The Description of the Times by Mor Michael the Great 1126-1199: A Study on Its Historical and Its Historiographical Context (Eastern Christian Studies, 27) 9042936584, 9789042936584

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27

Eastern Christian Studies

THE “DESCRIPTION OF THE TIMES” ¯ R MICHAEL THE GREAT BY MO (1126-1199) A Study on its Historical and its Historiographical Context

by Dorothea Weltecke

THE “DESCRIPTION OF THE TIMES” BY MŌR MICHAEL THE GREAT (1126-1199)

EASTERN CHRISTIAN STUDIES A series published by The Institute of Eastern Christian Studies, Nijmegen and The Louvain Centre for Eastern and Oriental Christianity, Leuven Edited by Joseph Verheyden Heleen Murre-van den Berg Alfons Brüning Herman Teule Peter Van Deun

Volume 27

EASTERN CHRISTIAN STUDIES 27

THE “DESCRIPTION OF THE TIMES” BY MŌR MICHAEL THE GREAT (1126-1199) A Study on its Historical and its Historiographical Context

by Dorothea Weltecke Translated by Anthony Runia, revised by Dorothea Weltecke and Thomas Palmer

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT

2021

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. © 2021 Uitgeverij Peeters, Bondgenotenlaan 153, B-3000 Leuven (Belgium) All rights reserved, including the right to translate or to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form. D/2021/0602/54 ISBN 978-90-429-3658-4 eISBN 978-90-429-3888-5

To H.Em. Mōr Gregorius Yuhanna Ibrahim, Syriac Orthodox Metropolitan of Aleppo, abducted in Syria in the year 2013

TABLE OF CONTENTS PREFACE .

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GERMAN VERSION .

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INTRODUCTION: HISTORIOGRAPHY ABOUT HISTORIOGRAPHY .

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CHAPTER I. STATE OF RESEARCH – AIMS OF THE INQUIRY . . . . 1. Edessa 1897 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. ‘A valuable collection of material’ . . . . . . . . 3. Research perspectives . . . . . . . . . . . .

7 7 11 14

PREFACE

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TO THE

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CHAPTER II. APPROACH TO UNIVERSAL HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX TRADITION . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Historical premises: Eastern Christians . . . . . . 2. Historiographical conditions: Christian world chronography and ecclesiastical historiography . . . . . . a. Chronicle: definition of the concept . . . . . . b. Beyond the ‘horrible wide grave’: the inventions of Eusebius of Caesarea . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Universal historiography in the Syriac Orthodox tradition a. Survey . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . b. Discussion . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHAPTER III. PATRIARCH MŌR MICHAEL RABBŌ AND HIS TIME . . 1. Scope of the chapter, remarks on the sources . . . . 2. The world on the threshold of the 12th century from Michael’s perspective . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Antioch – Edessa – Melitene – Amid . . . . . . . 4. The Syriac Orthodox Church in crisis . . . . . . . 5. The candidate of the reformers: Raban Michael and the great deeds of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō . . . . . . . . . 6. Michael I, Patriarch of Antioch: a methodological problem 7. Investiture, programme, realization . . . . . . . 8. An honoured man: the first years . . . . . . . . 9. Parte a se . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10. Limits of power . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

19 19 27 27 33 39 39 43 49 49 52 56 63 67 74 78 81 89 93

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11. 12. 13. 14.

The meeting with Qilij Arslān II: sign of change?. . . 97 Schism . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99 Mōr Michael – learned contemporary, collector and artist 105 Sōbō Qaddīšō . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 112

CHAPTER IV. TEXTUAL CRITICISM, SOURCES AND LINGUISTIC FORM IN MICHAEL. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Survey of the structure of the chronicle’s text . . . . 2. Date . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3. Dealing with sources: aspects of Michael’s conception of history . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 4. Criteria of the selection of sources and excerpts – a methodological problem . . . . . . . . . . . . . 5. Interim findings . . . . . . . . . . . . . . CHAPTER V. ‘CHRONOGRAPHIC’: GRAPHIC ASPECTS OF MICHAEL’S HISTORICAL METHOD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1. Chabot’s copy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . a. Chabot’s copy and facsimile . . . . . . . . . b. The model for Chabot’s copy: Michael bar Barṣawmō c. The model for Michael bar Barṣawmō: Moses of Mardin. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2. Graphic elements . . . . . . . . . . . . . a. Structure, text block, glosses. . . . . . . . . b. Graphics and numbers . . . . . . . . . . . c. Page layout, columnar system, canon . . . . . . d. Appendices . . . . . . . . . . . . . . e. Production and script . . . . . . . . . . . 3. ‘Chronographic’. . . . . . . . . . . . . . a. The archetype: Jacob of Edessa. . . . . . . . b. The original of Michael’s chronicle . . . . . .

115 115 119 121 134 136

139 139 140 141 143 145 145 148 150 163 165 167 167 178

CHAPTER VI. ASPECTS OF HISTORICAL THOUGHT IN MICHAEL: COMPARISONS AND CONTEXTS . . . . . . . . . . . 181 1. Patriarch Michael and Patriarch Dionysios († 845): origin and succession of the Church, the end of the world . . 181 2. Patriarch Michael and Maphrian Bar ‘Ebrōyō († 1286): succession and origin of the empires . . . . . . . 191

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3. Querelles d’histoire – Michael’s conception of history as work on and in reality . . . . . . . . . . . . a. Who are the Syrians and why do they not have kings? b. Who drives the course of history? . . . . . . . 4. Dionysios bar Ṣalībī and Michael: the teacher’s plan . . CONCLUSION .

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202 205 214 229

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LIST OF QUOTED MANUSCRIPTS .

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BIBLIOGRAPHY . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 1. Sources . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 247 2. Studies . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 256 INDEX .

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PREFACE

First of all I would like to thank M. Paul Peeters to have consented to the publication of a translation. Andrea Schmidt mediated the permission and thus was once again instrumental in the publication of this book. Thanks to Herman Teule and Heleen Murre-van den Berg, the work now appears as a volume in the East Christian Studies Series. I alone am to blame for the fact that the revision of the translation by Anthony Runia took much more time than I could have wished for, and it would have been impossible without Adam Knobler and Thomas Palmer. However, why should one publish the translation of a thesis that is 17 years old in the first place? Friendly encouragement by friends who want to use it in class set aside: Indeed, there are good reasons against it, which I feel acutely today. I was of a different temperament at the time, and I felt the need to confront a deep rooted strand of Orientalism (and Medievalism) in this field of research. Today I am less contentious, while the attitudes towards Syriac works of the medieval period is much more positive thanks to the great achievements of the generation of Syriac scholars represented by Sebastian Brock and others. Much important research on the history of Syriac historiography has been published that was not available to me in the late 90s, when I wrote my doctoral thesis. Apart from the pioneer studies by Ludger Bernhard, Witold Witakowski, Jan J. van Ginkel and Susan Ashbrook Harvey there were hardly any in-depth analyses of the method and the aims of Syriac chroniclers. To them my work was deeply indebted. At the same time, my questions grew out of Medieval studies, the discipline in which the thesis was submitted and in which I still am employed. From here I took my theoretical and methodological training and from here I took some examples for comparison like an old English rotulus, the chronicles of Gervasius of Canterbury or of Otto of Freising that may seem far fetched to scholars of Syriac Studies. The debate on Latin Medieval chronography and chronicles has also moved far beyond the state of the late 90s, as reflected by the conferences of the ‘Medieval Chronicles Society’ and by the ‘Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle’, in which also Eastern Christian, Jewish and Muslim chronicles are featured and which indeed shows the great geographical expansion and transcultural importance of this way of writing about the past.

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PREFACE

It is true, when I started research for the thesis in 1996, studies of Latin chronography had already ceased denunciating medieval historical works as naive and unoriginal compilations. However, the proposition that an individual chronicler approached his (or only exceptionally her) task in a reflected manner was not as yet taken for granted, which was even less the case in Byzantine studies. Here, the phantom of the ‘monks’ chronicle’ as a general category for medieval historiography despised by the classical philologists, was still lurking about. I am thankful for my conversations with the Byzantinist Dietrich R. Reinsch, whose approach encouraged me to follow my research plan. The need to carefully prove the argumentation in order not to raise suspicions of groundless speculation and over-interpretation of the text might explain the at times lengthy derivations of my arguments, some of which may seem redundant today. The German and the international situation of Aramean speaking Christians has also changed. While questions of identity and nomenclature are still vibrant and controversial, they shifted since then. Here, again, I hope my comments are read in their own historical context. Thus there would have been good reasons to adapt my argumentation to present day perspectives or rather to leave it altogether as as new book on Michael was beyond my capacities. On the other hand, it seems to me at the same time that the German debate on the form and the practise of writing Christian chronicles was rarely taken up by the English writing scholars of Syriac historiography. Especially Anna Dorothee von den Brincken’s research was a most inspiring source of knowledge and methodological orientation for me. She has published on medieval historiography since her own doctoral dissertation on Otto of Freising in the year 1956. Her works on the chronicle by Martin of Troppau (Opava) provided me with the initial idea that the layout of Michael’s chronicle might also have been distorted by the scribes and with some clues on how to reconstruct the original. Also very relevant to me were the works by Franz Josef Schmale, Gert Melville and Hans-Werner Goetz. Indeed, I found some repetitions of problems in English works, which had been dealt with success decades ago in German publications. Thus it seems to me that some pioneers of the history of medieval historiography deserve more international credit than they have enjoyed until now. While my bibliography and the summary of the state of research might introduce the reader to German scholarship, it lacks the important range of Russian scholarly studies on Michael, on his sources and on Syriac historiography in general. This is an important downside painful

PREFACE

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to me that cannot be amended here. Luckily, these works are listed in international online bibliographies and can be much more easily followed up today. The decisive reason for the publication was the fact that my suggestions on Michael’s methods to work with sources and to arrange the material on the page, on his theology of history and on the intended practical function of his chronicle are unchallenged or unnoticed. This is also the case with my comments on the history of Syriac historiography in general and on the chronicles of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē and Bar ʻEbrōyō in particular. Thus it may not be entirely gratuitous to repeat them in the wider international frame. Therefore, I eventually decided to let the text stand as it was, when it was first published in the year 2003. I only added new research on Syriac historiography and on Michael in the footnotes, emended obvious mistakes and deleted or commented on some overtly outdated remarks of mine. Another reason to keep the text was the wish of Paul Peeters, who had rather not see the German version as obsolete. Readers of German may find new literature here but may still use the original text. To be faithful to my own horizon and for practical reasons I documented the facsimile edition of Michael’s chronicle, yet I did not adapt the footnotes but kept the references to the edition of Jean-Baptiste Chabot with which I had worked at the time. The page numbers can easily be found with the concordance by Sebastian Brock. Likewise, the new translations of chronicles (especially by Moosa, Talon and Wilmshurst) are documented, but the references are kept to the translations I had in front of my eyes. The study still breathes the air of the years before the catastrophic destruction of Syria and Iraq and of a Christian world which, at that time, even gave rise to optimism for the common future of our complex religious realities. Now this all has gone. I find no appropriate words for my grief for death and destruction of this world so dear to me in my youth, to which I have been privileged to be invited as a guest — and thus follow the chroniclers of the past, who expressed the ultimate limit of historiography in the deep sadness over the ruins, the violence and the suffering of our world. Berlin, September 2017

PREFACE TO THE GERMAN VERSION

The present study is a revision of Michael the Great’s chronographic work. After the conclusion of my investigation new questions arose, which have not yet been treated here. Therefore, this book aspires to serve as an impulse for further studies and for interdisciplinary communication: This thesis wants to call for an opening and an expansion of the horizon of historiographical research. By including the works of the Christian East in the debate about medieval historiography, historiographical research could grasp the conditionality of Christian historical thought in general. Organizational traditions in our field of research which conserve the conception of a dichotomy between Christian Occident and Muslim Orient have, up to now, obscured the view of the entire Orbis Christianus. Yet the conversations I had in recent years, and the willingness for interdisciplinary dialogue I experienced, are an encouraging sign that such a perspective could indeed be possible. For this, I would like to express my heartfelt thanks. This study is a slightly revised version of my doctoral dissertation, submitted to the Friedrich-Meinecke-Institut at the Freie Universität Berlin in July 1999. The defense of the dissertation was held in February 2000. In December 2001, it received the Ernst Reuter award for being one of the four best dissertations submitted at the Freie Universität Berlin in the year 2000. It was supervised by my academic teacher Prof. Dr. Dr. h.c. Kaspar Elm, who encouraged me with his openness towards interdisciplinarity and has given me his staunch, long-time support. Prof. Dr. Lucas Van Rompay spontaneously took over the second report and became my second supervisor. It is he and Prof. Dr. Andrea Schmidt whom I have to thank for the possibility of publishing this study in the frame of the Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium. The ‘German Academic Scholarship Foundation’ and Martin and Doris Weltecke supported this endeavor through their financial support and intellectual encouragement. All who met him know that Prof. Dr. Dr. Hubert Kaufhold, once asked for advice, will untiringly contribute his suggestions and criticisms. The same is true for Dr. Bernd Michael. Prof. Dr. Rudolf Hiestand and Prof. Dr. Ralph-Johannes Lilie also guided me with numerous hints and critical reading. I wish also to thank Dr. Sebastian Brock for his hospitality during my visit to Oxford in 1997.

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PREFACE TO THE GERMAN VERSION

My fellow students in the informal research group, Monika Costard, Michael Denève, Dr. Nikolas Jaspert, Dr. Johannes Pahlitzsch and Dr. Carmen von Samson-Himmelstjerna know best themselves what I owe to their support. I also want to thank Rüdiger Becker, Jörg Feuchter, Dr. Jan van Ginkel, Dr. Mischa Meier, Prof. Dr. Hartmut Leppin, Gabriel Rabo, Hidemi Takashi and Theo Weissenburger for their advice and their proofreading. Without the mediation and generosity of H.Em. the Metropolitan of Aleppo, Mōr Yuhanna Ibrahim, it would not have been possible to publish pages of the Aleppean Manuscript here, before the release of the hopefully soon realized facsimile edition. This study was finally supported by the organisational assistance of the Syriac Orthodox community of Antioch in Berlin. I am thankful in particular to the subdeacons Malpōnō Amill Gorgis and Malpōnō Murat Üzel for their willingness to share their cultural and religious knowledge, to let me take part in their Syriac classes, and to introduce me to the religious life of their community. To them and to my Assyrian fellow student in Semitic studies, Dr. Helen Younansardaroud, who have together worked patiently and thoroughly on the restructuring of my mental map, I want to dedicate this study.

INTRODUCTION

HISTORIOGRAPHY ABOUT HISTORIOGRAPHY

Under every gravestone lies a history of the world.1 For the protagonist of this book, Michael the Great (1126-1199), this is doubly true, since he studied world history in depth and detail. Eight hundred years ago he took his view with him when he died. What has remained is a material vestige of his endeavours — his book, a monumental history of the world from the creation to the year 1195.2 It floated onto the banks of our time by chance, flotsam and jetsam detached from its context and swept along by the tide of history. We can assume that it was not written for our eyes. For whom it was written is an open question. Why it was written has barely been asked. This leads to the central questions that will determine the shape of our analysis. Firstly, we will seek to shed light on this world chronicle in various contexts: what were the social and intellectual conditions under which it was written in the 12th century? To what historiographical tradition does it belong? Secondly, we will describe the form of the chronicle and examine its content with the aim of developing answers to the following questions: what was the author’s conception of the past? In his view, what order does it follow and why should it be written down? Source-critical research already provides sufficient, if incomplete, knowledge about the material that makes up this book. It has, furthermore, adequately demonstrated the book’s usefulness for establishing historical facts. Indeed, it would be hard to find a humanities library in Europe which does not hold it in translation at least. The work, then, has long been part of the conceptual apparatus available to European readers. For this reason alone an investigation into the forms and aims of this

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Heinrich Heine, Reisebilder, Chap. 67. ‘Up till this year, which is the year 1506, locusts [devoured] the grain and the grapes, from the borders of Egypt to Iberia and from Persia to the Black Sea, and a large qpīzō (= donkey-load) of corn worth 16 dinars fell due to the sultan. And in the same year 1506 the Lord of Edessa, who is Malik ‘Adil (= al-Malik al-‛Ādil), issued an order, and the ringing of the bells was stopped in the churches of Edessa, and this worried all Christians. God have mercy. The end’, Michael, C 738 (III, 413). The Seleucid calendar is used, 1 = 1 October 312 BCE. 2

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INTRODUCTION

historiography is timely. The results presented here should also prepare the ground for further source-critical analysis of the chronicle. The historical situation in which the chronicle was written is what Western historiography remembers as the world of the crusades. But this world is sought in vain in Michael’s world chronicle. Its viewpoint is the Near East, the place of the ancient Near Eastern kingdoms, of Greece and Persia, of the Roman and Islamic empires. From the author’s perspective, the crusader states were a phenomenon that irrupted from outside and disappeared again. Because he reported knowledgeably on this world, his account, despite its relative unpopularity, is enthusiastically exploited by historians as a goldmine for questions of ecclesiastical and Middle Eastern history. The author was a Syrian Christian. The vanishing point which structured his perspective was the Syriac Orthodox Church3 and its highest office: from 1166 to 1199 Michael the Great was ‘Patriarch of the Apostolic See of Antioch of Syria’.4 His area of jurisdiction, claimed to be ‘greater Asia, which begins at the eastern border of Adria and extends to the eastern ends of the living world’, comprised in practice the area from North Mesopotamia to the Idumaean Desert and from Cilicia to Azerbaijan.5 Since the 11th century its population was once again enjoying a level of prosperity and cultural ascendancy which afforded the Church a certain luxury as well, and can still be gauged today from the heightened activities in this period. Lasting into the 13th century, this phase is therefore usually referred to as ‘the Syrian Renaissance’, though it bears no resemblance to the Western Renaissance and its specific relationship with classical antiquity.6 This period is also characterized by profound changes in the political system, and by disruptions of cultural structures, which contemporaries felt to be critical. Against this background the patriarch wrote his chronicle. It became the most extensive work of history produced by the Syriac Orthodox Church. The language used is Classical Syriac, a language belonging to the Eastern Aramaic branch of the Northwest Semitic languages.7 As a spoken language it survives today in pockets of Middle Eastern learning, 3 Thus the official designation. In the 12th century we find remarks which make it a source-concept for this period, cf. the references by Barsaum: s.a., esp. 11. 4 Cf. Ms. BM Add. 12,177, 290b or Wright: 1872, 58. 5 Cf. the historical map in Kawerau: 1960 or Michael, C 411 (II, 414). 6 Syriac Renaissance: 2010. 7 Voigt: 1987.

INTRODUCTION

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and is an object of study on the fringes of European and American philology. However, Classical Syriac was not always peripheral, since it was the language of Middle Eastern Christianity, the language of science and the language of missionaries from Ethiopia to China. By the 12th century it had long lost this general importance. Using it in written form already implied a cultural, political and religious statement. Apart from a few remnants, Michael’s world was washed away: lost now are the cities with vineyards, parks and fountains, and the magnificent churches from the early centuries of Christianity; the powerful and well-fortified monasteries on precipitous cliffs over the Euphrates, and many ancient libraries and famous schools. This world is not easy to approach from a European point of view, where daily concerns are distant from, and historical self-understanding untouched by any memory of it. Utmost caution is required in order not to damage the fragile remains, to allow them to narrate a life that is hard to imagine today in the face of the deserted regions between Lake Van and the Taurus Mountains, or the provincial towns of Malatya, Antakya and Urfa in present-day Southeast Turkey. The inquiry therefore progresses from the familiar to the strange, starting from the chronicle’s modern reception, and including this viewpoint in its considerations. Both Michael’s and today’s historical writing should be thought of here as approaches determined by specific conditions. They should be compared as equals, without making valuejudgements. Our considerations converge on their object from multiple directions, and ultimately from an analysis of the earliest manuscript, which, as we shall see, is not original. From here we will try to explore Michael’s historical world of thought and to pursue some of its paths. Throughout we will keep in mind that, although the person of Michael is not fictitious, it is a historiographical construction based on incomplete evidence. This construction could have turned out otherwise. Yet the process has not been an arbitrary one. These exercises in mental projection should therefore be experiments, conducted under defined conditions, which may help us to develop and to test possible constructions and explanations. They should not be misunderstood as historical ‘empathy’. The expectation is rather that new insights into this chronicle, which has already attained such great importance as a source, will allow mental landscapes to emerge which have thus far remained hidden in the shadows. The fact is that overly selfassured readings have been more concerned with the confirmation of cultural superiority than with the medieval model.

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INTRODUCTION

We should add that, as an object of the history of historiography, Michael’s chronicle must be handled with great caution. A contextualization within Middle Eastern Muslim and Christian forms of historical writing in general cannot be achieved here: the foundations for the history of historiography have not been laid for the Muslim, let alone for the related Christian writing of history. Each one of the great Christian Arabic or Armenian works of history, for instance, also requires thorough investigation.8 Further risks are due to the fact that this study cannot concern itself with disciplinary boundaries without having mastered all the adjacent disciplines. The investigation is rooted in the methods of the medieval European science of history, and approaches the object from there. This cannot replace an approach to Michael’s chronicle from the perspective of Near Eastern studies proper. Such an examination can, however, introduce lines of inquiry from its own perspective and try to make them fruitful for this object. The resulting inadequacies will have to be accepted, for if Michael’s chronicle represents a place where many philological and historical disciplines might cross paths, they have failed, so far, to form more than a passing acquaintance. What is the point of such an investigation? Historiography is concerned with the remains and evidence of important human activities. It decides on the importance of these activities according to its cultural conditions and the direction of its interests and questions. The writing of history is itself one of these activities that have left evidence behind, and which for its part therefore requires an explanation. In a double sense it does not go without saying. But surely it is a basic human need to secure the past by writing history? Precisely this has turned out to be an error. Rather historiography is an unpredictable guest; every historian in search of information knows this to his cost. And even those who claim this have never proved that its existence admits of conclusions about the apex of civilization, or even about hierarchical relationships with other civilizations. Sure enough, historiography is part of our cultural memory.9 Certainly, historical writing draws some of its energy, criteria and material from there. But at the same time historiography produces these elements itself. We do not know enough about the conditions which provoke or do not provoke historiography. 8 Since 2003 many individual chronicles have been studied, see Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle: 2010; Conterno: 2014; Debié: 2015. 9 Assmann: 1992.

