others had to teach rather than over confidently to propound views of his own. Indeed, his pursuit of learning seemed to fly before him all the world over […]. Again, we read that certain noblemen journeyed from the most remote parts of Spain and Gaul to visit Titus Livius, and listen to his eloquence which flowed like a fountain of milk. Thus, the fame of an individual had more power to draw men to Rome than the attractions of the city itself; and the age displayed an unheard of

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46.13) – an itinerary reminiscent of the one that would appear in greater detail in Jerome’s eulogy on Paula (see below). Although Jerome does try to convince the likes of Marcella to come live with him (them) in Bethlehem, she does not acknowledge his pleas. Other patrons or matrons visit – though they are remarkably few in number – and eventually they return home. This does not prevent them from establishing monasteries, fund building projects for hospices, etc. in the Holy Land. For this “pietistic euergetism” see N. Lenski, Empresses in the Holy Land: The Creation of a Christian Utopia in Late Antique Palestine, in: L. Ellis / F.K. Kidner (eds.), Travel, Communication and Geography in Late Antiquity. Sacred and Profane, London 2016, 113–124. Rather, Jerome had been forced to leave Rome. His departure from the capital was not voluntary, as he makes it appear in this letter to Paulinus of Nola. See the discussion above, no. 28, with further references. Hier., ep. 58.3. The example of Abraham also appears in the letter to Marcella, Hier., ep. 46. For a detailed study on this spiritual form of travel, see Heyden, 2014. Hier., ep. 53.1.

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and noteworthy portent in the shape of men who, entering the great city, bestowed their attention not upon it but upon something else”.92 In this segment, Jerome demonstrates how already established scholars still embarked on journeys to learn evermore. Paulinus, who certainly may be considered an educated and established man, thus has no reason or excuse to refrain from setting out to come study with Jerome. Admittedly, such daunting journeys are not without danger, but even though an eminent figure like Plato was captured by pirates,93 he persisted in his want to advance his learning and increase his knowledge. If Paulinus would risk the journey to the Holy Land, he may consider himself in line with the famous philosopher. More importantly, however, is Jerome’s emphasis on the teachers as destination of such journeys, not sites or cities that may be considered worthy to see. Paulinus then, should not visit Jerusalem or Bethlehem because the cities are significant sight-seeing destinations, rather, he should visit to learn from Jerome. This goal has been achieved when Fabiola visits Jerome in Bethlehem. In her eulogy, which Jerome addressed to Oceanus, Jerome retells how Fabiola came to embark on a long journey to the Holy Land. Although this journey initially served as a completion of her Christian education, Jerome emphasises how she rather studied with him. She preferred to sit together with him in his study, instead of going out to do sightseeing. We learn from Letter 77 that Fabiola had enjoyed this private study (exegesis) with Jerome during their time in the Holy Land, and how she had wished to remain there, but had felt forced to leave – the reason for this is a bit dubious: either fear of an imminent invasion by the Huns, or an argument with Jerome.94 92 93 94

Hier., ep. 53.1. Hier., ep. 53.1. Fabiola did not wish to be drawn into the Origenist fight. See Hier., ep. 77.6 (on her munificence) and 77.7: “Suddenly she decided to take ship and to come to Jerusalem. Here she was welcomed by a large concourse of people and for a short time took advantage of my hospitality … what zeal, what earnestness she bestowed upon the sacred volumes! In her eagerness to satisfy she would run through Prophets, Gospels, and Psalms: she would suggest questions and treasure up the answers in the desk of her own bosom.” Then Jerome describes a session in which they had been studying the book of Numbers – which they read from a scroll (in Hebrew perhaps?), as is indicated by Jerome’s comment “unrolling the book still farther she came to the passage”; then 77.8: “… whilst I was in search of a suitable dwelling for so great a lady, whose only conception of the solitary life included a place of resort like Mary’s inn; suddenly messengers flew this way and that and the whole East was terror-struck. For news came that the hordes of the Huns had poured forth all the way from Maeotis (they had their haunts between the icy Tanais and the rude Massagetae where the gates of Alexander keep back the wild peoples behind the Caucasus); and that, speeding hither and thither on their nimble-footed horses, they were filling all the world with panic and bloodshed. The

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Returning to the letter to Paulinus, one notices how Jerome continues to elaborate on the long tradition in which Paulinus may consider himself should he decide to leave Italy and set sail to the Holy Land: “Apollonius [of Tyana, see Philostratus] too was a traveller – the one I mean who is called the sorcerer [magus] by ordinary people and the philosopher by such as follow Pythagoras. He entered Persia, traversed the Caucasus and made his way through the Albanians, the Scythians, the Massagetae, and the richest districts of India. At last, after crossing the wide river the Pison, he came to the Brahmans. There he saw Hiarcas sitting upon his golden throne and drinking from his Tantalus-fountain,95 and heard him instructing a few disciples upon the nature, motions, and orbits of the heavenly bodies. After this he travelled among the Elamites, the Babylonians, the Chaldeans, the Medes, the Assyrians, the Parthians, the Syrians, the Phoenicians, the Arabians, and the Philistines. Then returning to Alexandria he made his way to Ethiopia to see the Gymnosophists and the famous table of the sun spread in the sands of the desert [Herod.  3.17,18]. Everywhere he found something to learn, and as he was always going to new places, he became constantly wiser