INTRODUCTION

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Perhaps the desire to fit into a larger temporal framework, beyond the two personal boundaries of birth and death, is a historically constant phenomenon. That cannot be decided here. But as just one of many methods of writing about the past, historiography is not necessary for this. Regarding Michael’s historical work, we will moreover see that it cannot perform the various modern-day tasks attributed to it, like mission, edification, or salvation history, as brilliantly as one would necessarily have to conclude if these had been its functions. Michael’s work is a representation of universal history with a Christian provenance. It is thereby located in a supraregional and intercultural tradition which connects European and Middle Eastern historiography. This tradition did not have an abstract concept of history, but, instead, of historical writing and histories, taš‘yōtō, of memories and recollections, ‘uhdōnē, and of accounts of actions, šarbē. In order to avoid anachronistic displacement, therefore, we will refrain from using the term ‘history’ as an abstract concept. The Christian writing of universal historiography, on the other hand, did possess a concrete notion of everything that happens. It saw a world in God’s hands and an irreversible historical process, structured by specific, partly canonical elements, in which God is active. Consequently, it fundamentally attributed an order to all events: threaded on the timeline, they were strung between the two poles of the Creation and the Last Judgement. A condition for this historiography was hence a certain relation to events, their evidence and time, or, more precisely, to the times, to their reciprocal definition and interpretation. It is therefore called time-writing or description of the times, maktbōnūtō d-zabnē, chronography. Apparently it was possible to create a synthesis between theoretical or religious assumptions about the direction and ordering of events, written testimonies of long-deceased people, personal experiences and specific, calculable points in time. Otherwise a kind of writing that connects these elements could not have occurred. If this was possible, but at the same time neither an obvious nor a widespread activity, was it perhaps occasionally to be aspired to? And why? Time and again, when we consider Michael’s chronicle, its peculiar familiarity and strangeness, we see what a singular business historical writing is. Its usefulness is not always selfevident. The historical truth cannot always be established. What kind of truth can be found at all is always an open question. The methods are controversial and the material inaccessible. Anyone who nevertheless gets involved in this business may have too much time on his hands — or a motive after all.

CHAPTER I

STATE OF RESEARCH — AIMS OF THE INQUIRY 1. EDESSA 1897 European scholarship learnt about the existence of a chronicle by Michael the Great only in the 19th century. As a historical person he had been rediscovered in the early Modern Age, if not in fact earlier: since the 16th century the Vatican Library had possessed the Arabic version of a creed by Michael.1 But there was never any talk about his historical work. That is actually surprising, since the book is clearly mentioned in Joseph Assemani’s Bibliotheca Orientalis, though not at the right place, under Caput XXXI ‘Michael Magnus Patriarcha’,2 but in a quotation from Gregory, called Bar ʻEbrōyō (1228-1288), a fellow countryman of Michael’s. He wrote some 80 years after Michael and owes much of his knowledge to Michael’s work, to which he refers in his foreword.3 The significance of this remark seems to have escaped Assemani. The point was also missed by Michel Le Quien, despite his thorough reading of the Bibliotheca Orientalis.4 After Assemani, Michaelis reprinted the foreword in his chrestomathy.5 When part of the chronicle of Bar ʻEbrōyō was published in Leipzig in 1789, the foreword was once again available.6 It was not until Armenian versions of Michael’s chronicle reached European libraries in the 18th century that scholarship became aware of the existence of such a work. They were first published in partial French translations by Édouard Dulaurier in the Journal Asiatique in 1848 and in the Recueil des Historiens des Croisades in 1869.7 In 1868 Victor Langlois brought out a complete French translation of an Armenian version.8 1

Vat. Bib. Ms. ar. 83. Cf. Della Vida: 1939, 212-213. Assemani: 1721, 154. 3 Assemani: 1721, 312-313. 4 Le Quien: 1740, 1389-1391. 5 Michaelis: 21786. 6 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP (Bruns/Kirsch). 7 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Dulaurier: 1848-9), Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Dulaurier: 1869). 8 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), recently reprinted Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv 2(Langlois). On these versions see below 50-52. 2

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CHAPTER I

A somewhat earlier complete Latin translation seems never to have been published.9 The Syriac original had to be regarded as lost, which was generally regretted. Arthur Vööbus, an eminent Aramaic scholar of the 20th century, had what was presumably a surprising experience for him as an old man in Aleppo in 1984: Archbishop Dionysios was very kind and gave me permission to photograph documents which I needed; however, the council of the church overruled his decision, creating a very painful situation. I was permitted to see the manuscripts but the council members were sitting around me and followed my every move. These people had not yet forgotten their deep resentment caused by Prof. J.B. Chabot who had broken their trust in Edessa as I was told.10

What had happened? At the end of the 1880s an Oriental prelate travelled to Europe with a manuscript in his luggage — a copy of the Syriac version of Michael’s chronicle.11 In 1889 the Italian scholar Ignazio Guidi announced this discovery: Il patriarca siro-giacobita Michele I (n. 1126, † 1199) è autore di una Cronica, dalla creazione fino ai suoi tempi, preziosa per più riguardi e nominatamente per aver conservato frammenti di autori ora perduti.

Its discoverer was Bishop Aphrem Rabbula Rahmani — the later Syrian Catholic Patriarch Ignatius Aphrem II — who dopo lunghe e indefesse ricerche, è riuscito a ritrovare in Oriente il testo originale della Cronica di Michele Siro, e, quel che era forse ancora più difficile, ad averne una copia esatta.12

In 1894 the Société Asiatique in Paris decided to publish this chronicle as a text and in translation. It appointed Rubens Duval as leader of the project, who was to maintain contact with the prelate.13 In 1899 the annual report of the Académie des Inscriptions et BellesLettres again announced the discovery of a manuscript. This time the discovery was claimed by Jean-Baptiste Chabot (1860-1948), who up till 9

Cf. Langlois: 1868, 8. Vööbus: 1985, 481, no. 19. 11 Ms. dated, 2199 AM = 1888 CE, copyist Gabriel b. Abda Iaḥad, today Lebanon, Scharfeh, Fonds Patriarcal no. 283, cf. Sony: 1993, no. 173, 52 (kindly pointed out by H. Kaufhold). 12 Guidi: 1889, 167. Guidi could evidently work with this manuscript and publish from it, cf. Guidi: 1891. Chabot’s later accusation that the prelate kept the manuscript under lock and key is thus untenable, cf. below Nau: 1905. On the manuscript, see also id.: 1896. 13 Société Asiatique: 1894. 10

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then had not played any public role of significance. A priest since 1885, he obtained his doctor’s degree in theology in Louvain in 1892 and concluded a program of Semitic studies in 1894.14 Regarding his discovery he announced that on visiting Europe Rahmani had failed to disclose the place where the original was held, and had never kept his promise to publish it despite several initial attempts. ‘Prévoyant ce résultat, je n’ai cessé depuis cinq ans de rechercher et de faire rechercher en Orient le manuscrit original de la Chronique.’15 It is hard to imagine how the newly qualified scholar of Near Eastern studies could have foreseen such an outcome. In 1897 Chabot achieved his goal. The chronicle was in a Syrian Orthodox library in Edessa. After some fascicles of Chabot’s chronicle had appeared, a public exchange of words took place in 1905. Statements by Chabot had provoked the irritation of the Parisian scholar François Nau, who may have wielded his pen in his own interest, but wrote above all on behalf of Ignatius Aphrem II.16 Nau, himself a member of the Société and therefore an interested party, accused Chabot of meddling in the negotiations between the Société and the prelate, with clear intentions: ‘Ou vous accepterez mes conditions, ou je commencerai par vous déconsidérer en disant que vous ne faites rien et ne pouvez rien faire … et ensuite je vous supplanterai.’17 In fact nothing more is heard of Rubens Duval, who had been commissioned by the Société to lead the project: it had passed into the care of the Académie. Nau saw only one advantage to Chabot’s claims, namely that they had prompted the prelate to give his version of the events. Rahmani reported that he had made Chabot’s acquaintance in 1893. When he realized that Chabot would try to deceive him, he broke off the correspondence. Meanwhile he was halfway through his examination of the manuscript. He had started to prepare publication at printing works in Aleppo which he himself wanted to establish. Unexpectedly, however, Chabot had surfaced in the Orient. And thus Rahmani lost the race, since Chabot had more resources at his disposal.18

14

Faure: 1959, 195. Chabot: 1899, 477. A discovery of the Ms. by Chabot has the support of Parisot: 1900, 322, Vööbus, Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 79 etc. 16 Nau: 1905. I thank H. Kaufhold for drawing attention to this dispute. 17 Nau: 1905, 436. Nau continued to treat Rahmani as the discoverer of the chronicle, cf. Nau: 1906. To my knowledge, he was the only one to emphasize this repeatedly. 18 Nau: 1905, 436. 15

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Fifty years after becoming acquainted with Ignatius Aphrem II, and more than thirty years after the appearance of the last fascicle, Chabot still seems to have been a controversial figure. His friends, he said, had persuaded him finally to clear his name. At their insistence he published the true circumstances of many of his manuscript finds in a booklet which appeared in 1947 under the title ‘Mes chroniques’.19 Chabot describes how in the East, despite Rahmani’s opposition, he had tried to determine the place where the chronicle was kept. His success in obtaining a copy, for all Rahmani’s threats of sanctions, was due to his financial resources and the help of two Syriac Orthodox priests. A young fellow was employed to check the copy. He was also given the job of smuggling the copy to Paris, which he managed to do in two batches using suitcases with false bottoms, though he did get into trouble himself. Chabot seems to have assumed that this account sheds a positive light on his conduct. Since 1924 the Syriac Orthodox congregation of Edessa has resided in Aleppo and guarded its treasure more closely.20 Thanks to the friendly assistance of Sebastian Brock, this investigation was based on examination of the microfilm, which today may be checked against the excellent facsimile published by George A. Kiraz.21 For the illustrations presented here, however, I am grateful for the photos originally provided by H.Em. Mōr Gregorius Yuhanna Ibrahim in the year 2000.22 As regards Chabot’s copy, it is clear that it was written in haste and secrecy, since barely two years passed between the first negotiations and the publication of the first fascicle. It is also evident that the editor never had the opportunity to test the quality of his copy. Since its publication, Michael’s chronicle was usually paraphrased rather than quoted verbatim. The reason for this is obvious: the facsimile of the copy is by no means as easy to read as Chabot announced.23 The basis for Western reception therefore became the French translation. This translation is in fact a tremendous work. But it also displays certain

19

Chabot: 1947. In St. George’s Church, untitled Ms. 21 Michael, C (Yuhanna Ibrahim). 22 Mōr Gregorius Yuhanna Ibrahim was abducted in the year 2013 and his whereabouts are still unknown. I wish to express my thanks for his support for this project and my grief on his and the fate of the community in Syria. 23 Chabot: 1899, 483. Chabot’s copy is held in the collection of the Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium, cf. de Halleux: 1987, no. 9, who provides a description. For the relation of this manuscript to the Aleppo specimen, cf. below 139-143. 20

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peculiarities. Anneliese Lüders, for instance, said about the arrangement of Michael’s work: The chapters of the work are divided into three columns, of which the first and widest deals with political history, the second with general events, like natural disasters and so on, the third with ecclesiastical history.24

This statement is wrong. It applies only to the arrangement of the translation, which imitates the structure of the original, but with adjustments. Moreover, Chabot’s translation reconstructed the lacunae. Individual words were marked with square brackets and corresponding notes; but Chabot also aspired to restore entire chapters. To this end he chiefly used the chronicle of Bar ʻEbrōyō, on the correct assumption that Bar ʻEbrōyō closely followed Michael’s chronicle. But Chabot took individual sentences out of context, changed their sequence and wording, and thus formulated a text which should in fact be regarded as his own. Though these ‘spolia’ are marked by a single-line layout and an indication of the origin of the sentences, this has often remained unnoticed by readers, who normally deal with short sections only.25 2. ‘A VALUABLE COLLECTION OF

MATERIAL’

The discovery of the Syriac original aroused high hopes as Guidi had expressed them in the year 1889. In 1899 Chabot repeated the expectations of the Western scholars, when he announced his ‘discovery’: En résumé, la Chronique de Michel le Syrien peut se partager en deux sections: une partie parle des faits contemporains de l’auteur; elle abonde en détails sur l’état politique et religieux de la Syrie au XIIe siècle. Elle fournit une importante contribution à l’histoire des croisades, principalement pour ce qui concerne le comté d’Édesse. Une autre partie, contenant l’histoire antérieure à l’écrivain, n’est à la vérité qu’une vaste compilation, mais une compilation extrêmement précieuse, car elle est formée de citations d’ouvrages qui paraissent avoir totalement péri … La publication du texte de Michel compensera dans une assez large mesure la disparition des sources originales auxquelles il a puisé.26

24

Lüders: 1964, 11, trs. AR. Cf. the translation of Michael, C I, 1-2; III, 309, no. 3 and the following pages; III, 324, no. 5; III, 336, no. 2, no. 5 etc. 26 Chabot: 1899, 483-484. 25

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This assessment, echoing an earlier remark by Langlois,27 was regularly repeated in the course of the 20th century whenever Michael’s work was characterized. And in the two directions indicated here, Michael’s work was therefore intensively utilized — so intensively that it would be easier to compile a list of titles on the history of Syriac literature, on Eastern ecclesiastical history or on the history of the crusades which did not devote attention to Michael’s chronicle. In particular the large part of the chronicle dealing with the time of the schisms up to the end of the 12th century was richly mined as a historical source. As regards Eastern ecclesiastical history, one could even say that Michael’s chronicle is one of the main witnesses. This also applies to many problems of secular history. At the same time Byzantinists, specialists for Near Eastern studies and historians have found that Michael is not always the right address for their questions.28 The sources which Michael quotes directly were another point of particular interest. The fragments of three works were studied in great depth: the Ecclesiastical History of the missionary bishop of Ephesus, John of Asia,29 the Chronicle of Jacob of Edessa, the ‘Syrian Jerome’,30 and the Chronicle of the famous patriarch Dionysios of Tel Maḥrē.31 Less intensively the later passages, too, have drawn the attention of historians, though many text-critical problems have yet to be resolved. In particular the area covering the 11th and 12th centuries should be subject to more source-critical inquiry.32 27 ‘Revenons à l’œuvre capitale de Michel, la Chronique universelle, dont nous avons fait une étude spéciale, et qui est un document précieux, tant à cause des renseignements qu’elle fournit sur l’Orient, qu’en raison des détails particuliers qu’elle nous donne sur l’époque des Croisades. … La plupart des auteurs qu’il consulta sont aujourd’hui perdus, et c’est en cela que la Chronique de Michel est précieuse, puisqu’elle nous a conservé, sinon des fragments, du moins des passages abrégés de ces écrivains, dont les noms de quelques-uns nous sont même à peine connus.’ Langlois: 1868, 8-9. 28 Cf. Cahen: 1940; Cahen: 1982; Karayannopolus/Weiß: 1982; Lilie et al.: 1998ff; Morony: 2000 discusses Michael’s significance for economic history. 29 On John of Asia, see the detailed account in van Ginkel: 1995. He provides a synopsis of preserved fragments of John, indispensable for source criticism of Michael’s chronicle. Cf. there the earlier literature on John, e.g. Altheim/Stiehl: 1958, 105, whose criticism of Chabot’s edition is very harsh: they would have preferred a transliteration of the entire chronicle. See also Harvey: 1988, 1990; Witakowski: 1991; Dickens: 2010. There are various older and newer studies on most of the sources proposed by Chabot: 1924, xxiv-xxxvii, which can be consulted via Assemani: 1721, Baumstark: 1922, Graf: 1947, Moss: 1962, Clemons: 1963 and Brock: 1973-1995/1998. Also relevant for source criticism is the literature on writers who share sources with Michael. 30 On Jacob of Edessa, see below 173-177. 31 The work of Dionysios of Tel Maḥrē has been lost. For details, see below 181-191. 32 Baumstark: 1922, 293-294; Benner: 1989; Suermann: 1992; Dickens: 2006; Spinei: 2013; Hoyland: 2011; Debié: 2015.

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Chabot was already disappointed to conclude that Michael does not directly quote late classical texts about which it was hoped he would provide information.33 This applies, for instance, to the Chronicle by Eusebius of Caesarea. Chabot’s surmise of indirect use was confirmed in 1927 by Paul Keseling in an extensive study on the Syriac reception of Eusebius.34 The same goes for other late classical authors.35 But even the indirectly quoted passages contained fragments of texts not otherwise preserved.36 After a hundred years of text and source criticism we can draw the following picture: Michael’s chronicle seems to be a truly variegated but also a ‘valuable collection of material’, as Wolfgang Hage put it in 1992.37 The quarry appears to be far from exhausted, and excavation continues apace to this day. Irfan Shahīd proposed a new edition of the text which would literally blast it to pieces: its three-column system, consisting of ecclesiastical, secular and ‘miscellaneous’ history, should be split up, ‘and secular should be separated from ecclesiastical history, a separation that will facilitate the use of the Chronicle and will conduce to clarity of presentation and comprehension.’38 This proposal follows consistently from the prevailing research interests. The complete chronicle as an important work by an individual author has not been investigated since Langlois and Chabot; a monograph has 33

Chabot: 1924, i-lx, on the sources xxiv-xxxvii. Keseling: 1927-1928. On Eusebius, see below 33-39. 35 For Josephus, Julius Africanus, cf. Gelzer: 1898, 440-458. Regarding Gelzer’s analysis we should note that he did not yet have the Syriac version, which angered him, p. 432: ‘The Syriac original exists, but is sadly inaccessible, since its possessor, a Chaldean bishop, who took it to Rome, has dragged it back to his homeland. [I] have been assured that he is a learned man and intends to publish the chronicle himself. Naturally I am unable to verify these statements.’ For Serruys: 1913, whose research focuses on the chronicle of Eliya of Nisibis, which is fundamental to the source criticism of Michael’s work, cf. below 33-39. 36 Brock: 1968. Nau: 1897. Nau did not use the Syriac text but an Arabic translation, present in London BM Ms. Or. 4402. Guidi: 1891, whose basis was Rahmani’s copy. Van Roey: 1980, cf. id. 1979. Shahīd: 1993; id. 1998. Likewise indirectly, Michael’s chronicle became witness to a source shared by several Syriac, Arabic and Greek historical works, including Theophanes’ Chronicle: Buk: 1905; substantial and detailed: Proudfood: 1974; cf. Conrad: 1990; in the same vein Hoyland: 1991. Source-critically updated is Conrad: 1992, also Lilie et al.: 1998, 232-233. Very early on Theophilos of Edessa was discussed in connection with the common source, cf. Brooks: 1906, who identified Theophilos’ work as a world chronicle; cf. Becker: 1912. This is disputed: a reconstruction of the source is supplied by Hoyland: 1997, 631-671, who also offers a thorough reappraisal of the older literature. Ter-Minassiantz: 1904, 178-197. Benner: 1989, 25-33; Conterno: 2014. 37 Hage: 1992 (Michael), 711. 38 Shahīd: 1993, 502. This was incidentally the method of the modern Arabic translator. 34

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CHAPTER I

never been published. The apparent assumption here is that Michael’s chronicle developed more or less involuntarily, resulted accidentally from the material, and reflects at most the author’s materially or intellectually limited powers of investigation. It goes without saying that the breadth of his horizon depended on the range of sources at his disposal.39 Yet the debate over the lost historical works is increasingly characterized by a realization quite relevant to our inquiry: Michael edited his sources.40 3. RESEARCH PERSPECTIVES It seems that, although the edition and translation of the Syriac text established Chabot’s scholarly reputation,41 it did not contribute to a particularly high regard for the author himself. Mikō’īl Rabbō,42 who was called ‘Michael the Great’ in 18th and 19th century publications,43 lost this honorary name towards the end of the 19th century. Since then he has usually been referred to as ‘the First’, ‘the Elder’ or ‘the Syrian’. Formally speaking, all alternatives are possible.44 Clearly the times were not exactly favourable for retaining the title ‘the Great’:45 around the turn of the century Christian chronography, whether written in Latin, Greek or Syriac, did not enjoy a high reputation. We can recall, for instance, Krumbacher’s statements about the Byzantine ‘monk’s chronicle’, as he called it, which frankly express the personal irritation of a reader, schooled in the elegance of the classical languages, about the impertinence he was subjected to.46 We can also 39 Schmale: 1978 or id.: 1985, 19-27; 85-105. A new attempt to say something about the content of the mostly lost Syriac Orthodox libraries and their catalogues is undertaken by Van Rompay: 2000, esp. 41ff. 40 Van Ginkel: 1995; 1998; 2005; 2010; Yousif: 2002. For Michael’s work on his sources, see below 115-138. 41 Cf. Chabot: 1910, 1, who cites this work first, though chronologically it is not the first publication. Otherwise the list follows a chronological order. 42 This is his epithet in e.g. Ms. BM Or. 4402, 1b. 43 Cf. above Assemani: 1721, 312-313, Wright: 1872, 1309, Langlois: 1868 in the title. 44 Payne Smith: 1879-1901, 3782-3784. 45 Apparently the name originates with Wright: 1894, 250, though he did not intend it as a translation of rabbō. That idea was first proposed by Tisserant: 1929, 1714. 46 Krumbacher: 1897, 220. The first to protest was Beck: 1965. Cf. also Ljubarski: 1987; Mango: 1988; Whitby: 1992; Ljubarsky: 1993. On the ‘question of narrativization’ id. 1994. Ljubarsky has firmly opposed approaches to the Byzantine chronicles which focus exclusively on historical motifs or on source criticism, because, by confining themselves to a dissection of the text into sources and sources of sources, they divorce the chronicles from their author and his intentions.

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point to remarks by one of his readers, which are quoted here by way of illustration because they refer to Syrian chronicles: Just as a river, which flowed broadly and mightily in blessed meadows, half dries up in the desert, half spreads out into the swamp, so historiography, which fully and powerfully comprehends life, gradually thickened into the desolate peat bog of Christian chronography. Instead of flashes of genius, fickle jack-o’-lanterns of wavering dogmas flicker, the storms of fanaticism flare from afar; marvellous flowers of gloriously colourful legends shoot upwards on the banks of the bog …. The judgement of science can leave no doubt. A history of Christian chronography is a contribution to the history of error. In narrating pre-Christian events the history-writing monks and bishops are governed by number games and random constructions, in describing the imperial era and representing their own age they are led by ecclesiastical censorship and fanaticism. Moreover, neither the language nor the spirit of these chroniclers is to be praised; their style is poor and uniform, original thoughts are rarely ventured, form and content usually depend on predecessors. The individual disappears, a barren, ossified kind of person stamps all the works of this school with the same imprint of dreary mediocrity.47

Albrecht Wirth therefore regrets the great historical influence which Christian chronography, proceeding from Syria and Egypt, exerted on Europe, and actually holds it responsible for certain political problems of his day.48 It is remarkable how precisely Wirth described elements of method, questions of content, authorship and readership and the linguistic character of Christian chronicles. But clearly it was not a climate in which a work like Michael’s chronicle could have been warmly received. The reasons for this are obvious and well known: a historical science, which had developed modern theoretical and methodological principles, adapted self-confidently to the contemporary conception of scientific precision, and hence rejected previous historiographical starting-points as inadequate and superseded. But we see a further element, which stops us from lightly dismissing this anachronistic attitude: when the chroniclers were described as ‘uncritical’, ‘irrational’ or ‘subjective’, this was not because they were regarded altogether as incompetent. The modern reader mainly objected to their understanding of how reality is constituted. Wirth, for instance, explicitly called the history of Christian chronography a history of error. He thus referred to the specific theory or rather the theology of historical 47 48

Wirth: 1894: iii-iv, trs. AR. Ibid.