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Roman army was absent at the time, being detained in Italy on account of the civil wars. Of these Huns Herodotus tells us that under Darius King of the Medes they held the East in bondage for twenty years and that from the Egyptians and Ethiopians they exacted a yearly tribute. May Jesus avert from the Roman world the farther assaults of these wild beasts! … It was generally agreed that the goal of the invaders was Jerusalem and that it was their excessive desire for gold which made them hasten to this particular city. Its walls uncared for in time of peace were accordingly put in repair. Antioch was in a state of siege. Tyre, desirous of cutting itself off from the land, sought once more its ancient island. We too were compelled to man our ships and to lie off the shore as a precaution against the arrival of our foes. No matter how hard the winds might blow, we could not but dread the barbarians more than shipwreck. It was not, however, so much for our own safety that we were anxious as for the chastity of the virgins who were with us. Just at that time also there was dissension among us, and our intestine struggles threw into the shade our battle with the barbarians [ Jerome seems to hint at an Origenist dispute]. I myself clung to my long-settled abode in the East and gave way to my deep-seated love for the holy places. Fabiola, used as she was to moving from city to city and having no other property but what her baggage contained, returned to her native land to live in poverty where she had once been rich, to lodge in the house of another, she who in old days had lodged many guests in her own, and – not unduly to prolong my account – to bestow upon the poor before the eyes of Rome the proceeds of that property which Rome knew her to have sold”. Note how Jerome emphasises the well-travelled nature of Fabiola. A reference to the Pythagorean cup, Paulinus and the wider audience of this letter would have been familiar with this reference.

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and better. Philostratus has written the story of his life at length in eight books.96 Apollonius’ global Grand Tour takes him far beyond what any journey between Italy and the Holy Land would entice. Naturally, the passage serves to showcase Jerome’s excellent knowledge of the classical and philosophical traditions in order to put him on par with his aristocratic correspondent. However, it also serves to emphasise the urgent need to travel: travel makes one wiser, and it makes one a better person. Since perfection (of the ascetic life) is the ultimate goal, the only way to achieve this for Paulinus would be that he embarks on a Grand Tour. Not being satisfied with only offering classical examples, Jerome then puts the Apostle Paul on par with these philosophers, arguing how Paul, too, travelled to Jerusalem to learn from Peter.97 Furthermore, although one may learn from books, and one may study the Bible on one’s own, there are certain advantages, Jerome stresses, that one may benefit from when visiting teachers: “spoken words possess an indefinable hidden power, and teaching that passed directly from the mouth of the speaker into the ears of the disciples is more impressive than any other. When the speech of Demosthenes against Aeschines was recited before the latter during his exile at Rhodes, amid all the admiration and applause he sighed ‘if you could but have heard the brute deliver his own periods!’.”98 Reading words is one thing, but the educational benefit of hearing the words spoken is more valuable. It does not count that a messenger would read the words of a teacher out loud – as was common practice with correspondence in Jerome’s time – no, it must be the teacher him- or herself who speaks their words to enlighten the students. There truly is no other way for Paulinus than to board a ship and set sail for Bethlehem. Jerome would only tone down his eagerness to have Paulinus visit him once he realises that Paulinus, a relative of Melania, would in that case also pay a visit to Jerusalem. This implies he would visit not only his cousin, but also her protegée Rufinus. By this time, the

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Hier., ep. 53.1. Hier., ep. 53.2. In the same letter, Jerome comments that Paul had studied with Gamaliel, where “he learned the Law of Moses and the prophets at the feet” of this famous rabbi (Hier., ep. 53.3). Hier., ep. 53.2.

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early 390s, the conflict over Origen was in full swing.99 Any visit of Paulinus to Jerome’s nemesis would potentially jeopardise Jerome’s relation with Paulinus. Only then does Jerome do a U-turn and he assures Paulinus that it would be better if he studied the Scriptures from the comfort of his own estates: surely, there is no reason to see the Holy Places.100 It is then that his argument vividly resembles Pliny’s sneers that “we are always ready to make a journey and cross the sea in search of things we fail to notice in front of our eyes”.101 Finally, the ultimate example of a “Grand Tour to expand the mind” is of course Paula’s journey to the Holy Land and her subsequent tour of Biblical (and non-Biblical) sites.102 Her peregrination has been recorded in much detail by Jerome in the epitaph composed to her memory. It may be regarded as an itinerary for prospective pilgrims, although it may also be argued that it brings to life the Holy Places for those who read (or listen to) it; those who are unable to commit to long-distance travel but who are transported there spiritually.103 Paula is presented as the epitome of the ascetic Christian intellectual: she diligently studied the Scriptures with Jerome in Rome, she read the works and lives of the desert fathers, she learned Hebrew – and may thus be counted among the handful of trilingual (Latin) Christians in the Empire –, and she tried to perfect an ascetic lifestyle.104 To complete her Christian education, she followed Jerome on a long-distance eastward journey to the Holy Land after he had been expelled from Rome.105 As I have argued elsewhere, Paula first needs to pass by the classical world of Ancient Greece, before she can arrive to the Holy Land: it may be interpreted as a symbolic passing through classical education to arrive at the higher-regarded Christian education. In that sense, classical education is the prerequisite for a Christian education, and without