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writing. Their truth or error was neither established nor confuted by historical method. Nevertheless, results, method, metahistory and historical thought have not hitherto been sufficiently differentiated. As a result, criticism of historiography has often remained anachronistic and imprecise. We know that, despite these obstacles, scholars became interested in the method and world-view, the so-called ‘image of history’, of medieval Latin historians.49 To a certain extent the by-product of source criticism, historical representation as an independent quantity came into view. It could be investigated in a similar way to poetic literature. Motivations, interests, formal modes of representation, poetic methods and historical conditions became objects of study. Thus, from behind positivist methodological refinements a story once again emerged. As regards world chronography, this is a story about the generation and decay of the world and its foundations. Therefore the history of historiography deals with different groups of facts from those looked up in historical works when consulted for events on which they report. The works of history themselves become an event. This is the framework of the present inquiry. The history of historiography was born from an interest in how the resources of historiography as a science developed. In addition, the investigation of historiographical works offered direct insights into the world-view of medieval people in an entirely new way. In an expanded world, and in search of adequate forms of representation, it also seemed useful to examine earlier ways of considering world history.50 In postmodernity, finally, this investigation has been kept alive by an antiquarian interest. At the same time the nature of historical writing has been interrogated with renewed radicality:51 the question of the poetry of historical writing closed the gap with fictional literature. This has had consequences for historical writing, since modern historiography had generally assumed that historiography is an empirical science.52 We need to take this problem into account here too.

49

Cf. below 28-35. The connection between research into universal historiography and the writing of world history is very clear in Heuß: 1968 etc., Mensch und Weltgeschichte: 1969. It is also maintained in postmodern criticism, see Domanska: 1999. 51 Cf. Domanska: 1999. 52 Hayden White: 1973; one of the first critics was Rüsen: 1988, cf. also the contributions in: Theorie der modernen Geschichtsschreibung: 1987; Ricœur: 2000. Surprisingly, Ricœur, who has long been engaged with historiography, entertains a simplified concept of the object of historical writing, which he thinks of as ‘the past’. But neither the exact definition of ‘the past’ nor of the object of historical writing are self-evident. 50

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Aramaic studies, the literary and linguistic investigation of Syriac texts, followed a different line of development. For a long time it focused almost exclusively on establishing historical dates and identifying sources. More recently Syriac studies and other Eastern philologies became interested in the history of historiography.53 Compared to Latin chronicles we therefore have still scant specific knowledge about the forms and functions of Syriac historiography. Still there is a growing number of studies for the entire period, i.e. essentially from the 6th to the 13th century. There are proposals for periodization, and specific traditions within the family of peoples writing in Syriac are distinguished.54 There were other reasons than methodological ones for this hesitant development. In 1993 Frédéric Rilliet drew attention to the miserable reputation which literary attestations in Syriac gained in the course of the 19th century. He observed that this reputation impeded their scholarly appreciation.55 For obvious reasons cultural distance has had a different effect on the reception of Eastern texts compared with Latin texts. A good example is the influential comment in William Wright’s introduction to his history of Syriac literature: As Renan said long ago, the characteristic of the Syrians is a certain mediocrity. They shone neither in war, nor in the arts, nor in science. They altogether lacked the poetic fire of the older — we purposely emphasize the word — older Hebrews and of the Arabs …; they assimilated and reproduced, adding little or nothing of their own.56

Ernest Renan (1823-1892) is one of the central figures in the development of Semitic and religious studies and the history of Syriac literature. His cultural-historical statements on the ‘Semites’ in general and the ‘Syrians’ in particular had a formative influence. And a tradition from which one expects so little spirit was hardly worth the effort of investigating. 53 Cf. Ammann: 1997. On recent works and studies see Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle: 2010, on Syriac historiography see the next chapters. 54 Land: 1856; Abramowski: 1940; Degen: 1968; Moosa: 1968, who despite factual shortcomings (the Doctrina Addaei is authentic etc.) provided leads for further research; Bernhard: 1969 (Universalgeschichtsschreibung des christlichen Orients); Witakowski: 1987 etc. cf. Palmer’s review of the monograph: 1990 (review Witakowski), whose criticism of Witakowski’s method I do not share. Riad: 1988; Nagel: 1990; Palmer: 1990 (Joshua the Stylite), partly corrected in id.: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 53; id.: 1993 (Messiah and Mahdi); Harvey: 1988; id.: 1990; Hoyland: 1991; Conrad: 1992; Suerman: 1992; Witakowski: 1993; van Ginkel: 1995; van Ginkel: 1998; Schmidt: 1996; Hoyland: 1997; Harrak: 1999, Lane: 2000; for works after 2003 see esp. Witakowski: 2007; Hoyland: 2011; Debié: 2015. 55 Rilliet: 1993. 56 Wright: 1894, 1-2. Cf. Renan: 1855, 240ff; on Renan’s general attitude, see also id.: 1862.

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As we have seen, the study of Michael’s chronicle conformed completely to the usual patterns before the new wave of research in Syriac historiography during the last decade. But within this reception Michael’s chronicle claimed a place of honour. Even Chabot’s assessment may seem reserved in comparison: Michel nous apparaît … comme un homme honnête et droit … Sa piété était sincère, mais empreinte d’une grande crédulité. … Il aimait l’étude et s’y appliqua constamment avec un zèle louable. Sans aucun doute, il manque complètement de sens critique et ne témoigne pas d’une grande sagacité d’esprit; mais ces défauts lui sont communs avec tous ses contemporains, qu’il surpassa incontestablement par la dignité de son caractère.57

Finally, a few words about the treatment of language in the present inquiry. The transcription of Syriac does not follow a uniform system, since the phonetic and phonological analysis is still in a state of flux.58 When not describing Eastern Syriac or common Syriac expressions, the transcription used here follows the Western Syriac pronunciation.59

57

Chabot: 1924, xvi. Voigt: 1997. 59 Bar ʻEbrōyō, Book of Rays. On the historical pronunciation according to Bar ʻEbrōyō, see Voigt: 1997. 58

CHAPTER II

APPROACH TO UNIVERSAL HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX TRADITION 1. HISTORICAL PREMISES: EASTERN CHRISTIANS Though the Christian population in the Near East is small today, Christians are definitely present — and not just in contemporary Lebanon. The cathedrals in the centre of Aleppo are impressively large; Christian jewellers and physicians form part of Syrian inner cities. Little more than a stone’s throw from the ruins of the Crusader Church in Tartus/ Tortosa there are new churches of Syrian denominations. On the road to the ruin of the Krak des Chevaliers more than one monastery can be seen.1 In the 12th century Eastern Christians were quite often in the majority in many regions.2 This raises the question of how their history could become so peripheral, almost obscure. Despite their numbers, however, they were a group without a united voice. In the Middle Ages each individual denomination had already become a minority. There is no agreed explanation for this variety of denominations. Certainly the explanation must be specific.3 An important theory is that all these churches owe their origin to ethnic and political differences. Scholars assume that political contrasts in the Near East and ethnosocial rivalry between Semites and non-Semites impeded a unified development of the Christian population.4 Sometimes this theory is dubiously interpreted in terms of mentality. Thus Arthur Vööbus speaks

1 In the year 2011 a deadly war started in Syria. This study reflects the situation ante. On the social geography of the late 20th century, cf. Hartmann: 1980. 2 Prawer: 1985. This certainly does not apply to all regions, but there is little information, e.g. for Palestine, see Schick: 1995, though his analysis does not extend to our times. 3 Garsoïan: 1999 extensively on the Armenian church, cf. also Pro Oriente 1994; 1996. 4 E.g. Hage: 1987, 474: ‘The large majority of church people remained faithful to the monophysite confession and distanced themselves — especially since meanwhile the denominational difference corresponded to the ethnical difference between Syrian and Greeks — from the ‘Melkite’ … hierarchy.’ Rubin: 1998 (Language), 327, no. 119.

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of the religious passion of the Syrian Christians, which is ‘an essential ingredient in the Syrian psyche’.5 Critics have objected that this ethno-political thesis has never been proved.6 Other studies demonstrate that the multi-ethnicity of the Near East has been overestimated as a denominationalizing factor. This is all the more probable in view of the fact that the West by no means had a more unified structure.7 Nobody could foresee that the Councils of Ephesus in 431 and 449 as well as the Council of Chalcedon in 451 would mean the definitive division of Christianity into a Byzantine-Roman branch on the one hand, and some Eastern branches on the other.8 The Christological fronts, meanwhile, ran across language boundaries. We need only recall here the Chalcedonian Patriarch of Antioch, Ephraim (526-545), who came from Amida. On the other hand, even after the Muslim conquest, many dissidents from the Chalcedonian formulations did not relinquish their hope for a Greek ruler who in their view was orthodox.9 From a methodological perspective, it seems just as necessary to take into account the denominations’ bias in their own historical narratives as it is to reflect on our current Orientalist assumptions.

5 Vööbus: 1973, 17. Cf. also Hage: 1987, 479. Wigram: 1923; Abramowski: 1940, 3 and the literature used there. But cf. Frend: 1973. The beginning of the politico-ethnic thesis can for instance be observed in the dissertation by Krüger: 1884, 3, though he still emphasizes the significance of the dogmatic debates. 6 Jones: 1954; Religious Origins of Nations: 2009. 7 On the West, cf. Brown: 32013. For the Sassanid East, cf. Rist: 1996, likewise on the East, Brock: 1982, who attaches little importance to the ethnic foundation of denominational identity and rejects the view that language differences impeded loyalty to the Sassanid state. One does observe in this essay the origin of a historical argument against the modern national movement of the Assyrians. For the Armenian church, cf. Thomson: 1988. Here unification is directed by the process of church formation, not the separation of the Church under the pressure of Armenian national interests. Who the Syrians are was already a controversial theme in the Middle Ages, see below Ch. VI.3. The early Ethiopian period is shrouded in obscurity owing to the loss of sources. ‘The road by which Ethiopian orthodoxy was led towards the Monophysites, who had moved away from Byzantium since the Council of Chalcedon in 451, cannot be established from the sources [trs. AR].’ Heyer: 1977, 577, cf. id. 1971. On the Alexandrian-Ethiopian sphere, see also Grillmeier: 1990. 8 Harvey: 1988, 296. On this: Das Konzil von Chalkedon: 1951-1954 and Grillmeier/ Hainthaler: 1979-1990 (several times revised, now Grillmeier/Hainthaler: 2004, for English versions see the state of publication http://www.sankt-georgen.de/forschung/jesusder-christus-im-glauben-der-kirche/ (29/08/2017); from a historical perspective de Vries: 1952; 1963; 1969; 1970. De Vries’s position changed over the years, cf. later e.g. id.: 1980. 9 Cf. Reinink’s research into apocalypses, e.g. id.: 1992; 1993 (Pseudo-Ephraem), van Ginkel: 1995, 16ff, Cameron: 1992.

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21

At the beginning of the last century Joseph Lebon laid the foundations for research into the various dogmatic positions. Against the ethnopolitical thesis he insisted on the historical significance of theological differences.10 At the same time it became apparent that the range of Christological positions was not as diverse as scholars had assumed through the centuries. In the 5th century people had already followed a long, common path in the formulation of theological knowledge. Theological differences followed from varying views on the most accurate description of Christ’s divine and human being. The dogmas were supposed to be formulated in a unified, consistent manner, valid for all schools equally. But the semantics of the terms used was controversial. A correct description of Christ went to the heart of Christianity and was therefore keenly disputed. Reciprocal accusations of heresy tended to simplify and thus to distort the opposing positions. Wilhelm de Vries questioned the assumption, common among scholars until the reception of the ‘monophysite’ sources at the beginning of the 20th century, that the dissidents had committed grave breaches of canon law, enquiring instead whether they may not have raised justified objections. Thus he held that the so-called ‘Latrocinium’ (449 in Ephesus) did not constitute an unlawful gathering. Nor had the dogmatic positions of the chairman, Patriarch Dioscurus of Alexandria (444-451), deviated from those accepted up till this point in time.11 It is likely that the division gradually became entrenched among the various factions. Dogmatic discourses served increasingly to buttress individual positions and less and less to overcome differences. The basileis tried to enforce unity. Yet the position of the Byzantine ruling house wavered during the period of conflict. Empress Theodora, for instance, supported the dissidents.12 From the outset there had been various liturgical and theological schools, as well as independent and rival organizational centres of the Church. However, from the 6th century double hierarchies came into being. From that time the history of Eastern Christians was marked by denominational and linguistic affiliations on

10

Lebon: 1909. This is to say that the deviation can only be formulated in the light of Chalcedon: de Vries: 1975, Ps.-Zacharias, III, i-v; Michael, C 178ff (II, 25ff). The Syriac version of the Acts of the Council of Ephesus is superior to the Greek version, cf. Acts of the Council of Ephesus. 12 To this very day Theodora is held in high regard in the Syriac Orthodox Church, cf. Ibrahim: 1995. Harvey: 2001. 11

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the one hand, and by changing boundaries and political power constellations on the other. Despite persistent dogmatic differences, the Miaphysites13 succeeded in making moves towards integration. Quite early the patriarchate of Alexandria and the patriarchate of Antioch reached an agreement. This process was set in motion before the persecutions of the 6th century. In 512, after his elevation, Patriarch Severus (anathematized in 536), patriarch of Antioch before the evolution of the double hierarchy, had already sent his confession of faith to John II in Alexandria — and time and again the same procedure sealed the connection between the two sees.14 Other factors favoured the further development of this relationship. The dissidents had escaped the emperor’s grasp, and the old frontline between the Greeks and the Persians had collapsed: the Muslim conquests in the 7th century created an entirely new situation. As is well known, the Christians were given a new legal status under Muslim rule, which put them at a disadvantage over against the Muslims and forced them to accept a second-rate position. They continued, of course, to hold many administrative functions, since at first Muslim rule was spread out over existing structures like a thin membrane. However, the political transformation did affect the internal history of the churches. What followed in 629 was the connection between the Western, once Greek-ruled, and the Eastern, once Persian-ruled, parts of the Syriac Orthodox Church. As Jean-Maurice Fiey has shown,15 this act was more a real union of independent parts rather than a ‘reunification’, as (Western) Syriac Orthodox sources would have it:16 as various sources attest, an individual organization had taken shape in the jurisdictional sphere of the metropolitan of Seleucia. The formal subordination of the metropolis to the jurisdiction of the Syriac Orthodox Church was the greatest expansion, which the Syriac Orthodox Church could boast. Depending on where the main centre of the patriarchate was located over the course of time, this area continued to be more or less independent. Residing in 13 The position of the ‘Monophysites’ so called in the research is not ‘monophysitic’ in the sense of the explanation of Cyril of Alexandria’s formula in Eutychius, cf. Ps.Zacharias, II, ii, and III, i-iv and Michael, C 176-177 (II, 22-24); 179-80 (II, 27); 182-183 (II, 32) etc. For some time now the ‘monophysitic’ position has therefore been called ‘verbal monophysitism’, cf. Allen: 1994, or miaphysitism. 14 Cf. Fiey: 1972-1973, 311. On the close contact between Egyptian and Syrian monasticism, cf. Jargy: 1952, Innemée/Van Rompay: 1998; Van Rompay: 2000 etc. 15 Fiey: 1974-1978, again id. 1992. 16 Cf. Michael, C 403-478 (II, 400-529). Apart from Bar ‘Ebrōyō no one wrote a lengthy systematic and chronological history of the Eastern part from the Syriac Orthodox point of view.

HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX TRADITION

23

various places, the metropolitan, later called maphrian, held a position coordinate or subordinate to the patriarch, according to one’s interpretation. At the same time the maphrianate competed with the Apostolic Church of the East (‘Nestorian’), whose position as a multi-ethnic church of the Middle and Central East and in the Abassidic administration was strong.17 Almost a hundred years after the union with the Eastern part, the treaty between the Syriac Orthodox and the Armenian Apostolic Church took place in Manazkert in 726. The preparation of this treaty clearly illustrates a political desire to stop the process of division and achieve unification despite all disagreements. The Armenian Church not only followed its own liturgical traditions, but at least partly a special understanding of the formula of Cyril of Alexandria († 444) regarding the doctrine of Christ’s two natures. The teaching had been framed by Bishop Julian of Halicarnassus († 527) and disputed by Patriarch Severus. Many Syrian Christians also tended in this direction.18 The churches decided not to speak officially about this anymore. The agreement did not remove the need for disputation, but realised a formal unification which could survive the next centuries.19 West of the ‘giant’ of the Eastern churches, the Apostolic Church of the East, which extended to the Arabian peninsula, Transoxania, India and China, there had thus been a miaphysitic party in the Near East since the 8th century. It consisted of the Armenian Catholicate, the patriarchate of Antioch (with the maphrianate) and the Coptic patriarchate of Alexandria (with the Abuna of Ethiopia).20 Their solidarity comes out in, for instance, their presence at elections, and the exchange of letters, legations and confessions of faith. This network could certainly be seen as a rival to the pentarchy of the patriarchal sees of Rome, Alexandria, Antioch, Constantinople and Jerusalem. The Armenian adaptation of Michael’s chronicle states this idea explicitly.21 17 On this church, see esp. the work of Fiey, such as id. 1965; 1970; 1973; 1980; 1993 (Oriens Christianus Novus); Brock: 1996; Cabrol: 2000; Winkler: 2003; Wilmshurst: 2011; Dickens: 2011. 18 Cf. Cowe: 1993. 19 This treaty only in Michael, C 403-78 (II, 400-529). Transcription and translation of this Act of Ter-Minassiantz: 1904, 178-197. 20 Obviously this classification refers to principal centres. Larger cities, especially, always accommodated various denominations. This applies particularly to the Mesopotamian area. For the influence of the Syriac Orthodox patriarchate or earlier of the maphrianate on India, cf. Navakatesh: 1963, esp. 22-29. 21 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 368. On my naming of the version otherwise known as the ‘Armenian Michael’, see below 50-52.

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The supporters of the Council of Chalcedon — mainly Syrian, Palestinian, Arabian, Greek and Georgian Christians — constituted a similarly close network in roughly the same area, since another part of the Greek and Syriac or Aramaic speaking Christians of Palestine and Syria had decided in favour of Chalcedon in the 5th and 6th centuries. They adhered to it after the Muslim conquest too. As supporters of the emperor — ‘Melkites’ — these Christians of the Greek Orthodox denomination were in an ambivalent situation.22 Unlike the dissidents, they enjoyed the support of the Byzantine Empire. The growing influence of the patriarchate in Constantinople on the investiture of the patriarch of Antioch from the 10th century paralleled these ties of political loyalty.23 But where the flock did not speak Greek, they started to use Arabic after the Muslim conquest.24 As Milka Rubin was able to show, they nonetheless held on to their Syrian identity.25 At the same time a closer link was forged between the patriarchates of Antioch and Alexandria and the patriarchs of Jerusalem. This joint front led, for instance, to concerted action against iconoclasm.26 Finally, as well as the ‘giant’ we should also mention the ‘dwarf’ of the Eastern churches. Lebanon had agreed to the proposals for unification by Emperor Heraclius in the 7th century. These faithful were therefore isolated in the denominational landscape of the Near East — the Maronites. They likewise gave up Syriac as their written language during the first centuries under Muslim rule. Like sections of the Greek Orthodox congregations, however, they also maintained the liturgical use of Syriac.27 22 The situation of the sources here for the Syrian and Mespotamian area does not permit of a distinction. That is to say, it is impossible to decide whether Michael and the other Syrian sources talk about Orthodox Christians with a Greek or Syrian identity. Since the two social groups must be reckoned with mainly in the Byzantine-Islamic border area and in Antioch respectively, we refrain from differentiating here. Rather we use ‘Greek Orthodox’ as an overarching concept. 23 Dick: 1994, 24. 24 Graf: 1947, 103; 220. The Greek Orthodox Christians in the Baghdad and Mosul area were increasingly followed from the 8th and 9th centuries by Syrian scholars of the Apostolic Church of the East, and only at a late stage by Christians of the Syriac Orthodox denomination. Among the latter in particular we find, up to the time covered by our inquiry, theologians who use only Syriac, such as Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, discussed further below. 25 Rubin: 1998 (Arabisation). 26 Dick: 1994, 11. On the patriarchate of Jerusalem up to the 11th century, see Pahlitzsch: 2001, 40-46 (with extensive references to literature). For a general overview of the Christians under Islam see Griffith: 2008. 27 Different Breydy, e.g. id.: 1985; 1992.

HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX TRADITION

25

When in 1098 and 1099 the Franks conquered the Near Eastern coastal territories, the area of Edessa and Jerusalem, they neither broke into a paradise of Eastern Christians, nor established one. Like the preceding shifts in power — chiefly the disintegration of the caliphate into many small dominions in the 9th and 10th centuries, the Byzantine reconquest of the 10th century, the invasion of Turkish groups and the formation of their own dominions in the 11th century, the end of the Greater Armenian Empire, and the Armenian migration to Cilicia — the presence of the Crusaders, too, simply created a new imbalance, and complicated Christian-Muslim relations. How would the Eastern Christians react to the Franks? They reacted in different ways depending on their geographical location, the size of the churches and their degree of integration into the Muslim dominions. From the perspective of the Syrian-Palestinian area, the Apostolic Church of the East, and the Coptic Church together with the subsidiary Ethiopian Church, were located on the periphery. Little is heard about their relations with the Franks when the latter first established their principalities. In fact, such relations would not have been advisable for these churches, since their main centre was in Muslim territory. The Christian kingdom of Ethiopia was separated from events by a Muslim barrier. There was no positive incentive for these churches to seek proximity to the new power. It seems that from Baghdad and Aksum the presence of Christians in Jerusalem was observed with a certain interest in the time to come. But it did not go beyond a slight nostalgia for their departure.28 By contrast, the entire Maronite Church suddenly found itself back in Frankish territory, in particular the county of Tripoli. This church was very isolated and very small. Unsurprisingly, it subordinated itself to the Latin patriarchate of Antioch.29

28 Ethiopian relations with the Latins in the 12th century are difficult to specify. Cf. Cerulli: 1943; van Donzel: 1996. Fiey: 1984 believed that the presence of the Latin Church gave the Apostolic Church of the East high hopes of national independence. This theory does not seem adequately proven. The implications of the term ‘national’ in relation to these churches in the Middle Ages are very unclear, and its use has therefore been rather unhelpful. 29 For sources and literature, cf. Salibi: 1958; Breydy: 1985 and 1992; Hiestand: 1988. Salibi: 1958 emphasized that the union resulted in opposition and bloody riots. Frazee: 1978 attached less importance to this opposition. Hoteit: 1996 judges that the rule of the Latins was ultimately damaging for the Christian Lebanon, and stresses the negative effects for coexistence with the Muslims.