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This may have played a role in Fabiola’s untimely departure from the Holy Land, cf. supra no. 94. For a detailed study of the Origenist “controversy” see E.  Clark, The Origenist Controversy: The Cultural Construction of an Early Christian Debate, Princeton 1992. Hier., ep. 58. Pliny, ep. 8.20, cf. supra no. 41. This journey is recorded in Hier., ep. 108.6–14. For a critical translation of the text with a commentary, see A. Cain, Jerome’s Epitaph on Paula, Oxford 2013. This is the argument Katharina Heyden presents in her 2014 monograph, but more strongly so in her article K. Heyden, Western Christians in Palestine: Motivation, Interpretation, and Repercussions of Migration in Late Antiquity, in: C. Burlaciouiu (ed.), Migration and Diaspora Formation. New Perspectives in a Global History of Christianity, Berlin 2022, 67–90. For women’s (intellectual) travel in general, see R.  Falcansantos, Wandering Wombs, Inspired Intellects: Christian Religious Travel in Late Antiquity, in: JECS 25 (2017), 89–117. Hier., ep. 108.6–7.

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it, the latter cannot be perfected.106 The core sentiment that Jerome conveys in his retelling of Paula’s tour of the Holy Land is that at each of the Biblical sites they visit, Paula takes in the sight of what lies in front of her, and she mentally recalls the corresponding passages from the Hebrew Bible, and, importantly, the Christian supersession of the significance of a site by events from the New Testament. This is particularly prominent for that part of the tour that took place after they had visited Jerusalem and Bethlehem. For example, when Paula raced down to the Jordan ( ferventissimo aestu venit ad Iordandem) at dawn, she stood at the shore and perceived the rising sun as the sun of righteousness (et orto sole solis iustitiae recordata), calling to mind the events that happened here according to the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament.107 She recalls scenes from the Book of Joshua and 2 Kings108 where “the priest’s feet stood firm in the middle of the river bed; how afterwards at the command of Elijah and Elisha the waters were divided hither and thither and made away for them to pass” but these waters, polluted by the deluge and defiled by the destruction of mankind (pollutasque diluvio aquas, et totius humani generis intersectione maculatas), had now been “cleansed by the Lord through his baptism” (suo Dominus mundaverit baptismate).109 Thus, only by seeing these sites with her own eyes, Paula is able to connect the various stories from the Scriptures that she had studied, and she is able to see the “wider picture”. The multitude of places that are visited, and the people that one encounters on such journeys, make these peregrinations into Grand Tours that expand the mind. It also indicates the existence of an empire-wide network these elite explorers could rely on. Jerome is often heard complaining about the enormous number of travellers that stop by his monastery. Paula is said to have travelled from monastery to monastery on Cyprus as well as in Egypt. Fabiola, too, “went from island to island, and travelled round the Etruscan Sea, and through the Volscian province … where bands of monks have taken up their home, bestowing her bounty either in person or by the agency of holy men in

106 J. van ‘t Westeinde, “The Sails were Set and the Strokes of the Rowers Carried the Vessel into the Deep” (Ep. 108.6): A Study of Travel and Perception in Jerome’s Writings, in: NTT 75 (2021), 251–273 (271–272). 107 Hier. ep. 108.12. 108 Josh. 3:17; 2 Kings 4. 109 Hier., ep. 108.12: “quomodo in medio amnis alveo sicca sacerdotes posuerint vestigia; et ad Eliae et Elisaei imperium, stantibus ex utraque parte aquis, iter unda praebuerit; pollutasque diluvio aquas, et totius humani generis intersectione maculatas, suo Dominus mundaverit baptismate”.