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The Greek Orthodox Christians, whether they spoke Greek or Arabic, or sang Greek or Syriac, stood in the way of the new power as followers of a group regarded in Latin eyes as schismatic. Their patriarchs and bishops were thus replaced by Latins.30 At the same time the Greek Orthodox possessed strong support in Constantinople, to which the exiled patriarchs had also withdrawn. Richard Rose and Johannes Pahlitzsch have examined this circumstance in detail, so that the development, at least for the kingdom of Jerusalem, is now better known despite the extremely difficult state of the sources.31 Compared with these quite straightforward constellations, relations between the new power and the Armenian Apostolic Church and the Syriac Orthodox Church show a much more complicated development. The Armenian and the Syriac Orthodox areas of settlement were located in the Byzantine, Muslim and Latin regions. In addition, the political situation in northern Mesopotamia was especially confused in the first two thirds of the 12th century. Here, moreover, population movements were most marked: Armenians were on their way south, Turkomans and Kurds were travelling west. For the sake of their very existence the politics of these churches could not therefore be unified. They had to manoeuvre between the various factions. And this is precisely what happened. The consequence of this situation is evident: the opponents of Chalcedon no longer acted from the same position and with the same aims. Depending on how the situation might develop, there was a danger that their solidarity would founder on the new state of affairs in the Near East. Armenians, whether they were Greek Orthodox, Eastern Orthodox or Muslim, played an active role in the military and administrative sphere.32 Subsequently, in turn, this also had varying implications in the context of contacts with the Latin Church.

30 On the process that established the Latin and ousted the Greek patriarchs, see Hamilton: 1980; Pahlitzsch: 2001. Their direct rivalry may have prompted the occasionally harsh comments by Latin authors. In e.g. Jacob of Vitry, Historia Orientalis, 72-74 they are called traitors and good-for-nothings, cf. William of Tyre, IV, 23, XVIII, 28. On the other hand, verbal defamation of non-Chalcedonian beliefs is rarely found. 31 Rose: 1981; Pahlitzsch: 2001. For Antioch, cf. Hamilton: 1980. 32 Cf. Kazhdan: 1984; Forse: 1991; Weitenberg: 1996; Dadoyan: 1997; Dédéyan: 1998.

HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX TRADITION

2. HISTORIOGRAPHICAL

CONDITIONS:

CHRISTIAN

27

WORLD CHRONOGRAPHY

AND ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORIOGRAPHY

a) Chronicle: definition of the concept Generic names have proved problematic in historiography. They should not be understood as strict definitions of genres, since they are unsuitable for this purpose. In particular the terms ‘annals’ and ‘chronicles’ or ‘chronographies’ and finally ‘histories’ are used very differently. On the one hand these generic labels deriving from Antiquity and Late Antiquity were variously developed in the cultures that followed,33 and on the other they are used differently in modern reception. Thus the following classifications are to a certain extent artificial. Nevertheless, in the interdisciplinary sphere it is necessary to share the definitions. ‘Annals’ in the present study are understood as works of history which successively, year by year, note particularly memorable events of the present, in whatever framework — at court, in the monastery, in the city. ‘Chronicles’ or ‘chronographies’ refer to works whose authors are mainly concerned with the past. These texts may exist in very different forms and lengths. The terms ‘chronicle’ and ‘chronography’ have been given distinct acceptations in different disciplines. In Byzantine studies ‘chronography’ means a detailed document, in Latin medieval studies a brief text. The reverse is true in relation to the term ‘chronicle’.34 Hence it is advisable not to differentiate systematically between these two terms here. Chronicles and chronographies sometimes resemble annals insofar as they follow a strictly chronological order and contain brief and unconnected notes. Occasionally, therefore, the name ‘annalistic’ is given to all historical works which possess such a structure and lack narrative links. We will consciously avoid such a usage here. With regard to procedure it is useful to distinguish between ‘annalistic’ and ‘chronistic’, in order to indicate more precisely the relationship with time as well as the method — even though, as may be expected, many mixed forms occur.35 33

Guenée: 1973, 999-1008; Guenée: 1980. On annals, cf. Poole: 1926; Levison:

1935. 34 Cf. Schmale: 1985 and Mango: 1988/89. On genres and their transmission see now Debié: 2015, 36-84, who in turn integrated some of the present suggestions. 35 Von den Brincken: 1987 (Flores Temporum), etc. presents a further differentiation of chronography into ‘chronological’ and ‘anniversary’. Her concern is to distinguish works according to method rather than form. In contrast, cf. Poole: 1926, for whom

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Finally, ‘historiography’ represents the present and the very recent past. The term ‘histories’ refers to texts which stylistically follow classical examples, narrate and interpret in detail, and report on a brief, more contemporary period of time or treat one theme only. Essential elements are a systematic topic, or concern with a contemporary situation and its underlying historical causes. Histories deal with profane or secular subjects.36 Since Krumbacher the opposition between ‘chronicles’ and ‘histories’ has been especially relevant to the debate in Byzantine studies.37 In Latin historiography the distinction seems less useful. Though medieval authors could be perfectly familiar with the difference between chronicles and histories, as the note by Gervase of Canterbury († after 1210) shows,38 in practice it had already become so blurred that a classification no longer seemed useful.39 The assessment of historiographies and annals does not pose any major problems. Annals were written down without any conscious attempt to provide a historical metastructure; the writers were quite unable to see the entire period of time reported on as a whole. Historiographies addressed their object in detail and interpreted it, looked for chronicles are a more developed form based on annals, likewise Hayden White: 1981. Poole and White apply only formal criteria. The forms, however, were blurred during the Middle Ages. Cf. further below, Gervase of Canterbury, C. 36 Schmale: 1985, 106-110. 37 Krumbacher: 1897. For Late Antiquity there seem to be few problems with identification. Cf. Whitby: 1992. Scholars tend to connect questions of genre to questions of intentions and skills of historical analysis as well as to narrativity. This blurring of matters of form versus matters of method is rooted in the dynamics of modern historiography rather than based on medieval genres, as will be seen further below. 38 Since then this remark has enjoyed canonical status, cf. Poole: 1926, 1. Gervase of Canterbury, C, 87: ‘Sanctum vero orthodoxorum patrum gloriosa et imitanda exempla continentur in historiis vel annalibus, quae alio nomine Cronica nuncupantur. In quibus multa quaerenti sedulo bene vivendi repperiuntur exempla, quibus humana ignorantia de tenebris educitur, et ut in bono proficiat edocetur. Historici autem et cronici secundum aliquid una est intentio et materia, sed diversus tractandi modus est et forma varia. Forma tractandi varia, quia historicus diffuse et eleganter incedit, cronicus simpliciter graditur et breviter. … Proprium est historici veritati intendere, audientes vel legentes dulci sermone et eleganti demulcere, actus, mores, vitamque ipsius quam describit veraciter edocere, nichilque aliud comprehendere nisi quod historiae de ratione videtur competere. Cronicus autem annos Incarnationis Domini annorumque menses computat et kalendas, actus etiam regum et principum quae in ipsis eveniunt breviter edocet, eventus etiam, portenta vel miracula commemorat.’ 39 Schmale: 1985, 110-111. Cf. Gervase of Canterbury, C, 87-88: ‘Sunt autem plurimi qui, cronicas vel annales scribentes, limites suos excedunt, nam philacteria sua dilatare et fimbrias magnificare delectant. Dum enim cronicam compilare cupiunt, historici more incedunt, et quod breviter sermoneque humili de modo scribendi dicere debuerant, verbis ampullosis aggravare conantur.’

HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX TRADITION

29

human errors and passions, for causal connections, for metaphysical conditions. The model of Thucydides (± 460 to ± 400 BCE) comes to mind straightaway: the historian is tangibly present here as a narrating contemporary, who reflects on his own actions and writing, and whose account follows a recognizable and specific metastructure. Not so the chronicler. What did the chronicler actually do? He wrote out older texts. This was not so much due to these writers’ lack of originality as to their intention: someone who wanted (or wants) to report remote events he has not experienced should generally avoid inventing them — not unless he has to.40 His claim to truth was partly based on the fact that the events he reported really took place at the time indicated. He had to prove this. He achieved the highest degree of supra-individual credibility in this time of few available textual witnesses by literally repeating what his sources said: the dependence on sources, assumed by or even apparent to the reader, is virtually a precondition for the chroniclers, indeed it is perhaps the most important condition for their claiming reliability, trustworthiness and truth. The techniques used in dealing with sources have developed greatly with the enhanced availability of information, but even modern historians are tied to their witnesses.41 Depending on how closely the chronicler followed his examples, it is increasingly hard to identify him as the author of his own representation: he ‘compiled’, he ‘copied down’. His criteria in doing so cannot simply be deduced from his statements — which seemingly are not his own. For the chroniclers did not just write out or copy examples — often they refrained from doing anything more than merely stringing together the reported events as well. They did not necessarily comment on them, and they did not always connect them.42 40

On the function of fictional historiography in the Middle Ages, see e.g. Melville:

1988. 41 Anna-Dorothee von den Brincken has repeatedly attempted to question the commonly emphasized distinction between medieval and modern historians, e.g.: ‘I simply have the impression that the overall judgement passed on the Late Middle Ages is often wrong and that much remains to be done here. Every one of us copies from the other’s handbook. But certainly much is still available, especially if we give up the idea that works which merely copy — and we all copy from one another — are worthless. The real question is: what did a chronicler copy and why did he copy it?’ Mensch und Weltgeschichte: 1969, 280. 42 A typical example is the chronicle of Sigebert of Gembloux (1030-1132), which was widely disseminated. A systematic survey of world chronicles, only parts of which have been completely edited, has been drawn up by von den Brincken: 1969, Tables I-VII. Chronographic literature is formally much more diverse than we have scope to pursue here. As well as having chronographical interest in the ‘series temporum’, medieval

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From the Renaissance onwards the products of chronistic work moved into the shadows. In retrospect, new demands on historiography can be seen to have shown the chronistic texts in a bad light.43 The semantic field of the term ‘chronicle’ shifted correspondingly. Chronicles were now taken to be texts which enumerated but did not explain. Today’s common understanding of the concept is based on this interpretation. This even applies to theories which deal with historical works and their form.44 Hayden White, for example, in his poetics of the historical work, uses the concept of ‘chronicle’ as a model for describing stages of processing historical records. The historian constructs a ‘chronicle’ with the help of the historical material at his disposal: all ascertainable events are hung up on a chronological thread, without judging, weighing or causally grouping them. ‘Chronicles are, strictly speaking, open-ended. In principle they have no inaugurations; they simply ‘begin’ when the chronicler starts recording events. And they have no culminations or resolutions; they can go on indefinitely.’45 The term ‘chronicle’ is linked here to encyclopaedic completeness, arbitrariness and primitiveness. White devises a hierarchical gradation of historical representations, in which the chronicle comes below the fully valid historical narrative. Unconsciously, he has switched mid-paragraph from describing a theoretical model to describing concrete texts. In doing so he is clearly thinking of existing historical works, annals actually, which he interprets according to the underlying common understanding of ‘chronicle’. This becomes evident when we look at other works by White. He does in fact postulate a concrete hierarchy between medieval chronicles and histories.46 Theoretically there is not much objection to this approach. Pointless enumerations are conceivable. But who ever wrote such chronicles?

writers also focused on other aspects of universal description, which von den Brincken categorized via the concepts of ‘mare historiarum’ and ‘imago mundi’. She has further explored the connection between world chronography and geography: 1968; 1970; 1991 etc. A body devoted to the study of chronography is the Medieval Chronicle Society, whose proceedings show that the genre still raises many questions. 43 Guenée: 1973, 1011-1015. Cf. Muhlack: 1991, 114f: Muhlack presents here the intermediate position of the term ‘chronicle’ in the transition from medieval to modern usage, when it already starts to take on a negative connotation, but is still used appropriately. 44 Cf. Morton White: 1963, 5. 45 Hayden White: 1973, 6. 46 Hayden White: 1981, a work which deals exclusively with medieval forms of historiography, but with second-hand meta-historiographical categories, which is why White’s deliberations on these forms are not convincing. There is no room here to judge the function of narrativity in historiography as a whole.

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31

Today, too, there are texts which at first sight seem to meet this definition. They dispense with all the linguistic devices which make up a narrative, do not use any recognizable imagery, any causal connections, or any other linguistic devices designed to guide a reader through a text to the knowledge of which the investigating historian has convinced himself. Instead, they give a barren, chronological enumeration in keywords, which can be supplemented with certain graphic features, such as different typefaces, tabulators, oppositions, images or graphics. But these keywords appeal to the reader’s prior knowledge and experiences, with the help of which he can understand them. Between these chronologically arranged elements the reader therefore walks to and fro and forwards and backwards, and thus weaves a historical narrative for himself, ‘knows’ beginning and end, turning-points and climax, places and figures, causes and driving forces of the action. However, this narrative is not a development of a primitive ‘chronicle’, but only the reversal of a process of reduction. For the reader is guided by a pre-given narrative structure and a selection of already-narrated information which serve to give his associations the intended direction. This possibility exists because certain pieces of knowledge are shared by both author and reader and therefore need not be mentioned. In these texts the principal features of historical labour, such as their investigative, source-critical and argumentative parts, are to be taken for granted, as, so to speak, ‘genotypical’. They are therefore the end product of historical analysis, not its starting-point.47 47 Texts of this kind are widespread and mainly used in didactic and journalistic spheres. Only a small number are actually called ‘chronicles’. On closer inspection this term proves significant: Diemer/Kuhrt; Bahrmann/Links. The word expresses the claim to an ‘objective’, ‘non-interpreted’ representation: ‘From the time that it [the political system of the GDR] was thrown off balance by waves of fleeing people and mass demonstrations in the autumn of 1989, the process of German reunification seemed to take place with the logical force and irresistibility of a natural phenomenon. In passing the development refuted a series of misjudgements … The attempt at this brief chronicle is undertaken despite such inevitable limitations, because it is necessary in view of later developments to be aware of the historical background: one must know the history of the division to counter the effects of the division.’ [my emphasis], Diemer/Kuhrt: 1; 10. ‘When we presented the chronicle of the ‘Wende’ in autumn 1994, it was completely uncertain how the reactions would turn out. … Clearly both the book and the film had succeeded in giving an authentic picture of events at the time — without retrospective judgements let alone political reinterpretations. The internal dynamic of the developments was the decisive structuring principle; the drama was drawn from the events themselves.’ [my emphasis], Bahrmann/Links: 1994, 5. Here we find very basic and typical principles of chronistic writing and the expectations attached to it. The error consists in the assumption that any interpretation of the sources has been avoided, which becomes evident when one reads and compares works brought out at almost the same time.

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The basis for the linguistic reduction does not result from a fundamentally different way of working or different historiographical axioms, but from the special function proper to these texts. They are designed to provide a rapid and concise survey of larger historical connections which in a narrative text would be lost in the abundance and tangle of sentences. And they attribute special significance to the factors of chronology, diachrony and synchrony in the events which they have selected or narratively constructed. In doing so they assume that the reader’s imagination enables him to open up the reduced text into a variable but fully valid discourse. The mode of ‘poetic narration’ is therefore not a necessary device for representing historical knowledge. But perhaps there were ‘chronicles’ in the Middle Ages? We cannot doubt that there may have been primitive collections. Indeed, as the practice of historical writing shows, this assumption is very useful.48 However, the claim of medieval historians that they are merely listing events chronologically — without interpreting — should not be accepted uncritically. Then, too, it was good form in historical writing to adhere to what could be positively proved.49 And so Latin history of historiography has shown one thing to be false, the assumption that every text in chronological order without poetic refinement is the primitive starting-point of a historical narrative. Nor do the transmitted texts allow us to assume that medieval chroniclers aspire to a complete list of their information. On the contrary, the elements of excerpt and summary, without which larger temporal and geographical spaces could not be bridged, are more likely. And finally the chronistic text can take on independent tasks. These crucially include the themes of ‘time’ and ‘succession’, and the contrasting of successions, like those of emperor and pope, or of the two Augustinian civitates. At the time, historical insights, theories and claims could easily be derived from the specific correlations and combinations of facts and testimonies. Today this is no longer so straightforwardly possible, because the medieval author and the modern reader have little knowledge in common.50 48 Schmale: 1985, 92f. ‘We can assume that many, more comprehensive annual reports compiled from different sources were first conceived on wax tablets. In a mere enumeration of reports from various models this was certainly not essential’, ibid.: 93. However, Hoyland: 1997, 448-453 shows that even totally primitive lists should not be underestimated both for the investigative effort required and for their evidence, and clearly should not be misinterpreted as preparatory work; see also there for more recent literature on these chronicles. 49 The works by, for instance, Schulz: 1909; Gunée: 1973; Funqenstein: 1965; Goetz: 1985, take very literally the claim made in the proems. Schmale: 1985 has doubts, cf. 55f. 50 Cohen referred to this problem in his discussion of the Sefer ha-Kabbalah, when he emphasized that the readers at the time were of course familiar with the polemical context

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b) Beyond the ‘horrible wide grave’: the inventions of Eusebius of Caesarea Universal historiography is neither a Christian invention nor is it confined to Christian forms of historical writing. Rather the early Christians, for their part, used traditions also available to other groups.51 Yet it is a specific answer to a need for a separate historiography which could safeguard the new Christian identity and contrast it with the pagan environment.52 This meant that new forms had to be found. Two of these forms provide models for understanding history as a whole, universal chronography on the one hand and ecclesiastical history on the other. Formally speaking, chronography belongs to the tradition of antiquarian and chronographical sciences in the Hellenistic East, that is, in Alexandria. Here, in the Jewish-pagan polemic, chronographical material from the Greek, Hebrew, Egyptian and ancient Eastern areas had been collected and synchronized. The aim was to prove the seniority and thus the historical priority of the respective position. This tradition already aspired to completeness, but had to be satisfied with a selection — taking precisely that which seemed most suited to the argument.53 The Jews were victorious here, and the Christians, who saw themselves as the ‘new people of Israel’, employed the same proof from antiquity

of the list of teachers, and that the book did not report anything that the educated Jewish reader did not basically know or could not have ascertained himself, xliii. It is particularly interesting in this connection to note that Abraham ibn Daud’s main problem was likewise a legitimate succession and a resulting claim to authority (of the rabbinical tradition); see Cohen in his discussion of the Sefer ha-Kabbalah, lxii. Abraham ibn Daud himself reports that he is concerned with the historical defence of a claim: Sefer ha-Kabbalah, preface. On other chronistic texts, their function and their historical statements, see also e.g. Melville: 1987; Monroe: 1978 on a rotulus with the chronicle by Peter of Poitiers; Michael: 1991 on an English chronicle, also on a scroll, see below 170-172. Von den Brincken: 1957; Geschichtsdenken und Geschichtsbild: 1965; Funqenstein: 1965; Ehlers: 1973; Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbewusstsein: 1987; Historiographie im frühen Mittelalter: 1994; Goetz: 1999, cf. 177-193 etc. 51 Such as Jews and Samaritans, even though they were little used in the Middle Ages. Cf. Hoyland: 1997, 448-451 (Jewish Texts), 451 (Samaritan Texts). Contemporary with Michael’s chronicle is the Spanish-Jewish Sefer ha-Kabbalah, cf. the previous note. On Jewish chronicles and the function of Jewish historiography, cf. Cohen’s introduction to the Sefer ha-Kabbalah; Yerushalmi: 1988; Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism: 1992; on Samaritan chronicles, Crown: 1994. 52 The genesis of universal chronicle and ecclesiastical history has essentially been cleared up; we therefore refer to just a few works: Overbeck: 1892; Helm: 1924, 1-30; von den Brincken: 1957; Momigliano: 1950; id. 1963, 82-85; 88-94; id.: 1977; Mosshammer: 1979, 88-112; Chesnut: 1977, 33-60; Croke: 1983; Timpe: 1989; Mortley: 1996; Burgess: 1999, 79-84. See today Debié: 2015 who in turn integrated some of the present suggestions. 53 Mosshammer: 1979, 84-112.

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(Altersbeweis) in their own polemic.54 Besides the juridical and polemical arguments which become operative in the proof from antiquity, they also adopted the essential elements of the Jewish understanding of history in their historical writing. Bishop Eusebius of Caesarea (c. 260-339) consolidated these beginnings and in his world chronicle developed the form of representation which was to have a determining influence on subsequent chronicles.55 This work consisted of an argumentative and a representative part. In the first part of the chronicle (chronography) he collated the chronographical material in the form of lists and arguments. The second part (canon) represents, with the help of synchronizing numerical tables and a selection of brief, verbally unconnected, historical lemmas, the one universal time since Abraham.56 By drawing up a table and arranging the text on the page Eusebius introduced graphic elements in historical writing.57 These are highly systematic and complicated devices: in fact the sheer complexity of the arrangement was initially an argument for regarding the tables as inauthentic.58 Yet these structures originated directly from Eusebius’ work in the school and library of Caesarea: here Origen prepared the polyglot Bible edition, the Hexapla, which also used synoptics as mode of representation. Eusebius himself developed synoptic tables for the clear comparison of parallel gospel places, for which reason the

54

Eusebius, C, Preface: cf. Eusebius, armenC (Karst), 1. On the Altersbeweis Pilhofer: 1990, on the first Christian chronicles see also Julius Africanus: 2006. 55 For Eusebius and literature on the historical works, cf. Helm: 1924; Mosshammer: 1979, the introduction to the German translation of Eusebius, HEv (Kraft/Häuser), 11-76, cf. incidentally 76: ‘This Syriac translation was then rendered word for word into Aramaic.’ Surely ‘Armenian’ is meant. Winkelmann: 1991 (Eusebius). Burgess: 1999; Julius Africanus: 2006. 56 Eusebius himself describes his plan, C, Preface, 7-19; armenC, 3. 57 Cf. Helm: 1924, 3-18. 58 Helm: 1924, 18-43. A particularly good Jerome manuscript is Oxford, Bodleiana, Ms. Auct. T. II, 26: Eusebius, C (Fotheringham). Whereas the Armenian version has a table in the middle with all the fila regnorum, the Jerome version uses a double page with the table left and right in the margin. On methodological grounds Helm decides that Jerome must have reproduced Eusebius’ lost chronicle more correctly than the Armenian version. However, the original text must have been even more complicated and used further devices of juxtaposition and contraposition, cf. also Helm in his discussion of Eusebius, C, xxviii. The copyists simplified this system. Alden Mosshammer agreed with Helm’s reasoning and, like Paul Keseling before him, ascribed the simplified version to the Alexandrian monk Panodoros, who supposedly made it around 400. Keseling: 1923; Mosshammer: 1979, 67-78. As regards Panodoros’ mediation, weighty objections have now been raised, cf. Fitschen: 1998. In any case it was the version with the table in the centre which became popular in the Near East.

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canon is graphically and methodologically related to textual criticism — even the name is the same.59 Even the driest chronicle belonging to this tradition was based on a narrative. However, the studying reader — this narrative cannot be heard, unless it is explained out loud — had to work it out for himself in roaming through the text and making comparisons. This narrative was a history of God’s creatures and their relation to him: in the table the religiously significant events entered into a constitutive connection with all other memorabilia. God’s existence and work revealed themselves continually in the course of history. Chronistic thought is therefore religious in nature, just as religious thought in the Jewish tradition is historical in essence.60 The historical proofs furnished by Eusebius are thus founded on a genetic relationship between religious and historical testimonies. Religious facts could be historically proved, just as historical facts could be religiously proved.61 This is hard to understand from the perspective of secular historical thinking: For in the second place: what does it mean to take a historical proposition as true? To believe a historical truth? Does it mean anything but to accept this proposition, this truth? To have no objection to it? To tolerate that someone else constructs a different historical proposition on it, infers a different historical truth from it? … If consequently I have no historical objection to the proposition that Christ raises someone from the dead, must I therefore hold it to be true that God has a son who is of the same essence as he? … But now, with that historical truth, to jump across into an entirely different class of truths, and to ask me to change all my metaphysical and moral concepts accordingly … if that is not a μεταβασις είς αλλο γενος, then I do not know what else Aristotle took this term to mean. But people say: precisely Christ himself, of whom you must historically accept that he raises the dead, that he himself rose from the dead, said that God has a son of the same essence, and that he is this son. Very good! Were it not that it was merely historically certain that Christ spoke this. If people wanted to persecute me further and say: ‘Oh but yes! That is more than historically certain, for it is assured by inspired historians, who cannot be wrong.’ Yet, unfortunately, it is also only historically certain that these historians were inspired, and cannot be wrong. That, that is the horrible broad grave which I cannot get across, no matter how often and how earnestly I have attempted the leap.62 59

See below 167-177. Cf. Campenhausen: 1970. Yet this thought is not confined to Christianity — contrary to Mensch und Weltgeschichte: 1969, 268. See above on Jewish and Samaritan chronography. 61 Cf. e.g. Luke 24:18ff. 62 Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 7-9, trs. AR. 60

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These remarks by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing (1729-1781) shed a glaring light on a new experience: Empirical historical facts, no matter how sound the authorities that attest them, belong to a different ‘class’ from theological truths. For the latter, Lessing is no longer able to accept the results of historiographical operations as proof, and perceives this as a conceptual break. This break is inconceivable without preceding changes in the practice of historical writing: from the early modern period onward historiography acknowledged the experience of history unfolding through human action. At the same time historia sacra no longer came within the scope of historical writing. Initially only the writing of history was thus secularized in the 16th century, without this necessarily making historical thinking unspiritual.63 Yet Lessing’s note reflects a sobering experience which the practice of this new historiography could bring with it. Lessing is confounded by a knowledge which is uncertain, variable, dissolving into thin air through new evidentiary finds, and constantly taking different forms.64 Lessing’s distrust of such knowledge placed him outside the mainstream of his time, which held it in high regard.65 Besides the pragmatic restriction to historia profana and its diversifying subdisciplines, the conviction now emerged that the subject of history is in reality man: in other words, history is its own subject, and the only object of empirical historical science.66 Arguably the profanization of history and secularization of historical writing more than anything else determined the reception of pre-modern chronicles. Jörn Rüsen’s proposals for an intercultural comparison of historiographical texts demonstrate how historians take as truth what was just one possible choice, a choice determined by the conditions under which historical writing could take place and by its status as a highly specialized discipline. In his universal periodization of the history of historiography he only allows for the development from ‘traditional’, i.e. religious, historical conceptions of order, to ‘rational’, ‘modern’, i.e. secular ones.67 In his view, except for unstable inversions, 63 On the early modern development, cf. Löwith: 1953; Klempt: 1960; 1969; Muhlack: 1991; Zedelmaier: 1999. But this did not by any means extinguish the old universalist form: Hoius, C. And finally chronography itself developed further, cf. Goerlitz: 1999. 64 The changeability resulted from the increasing number of sources and from textual criticism, which refuted traditional assumptions and suddenly showed approved texts to be forgeries, cf. Muhlack: 1988. 65 Koselleck: 1992, 52-53. 66 Cf. the inaugural issues of Die Welt als Geschichte or of Saeculum, or enterprises such as the Historia Mundi etc. 67 Cf. Rüsen: 1998, 58-72, who seems sceptical himself on p. 71, no. 40.

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this development seems universal and irreversible: indeed, it is teleological, the expression of a necessary progress. Jean-Maurice Fiey, who set out to answer the question, ‘les chroniqueurs syriaques avaient-ils le sens critique?’ arrives at a comparable answer. He is completely prepared to attribute rational operations and thus a certain measure of criticism to the Syrian historiographers, while at the same time mildly recognizing the humble resources with which they performed these operations. But the fundamental mistake of these historiographers was that they were unable to cast off the theological understanding of history. In this sense they were uncritical.68 But Thucydides wrote before Eusebius. The idea that a religious view of history is a more primitive, uncritical state of affairs than a secular view is so dominant that people forget that it was once an extremely successful innovation.69 Yet empirical historical operations cannot say anything about the truth of fundamental assumptions on meaning or meaninglessness, on direction, repetition or chaos, or on the (absence of) coherence in history. These ideas are therefore based on a different class of criteria and should be recognized as such. The persuasive power of Christian universal historiography is ultimately founded on its bond with the revealed word, which is held to have been written down in a canonically valid manner.70 Copying down as a function of Christian historiography first came to fruition in ecclesiastical history. Eusebius made indication, discussion and verbal quotation of sources a visible and necessary element of historical writing. The most striking formal difference of ecclesiastical history from the chronicle is its narrative and discursive nature. Eusebius thus employed resources also used in classical pagan historiography. The classification and delimitation of church-historical works is therefore controversial.71 It causes difficulties because the objects of ecclesiastical history, as against those of pagan history, seem to be vaguely defined. But we should not forget 68

Fiey: 1984. Timpe: 1989, 198 goes a little too far perhaps. Genetic or teleological historical thought has a life of its own, which does without concrete historiography, like the Eastern apocalypses and the Western eschatological speculations of the Middle Ages. Cf. Thucydides, esp. I, 1; I, 26, and also I, 9; I, 10; I, 20, whose methodological means, in his own view too, only allowed him to give a basic sketch of events in the remote past: he did not have good sources. Cf. Tsakmakis: 1995. 70 For the significance of scripture in connection with the development of memory constructions, see the publications of Assmann/Assmann. Here we refer only to J. Assmann: 1992; A. Assmann: 1991 or Mnemosyne: 1991. 71 Cf. Hoyland: 1997, 387ff. But Eusebius’ ecclesiastical history is formally closer to Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities than to pagan historiography. 69

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that Eusebius’ ecclesiastical history is not a historical representation which refers to the Church as a phenomenon of institutional history. Such a definition is an anachronism which can creep in due to the characteristics of modern church history. It is only the historia ecclesiastica of the Modern Era which can be defined as a part of profane historiography and which refers to a particular, limited sphere of human life.72 For Eusebius this limitation of the concept of church does not apply. He describes the universally conceived work of God in the spiritual succession of those who came after the apostles, and in the promotion of orthodox faith by individual people who are to be described as accurately as possible. These individuals are not driven according to a fixed, ahistorical schedule, but decide freely and may go astray.73 The narrator Eusebius is at the same time a personal tour guide. He himself is part of the proceedings, turns to the reader and leads him, in constant dialogue, through the history of Christianity. Hartmut Leppin, in his study of the seemingly so similar ‘synoptics’, that is the church historians Socrates Scholasticus, Sozomen and Theodoret, has shown how varied and differentiated could be the historical interpretations of the secular world presented in these histories.74 Leppin’s comparative inquiry has great methodological value for this study too, because it shows how differently historians assessed the same information and put their own interpretations upon it. Eusebius of Caesarea transformed into historiography, and thus, so to speak, into a motion, Qoheleth’s view that everything has its time apportioned by God. For this he selected extant reports which he hung on their definite place on the thread of past, earthly time. He established the accuracy of these reports, and their temporal relations, with the help of empirical historical operations which he carried out according to valid axioms. The truth of his historical narratives was based on this method, and at the same time was linked back to the revealed texts about the origin and direction of these narratives. His accounts therefore demonstrate a high level of formal and theoretical coherence. In comparison with the crystal clarity of this historiographical concept, historical writing today often seems like the swept-up remains of a mosaic fallen from a vault. However, Eusebius’ stories also show hairline cracks revealed by the fact that he needed to rework his account to adapt it to changed historical situations: the relation between historical writing and reality is 72 73 74

Klempt: 1969, 212. Cf. Eusebius, HE, I, 1. Leppin: 1996 (christliches Kaisertum).

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challenging. Nevertheless his model for describing past events was extremely successful, for over a 1000 years and in many regions.75 The corpus of all the works in this tradition has not yet been established. But it would be worthwhile to treat Christian universal historiography as a unity in both a systematic and a diachronic respect. It cannot be trivial that both the Venerable Bede († 735) in the British Isles and Jacob of Edessa († 708) under Muslim rule occupied themselves with Eusebius and computistics. 3. UNIVERSAL HISTORIOGRAPHY IN THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX TRADITION a) Survey Both forms — chronography and ecclesiastical history — had a profound effect on Syriac historiography, which is not surprising, since like Eusebius’ writing it evolved from the Hellenistic and Late Classical tradition of science. Eusebius, moreover, had mastered Aramaic, and used Syriac sources.76 This connection has been known since the edition of his principal works in the second half of the 19th century, and was studied in detail when the sources of the works were analysed in the early 20th century.77 Eusebius and Syriac historiography also shared the Eastern sources. Eusebius actually had much more non-Christian, Near Eastern material than was available to medieval chronographers.78 No Syriac version of Eusebius’ world chronicle is available; only the ecclesiastical history survives.79 The oldest manuscript of Eusebius’ ecclesiastical history in a Syriac translation dates from the 5th century and is almost complete.80 Besides that, the Greek ecclesiastical histories of the 4th and 5th centuries, by Socrates Scholasticus, Sozomen and Theodoret, were translated into Syriac and arranged in new compilations 75 Religious and secular historiography therefore does not correspond to Eastern or European ways of writing history. But cf. Assmann: 1998, 379-380 and the literature discussed there. 76 Eusebius, HE I, 13, 5: work in and translation from the Edessa municipal archives. Eusebius would have spoken Palestinian Aramaic. 77 Cf. Baumstark: 1922; Keseling: 1927. 78 It seems doubtful whether a sharp distinction between ‘Syriac’ and ‘Greek’ historiography is meaningful for the Late Classical period. But cf. Witakowski: 1987, 76, who strongly emphasized it. Cf. on the other hand Watt: 1999, 327. For the state of research see Debié: 2015, 288-340. 79 Keseling: 1927. Mosshammer: 1979, 73-78. 80 Eusebius, SyrHE (Bedjan; Wright/McLean).

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at an early date; these versions have not been preserved.81 An originally Greek-written ecclesiastical history from the end of the 5th or the turn of the 6th century, the work of Zacharias Rhetor, has only been passed down in an abridged Syriac translation within a broader church-historical compilation, the so-called ecclesiastical history of Pseudo-Zacharias.82 Scholars agree that, in its turn, Syriac historiography had a stimulating effect on Byzantine chronography, in particular after its so-called ‘dark’ centuries, the 7th and 8th. At the same time it influenced chronological Arabic historiography. We may ask whether the term ‘Syriac historiography’ can be more than a pragmatic collective term, whether it in fact yokes together texts that do not show any specific common features apart from language and are no more distinct from neighbouring forms than they are different among themselves. At the same time the question of how denominational affiliation affected the forms of Eastern Christian historiography remains unresolved. However, perhaps not surprisingly, it has become apparent that Eusebius’ influence was greater in the West than in the area of the Apostolic Church of the East.83 Therefore we shall confine ourselves here to the Syriac Orthodox tradition. ‘Syriac Orthodox’ refers to the tradition which evolved from the anti-Chalcedonian opposition of the later counter-patriarchate of Antioch. It goes without saying that the term ‘Syriac Orthodox’ is an anachronism for the first centuries, but it is preferable to the expression ‘Jacobite’.84 As elsewhere, the concrete forms of Syriac 81 On the apparently numerous, as yet unpublished Syriac translations and fragments, see e.g. Hansen’s introduction to his edition of Socrates, HE, xxxi-xxxii, based on which the Syriac translations must have been produced in the 7th century at the latest. As terminus ante quem this seems far too late; compilations must have been produced earlier, as the 6th-century Syriac ecclesiastical histories can verify. Besides Leppin: 1996 (christliches Kaisertum), cf. for the literature on the ‘synoptics’ ibid., 18-25, and for the context ibid., 225-259. 82 Pseudo-Zacharias Rhetor, HE. Brock: 1997-1980. Van Ginkel: 1995, 63-64 suspects an abridged Syriac translation of the original Greek text and kindly informs me that the version currently ascribed to Pseudo-Zacharias could go back to a complete Syriac translation or a more extensive compilation. 83 Nagel: 1990. Cf. the systematic tables in Bernhard: 1969 (Universalgeschichtsschreibung des christlichen Orients), 126-130. These tables show the different times at which the world chronicle flourished here. This does not mean that there were no contacts and mutual influence between western and eastern Syriac historiography, as source-criticism has made sufficiently plain. But in a formal respect this influence has not yet been researched. On eastern Syriac historical writing, see also Fiey: 1970, 8-31. A survey of all Syriac chronicles in the Eusebian tradition is found in Witakowski: 1987, 76-85; Debié: 2015, 489-492. 84 Syriac Orthodox is the contemporary official title. Usually the sources talk about ‘our church’ or ‘our orthodox church’. In the mid-6th century ‘Jacobite’ refers to a faction within the dissidents, who in the question of the so-called schism of Paul of Bēt-Ukkāmē

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Orthodox historiography were nourished from various sources, for instance from urban annals.85 Nonetheless some elements can be applied to the models of ‘universal chronicle’ and ‘ecclesiastical history’: Century Universal chronicles (brief chronicles)

Witakowski’s ‘developed chronicles’86

Ecclesiastical histories

3rd-6th c. *Syriac and Greek chronistic texts, compilations and translations87

*compilations and translations of Greek ecclesiastical histories, e.g. Socrates Scholasticus, Sozomen, Theodoret

6th c.

*Zacharias Rhetor (c. 465-before 553), Syriac version/Syriac excerpt?88 John of Asia (507-588), *I, *II, III (571-588)89 so-called Ps.-Zacharias90 (fl. 6th c.), (4th-late 6th c.) *Cyrus of Batnae (fl. 6th c.) (565-582)91

7 th c.

Anonymous Adam-64092 Jacob of Edessa (633-708), chronography and canon, *Adam-692, continuatio till 71093 *John of Litarba († after 726),?-72694

decided in favour of Jacob, hence the ‘Jacobites’: Michael, C 356-7 (II, 323-324), who depends on John of Asia here. Hence there is no useable alternative for the first centuries, where ‘Syriac Orthodox’ is a problematic term, because it suggests an ethnic identiy of the denomination. 85 Witakowski: 1987, 77; Croke: 1990. For Greek influence on early Syriac chronography, cf. Debié: 1999; Debié: 2015. 86 For this expression, see the next section. 87 An asterisk means non-preserved texts. Bold type emphasizes texts which are found directly or indirectly in Michael’s chronicle. All names and texts mentioned here can now be followed up in the study and the repertory by Debié: 2015. 88 Only in the excerpt from Pseudo-Zacharias Rhetor, HE, sections III-VI. 89 John of Asia, HE, cf. van Ginkel: 1995, Table of Fragments of Part One and Two, 226ff. 90 Pseudo-Zacharias. Formally this work shows affinity with the Chronicle of Zuqnīn. 91 On the state of the discussion, cf. van Ginkel: 1995, 46-85: instead of or alongside John of Asia, Cyrus could have compiled the older Greek church histories or reworked these compilations. On Cyrus, cf. Michael, C 357 (II, 325); 362 (II, 332); 377 (II, 356). 92 Chronicle to the year 640. Part of the text is known as Liber calipharum. A new discussion and partial translation of this chronicle in Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 5-12. 93 Jacob of Edessa survives only in fragments and excerpts. See below 167-177. 94 The chronicle of John of Litarba has been lost, see below 121-122.

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Century Universal chronicles (brief chronicles)

9th c.

Witakowski’s ‘developed chronicles’

Anonymous, Adam-77595

Chronicle of Zuqnīn (so-called. Ps.-Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē96, Adam-775

Anonymous, AG 308 (4 BCE =incarn.)-81997

*Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, chronicon bipartitum (582/3-842/3)98

Ecclesiastical histories

Anonymous, Adam-84699 10th c.

-

th

11 c.

-

-

*Ignatius of Melitene (ord. 1060-1095), Constantine (324)-before 1095100

12th c.

Michael the Great, Adam-1195, chronicon tripartitum101, new canon from 710

13th c.

Anonymus/i? (fl. 12th-13th c.), CP creation-after *1237 (1234), CE *beg.? (5th c.)*after 1237? (1207)102 Gregory, called Bar ʻEbrōyō (1226-1286),103: CP, Adam1286, (cont.-1297), CE occ. Aaron-1286, CE or. Thomas Ap.-1286

95

Chronicle to the year 775. Chronicle of Zuqnīn; since 1987 Witakowski has provided many fundamental contributions. Cf. Hoyland: 1997, 409-415. This chronicle is not very popular as a source, cf. Karayannopulos/Weiß: 1982, 322-323. Harrak: 1999 with further proposals on authorship, manuscript and historiographical motivation. 97 Chronicle to the year 819. The anonymous Chronicle to the year 813 is too fragmentary to be accommodated within this category — even if Bernhard: 1969 (Universalgeschichtsschreibung des christlichen Orients), 128 does seem to have this certainty. Cf. Hoyland: 1997, 419-421. 98 According to the information of *Ignatius of Melitene, universal historiography dries up at the end of Dionysios’ chronicle, i.e. the year 842/3: Michael, C 545 (III, 114). For his part Dionysios reports that he starts with the ecclesiastical history by Cyrus of Batnae. On Dionysios, see below 181-191. 99 Chronicle to the year 846. Partially translated by Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 75-89. Cf. Hoyland: 1997, 419-421. For the medieval period this brief chronicle corresponds to the Chronicle to the year 819. 100 See below 121. 101 This term is justified not only by the columnar system, but also by the statement of Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP, 2 (Budge, 1). See also the new French translation Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP (Talon). 102 Cf. Index of Sources. 103 Bar ʻEbrōyō. For more details, see below 191-202. 96

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b) Discussion In 1969 Ludger Bernhard convincingly showed that Syriac Orthodox universal chronography can easily be fitted into the transregional framework and that there exists a transcultural genre of Christian historiography.104 He also deserves credit for pointing out that the short texts, too, implicitly convey historico-theological propositions and add specific events to the pre-existing framework of salvation history. Eva Riad’s dissertation on the proems in Syriac works of history demonstrated how colourfully and unconventionally the individual authors justified their approach within the given framework, even if she herself considered them rather uniform.105 Research results clearly depend on perspectives specific to a particular discipline. From the point of view of medieval studies her observation that the proems display a strong connection with the tradition seems neither surprising nor specifically Syrian.106 Rather we see different motives and purposes as well as the effort to formulate historiographical intentions explicitly. The historiographers agree in emphasizing the wish to be brief, to draw on sources, not to write in a poetically artistic or panegyric way, and not to deviate from what happened. But this is less a dully repeated topos than a clear definition of the subject within different ways of writing. The survey lists the preserved and chief non-preserved works. It probably covers only part of what must once have existed, but still reveals some characteristic features and tendencies. An accumulation of universal-historical forms is found from the 6th to the 9th centuries and later in the 12th and 13th centuries. On the one hand this covers the period in which the Syriac Orthodox Church was formed and came to an arrangement with the Islamic rulers, and on the other a phase in which invasions and mass migrations once again caused violent disruptions. It seems that, much like the development started by Eusebius, historiography as an apologetic and integrating instrument was highly suitable for meeting the new challenges: the world chronicles could take over the task of once again providing a stable framework for the revolutionary events.107 As regards ecclesiastical historiography, the 451 schism inaugurated a time of unrest and, particularly in the 6th century, a time of persecution. Ecclesiastical historiography could interpret this difficult phase, preserve 104

Bernhard: 1969 (Universalgeschichtsschreibung des christlichen Orients). Riad: 1988. 106 Riad: 1988, 210. Apparently they seem very uniform from an Arabist and classical philological view, which is where Riad draws her evaluative standards from. 107 Cf. Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), xxxviii ff. See Debié: 2015. 105

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the memory of the holy fathers and the martyrs, and establish its own dogmatic position. It could link up with the origins of church history and underline how the community held on to orthodoxy against internal and external adversities, motives which Susan Ashbrook Harvey, above all, has convincingly demonstrated.108 Next, the 10th and 11th centuries saw drastic processes of change in the Syriac Orthodox congregations. The new centres in the Byzantine border area did not blossom and achieve supraregional importance until the 11th century.109 This could explain why the tradition was only revived in the 12th and 13th centuries. At the end of the 6th century ecclesiastical historiography broke down and at first sight seems to have disappeared without replacement. However, suddenly a new type of chronicle appears, as Witakowski stressed in his monograph on the Chronicle of Zuqnīn. Witakowski was the first to interpret the history of Syriac universal chronography as a development. Essentially he saw two phases. The first phase involved the compilation of arid, drily enumerating chronicles, whereas in the second phase ‘developed chronicles’ were written, the first of which is said to be the Chronicle of Zuqnīn. This phase was concluded in the 12th and 13th centuries by Michael’s chronicle, the anonymous Chronicle to the year 1234 and the chronicle of Bar ʻEbrōyō. These ‘developed chronicles’ are characterized by a remarkable enhancement of the narrative material. Witakowski describes this as a process of assimilation to the forms of narrative, profane historiography. In his view, the extension of chronography to the field of historiography took place because in the Syrian area chronography was not claimed by a secular, courtly society, and so could be used by clerics. The new form satisfied the need of clerical readers for a more fully fleshed-out story.110 The fact that the Chronicle of Zuqnīn has little in common with the succeeding great chronicles, apart from size, speaks against according this work a prominent position in the history of Syriac chronicle writing. Robert Hoyland, however, adapted Witakowski’s thesis of a narrativization progressing under the influence of secular accounts: in his view, the lost ‘common Syriac source’ of Theophanes’ Greek chronography,111 the Arabic world chronicle by Agapius and the chronicle by Dionysios

108

Harvey: 1988; Harvey: 1990; Hoyland: 1991; van Ginkel: 1995; Harvey: 2001. On this process of resettlement and the rise of new centres, see Benner: 1989; Dagron: 1976, Michael, C 544-605 (III, 112-218), Palmer: 1990 (Monk and Mason). 110 Witakowski: 1987, 83-89. 111 Lilie et al.: 1998ff, Prolegomena, 77-88, vol. 4, no. 8107. 109