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faith”.110 Egeria’s itinerary likewise hints at the existence of such a network.111 Andrew Gillett has compared these “holy networks” accessible to Christian ‘spiritual tourists’ to aristocratic amicitia networks.112 However, since the travellers discussed above all belong to the senatorial ranks, it would be difficult if not unwise to strictly separate the two. Thus, Jerome’s noble correspondents – theoretically – had the power, resources, connections, and leisure to embark on long-distance travel to perfect or complete their intellectual journeys. However, despite Jerome’s efforts, the only persons from Jerome’s close circle of Roman high society that do visit him are Fabiola and Oceanus (both gens Fabia) who visit in 395.113 Yet, all would not be lost, for if Muhammad cannot come to the mountain, Jerome can ensure his scholarly productions will reach his eager students. 5

Jerome’s ‘Mobile’ Mind

Jerome had settled in Bethlehem. The section above laid out how he actively tried to persuade his correspondents and patrons to embark on the journey to the Holy Land. Unfortunately, many did not, or could not, accept his invitation.114 However, if they could not come to Jerome, Jerome could come to 110 Hier., ep. 77.6. 111 Eg. Iterarium, see also J. Wilkinson, Egeria’s Travels, London 1971. See O. Limor, Reading Sacred Space: Egeria, Paula and the Christian Holy Land, in: Y. Hen (ed.), De Sion exhibit lex et verbum domini de Hierusalem: Essays on Medieval Law, Liturgy and Literature in Honour of Amnon Linder, Turnhout 2001, 1–16. 112 A. Gillett, Review of L. Ellis / F.L. Kidner (eds), Travel, Communication and Geography in Late Antiquity: Sacred and Profane, in: Ancient History 34 (2004), 93–97 (97). 113 Fabiola and Oceanus both belong to the gens Fabia, yet they are not a married couple (contra Rebenich, 1992, 202). 114 Katharina Heyden contradicts this, and argues that rather, Jerome points out that his readers do not have to embark on a pilgrimage at all. It is more important that they live their life as if they were living as ascetics or monks in Palestine, see Heyden, 2014, 234–235 (italics are my own emphasis). However, I think that any dissuasive rhetoric trying to prevent correspondents from actually travelling to the Holy Land has to be seen in context of Jerome’s competition with the Jerusalem monasteries, especially those of Rufinus and Melania, as alluded to above. It would actually serve his own reputation if prominent Roman aristocrats were to visit his monastery, and hosting pilgrims also meant a guaranteed income for them, see J. van ‘t Westeinde, The Money in Monastery: The Competition between Jerome’s and Rufinus’ Monasteries from an Economic Perspective, in: Journal of Religious Competition in Antiquity (forthcoming). Therefore, it would be counterintuitive to discourage his correspondents from embarking on long-distance travel to the Holy Land, unless it might have an adverse effect on his own reputation.

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them in the capacity of his scholarly writings.115 The first surviving letter that informs the addressee of this possibility is the letter to Desiderius and his wife Serenilla.116 In the closing paragraph of this letter, Jerome tells Desiderius that he has composed his De viris illustribus, and that his own entry lists all of his writings up until the fourteenth year of the reign of Theodosius. In first instance, Desiderius should be able to borrow copies of these works from Marcella or from Domnio. However, Jerome acknowledges that should some of these treatises be missing from Desiderius’ library, he would be happy to have them copied for him. It is not entirely clear if he means to have these shipped to Rome, or if he would only offer to copy them should Desiderius visit him in Bethlehem.117 From here on, most of Jerome’s letters end with a reminder to the addressee that his works are (widely) available to be copied – most often, the address where one could obtain these copies is in Rome with Marcella, although later Pammachius and Oceanus are mentioned, too.118 Yet, basically all of Jerome’s correspondence with Roman nobility, as well as the letter exchange with clergy, not to mention his translations and commentaries of the Scriptures, serve to spread Jerome’s ideas across the Empire. These letters never were intended for the eyes of the addressee only. The letter collections of exegetical instructions to Marcella, and of Jerome’s correspondence with – or rather, letters to – Damasus, as well as his famous treatise on virginity (Letter 22) are but a few examples in a vast sea of Jerome’s knowledge output. Letter 64 to Fabiola, an exegetical exhortation on the priestly vestments, is yet another fine example of such knowledge exchange. Moreover, this letter has been written after Fabiola had visited Jerome in Bethlehem, and it is

115 Compare A. Usacheva, Educational and Ritual Aspects of Reading and Publishing Practices from the Greek Philosophical Schools to Latin Monasticism, in this volume, 148–179. Usacheva distinguishes two ‘poles’ or ‘types’ of Jerome’s published writings: those that derive from oral extempore ‘lectures’ (e.g. his first collection of homilies, that betray a liturgical-exegetical setting of his monastery, consisting of “basic-level, mixed groups of listeners”), and written (or dictated) literary productions intended for a (highly-) educated audience of advanced readers, see 164–170. 116 That is, wife, but Jerome uses “sister” since Desiderius and Serenilla allegedly both took a vow of continence to dedicate themselves to the ascetic life. 117 Hier., ep. 47.3. It does seem like Jerome is inviting Desiderius to come and visit him (and Paula) in Bethlehem. 118 See J. van ‘t Westeinde, Roman Nobilitas in Jerome’s Letters, Tübingen 2021, 213. For an elaborate discussion on the dissemination of works through networks of author’s students, colleagues, and patrons see Anna Usacheva’s contribution to this volume, A. Usacheva, Educational and Ritual Aspects of Reading and Publishing Practices from the Greek Philosophical Schools to Latin Monasticism, in this volume, 148–179.