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45

of Tel-Maḥrē, could have been a secular historical treatise roughly following classical models. Hoyland considers this source, written by Theophilos of Edessa (695-785), a Chalcedonian layman,112 to have exercised decisive influence on the development of Syriac Orthodox universal historiography. According to Hoyland, the effect is first seen in Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē.113 For Witakowski and Hoyland, the determining criterion is the element of ‘narration’ in a rising scale of progressive complexity and poetic refinement. Scholars of Byzantine studies also discuss this development towards the narrative,114 and have convincingly delineated it in Byzantine texts, as Dieter Reinsch among others has done for Anna Komnena’s Alexiad.115 But it is absolutely not the case that the production of short chronographical texts had come to a standstill after the Chronicle of Zuqnīn, neither exclusively in the Syriac Orthodox area nor in the larger all-Syrian framework. The view propagated by Witakowski rests on the assumption that the arid texts had not yet been loaded with narrativization, confined themselves to pure enumeration, and offered unsatisfactory reading experiences. Witakowski fundamentally denied them any historiographical argumentation of their own. Like Brian Croke, he regarded them more as imitative products of a fossilized tradition that was no longer lived.116 He saw them as ‘a simple tool for demonstrating God’s plan of salvation’.117 ‘Simple’ should be taken literally here as signifying simple didactic aids which help to orientate the reader in the passage of time, and serve the purpose of moral instruction. This assumption is theoretically useful and apparently sensible. Yet it seems premature, given that detailed metahistoriographical research into these chronicles is still required: their practical use in everyday life is still completely unknown. How and where were they produced and read? Who read them? Were the readers dim students, scholars, clerics or laymen? Did they explain 112

Lilie et al.: 1998ff, vol. 4, no. 8183; Hoyland: 2011. ‘… it is also likely that it played a part in the adoption by him and others of a narrative format in place of the staccato annalistic bulletins which were so much a feature of earlier Syriac chronography. It is to be hoped that the debt which the genre owes to Theophilos will now begin to be more fully recognised.’ Hoyland: 1997, 408-409; not repeated in Hoyland: 2011, 12-13, 21-22. On the latest literature and the source-critical debate over this famous source, see Lilie: 1998, 226-234; Hoyland: 1997, 400-409; Hoyland 2011, Conterno: 2014. 114 Ljubarski: 1988; Ljubarski: 1994. 115 Reinsch: 1996; cf. also his translation of Anna Komnena, Alexiad. 116 Croke: 1983, 127. 117 Witakowski: 1987, 88. 113

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the chronicles out loud, or did they study them in private?118 Evidently, the Syriac Orthodox historiographers saw themselves as being deeply rooted in the tradition. The question whether this clinging to the tradition was mere mechanical repetition can only be answered after the context of the chronicles has been established. Schlimme, Strothmann and Wießner point out that conservatism in Syriac Orthodox society may have had a cultural and identity-building function, which should be taken into account in the analysis of literary works, a requirement that also applies to historiography.119 Meanwhile it has become clear that the need to interpret the phenomenon of Islam historically triggered some activity in the Syriac Orthodox world. The attendant changes of universal historico-theological concepts were discovered and investigated by Gerrit Reinink and others in early medieval apocalyptic.120 These observations are beginning to have an effect on the analysis of historical works, in which, parallel to the apocalypses, reorganizations of the universal historical systems appeared.121 Many short Syrian chronicles intimidate modern readers with their totally untransparent arrangement. Their quality does in fact vary, though the criteria for assessment have not yet been worked out. As regards the Chronicle to the year 640,122 Andrew Palmer succeeded in discovering ‘method in the madness’, where complete confusion seems to reign, and deciphered chronological chaos as a means of typological reflection.123 Precisely because these short texts do not cater to our familiar verbal and analytical needs, there is a great risk of underestimating them, both in terms of content and purpose. It may well be that the modern reader is simply unable to fill in the narrative ‘lacunae’, and thus suspects dryness 118 Cf. Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), xxxviii. He proposed that these chronicles were read by the clerics together in their debates. This surmise has received some confirmation from Reinink’s observations, Reinink: 2004, so that we may now have one (!) piece of evidence. Communicative contexts can also be noted for Michael’s chronicle, cf. below 234. 119 Schlimme/Strothmann/Wießner: 1978. 120 Pseudo-Methodius, Apocalypse. Suermann: 1985; Brock: 1993; e.g. Reinink: 1990, 1993 (Pseudo-Ephrem), idem in his translation of Pseudo-Methodius, Drijvers: 1992. 121 Reinink: 2004. 122 Chronicle to the year 640. 123 Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles) on Chronicle to the year 640, 5: ‘Either it is a rag bag of geographical and historical information (and misinformation), put together, with a total disregard for coherence and even, towards the end, for chronological order, by a scribe who had no intelligence, only hoarding instinct comparable to that of a squirrel. Or else there is method in this madness.’

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47

where Syriac Orthodox readers revelled in lively associations. What these associations may have been like, Palmer demonstrated with the inscription of the ruin of the Syriac Orthodox church at Ehnesh in Euphratensis, which takes up the chronographical genre in miniature form. In contrast to the ‘real’ chronicles in the codices, it has a decisive advantage which limits the possibilities of interpretation and at the same time determines them. As the inscription is an ‘autograph’, as it were, the meticulousness of the epigraphic rendering with its original ornamental elements124 and its place on the outside of a church building prevents any insinuation of fleetingness, arbitrariness or sketchiness. It must have contained meaning, and thus represents a linguistic object by which methods of interpretation can be tested. Here too Palmer interpreted chronological confusion as a means of establishing typological relations. Like Reinink, Palmer observes allusions to eschatological expectations, and at the same time sees this interpretation of past and present events as being connected with moral admonition. To these observations may be added the fundamental religious significance of memory, so important to Christianity when it finds itself in religious competition and in diaspora. Remembering and keeping (the law), understanding history and behaving uprightly now and in the future become a religious and cultural imperative in the face of these ‘mene tekels’.125 In view of the corrosive experience of the Muslim conquests and their effects, this imperative may have mediated understanding and identity. Among the significant elements of Syriac Orthodox historiography, therefore, should be numbered an apparently banal triviality, namely the fact that it was written in Syriac. Syriac was used when Greek was still available, and even after Arabic had become established as the supraregional lingua franca. Presumably the choice of written language in this multilingual, multidenominational, multicultural and multireligious area was an important means of expressing affiliation or dissociation: Dullness of tongue and stammering of language you have kept far from me and have richly afforded me perfect gifts. You did not corrupt me with the defeated Chaldaean civilization, which speaks unwisely, but you bequeathed to me Aramaic Syriac, which proclaims the truth,126 124 Ornamental apertures, supposed to represent penstrokes, cf. Palmer: 1993 (Messiah and Mahdi): photos, edition and translation. 125 Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 5-12 and 1993 (Messiah and Mahdi); cf. Yerushalmi: 1988; Assmann: 1992. 126 Bar ʻEbrōyō, Book of Rays, 2. The many word plays in this passage show a greater semantic breadth than translation can reproduce.

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wrote Bar ʻEbrōyō in the 13th century. One thing is certain: Syriac became a cultural resource that had to be actively sustained and fostered. The cultural significance of using this language for writing increased over the course of time. The longer Arabic influence lasted, the more exclusively it fell to the Church to preserve and cherish the written language. Apart from the connotation ‘Christian’, however, the use of this language is not an unambiguous resource. For, as we saw above, there were diverse Christian denominations which laid claim to Syriac. We will go on to show that this problem was debated in Syriac Orthodox historiography. The use of Syriac is thus one of the socio-historical factors that need to be considered in our analysis. Two things can therefore be stressed here: both the continuation of traditional literary forms and the fostering of Syriac can be functionally described as identity-stabilizing measures. Historiography can also be seen in this context. But this meant that, in treating and understanding the present and the past, historiography probably faced new questions, which it had to formulate and answer actively. The assumption that Syriac historical texts were randomly cobbled together starts from fundamentally anachronistic ideas. These ideas are based on a historical and systematic misinterpretation of the concept of ‘chronicle’. The questions raised by Syriac Orthodox historiography are not answered by this statement, but it is necessary to emphasise the level of ignorance about its forms and functions. Its horizon was determined by the theological tradition of science to which it belonged. This tradition, as occasionally shines through, also lived on in historiography in textual work, graphics, typological exegesis, apologia and apocalyptic. Though in my view the ‘narrativization thesis’ does not provide a satisfactory explanation for the observable changes, it rightly perceives that Syriac Orthodox historiography did in fact change in the course of centuries, and, indeed, that a sudden explosion in chronography seems to have taken place in the 8th or 9th century. This latter problem will be pursued in the present study in considering Michael’s chronicle in the context of other historical works.

CHAPTER III

PATRIARCH MŌR MICHAEL RABBŌ AND HIS TIME 1. SCOPE OF

THE CHAPTER, REMARKS ON THE SOURCES

Books XV to XXI of Michael’s world chronicle deal with the 12th century. At the same time books XIX to XXI are a self-portrait of the patriarch. Covering 150 of almost 800 pages in the original, these passages form a relatively small part of the complete text.1 In terms of method, they are distinct from the rest of the chronicle in that Michael was increasingly unable to fall back on previously edited source material, and had to use other investigative techniques about which we know nothing. These circumstances authorise us to detach the contemporary section from the framework of the complete work and take a separate look at it first. After that, the results can be reincorporated within a wider investigation of methods, formal devices and historical thought. The problem is, however, that at the same time an account of the Syriac Orthodox 12th century also depends on Michael’s chronicle as a central source.2 Other Syriac sources can only supplement Michael’s account. These principally include the two other great Syriac Orthodox chronicles, the chronicle of Bar ʻEbrōyō and the Chronicle to the year 1234. Later we will look somewhat more systematically at the use Bar ʻEbrōyō made of Michael’s chronicle in his own exposition of the history of the Syriac Orthodox. Here it is enough to state that today Bar ‘Ebrōyō’s chronicle contributes to the reconstruction of Michael’s work, which displays some lacunae of the 12th century. In his commentary Chabot recorded the places where Bar ʻEbrōyō’s chronicle could supply additional information.3 As we mentioned in the last chapter, Chabot interpolated excerpts from Bar ʻEbrōyō’s chronicle in his translation.

1 2 3

On the structure of the entire book, see below 115-116. Cf. Kawerau: 1960. Cf. Michael, C 656-695 (III, 307-336).

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The Chronicle to the year 1234 shares many sources with Michael; scholars, however, generally assume — because of his independence in language and content — that he did not use Michael’s work.4 In reality we cannot rule out influence, either as an example or as a fund of material for his own studies.5 As a source for the Syriac Orthodox 12th century the anonymous chronicle possesses great value, since here its approach is clearly different compared with Michael’s work. Non-Syriac reports on the Syriac Orthodox Christians are on the whole insignificant.6 We do need to mention here the Armenian adaptations of Michael’s chronicle, which for the period of the crusades were first systematically analyzed by Horst Petermann.7 The objects which Patriarch Ignatius III David (1222-1257) took with him to Qalʻō Rūmaytō/ Hromkla (Rumkale), when he moved his residence there,8 included Michael’s chronicle. Armenian adaptations were produced in 1246 and 1248, only a few years after completion of the chronicle.9 Andrea Schmidt identified 40 manuscripts of these Armenian versions. As she herself found, this is a very high number for Eastern Christian works of history.10 She also emphasized the old age of these manuscripts.11

4 For source-critical studies on the Chronicle to the year 1234, cf. Hoyland: 1997 and Lilie et al.: 1998ff, and the literature cited there. Cf. also Karayannopulos/Weiß: 1982. Hilkens: 2014. 5 Cf. the state of research on the author in Fiey: 1974, viii; Hilkens: 2014, 11ff. The Anonymous consistently talks about himself in the plural, which was unusual for simple monks. We can therefore assume that he held a higher position. Another striking feature is that the author often talks about the ‘Jacobites’, cf. CP II 224 (168) etc., which suggests Arabization. In his capacity as escort of the maphrian he was probably present at the signing over of the diocese of Mardin, CE 331-333 (247-248). The signatories mentioned are Ignatius of Melitene, Basil of Edessa, Philoxenus of Mabbug and Ignatius of Tella-d’Arsanas. Further witnesses are Basil of Gargar, Iwannis of Ra‘ban and John of Ṣemḥa. We are not told whether any of these were part of the maphrian’s entourage. For information on these bishoprics, cf. Fiey: 1993. 6 Matthew of Edessa, C. For Latin sources, cf. von den Brincken: 1973, 213. They are only mentioned sporadically in the second half of the century too. Confusion with the Syrian Greek Orthodox denomination is also possible, cf. von den Brincken: 1973, 213219. Cf. Every: 1945-1946; Every: 1947; Meinardus: 1964; Nasrallah: 1974; Palmer: 1992. In reality there was competition for the name ‘Syrian’ in the Middle Ages, cf. Pahlitzsch/Weltecke: 2001. 7 Petermann: 1860. 8 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 685 (686). See also the new translation Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or., CE occ. (Wilmshurst). 9 Cf. Schmidt: 1996, 306. 10 Schmidt: 1996, 301. 11 Schmidt: 1996, 302; Schmidt: 2013.

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However, Felix Haase was able to show as early as 1915 that the Armenian versions cannot be claimed as ‘translations’ of the Syriac text.12 Obviously this means that the partial translation included in RHC cannot be cited as Michael’s chronicle.13 Felix Haase, indeed, also proposed that the adaptation be distinguished from the ‘Syriac Michael’ as the ‘Armenian Michael’. But this mode of differentiation seems too weak and does not do justice to the real dissimilarity of these texts. The term ‘Armenian Michael’, it may be added, reveals that Haase did not realize clearly enough that the Armenian adaptations involve two texts, produced under different editorial circumstances always separately transmitted. Both texts are a product of the cooperation of the vardapet and historian Vardan Arewelcʻi (d. 1271) and the Syriac priest ʻĪšōʻ of Hasankeyf (d. 1247). Schmidt pointed to these facts and rightly called for a separate investigation into the specific content and aims of these adaptations. She herself presented the first results of such a study.14 She also characterized the differences: Vardan summarized, and passed over subheadings, source information and structuring devices. Such retrenchments were mainly at the expense of the church-historical material, which seems to have been less interesting from an Armenian perspective. Chronological details differ, sometimes even among the manuscripts. Individual historical elements, which are important for both the Syrian and the Armenian tradition, were Armenianized. Particularly in the contemporary sphere, drastic abridgements resulted in entirely new relations between events. Here, moreover, the account is considerably amplified by Armenian sources: indeed, according to Schmidt, it merely serves as a starting point for Vardan’s own reflections.15 Nevertheless he presented the result of the redaction as Michael’s chronicle. This is source-critically significant. Whatever the redactors meant to express with Michael’s name,16 it is probably high time to break with this tradition, even if it may be more difficult to differentiate between the adaptations and the chronicle which Vardan himself wrote. It seems defensible to use ‘Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version I’17 (as distinct from Vardan’s Chronicle)18 12

Haase: 1915, 60-82; 271-283. Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Dulaurier: 1869). 14 Schmidt: 1998, cf. 361; Schmidt: 2013. 15 Schmidt: 1996, 308-309; Schmidt: 2013, repeated by Hilkens: 2015. 16 Schmidt: 1998, 360-361 assumes that the revisers really held their work to be a translation, because their criteria of authenticity were different from modern ones. 17 Cf. Schmidt: 1996, 305-306. 18 A modern translation as well as a commentary and reflections on the genesis of this work can be found in Thomson: 1987; Vardan, Cv. 13

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for the text represented by the edition Jerusalem 1870 and ‘Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version II’19 for the one represented by the edition Jerusalem 1871.20 A social history of the Syriac Orthodox Church in the 12th century has yet to be written. The accounts of Kawerau, Nabe-von Schönberg and Selb were systematic studies of the church as an institution, which remain fundamental as such.21 However, it becomes particularly clear how little we know about the Syriac Orthodox societies when questions are asked about the laity, about the organization of urban and rural life, and about culture and mentality. As similar enterprises have shown, it is methodologically impossible in such cases to maintain a formal distinction between the investigative levels of what actually happened and of the historiographical way in which events are represented.22 Despite the drawbacks, these levels therefore need to be considered together here. Hopefully in the long term the following observations will contribute to such a degree of certainty about sources and facts as will allow accurate distinctions to be drawn. This section will confine itself to investigating exemplary places and structures which may have determined Michael’s actions and perspectives. 2. THE WORLD ON THE THRESHOLD OF THE 12TH CENTURY FROM MICHAEL’S PERSPECTIVE

Time and again Michael intersperses his dissertations on the 12th century with explanatory remarks. These remarks are all the more welcome because the world which he describes is quite confusing.23 He also carefully set the scene for the transition to the 12th century in books XIV-XV, 19 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version (Version I and II). Cf. Schmidt: 1996, 305-306; Schmidt: 2013; Hilkens: 2015. On ʻĪšōʻ Takahashi: 2001, 6ff. 20 Chabot did not systematically analyze this material, because he could not read Armenian texts. The present inquiry shares the same shortcoming. But apparently Chabot did not have Langlois’ translation either, so that he had to rely on the brief passage in the RHC. Cf. Michael, C I, 1-2: Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Dulaurier: 1869). Cf. Michael, C III, 336, no. 2: additions according to Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Dulaurier: 1869). Dulaurier had only one manuscript before his eyes, Ms Paris, BN, manuscrits arméniens Nr. 199 (ancient fonds 96), cf. the catalogue by Kévorkian/Ter-Stépanian: 1998, 766. The Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois) is identified by Schmidt: 2013 as following version I. He worked with the same Parisian manuscript but also with two further unspecified manuscripts from the Mekhitarist monastery St. Lazarus in Venice, Langlois: 1868, 14-15. The translations was reprented: Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv 2(Langlois). 21 Kawerau: 1960; Nabe-von Schönberg: 1977; Selb: 1988; Benner: 1989; Fiey: 1993. 22 Cf. Abramowski: 1940, 68-100. 23 MacEvitt: 2008.

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where he presents some radical changes in the power structure of the Near East. Among these he counts first of all the formation of Turkish dominions in the northern and eastern Near Eastern area towards the end of the 11th century. As we shall see, the beginning of Turkish rule is the last decisive point of world-historical significance which Michael recognizes in the course of history. In book XIV Michael24 first inserts a systematic account of the gradual process which led from intermittent Turkish immigration in the early days to the great conquests of the Seljuqs. This process concluded when the Turkish immigrants converted to Islam.25 According to Michael, the turn towards Islam was facilitated firstly by an unconsciously monotheistic faith among the Turks, secondly by the completed assimilation of earlier waves of immigration in the Persian area, and thirdly by their deployment as mercenaries and their hope of booty in the rich West.26 Michael sums up: And in these three manners the fact came about that the Turks accepted Mohammed, and united with the Arabs and become as one people. And the Ṭayōyē (Arabs) accepted Turks, so that he who rises up from them and rules will be designated and proclaimed ‘king of the Muslims’, provided that the head of their religion, called ‘caliph’, will proclaim him king. For these and similar reasons the Turks united with the Arabs in the religion.27

Book XV starts accordingly with this new phase: ‘We start with the year 1361 of the Greeks, which is the year of our Lord 1031 and the year 430 of the rule of the Arabs, in which the rule of the Turks began, which continues to this day.’28 From this point in time Turkish rule alongside Byzantine rule is the focal point of Michael’s treatment of the history of the world. In Syria and Palestine the Turks had carried out attacks on pilgrims and thus provoked the arrival of the next power:

24 It is unclear whether he himself researched this passage or not. In any case it is formally extraneous to the chronicle. See again below Ch. IV. 25 Michael, C 566-571 (III, 149-157). 26 Michael, C 570 (III, 156-157). 27 Michael, C 570 (III, 157). The translations are my own and differ from Michael, C (Moosa). Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 46 (34), 50-51 (36-37). Dickens: 2006, 433450. On the Turks in Michael’s chronicle Suermann: 1992; Dickens: 2006; Dickens: 2008; Hilkens: 2015. On the Seljuqs see The Seljuqs: 2011, however, the collection does not include research on the relation between Seljuqs and their Christian subjects. 28 Michael, C 571 (III, 158). The dates are clearly corrupt, cf. Chabot, commentary on Michael, C III, no. 1 ‘Cette concordance erronée est basée sur les canons chronologiques. Voir la restitution à la fin de ce volume.’ I propose that the scribes caused these errors, not Michael, see below Ch. V.