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interwoven with Jerome’s attempts to convince her to return and continue her studies with him.119 The Vitae Jerome has composed are intended for a similar dissemination. The idea of Jerome’s mobile mind is best captured in the Vita Hilarionis. The reversal of Jerome’s journey to Bethlehem, as I alluded to above, also serves a metaphorical purpose: it is Jerome’s hagiography that should travel the same route Hilarion had decided to take.120 This would ensure a widespread distribution of his work. As Evaristo Arns suggested already in 1953, Jerome chiefly used this network of patrons in order to disseminate his ideas.121 However, Anna Usacheva suggest that Jerome’s works did not solely travel via these established but exclusivist networks. Rather, she claims his works were also sold in what we would now consider a ‘more conventional’ way through copy shops.122 Yet, circulation through networks of friendship (amicitia) – or rather, patrons – does not contradict the works being sold: if consumers had copies of Jerome’s works ordered, either through sending scribes to him in Bethlehem, or by acquiring copies from his patrons in Rome, this does not automatically imply these copies were free. Even if one had one’s own slaves copy the works, the transport of these slaves had to be paid for, as well as the writing material and the paper required to copy the works. Similarly, although Maribel Dietz claims the “transportation of letters was a major motive for travel and could be added duty on almost any type of journey”,123 it still may suggest that letter carriers would receive some form of remuneration for their “favours”. The price tag of such endeavours in antiquity still meant it was a rather exclusive business. The mobility of Jerome’s mind is then to some extent limited to certain elite circles.

119 Hier., ep. 64.8,2: “et tu quidem optato frueris otio et iuxta Babylonem Bethlehemitica forsitan rura suspiras; nos in Effrata tandem pace reddita uagientem de praesepe audiuimus infantem et querimonias eius ac uovulam ad tuas aures cupimus peruenire.” Note Jerome’s use of otia/otium. For the relation between Fabiola and Hieronymus see P. Laurence, Jérôme et le nouveau modèle féminin: La conversion à la ‘vie parfaite’, Paris 1997, 231–237. 120 Compare Heyden, 2014, 234, who points out that “damit die Christen im Westen erfahren, dass die wahre Askese ihre Wurzeln in Palästina hat, dass sie aber nicht an die Grenzen Palästinas gebunden ist. Und damit er selbst, Hieronymus, von Bethlehem aus einen breiten hagiographischen Wirkungskreis gewinnt”. 121 E. Arns, La technique du livre d’après Saint Jérôme, Paris 1953. 122 A. Usacheva, Educational and Ritual Aspects of Reading and Publishing Practices from the Greek Philosophical Schools to Latin Monasticism, in this volume, 148–179. 123 Dietz, Wandering Monks, Virgins and Pilgrims: Ascetic Travel in the Mediterranean World, AD 300–800, Philadelphia 2005, 20, with reference to S.K.  Stowers, Letter Writing in Greco-Roman Antiquity, Philadelphia 1986.

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Exchange of Ideas and Literature to Expand Knowledge

That said, with the limitations of this mobility taken into account one cannot deny that the exchange of ideas and of literature served to expand and disseminate knowledge. Already the third century CE examples mentioned above demonstrate the mobility of ideas that came with these philosophers, the students they attracted, and the translation of their works in Rome (and elsewhere) by later “students”.124 We find a plethora of indications of such an intellectual exchange from early on in Jerome’s works, and not restricted to the dissemination of Jerome’s own scholarly output. In Letter 5 to Florentius, Jerome writes that Florentius ought to ask Rufinus (who is then still in Egypt but allegedly on his way to Jerusalem)125 to allow Florentius to have copied the “commentaries of the reverend Rhetittius, bishop of Augustodunum (Autun, France), in which he has so eloquently explained the Song of Songs”.126 Furthermore, Jerome requests copies from a list of books that he has attached to his letter, but unfortunately, this list has perished. He explicitly asks to be sent “the explanation of the Psalms of David, and the copious work on Synods of the reverend Hilary [of Poitiers]”, which Jerome allegedly had copied for Rufinus with his own hand while at Trier.127 Similarly, from Paul of Concordia (to whom he sends his Life of Paul the First Hermit) Jerome requests “the commentaries of Fortunatian, and – for its account of the persecutors – the History of Aurelius Victor, and with these the Letters of Novatian; so that, learning the poison set forth by this schismatic, we may the more gladly drink from the antidote supplied by the holy martyr Cyprian”.128 He assures Paul that, should he appreciate the Life, Jerome has “other also in store which … shall sail across the sea to you with all kinds of eastern merchandise”.129 In an instructive address to Furia, Jerome alludes to the exchange of literature, and he advises her where she can obtain copies of theological treatises she ought to study.130 124 See Männlein-Robert, 2019, 347. 125 Jerome himself had, up to that point, also intended to travel on to Jerusalem, but ill health had prevented him from this onward journey, and he had temporarily settled in the Syrian “desert”. 126 Hier., ep. 5.2. Jerome also tells him that someone named Paul told him that Rufinus still has his copy of Tertullian and that he wants it back. This is also a fine example of how these networks operate, as alluded to above. 127 Hier., ep. 5.2. 128 Hier., ep. 10.3. 129 Hier., ep. 10.3. 130 Hier., ep. 54.18. – Interestingly, in this letter, Jerome shows no incentive to convince Furia to come to Bethlehem. Rather, she should remain in Rome, and seek guidance from a local teacher, Exuperius.

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A rather different approach is taken by Lucinus of Baetica. This wealthy Spanish aristocrat decides to send six scribes131 to copy all of Jerome’s works (and probably more than that). This is a clear example of knowledge exchange; the mobility of ideas. As Greg Woolf prompted: ideas need a person or object as vehicle of travel.132 Whereas this could be a travelling teacher or scholar, or students travelling to acquire ideas elsewhere, in the case of Lucinus it is scholarly works that are being copied to be shipped back to Spain. Lucinus does not personally visit Jerome, but he sends a group of six scribes.133 They bring gifts,134 and they have been set the task to copy Jerome’s principal works at Bethlehem.135 Upon completion of this task, they are to return to Baetica 131 Whether they are servants or slaves is difficult to determine as I have explored in a forthcoming study on the forced mobility of slaves and servants. Jerome speaks of hominibus tuis, pueris tuis, and notariis, see Hier., ep. 71.5, which suggests he is liberally mixing vocabulary. Pueris tuis may suggest male slaves, notariis could also mean hired servants. 132 G. Woolf, The Roman Mediterranean as a Fluid System in this volume, 1–16 (13–15). 133 Hier., ep. 75.4 (to Theodora): “… not satisfied with bestowing his bounty upon his own country, he sent to the churches of Jerusalem and Alexandria gold enough to alleviate the want of large numbers. But while many will admire and extol in him this liberality, I for my part will rather praise him for his zeal and diligence in the study of the scriptures. With what eagerness he asked for my poor works! He actually sent six copyists (sex notariis) ( for in this province there is a dearth of scribes who understand Latin) to copy for him all that I have ever dictated from my youth until the present time.” Jerome adds in 75.5: “… If there is any spiritual work of which you think me to be capable, boldly command me to undertake it”. 134 Hier., ep. 71.7: “You send me two small cloaks and a sheepskin mantle from your wardrobe and ask me to wear them myself or to give them to the poor. In return I send to you and your sister in the Lord four small haircloths suitable to your religious profession and to your daily needs, for they are the mark of poverty and the outward witness of a continual penitence. To these I have added a manuscript containing Isaiah’s ten most obscure visions which I have lately elucidated with a critical commentary. When you look upon these trifles call to mind the friend in whom you delight and hasten the voyage which you have for a time deferred … if any hindrance should interfere – I hope none may – to prevent you from coming, I pray that distance may not sever those united in affection and that I may find my Lucinus present in absence through an interchange of letters”. 135 Hier., ep. 71.5: “As for my poor works which from no merits of theirs but simply from your own kindness you say that you desire to have: I have given them to your servants to transcribe, I have seen the paper-copies made by them, and I have repeatedly ordered them to correct them by a diligent comparison with the originals. For so many are the pilgrims passing to and fro that I have bene unable to read to many volumes. They have found me also troubled by a long illness from which this Lent I am slowly recovering as they are leaving me. If then you find errors or omissions which interfere with the sense, these you must impute not to me but to your own servants; they are due to the ignorance or carelessness of the copyists, who write down not what they find but what they take to be the meaning, and do but expose their own mistakes when they try to correct those of others”. Jerome continues to describe what he has or has not written; he claims that “the true text of the Old Testament can only

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(southern Spain). This is a very costly business, and testifies of Lucinus’ great wealth.136 Furthermore, Jerome has made accessible the knowledge and ideas of Greek authors to his Latin audience.137 These include translations of letters and treatises by Greek bishops, such as Theophilus of Alexandria,138 but also some works of Origen and Didymus.139 Again in his letter to Lucinus, Jerome acknowledges how he has offered his translation of the Hebrew Bible (from the original) to Lucinus’ scribes to copy; and he expects Lucinus already owns a copy of his translation of the Septuagint.140 Jerome thus acts as a catalyst not only by making his own mind mobile, but also by transferring and making mobile the minds – the knowledge and the ideas – of other authors. Interestingly, this – as well as the reading recommendations Jerome offers his correspondents – was often not restricted to those authors who are strictly considered to be in line with Nicene orthodoxy. The exegetical insights of someone like Didymus are still inspiring, even if the doctrines he teaches are an abomination.141 I think this signifies that a well-travelled mind is open to acquire knowledge, learning, and understanding through the miles covered, and it potentially develops a feeling for regional differences and particularities. In an author like Jerome, who is usually infamous for his vituperative rhetoric against those who do not share his opinions, this is a welcome observation. In several of his letters we find him trying to convince his correspondent of the legitimacy of regional differences. He assures Lucinus that “church traditions – especially when they do not run counter to the faith – are to be observed in the form in which previous generations have handed them down; and the use of one church is not to be annulled because it is contrary to that of another”.142