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When the Turks ruled Syria and Palestine and harmed with injuries and ridicule the Christians who travelled to Jerusalem to pray, and exacted poll tax at the gate of the city and also at Golgotha and at the grave; and when, moreover, on the arrival of a large number of Christians that they saw, particularly those from Rome and the lands of Italy, they [the Turks] were devious and corrupted them in all kinds of ways, and after countless people had died in this way, kings and princes were seized with rage and set off from Rome. Armies joined them from all these lands and they travelled to Constantinople across the sea.29

Michael describes how the Turks conquered the coastal areas, Antioch and Edessa and began to insinuate themselves into the military campaigns and changing coalitions of the area. He also follows their further vicissitudes. Under the nominal rule of the caliphate and the actual rule of the sultans, as Michael goes on to explain, a multitude of different islands of influence had eventually formed on former Byzantine and Arab territory. Alongside Turkish powers he specifically names the new Armenian forms of government in northern Mesopotamia and in Cilicia:30 In the time when the Greeks conquered the cities of the Arabs in Cappadocia, Armenia and Syria, they drove and brought out of Greater Armenia a large number of people. And because they [the Armenians] lived in these places and became more numerous, some of them moved on to Constantinople, some to Egypt. And when the Turks moved out of Khorasan and spread out in these places, the Greeks became very weak and their rule ended in all of Syria, in Cappadocia and in Armenia. Hence some Armenians moved into fortified places in inaccessible mountains and barricaded themselves there.31

Michael takes note of the negative consequences, which the military campaigns and constant changes of power had for the population. At the same time he remarks positive effects. As a result of the new Turkish and Frankish domination, hardly any room was left for Greek-Byzantine interference with the Syriac Orthodox Church. This reduced the influence which the Greek Orthodox patriarchs and other dignitaries could still have exercised, if indeed they were not already removed from office:

29

Michael, C 585-586 (III, 182-183). Michael, C 572-595 (III, 158-199), systematically summarized in 595 (III, 198), cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 59-60 (43-44). 31 Michael, C 595 (III, 198). 30

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55

The Franks, when they ruled over Antioch, drove out the Greeks from the great churches and expelled their high dignitaries.32 They installed patriarchs from their own people and created metropolitans ….33

The pressure still exerted by the Greeks only served to consolidate the bond between the Miaphysites: because ‘the Orthodox’, used here in the broader sense to include, besides the Syriac Orthodox, ‘our brothers, the Egyptians and the Armenians’, had to contend with the Chalcedonians ‘and their brothers, the Nestorians in Persia and Assyria’, and because the Greeks in Jerusalem and Antioch occasionally stirred up the Franks against them, ‘their three peoples lived in harmony with each other, and it was the same in the territory of the Turks.’34 According to Michael, the basis for this positive state of affairs was Turkish and Frankish tolerance in the sphere of church politics. The Turks were tolerant out of ignorance. The Franks, however, though confessionally close to the Greeks, did not require ‘a single confession for all Christian peoples and languages, but recognized as Christian everybody who venerated the Cross.’35 This was probably Michael’s own attitude and that of other well known 12th-century Eastern Orthodox personalities.36 The Latins were certainly not as open-minded; yet this description must be based on Michael’s concrete experiences in dealing with Latin church dignitaries. We will see how Michael reached this position not just because of but despite the events that took place. Within this framework virtually paradisal conditions might, according to Michael, have prevailed in the Syriac Orthodox Church, especially at the beginning of the century, had it not consistently obstructed its own interests through internal conflicts.37 The worst problems, for Michael, were lack of discipline and disunity in the hierarchy, which he therefore constantly criticizes.38 Though he shows greater discretion and leniency compared with the Chronicle to the year 1234, Michael’s history of the Church is also first and foremost the description of an internal process of decline.39 32 Chabot: 1889-1891. The expression rīšay-kōhnē is not entirely clear here, but in view of the context I believe it refers to patriarchs. 33 Michael, C 590 (III, 191). 34 Michael, C 608-609 (III, 226). On the denominational map, cf. above, chapter II. 35 Michael, C 607 (III, 222). 36 Hamilton: 1978 (Armenian church); Nerses of Lampron, Letter to King Leo II, 586-7. 37 Michael, C 607 (III, 222). 38 Michael, C 595-596 (III, 200-201); 597-599 (III, 207-210); 606-607 (III, 221-222); 649-651 (III, 298-300); 707 (III, 357) etc. 39 Cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 296ff (222ff), which dwells at length on the unpleasant details. Both refer to the same source here. The anonymous chronicle noticed

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This picture has been taken very seriously in the scholarly literature, perhaps too seriously. Walter Selb already pointed out that these descriptions should be treated with proper source-critical regard.40 And, comparatively speaking, internal relations were not as strikingly bad as they appeared to Theodor Nöldeke and others in his tradition.41 Above all, however, we need to ask whether it was really the so-called internal decline of the churches which brought about their downfall.42 For one thing, scholars never took into account that the aggrieved parties themselves formulated the criticism. Panegyric accounts of the achievements of the Syriac renaissance, of the new church buildings and libraries, of the scholars and the pious life in the communities, could equally have been written. But such accounts were not the concern of the chroniclers. They sought the causes of all problems in the moral failure of the Syriac Orthodox clergy and in the congregations. This judgement should not be uncritically adopted. 3. ANTIOCH — EDESSA — MELITENE — AMID When the Franks arrived, Athanasios VI was the Syriac Orthodox Patriarch of Antioch (1091-1129).43 He soon became involved in an ongoing dispute with Bishop Basil Abū Ġālib of Edessa, which continued until their deaths. To Michael its cause was insignificant. The argument revolved around a few valuable books from the patriarch’s treasure, which had reached Edessa through dubious channels, but which Basil did not return. The conflict escalated and drew in bishops and the congregations

its occasionally unwarranted harshness and claims to have often moderated its sharp criticism, because both too much praise and too much censure are unwise: CE 309 (231). Michael must have felt this to a much greater extent. 40 Selb: 1989, 220; 301, but Rücker: 1935. Selb: 1989, 79: ‘An uncritical consideration of the legal sources and chronicles might suggest that the life of the Christian congregations was purely a result of power struggles, of avarice, of betrayal …. This would most certainly be wrong [trs. AR].’ 41 Nöldeke: 1892, 258 ‘In the West this kind of thing [struggle for positions] was not entirely unknown either, but in the East it assumed much greater proportions [trs. AR].’ For Nöldeke the history of the Syriac Orthodox was ‘nothing less than uplifting’ (ibid., 260). So far it has not yet been compared with the contemporary Western Church, but we may suspect that Nöldeke would have been surprised by the result. 42 Kawerau: 1960, 102. 43 I follow the count in Fiey: 1993, 30. The Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 302 (226) gives 8 June 1441 as the date of death for Basil, which is a mistake. On Antioch s. Antioch I: 2006.

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of Edessa, because Athanasios tried to enforce Basil’s obedience.44 The anonymous chronicler does not mention these books. In his account the conflict breaks out as a struggle between the city and the patriarch, who stood on his dignity and personally hated the city.45 Behind this tussle we can therefore clearly recognize that the patriarchal authority to issue directives was at stake. However, its enforcement and thus the authoritarian settlement of the conflict were subject to narrow limits: it soon became clear that Athanasios could do nothing against the metropolitan without the support of the Frankish rulers. On the contrary: he was carried off to Antioch and detained there on the orders of the Latin Patriarch Bernard of Valence (1100-1135). He would be allowed to depart ‘for the sake of our [the Latins’] city’ on condition that he reversed Basil’s excommunication and removal from office.46 This order indicates quite plainly that political rule overrides the power of the Syriac Orthodox hierarchy. Despite the pressure, Athanasios refused to give in. He was put under arrest.47 The patriarch was freed through the intercession of a friendly (!) Greek Orthodox Christian from Edessa, as Michael expressly reports. As a result, Prince Roger of Antioch seized the initiative. Against the Latin patriarch he defended a policy of non-interference: ‘You [Bernard and indirectly Count Baldwin of Edessa, who also supported Basil] will not decide what happens to the Syrians (Suryōyē), because you are not entitled to do so.’48 At the same time Roger thus demonstrated his authority. The relations between secular and ecclesiastical authorities as well as the relations in the denominationally and religiously mixed cities appear to have been complicated and unpredictable. Only someone capable of playing this field skilfully could win. The dissidents from the Council of Chalcedon had never regained Antioch since the banishment of Patriarch Severus in 518. The Syriac Orthodox patriarchs therefore chose a second official seat, but one which was not to be their permanent or even most frequent residence. Athanasios VI was the first to reside in the Byzantine-Turkish-Frankish border area, in the metropolis of Melitene, at the foot of the central eastern Taurus Mountains.49 44

Michael, C 592f (III, 193ff), cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 467ff (468ff). Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 298f (223f). 46 Michael, C 598 (III, 208). 47 Michael, C 599 (III, 209). 48 Michael, C 600 (III, 210). The Chronicle to the year 1234 does not mention this detail, but notes that Basil was also supported by Jerusalem, so that this conflict and Roger’s conduct can perhaps be seen in an even broader context: CE 299f (224f). 49 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. On Melitene, cf. Honigmann/Faroqhi: 1991; Vest: 2007. 45

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The metropolis was not chosen at random. The city played a significant role in relation to the 12th century patriarchate. Today Melitene and the territory along the Taurus Mountains in the north and with Antioch/ Antakya and Edessa/Urfa in the south are at the periphery. However, to assume a similarly peripheral status for this area during the 12th century would be an anachronism. At the time this region was comparatively lively, dotted with castles and monasteries, and crisscrossed by major roads. Some of the cities — like Antioch — were extremely large and clearly showed their Christian character. This area possessed a rich infrastructure universally desired by the new powers.50 After the Byzantine reconquest in 934 the Byzantine emperors had supported Syriac Orthodox settlement in the hope of reviving the eastern border areas after the deportations of the Muslim population.51 Arabian geographers describe Melitene as being large at this time.52 The revival was all the more successful because there were prosperous merchants among the Syrian settlers.53 The city now strengthened the Syriac Orthodox presence in the north.54 Melitene is typical of the situation in this 50 Le Strange: 1890; Le Strange: 1905; Guyer: 1916; Monneret de Villard: 1940; Honigmann: 1954; Hellenkemper: 1976; Hellenkemper: 1978; Russel: 1985; Klengel: 1987; Sinclair: 1987-1990. The Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 64 (47) describes, among other places, wealthy Serugh and how it was hungrily eyed by the various military or merely rapacious powers, likewise Samosata and the surrounding area, cf. CP II 67-68 (49-59). As late as the 70s Ani had still been a Christian city: CP II 174 (131), cf. the city inspection with Zangī: CP II 136f (99-102). Some of the old cities inhabited by Syriac Orthodox Christians, which are often mentioned in Michael’s chronicle, were destroyed in the 13th century and subsequently abandoned, cf. the list in Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. 459 (460). In retrospect this has sometimes led to the impression that the region’s desertedness explains the presence of the Syriac Orthodox Christians, who had withdrawn there. 51 The resident Muslims were systematically deported or forced to emigrate to the south and south-east by the strategic devastations of the Byzantine army. As in the crusades, it was vital in these regions to prevent the opponent’s troops from foraging. Systematic destruction of crops and wells was therefore part of the strategy. Dagron: 1976. 52 Le Strange: 1905, 120. 53 Dagron: 1976. Michael’s chronicle is the main source for this demographic displacement: Michael, C 556-557 (III, 130-131). 54 Every: 1945-1946, 365; Spuler: 1958, 324; Amouroux-Monrad: 1988, 96; 99-103; Benner: 1989 and the sources discussed there, esp. 11-15. However, the second part of the basileis’ plan, to integrate the Syriac Orthodox Christians better in the Byzantine political alliance, did not succeed, and the eastern border remained an extremely unstable factor: Dagron: 1976, 177; 197-216. According to Dagron, this contributed more decisively to the decline of the Byzantine power in the East than the Turkish invasions. But cf. the socio-historical observations on the Byzantine eastern border in Benner: 1989, 70-94, who in fact sees a fusion of the Byzantine and Syriac Orthodox upper strata, which if need be could have joined forces against the capital.

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region and central to the Syriac Orthodox patriarchate in the 12th century. It is therefore worthwhile to discuss this city in more detail here, and to sketch the main conditions of Syriac Orthodox life by looking at Melitene pars pro toto.55 Around 1100 the Armenian city prefect in Melitene, Gabriel, was manoeuvring between Byzantine and Turkish powers. Finally he turned to the Franks for help and submitted to Baldwin of Bourcq. To seal the alliance with the Franks, he gave his daughter Morphia in marriage to Baldwin.56 Andrew Palmer and others hold that this Melitene alliance laid the foundations for the good relations between Franks and Syriac Orthodox Christians.57 This assertion is untenable: when the Syriac Orthodox metropolitans and the royal house did later establish a viable working relationship in Jerusalem, it was not in mutually cherished remembrance of the pleasant metropolis. Scholars have sometimes overlooked the fact that although Gabriel was an Armenian, he professed the Greek Orthodox faith.58 Gabriel did not enjoy a good relationship with Patriarch Athanasios in the period directly preceding the arrival of the Franks. The patriarch had treated Gabriel disrespectfully, upon which the prefect had the patriarch locked into a prostitute’s house. The patriarch placed the city under interdict. Remarkably in this context, Athanasios is supposed to have refused Gabriel the benediction — actually an oath of allegiance — saying: ‘You are Greek — we are Syrians.’59 This indicates that the Syrians defined their identity in terms of language and culture and represented it in these terms to the outside world.

55

For this period, cf. Michael, C 583-610 (III, 178-225). On Melitene Vest: 2007. William of Tyre IX: 21, 447-448; X: 24, 482; Michael, C 589 (III, 188), cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 49 (50) and 60-63 (45-46). 57 Later King Baldwin II (1118-1131), Morphia (d. 1126/7) and their daughter, Queen Melisende (d. 1160), turned up in Jerusalem. There they met a series of Syriac Orthodox metropolitans from Melitene. Palmer follows Hamilton: 1980, 195, but goes even further, cf. Palmer: 1992, 81, likewise Prawer: 1985. Cf. also Dédéyan: 1989, 100. The fact that the Jerusalem Colophon also proves the opposite is shown by the interpretation of Martin: 1888-1889. On the error regarding the identity of the Latin nobles in Martin: 1888-1889, cf. additionally Nau: 1899. 58 As is also known to William of Tyre IX: 21, 482: ‘Erat autem praedictus Gabriel natione, lingua et habitu Armenius, fide tamen Graecus.’ Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 461 (462) simply calls him ‘the Greek’ and says nothing about his Armenian roots, though he does know that he spoke Armenian. On Gabriel and Morphia, cf. Dédéyan: 1998, 103-106, on the Armenian elite under Byzantine rule, cf. Kazhdan: 1984. 59 Michael, C 585 (III, 181), quoted in Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 461 (462). 56

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Relations between Gabriel, the Syriac Orthodox dignitaries and the clergy of Melitene could hardly have been worse either.60 Michael shows that the Syriac Orthodox hierarchy did not share Gabriel’s interest in fighting the Turks, and therefore entered into its own negotiations. Consequently Gabriel accused the metropolitan Sa‛īd bar Ṣabūni (May to July 1096) of treason and personally beheaded him.61 Nor could Melitene be saved from the Turks with the help of the Franks. From 1102 an alternation of sieges and briefly successful conquests of the city took place at the hands of the Danishmendids in Cappadocia, the Sultan of Ikonion, Qilij Arslān I (1092-1106), and his successors. The Artuqids, who struggled for possession of the region with the disunited successors of the sultan and the Danishmendids, represented a third greater power. The consequences of these martial events seem to have been serious. Michael describes impressively how Melitene was struck by successive famines. Foraging troops and strategic plundering in rural areas also contributed to rising food prices. The pressure was increased by the city authorities, who tried to pass on their financial burden to the city dignitaries. Finally, the conflicts also heightened tensions within the mixed population.62 After a longer siege in 1124 the Danishmendid Emir Ġāzī once again seized hold of the city. Michael values his rule positively: in his favour he cites that Ġāzī started reconstruction, released prisoners and made seed and working animals available to the population. He ruled Melitene until his death in 1135. Probably because it was relatively long-lasting, this period was experienced as a phase of stability.63 The Syriac Orthodox Christians were particularly affected by the struggles, for the wellbeing of their community depended on secure roads and free exchange between the regions and cities; they could hardly expect any advantage from armed struggle. Besides regional dignitaries and administrators, the Syrian upper classes consisted of physicians, 60 Gabriel was held responsible for several murders and the plunder of the episcopal church: Michael, C 583-584 (III, 180). 61 Michael, C 586 (III, 185-186). On the date, cf. Chabot’s commentary on Michael, III, 186, no. 4 etc. The method of dating in this source of Michael differs from the usual practice. Baumstark: 1922, 292 therefore wrongly dates the death of the metropolitan to 1105. Incidentally, the source here can no longer be the account of Ignatius of Melitene. But here too Michael shares the information with the Chronicle to the year 1234, cf. CP II, 63-64 (46-47). 62 Michael, C 587-606 (III, 187-220). Cf. Cahen: 1940, 295-302; Cahen: 1968, 304; Cahen: 2001. 63 Michael, C 606-607 (III, 219-220); 616 (III, 237), the Chronicle to the year 1234 agrees with Michael’s valuation: CP II 101f (76f).

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merchants and scribes, who entered the service of the administration or found an independent livelihood in the economy.64 Physicians in particular are often mentioned by the anonymous chronicler and Bar ʻEbrōyō. At the same time their accounts show that they played an important mediatory role between the communities and the Muslim rulers.65 Many socio-historical questions remain open here. Which languages the laity spoke in the various places, for example, has yet to be investigated. The clergy also formed part of the ruling classes. In terms of prestige they were perhaps superior to the court physicians, merchants and government officials, but whether they were also more affluent is questionable. In general the relations between clergy and population were different from and more complicated than those in Christian Europe. An ecclesiastical career did not necessarily lead ambitious young Christians into the centres of power. But someone who as a Syriac Christian had consciously decided against a religious life, who entered the service of the city rulers, and associated daily with Muslims or Byzantines — what was his relationship with the clergy? Were there conflicts? Or were the clergy treated with respect? The clergy were the political representation of the Syriac Orthodox communities. And certainly the churches formed an important part of the cultural infrastructure. The denomination and membership of the community were the elements by which the Syriac Orthodox differentiated themselves from other Christians on the one hand and from Muslims on the other. The clergy therefore had a particularly important role as the only integrative and thus constitutive element for the existence of the Syriac Orthodox congregations. The priests were married. This fact, combined with nepotism, led to a consolidation of the clerical dynasties, who could therefore generally fill the higher positions in the churches and monasteries from among their midst.66 In the 11th and 12th centuries Melitene was one of the main centres of Syriac Orthodox life: since the 10th century the city was well-known for its growing achievements in the fields of Syriac book manufacture, book art and calligraphy.67 Moreover, it must have been an important 64 Spuler: 1958, 335; Kawerau: 1960, 49-52. To demonstrate the military weakness of Edessa, the Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 120 (90) lists the most common trades in the city, e.g. shoemaker, weaver and silk merchant. 65 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 320 (239). Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 449 (385) etc. 66 Kawerau: 1960, 72. 67 On Syriac book art, cf. generally Leroy: 1964, here particularly the illustrated book. Palmer: 1986, 53-56. However, Benner: 1989, 70-94 sees the 11th century rather as the beginning of a decline; but cf. Brock: 1982, 16.

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ecclesiastical centre of education, as can be gauged from the long series of bishops, metropolitans and patriarchs that it produced.68 There is also evidence that in the first half of the 12th century the influence of scholars and monks from Melitene extended beyond the western Euphrates area, a fact which seems periodically to have led to tensions.69 Furthermore, in the first decades of the 12th century the school of Melitene produced a man who as a scholar, polemicist and commentator became the church father of the 12th century: Bishop Dionysios (Jacob) bar Ṣalībī. We will meet him again. First let us return to Patriarch Athanasios. After his experiences in Antioch, Athanasios preferred to leave the Frankish territory and stay in Artuqid Amid (Diyarbakr).70 Meanwhile Edessa stood under interdict in an effort to break the support for Basilius. But this act only succeeded in driving the helpless Edessan community into the arms of the Latin churches. The presence of Syriac Orthodox Christians in Latin services is usually seen as a sign of the excellent relations between Latins and Syriac Orthodox Christians. Michael himself was filled with consternation by this turn of events and sharply criticized the reckless stubbornness of both parties: And the shepherds did not concern themselves at all, and they did not generally take it to heart, and truly, the Church of the Orthodox was severely damaged by this tumult between the shepherds.71

Towards the end of his period of office Athanasios came into conflict with the emir of the city of Amid and turned again to the Latins. Meanwhile in Edessa Count Joscelin I had come to power; he actually supported Athanasios against the emir, whereupon the patriarch took up residence in the monastery Mōr Bar Ṣawmō close to Melitene, where he was also buried.72

68 On the Melitene dignitaries, see Meinardus: 1963; Palmer: 1992; Martin: 18891889, Kaufhold: 1990; Michael, C 752-769 (III, 448-504). 69 In Edessa these ‘foreigners’ were viewed with distrust: Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 295-297 (221-222). 70 Michael, C 602 (III 212). Hillenbrand: 1981, 129-153. 71 Michael, C 602 (III, 212-213). Cf. the reports in the Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 298-300 (223-225). 72 Michael, C 610-611 (III, 228), partly the same wording as in the Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 301-303 (225-226).

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4. THE SYRIAC ORTHODOX CHURCH IN CRISIS Under the two successors of Athanasios VI the picture remained the same: it was impossible to carry through measures against the counts of Edessa and the metropolitans of Edessa. At the same time the social situation in the city was very tense. The next patriarch, John X (1130-1137), was under Edessan influence from the start: All the bishops went with the Maphrian [Dionysios] to Tellō-d-Sebartō at the urging of Joscelin, who was their lord. And the investiture of Patriarch Mōr John, that is Mawdyōnō, the Prior [of Dovair near Antioch], took place on the Monday of the second week of fasting on 17 February. The maphrian Dionysios laid hands on his head in the great church of the Franks,73 while Joscelin and his nobles stood by during the official act.74

Joscelin also immediately arranged the posthumous acquittal of Basil and later too intervened energetically in church politics. For instance, he brought about the rehabilitation of the excommunicated bishop of Segestan. Michael does not clearly state his views on these events. Nevertheless one gets the impression that he disapproved less of Joscelin I’s interference than of the weakness of the patriarch, who did not stand by his earlier judgement. Likewise Michael had no sympathy for the subsequently vacillating bishop.75 Yet the protectorate of Joscelin I and Joscelin II did not bring peace. John’s period of office like that of Athanasios was characterized by power struggles with the bishops. These quarrels deepened the opposition from larger circles among the ‘intellectuals’ of the Syriac Orthodox clergy, whose considerable scholarly potential was regrettably misdirected in the resulting contentions. These bishops, restless spirits who were proud of their privileged education and were loath to subordinate themselves, are a noticeable social group in Michael’s account. They were evidently needed — for instance in interdenominational disputes — and drew from this fact the self-confidence which buttressed their demonstrations of independence.76 73 This church caused a sensation in Edessa. The Chronicle to the year 1234 or its source mentions it as one of the places visited with Zangī during the inspection of the city. In particular the writer mentions its large windows: CP II 133 (100). 74 Michael, C 612 (III, 231).30 75 Michael, C 612-613 (III, 231-232). Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 303-304 (227). 76 Michael, C 614 (III, 235-236), 615-616 (III, 238-239), 641 (III, 283). Pride based on an excellent education is also mentioned by the Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 311312 (233) and is specifically imputed to Theodoros bar Wahbūn.

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In 1138 the monk Joshua was elected Patriarch Athanasios VII (11381166). This time the Artuqid Emir of Amid played the role of host to the synod. Clearly a city ruler’s allegiance to Christianity was not necessarily required for his role as patriarch-protector. Territorial rule was sufficient. The election was immediately contested by a group of episcopal opponents.77 The opposition was led by the same learned bishops who had already clashed with John: Basil bar Šūmōnō and John bar Andrew. They held a synod in Hiṣn Manṣūr (Adıyaman) in Artuqid territory, and made their recognition of the new Patriarch Athanasios dependent on his adherence to the precepts which they had adopted. He agreed, and for the time being, harmony was restored.78 We cannot determine here what rights they insisted upon. We can say, however, that synodal power in the 12th century reached its zenith at this point, and set corresponding limits on the power of government of Athanasios VII. Michael saw personal weaknesses on one side and stubbornness on the other. But he also perceived a second reason for this situation: the tension between the city ruler’s support of the metropolitans and a failing political basis for the patriarch. Joscelin II continued his father’s church policy. He ensured the investiture of the Syriac Orthodox metropolitan without regard to the patriarch’s power of decision. Michael’s chronicle shows that Athanasios VII (despite the arrangements of Ḥisn Manṣūr) could not at first gain acceptance in Edessa at all, which led to the same situation as at the beginning of the century. In this period, when Basil, i.e. Bar Šūmōnō, had exchanged Kayšūm for Edessa, and was accused of having done this on the orders of the prince, which is not lawful, he drew up an apology which provided clear evidence that until the time that patriarch and synod had granted him [the position], he had followed neither the orders of the prince nor the petition of the Edessan people. Because they resisted and did not recognize the patriarch and refused to proclaim him, they had requested Bishop Basil to become their leader ….79 Hence, as people say, the patriarch chose the lesser of two evils, granted the metropolis of Edessa to Bar Šūmōnō and thus subordinated the people of Edessa.80

77 78 79

Michael, C 625 (III, 252). Michael, C 625 (III, 252). The sentence is unclear or illegible, cf. Chabots commentary on Michael, C III, 259,

no. 7. 80

Michael, C 628 (III, 259).