136 137

138 139 140 141 142

be tested by a reference to the Hebrew, and likewise the true text of the New Testament requires for its decision an appeal to the Greek”. For the cost of such enterprise, see J. van ‘t Westeinde, Mapping Jerome’s Noble Network, in: StPatr (forthcoming). For Jerome acting as “bridge” between the Greek East and the Latin West, see F. Schulz, Hieronymus, Augustinus und der Osten, in: C. Koeller / F Schulz (eds.), Osten und Westen 400–600 n. Chr.: Kommunikation, Kooperation und Konflikt, Stuttgart 2016, 135–156. See also J. van ’t Westeinde, Not that Far from a Madding Crowd: Jerome “Exiled” in Bethlehem, in D. Rohmann / J. Ulrich / M. Vallejo Girvés, Mobility and Exile at the End of Antiquity, ECCA 19, Frankfurt/Main 2018, 229–245 (244). For example, the Alexandrian bishops’ Paschal Letters of 401 and 402 CE, resp. Hier., epp. 96 and 98. Hier., ep. 71.5. Hier., ep. 71.5. Hier., ep. 84 to Pammachius and Oceanus. Hier., ep. 71.6.

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Likewise, he bids Oceanus that he must appreciate Christians in Gaul hold a different stance with regard to marriage or second marriage.143 In sum, a feeling of such regional subtleties and differences can but emerge if one has built knowledge and awareness through travel that comes with personal encounters with local people, cultures, and customs on a Grand Tour. 7

Conclusion

In this sense, Jerome may be regarded as prototype and catalyst for the mobile mind. The mileage he has accumulated, has broadened the horizon of his mind. He has acquired knowledge from and he has disseminated his own ideas through the Mediterranean world. He has embarked on several tours that took him to different regions, cultures, to people who spoke and wrote in different languages and thought-systems. In doing so, Jerome was firmly rooted in a long and rich tradition of travel in search of learning. Jerome was very aware of the fact that such peregrinations were considered a status symbol. Only the privileged few were able to travel to exotic destinations, and access exotic ideas. Naturally, this meant that he expected of his correspondents, who were all comfortably acquainted with this tradition, to aspire to the same. Yet, even if Jerome could embark on long-distance journeys, status differences remained. Where Jerome and his provincial peers may have been influenced by pull factors of career migration, such as Jerome’s trip to Trier suggests, his Roman noble patrons dwelled in yet another sphere: they had the time and resources to travel for pure leisure. Regardless, these grand tours have in common that the process of the journey was as important, if not more important, than the final destination. It is not just the sites that are visited, but it is the encounter with these sites, and how one reflects upon it, as the example of Paula served to illustrate. It is then, that travel becomes beneficial to expand one’s knowledge. And, not only does it become beneficial to one’s mind, this “travel for learning” carries long-term benefits: those who embarked on such grand tours were considered worthy to be remembered. The ultimate sign of recognition was bestowed upon them: that of memoria dignus.

143 Hier., ep. 69.

List of Editors and Contributors Emilia Mataix Ferrándiz Emilia Mataix Ferrándiz is a Maria Zambrano fellow at the University of the Basque Country. She has a PhD in Roman Law (University of Alicante and Facoltà di Giurisprudenza Palermo) and a second PhD in Roman Archaeology (University of Southampton and Lyon 2 La Lumière). She has hold research positions in Helsinki and in Germany. She has published extensively on Roman Law and its maritime focus. She is the editor of two volumes, Roman Law and Maritime Commerce (EUP 2022) and Seafaring and Mobility in the Late Antique Mediterranean (Bloomsbury 2022). She is also the author of one monograph Shipwrecks, Legal Landscapes and Mediterranean Paradigms: Gone under Sea (Brill 2022). She is currently working on her new monograph: Ports, Law and Material Culture in the Roman World. Negotiating Commercial Practice. Samuel Fernández Samuel Fernández (PhD 1997, Istituto “Augustinianum”, Rome) is Professor of Theology at the Pontificia Universidad Católica de Chile. His research interests include Origen, the synod of Nicaea, and the history of biblical interpretation. He has edited patristic works such as On First Principles of Origen (Madrid 2015), On the Synods of Hilary of Poitiers (Madrid 2019), and the extant works of Marcellus of Ancyra (Madrid / Rome 2022). Currently, he is working on the outbreak of the “Arian” crisis. James Gerrard James joined the School of History, Classics and Archaeology at Newcastle University, UK in 2011 and is now a Senior Lecturer in Roman Archaeology and serves the University as an Associate Dean of Education in the Faculty of Humanities and Social Sciences. He is an expert on the Fall of the Western Roman Empire, archaeological approaches to the end of Roman Britain and works extensively with Romano-British material culture. James is a member of the Chartered Institute for Archaeologists, a member of the Society of Antiquaries of London and an Associate Fellow of the Higher Education Academy. James studied Archaeology and Prehistory at the University of Sheffield before completing an MA and PhD at the University of York. He worked for some time in commercial archaeology and was involved in extensive excavations in London, Chichester, Kent and in Northern England. More recently

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he has excavated a Roman villa at Lufton in Somerset and is working on the re-evaluation of a number of late Roman copper-alloy vessel hoards. James has also been researching and writing (for too long) a book manuscript about travel and infrastructure in Roman Britain. Pieter B. Hartog Pieter  B.  Hartog, PhD (2015), KU Leuven, is Assistant Professor of Ancient Judaism at the Protestant Theological University. He is the author of Pesher and Hypomnema: A Comparison of Two Commentary Traditions from the Hellenistic-Roman Period (Brill 2017) and co-editor of The Dead Sea Scrolls and the Study of the Humanities (Brill 2018); Jerusalem and Other Holy Places as Foci of Multireligious and Ideological Confrontation (Brill 2021); and The Dead Sea Scrolls in the Context of Hellenistic Judea (Brill 2022). David Inglis David Inglis (born 1973) is Professor of Sociology at the University of Helsinki. He holds degrees in sociology from the Universities of Cambridge and York. He has held full Professor rank in UK Universities since 2007. He moved to Finland in 2017. He writes in the areas of cultural sociology, historical sociology, and social theory, applying these to contemporary social challenges. He has written and edited many books in these areas. His current research concerns globalization, cosmopolitanism, (de)civilizing processes, and the sociological analysis of wine, considered historically, globally and in the Finnish and Nordic contexts. Sigurvin Lárus Jónsson Sigurvin Lárus Jónsson, born 1978, was from 2016 to 2019 PhD Fellow at the Department of Theology, Faculty of Arts at Aarhus University in Denmark. He received his PhD in 2019. Since 2019 he is Research Associate at the University of Münster. His publications include James among the Classicists: Reading the Letter of James in Light of Ancient Literary Criticism (Studia Aarhusiana Neotestamentica series 8; Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht 2021), Who was James? Essays on the Letter’s Authorship and Provenience (Wissenschaftliche Unter­ suchungen zum Neuen Testament  I 485; Mohr Siebeck 2022), for which he was co-editor with Eve-Marie Becker and Susanne Luther. Antti J. Lampinen Antti Lampinen holds the title of Docent in Classical Philology at the University of Turku (2021), where he also gained his doctorate in 2013. Between 2014 and

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2018 he held postdoctoral fellowships at the Universities of St Andrews and Helsinki. Since 2018 he has worked as the Assistant Director at the Finnish Institute at Athens. His areas of special interest include ancient ethnographical and geographical writing, perceptions and portrayals of ethnic and religious outgroups and subalterns, and the literary manifestations of stereotypes. Anna Usacheva Anna Usacheva (born 1985) received her Ph.D. in Classical Philology in 2011 (Moscow State University) and was a Marie-Curie Fellow in 2015–2017 (Aarhus University, Denmark). In 2017, she published a monograph Knowledge, Language and Intellection from Origen to Gregory Nazianzen. A Selective Survey (Peter Lang, Frankfurt am Main). Currently she is employed as a senior research fellow and a vice-leader of the project “Authorial Publishing in Early Medieval Europe” (University of Helsinki). Her research interests include philosophy, psychology, sociology and book culture of late antiquity and the early Middle Ages. Jessica van ‘t Westeinde Jessica van ‘t Westeinde is a Research Fellow at the Department of Ancient History, University of Tübingen. She recently published her first monograph, Roman Nobilitas in Jerome’s Letters (Mohr Siebeck 2021). Her research focuses mostly on Jerome, Jewish Urban Life in Late Antiquity, and Spatial Agency in the Ecumenical Councils of the Fifth Century. One of the overarching themes in these research projects is the question of mobility, migration, connectivity, and networks, including forced mobility. Jessica has published several articles on different aspects of travel in the works of Polybius and Jerome. Greg Woolf Greg Woolf has since July 2021 been Ronald J. Mellor Distinguished Professor of Ancient History at the University of California, Los Angeles. Prior to this he served as Director of the Institute of Classical Studies at the University of London, and before this was Professor of Ancient History at the University of St Andrews in Scotland. He has degrees from the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge and has held fellowships at colleges in both Universities. He is a fellow of the British Academy. Woolf has edited a number of books, including collections on religious history, on the city of Rome, on ancient knowledge cultures and on the uses of writing. A long-term interest is in the impact of Roman imperialism on local societies, economies and cultures. Much of his work combines archaeological and historical material. His most recent books are The Life

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and Death of Ancient Cities. A Natural History (Oxford 2020) and the second edition of Rome. An Empire’s Story (Oxford 2022). He is currently working on mobility and migration in antiquity, on cultural aspects of seasonality and the nature of cultural revolutions in Rome.