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The real motives of Basil Abū Ġālib and Basil bar Šūmōnō require further investigation, since the sources are too one-sidedly focused on their conflict with the patriarch. In any case the Bar Šūmōnō family was directly involved in the secular administration of Edessa, which explains the close ties to the counts of Courtenay.81 There may also have been local conflicts which were basically independent of political rule, even when actively stimulated by it.82 For that matter, Basil bar Šūmōnō’s policy regarding city rule was based on principles of political realism. After Edessa had been captured by Turkish troops for the first time in 1144, he succeeded not only in retaining his position under the new rule, but also in strengthening it. The learned metropolitan — Michael specifically notes that he spoke excellent Arabic, which shows that this was not the rule83 — immediately approached the new ruler after the city’s capture. Basil himself recorded this meeting at length:84 an inspection of the city’s gardens, wells and medical facilities is said to have made a lasting impression on the conqueror, Atabeg Zangī. Together they elaborated plans for the reconstruction and resettlement of the city. However, owing to Zangī’s sudden death, the Frankish reconquest of the city, and finally its destruction under Nūr ad-Dīn, these efforts came to naught. In contrast to Joscelin I, highly respected by Michael and the author of the Chronicle to the year 1234, Joscelin II was much less a man who could win the hearts of the Syriac Orthodox Christians.85 He even carried out violent attacks on them during the last years of his rule. A lapidary statement by Michael reveals that, by way of conciliatory gesture, Joscelin had restituted to Athanasios parts of the patriarchal treasure which he had stolen during an undated raid on the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery.86 Later he did further damage to his reputation. After breaking off the attempt to wage local retaliatory battles against the Turks near Claudia, he appeared again at the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery and demanded entry. Michael 81

Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 305 (229). The Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 147 (111) quotes Basil bar Šūmōnō, whose statements reveal a tangible ‘West-East conflict’, with the Euphrates as dividing line. 83 This is also specifically said of Patriarch Athanasios VI: Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 302 (226). 84 Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 132-6 (99-102). 85 The Chronicle to the year 1234, CP finds him downright naive. Here we need to consider that both authors depend on Basil bar Šūmōnō, who was personally wellacquainted with both Joscelin I and Joscelin II, but wrote down these events looking back on the time after 1144. 86 Michael, C 628 (III 259-260). 82

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points out that the monks’ distrust of the Armenian-Latin troops before the gates was neutralized by their expectation of a rich donation — here too he recognizes the responsibility within his own ranks.87 But Joscelin II did not want to donate at all. On the contrary: within the walls he accused the monks of colluding with the Turks. This reproach he took to entitle him to several days of plunder and destruction in the wealthy monastery, the extortion of large sums, a three-month-long occupation, the deportation of most of the monks, and the abduction of the relic of Saint Bar Ṣawmō to Tel Bšīr/Turbessel.88 The consequences of the attack on the monastery for the Syrians in nearby Melitene are symptomatic of the situation of Syriac Orthodox Christians. The Turkish ruler of Melitene, Dawla, was interested in the tribute which his father, Ġāzī, had imposed on the convent. Only superficially informed about the events in the monastery, Dawla accused the monks of betrayal with intent to avoid this tribute. In the past the Syriac Orthodox population had been repeatedly caught between these two fires, with predictable consequences: In October in the year 1452 [1141] the Turks travelled from Melitene to the monasteries of Zabar, i.e. Bēt Qīnōyē, plundered, withdrew and there was nobody who resisted them. In the month of May the Franks came, in order to avenge the plunder of the monasteries on the people of Melitene and came to Zūbaṭrō and also to ‘Arqō, and plundered the property of the Christians, but they did not once encounter the Turks at all. And after the Franks left, the Turks came after them, plundered and withdrew, so that the Christians were plundered by both sides.89

After the attack on Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, Dawla even punished the people of Melitene for their supposed betrayal: And while the people of Melitene were still mourning for the plunder of the monastery, their pain was increased through the suspension of worship and of the pealing of bells for three days.90

87 Michael, C 643 (III, 285). The Chronicle to the year 1234 is also familiar with this suspicion against the monks, but expressly from hearsay: CP II 151 (114). 88 Michael, C 642-644; 645-647 (III, 283-288; 291-293). Cf. Amouroux-Monrad: 1988, 102-103, who does not take this raid very seriously, and in my view not seriously enough. Cf. the very short account in the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 308. Michael’s report must be at least partly an eyewitness account, but he does not actually say so. Whether he was among the deported or one of those who stayed behind cannot, it seems, be determined. It depends on the question of the relationship of the Chronicle to the year 1234 with Michael’s chronicle: here it agrees with him on many points, but has details not mentioned by Michael. Neither Basil bar Šūmōnō (the main source for the mid-century) nor the anonymous chronicler can have been present at this attack: the anonymous chronicler lived after these events, see Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 151-153 (113-115). However, Michael may have talked with Basil about the attack. 89 Michael, C 623 (III, 248-249), abridged Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 303 (266). 90 Michael, C 643 (III, 286).

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In the course of the 1150s Patriarch Athanasios took up residence in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō and left the monastery but rarely.91 He seemed increasingly incapable of performing his office constructively, taking disciplinary measures, or playing a mediatory role, so that he was openly criticized.92 In the Eastern area there were also problems: Maphrian Lazarus (1143-1164) saw his power to act curtailed, though for different reasons. As a result of his decision to allow the grown-up daughter of a Christian convert to Islam to be blessed in the Church, he was arrested at the instigation of a Syriac Orthodox Christian. Michael and Dionysios bar Ṣalībī spoke out against this incident in pamphlets. Incidentally, this is the earliest evidence of their close collaboration. The maphrian resided in the area of Muslim alliance under the Zangids. Their recent unity formed against the Latin invaders apparently resulted in heightened irritability towards the local Christians. Bar ʻEbrōyō indicates that the Christians underestimated these dangerous dynamics. An intrigue such as that practicised on Maphrian Lazarus, which might formerly have been successful, could now lead to unforeseeably destructive consequences.93 In both the western and the eastern areas of jurisdiction Michael describes the situation of the communities since the mid-century as increasingly anarchic. But one feels that this characterization is also his way of dramatically preparing the ground for the next patriarch: Raban Michael bar Eliya Qindasi from Melitene, prior of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. 5. THE

CANDIDATE OF THE REFORMERS:

DEEDS OF

MŌR BAR ṢAWMŌ

RABAN MICHAEL

AND THE GREAT

Michael was born in 1126 in (of course, one is inclined to say) Melitene. He belonged to a priestly family whose name has been passed down, possibly because of its standing — the Qindasi. We do not know when Michael’s time in the monastery began. He himself says that he grew up there.94 Not far from Melitene/Malatya the monastery was perched on the top of a mountain close to the present-day village of Peraš.95 At the foot 91

Michael, C 655 (III, 308). Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 521f (522f). 93 Bar ʻEbrōyō CE or. 347-351 (348-352). 94 Michael, C 713 (III, 367); Michael in his charter: Chronicle to the year 1234, CE, 331 (249). 95 Honigmann: 1954, 1-5. Only parts of the monastery’s foundation remain, and no excavations have yet taken place here, but a number of surveys, Thierry: 1993; Kaufhold: 2000; Badwi/Baroudi: 2006. 92

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of the mountain lay another part of the monastery, which may also have had a church.96 First mentioned in the year 790,97 it did not actually start to flourish until the 10th and 11th centuries, when it became an important centre of pilgrimage.98 Certainly the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery and its relic had supraregional significance, and are therefore worth a closer look. Customarily a chronicler from this monastery should describe the deeds of the saint, but Michael seems neither to have overestimated the monastery’s importance nor the relic’s veneration. Muslim sources confirm that Mōr Bar Ṣawmō also attracted non-Christian pilgrims. Merchants visited it on their way from Syria to Constantinople, so it was clearly located on an important road. In their view it could do no harm to visit the saint and leave a donation.99 The prosperity which the monastery could gain from the flocking pilgrims and its rights to tax the surrounding villages gradually threatened to become its undoing. The area was situated on the travel route of the migratory movements referred to above, like those of Armenians, Kurds and Turkomans. For the wandering bands who apparently accompanied such movements, the monastery became an attractive target. In the second half of the 11th century it was in fact attacked by Armenian groups, and several monks and laypersons lost their lives.100 Subsequently too, the immediate surroundings of the monastery were controlled by Armenian petty rulers, who meanwhile had created dominions for themselves. These homines novi did not make a very good impression on Michael; conflicts repeatedly broke out.101 Pressed by these dangers, the monastery was systematically converted into a fortress. First two fortified towers were erected, a third being added in 1101. The effects were soon noticeable: to their consternation, the monks merely succeeded in making the monastery attractive, to Turks and Latins alike, not just as a treasure house but also as a military fortification. The allure of these changes for military leaders also emerges in the negotiations between Joscelin II and the Dānishmendid Emir ʻAyn 96

Thierry: 1993, 192; Kaufhold: 2000, 10. Michael, C 483 (III, 10). 98 Honigmann: 1954, 62-70. 99 Honigmann: 1954, 70-71, Michael, C 647 (III, 290). 100 Michael, C 573-575 (III, 162-164). Briefly also in the Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 46 (33), which again raises questions about its sources; and yet this must be local material, if the author did not in fact have access to Michael’s chronicle, which I believe is not out of the question. 101 Michael, C 595 (III, 199) etc. 97

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ad-Dawlā from Melitene, conducted after the attack. Michael gives the following account: You [“Dawlā”] took the monasteries of Zabar, which belong to me, and destroyed them. But I took the monastery of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, which is a fortress higher than many, like the eagle over the birds. And see: now I give it back to you.102

Yet the monastery withstood the various attacks and remained indisputably one of the most powerful monasteries of the Syriac Orthodox Church in the 12th century. On account of its safety and reputation it was one of the most frequented patriarchal residences.103 Mōr Bar Ṣawmō itself produced many bishops104 and several patriarchs. The monastery church was also a patriarchal sepulchre.105 The looting and temporary abduction of the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō relic has been considered an otherwise insignificant episode, incapable of disturbing the supposedly excellent relations between Latins and Syrians.106 This judgement underestimates the event’s importance, not only politically, but also for Michael personally; this experience with the Latins must have been formative for him, and it led him to mistrust their reliability.107 The relations between the later patriarch and the Latins, on the other hand, benefited from the presence of Templars in Joscelin’s army, who withdrew after the looting started: When they saw this, they said to him, ‘We came with you to fight the Turks and help the Christians and not to plunder churches and monasteries.’ And when they left him and went, though they had not eaten bread nor drunk water, he, the wretched, who was forsaken by God and whose eyes and soul were blind, did not understand at all.108

Michael reports on another crime against the relic of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō committed in 1134 by the Franks together with the Greek Orthodox Christians. In order to control a bad locust plague, the Syriac Orthodox congregation in Edessa had asked for the relic. After a delegation from the monastery had arrived and the saint had successfully ended the plague, 102

Michael, C 644 (III, 287). Cf. systematically Chabot: 1924, register, 13* and Honigmann: 1954, 52-76. 104 Michael, C 752-768 (III, 448-491). 105 Michael, C 611 (III, 228). 106 Cf. the last section above, also Kawerau: 1960, 84. 107 Thus he has ʻAyn ad-Dawlā ridicule Joscelin, who claims that nothing, not even the Bible, is so holy that Joscelin’s oath on it can be trusted — in contrast to the Muslim, whose swearing on the Koran is valid: Michael, C 644 (III, 287). 108 Ibid. 103

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envious Greek Orthodox Christians incited the Latins, and particularly the archbishop, to mock the relic. They demanded that the reliquary be opened — to see whether there was anything inside. When the monks reluctantly gave way, thunder erupted, and darkness and hail filled the streets. The Latins gave up their opposition to the saint, cast themselves to the ground and wept; the Greeks hid in shame. After the hailstorm, all had gathered and a three-day procession was held through Edessa. The news reached neighbouring Ḥarran, whence Arabs arrived curious about this powerful object.109 Here we can probably recognize typical elements of social life in the region. We have already seen that Michael repeatedly accuses the Greek Orthodox Christians of stirring up trouble against the Syriac Orthodox. But within rival groups in the cities it does not seem strange that such attempts were made — they were sure to be met with countermeasures. In this case the foreign Latins had first simply joined up with the Greek Orthodox tradition, which for them was less heretical. The Greek Orthodox Christians had little regard for Mōr Bar Ṣawmō († 458). Their view was determined by the memory of his lack of education, his ignorance of Greek and his coarse behaviour. As an ascetic in a hair shirt, wasted away by fasting (‘Bar Ṣawmō’, ‘the Faster’), who militantly expressed his disapproval of the imminent Christological decisions without keeping to the standing orders, he had not left a good impression on the hierarchs at the Councils of Ephesus in 449 and Chalcedon in 451.110 Perhaps Joscelin II was similarly unimpressed by the saint. More likely, it was precisely his faith in the power of the relic that led him to his heinous robbery, since use of its power was surely the reason why he placed it in the castle of the Courtenays in Turbessel/Tel Bšīr. He had not reckoned with the saint’s potential displeasure, however. Immediately after the abduction the first soldiers were afflicted by nightly dreams, which Joscelin refused to take as a warning.111 Not until the Turks besieged Turbessel did he change his attitude, do public penance, display the relic to the Turks from the city walls and swear that he would have nothing further from the monastery if victory were granted to him. Again, Latins as well as Syrians and Armenians were witnesses to the event.112 109

Michael, C 615-617 (III, 238-239); cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 292-293 (257-258). For the Greek and Syriac sources on Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, cf. in detail Honigmann: 1954, 6-35, also Michael, Vita of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. 111 Michael, C 645-647 (III, 292-293). 112 Michael, C 648 (III, 295-296). 110

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The saint’s next act took his cult to Antioch. On the first of December in the year 1156 the consecration of a large newly built church of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō took place in Antioch. Michael was a member of the monastic delegation which was naturally present at this event.113 We have no reason to doubt his description: the gathering to celebrate this festive event included Frankish nobles, priests, the Princess of Antioch, Constance (d. 1163), the Armenian Prince Tʻoros (1136-1167), and members of the Armenian and Syriac Orthodox clergy as well as the Syrian and Armenian Orthodox population. The Latin Patriarch Aimery (1141-1196) is not mentioned.114 He had been severely maltreated by Reynald of Châtillon, the reigning Prince of Antioch (1153-1160),115 and had preferred to take up residence in Jerusalem for some years. Political realism may be one explanation for this event: the consecration of the church was eminently suitable as a demonstration against Byzantium. The relations between Antioch and Byzantium were at low ebb. Together with the Armenian Prince Tʻoros, whom he actually should have combatted on the instructions of Byzantium, Reynald had attacked and cruelly plundered Byzantine Cyprus. This happened in the spring of 1156, i.e. immediately before the consecration. The Syrians and Armenians used the anti-Byzantine tendency among the Latins for their own purposes.116 As might be expected, Michael’s explanation is somewhat different: he was a monk in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. Michael reports that the news of Joscelin’s penance before the gates of Turbessel after the victory over the Turks in 1148 had spread widely, and that everyone was speaking about the miracles of the saint. A Latin noble family in Antioch experienced a healing miracle through Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. The desperate mother of a crippled boy met a monk of the monastery, which triggered a series of visions in the course of which the saint demanded a church from the mother and revealed its site to the monk. The fact that the church was built is therefore partly due to the presence of monks in Antioch. Moreover, they received full support from Metropolitan Basil bar Šūmōnō of 113

Michael, C 653 (III, 303-304). Prawer: 1985, 79, believes that Aimery was present. This is impossible. 115 William of Tyre XVIII: 1, 809. Reynald forced him ‘nudo capite et melle delibuto per diem estivum in sole ferventissimo compulit sedere, nemine contra solis importunitem prebente remedium vel gratia pietatis muscas abigente.’ 116 William of Tyre XVIII: 10, 823-825. The Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 315 is very sympathetic. On the date, see Runciman: 1957-1960, 651-653; Mayer: 102004, 141-144. 114

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Edessa, who also happened to be staying in Antioch. Pious processions went around the city, in which the Latin ‘Queen’ Constance is supposed to have taken part, and finally the church was built. The Latin patrician who donated his garden for this construction thus kept his name alive: ‘Harry’. And ‘this Harry and his wife called Izabel, that is, Elišabel’ took part in the investiture.117 Such a joint action could be seen as an authoritarian demand on the relic by the Latins, or perhaps rather as a selective, denominational alliance of Antiochian Latins and the Eastern Orthodox Christians of the area: an 1141 council in Jerusalem had temporarily settled, under the chairmanship of the papal legate Alberic of Ostia and again in Joscelin’s presence, the problem of dogmatic differences between Latins, Armenians and Syriac Orthodox believers.118 So the report on the building of the church of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō could suggest that a real regional Latin-Eastern rapprochement developed mid-century in the Edessan and Antiochian area. It may have been promoted by the confusion which the loss of Edessa caused, the streams of refugees which this apparently brought to Antioch, the presence of high dignitaries, Joscelin’s crime against the relic, and the belief, widespread among Muslims too, in the saint’s power. Not until 1163 does Michael become noticeable as an actor in his chronicle. To my knowledge no satisfactory socio-historical description has yet been given of the office of head of a monastery in the Syriac Orthodox Church. The uncertainty starts with his period of office. The canon law expert Walter Selb assumes that the elected head held office for life,119 but does not discuss Peter Kawerau’s account, who assumed a fixed-term office, limited in fact to just one year. In this connection Kawerau referred to a passage in Bar ʻEbrōyō in which he talks about a (different) ‘Raban Michael’, who was ‘one of the Rīš-Dayrē of the monastery’.120 Apparently nothing is known today about the possibility that several people may have held this title, which literally means ‘head of a monastery’.121 Yet a lifelong term of office is not standard today. The retired head loses the title of a Rīš-Dayrō, though 117 Michael, C 653 (III, 304), my emphasis. Chabot vocalizes and corrects to ‘Henry’, but I see no reason for this on the basis of HRRY. 118 Michael, C 625-626 (III, 255-256). The sharp anti-Amenian tendency of this report is surprising in view of Michael’s basically positive relations with the Armenians. His source is unknown. As regards a Roman-Eastern agreement, this report is confirmed by the Armenian translation of a letter from Innocentius II, Schmidt/Halfter: 1999. 119 Selb: 1989, 278. 120 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 607 (608), cf. Kawerau: 1960, 40. 121 Amill Gorgis, subdeacon of the Syriac Orthodox community of Antioch in Berlin.

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he is still respectfully called Raban. As we have already done here, it is therefore better to describe his position by the term ‘prior’. Certainly he was not a Benedictine-style father abbot. Especially when higher hierarchs are present in the monastery — which, as we already saw, often occurred in the Middle Ages too — the position of the head of a monastery today may be limited to that of a simple school prior.122 Regardless of this problem, Chabot’s claim that Michael was already Rīš-Dayrō in 1156 is improbable.123 Michael’s first important official act as Rīš-Dayrō offers an exceptionally direct insight into his character: the construction of a waterworks. Michael was clearly proud of this construction, and describes the circumstances in detail. Until then water had to be carried up the mountain by donkey. On the occasion of the saint’s day this often led to supply shortfalls, when pilgrims flocked to the monastery and needed to be provided for. Because the celebration for Mōr Bar Ṣawmō took place on 3 February, when full cisterns could generally be counted on, this passage is further evidence for the supraregional significance of the cult. The generally admired metropolitan John of Mardin offered to solve this serious problem; he ‘had mastered the art of geometry’,124 had also built waterworks for Muslims, and wanted to give the monastery such an amenity in his name.125 However, the monks were afraid that this would make the monastery more attractive in the eyes of the surrounding rulers. Michael did not accept their reservations.126 The monks did not want this and said: ‘Surely, in these times, when Turks surround us, we cannot undertake such a great work’, since they did not believe that on the top of a mountain like this, full of hard stone and rocks, a channel could be built at all. And therefore they also said: ‘The forefathers were wiser than we and twice as rich and yet they could not do this: So how could we?’ Time passed, until I, humble Michael, was appointed and elevated as Rīš-Dayrō in this monastery.127

122

Id. Chabot: 1924, ii. Amouroux-Monrad: 1988, 3 agrees. As evidence Chabot puts forward Michael’s statement that he travelled to Antioch for the consecration of the church. But his elevation is not a precondition for this journey. In the 12th century the Syriac Orthodox monks were often on the road, as we have already seen several times. After all, Michael only mentions his elevation to prior in 1163. 124 Michael, C 677 (III, 321). Chabot: ‘Comme l’évêque de Mardin avait déjà trouvé l’art de la géométrie …’. ‘Avait trouvé’ must be an error of haste, eškaḥ means ‘to find’ and ‘to be able’, as Chabot of course knew. 125 Michael, C 630 (III, 263); 677 (III, 322). 126 Michael, C 677-679 (III, 321-323). 127 Michael, C 677 (III, 322). 123

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He immediately had John give a demonstration, which persuaded the monks that his plan could be realized, and then he organized his group of builders. The work was energetically started under John’s leadership and, accompanied by spectacular explosions in the natural rock and some astonishing miracles, was rapidly completed. However, Michael did not consider the fears of the monks wholly unjustified. In the following year he therefore ordered the erection of a fourth fortified tower. But he carefully concealed the news about this in a totally different place, instead of putting it after his building report.128 Michael was not one of those who mourned the glorious past. He wanted to shape the present, and proved an energetic organizer who refused to be intimidated by the perilous situation of the Syriac Orthodox Church. He was clearly a pragmatist who was able to use the educational and material capital of the members of his church. In the future, too, he would carry through his spectacular building plans despite the fearful resistance of the Syriac Orthodox population. This undaunted rabban stood out. Bar ʻEbrōyō knows that, when John fell from his horse and died in 1165, the community of Mardin wanted Michael as his successor.129 The flock could hardly ask for a more suitable leader, who would faithfully have continued John’s work of reform in his spirit.130 Why Michael and Dionysios bar Ṣalībī did not want to accept the metropolises of Mardin and Amid, respectively, from the hand of Athanasios, when he offered them the office shortly before his death, will remain their secret. Yet a little later Michael can in fact be found in Mardin and Dionysios in Amid.131 In 1166 Athanasios VII died and was buried in Amid. 6. MICHAEL I, PATRIARCH OF ANTIOCH: A

METHODOLOGICAL PROBLEM

Michael’s gesta have often been told.132 Yet many questions remain. The Syriac Orthodox sources describe Michael in detail and as an extraordinary patriarch. To this very day he is honoured as ‘the Great’. But 128

Michael, C 575 (III, 164). Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 531-533 (532-534). 130 On John’s person and work of reform, see the many publications of Arthur Vööbus: 1964; 1969; 1971; 1977 etc., on Michael’s relation with John, see also below 219-224. See John of Mardin’s legislation in Vööbus/Synodicon, 233-256 (247-269) and Vööbus/ Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 104-121. 131 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 531-533 (532-534). 132 Assemani: 1721, 154-156; Langlois: 1868, 2-16; Chabot: 1924, i-lx; Gerber: 1911, 1-9; Nau: 1914; Baumstark: 1922, 298-300; Tisserant: 1929; Kawerau: 1960, 4, 73-75 etc.; de Vries: 1962; Lüders: 1964, 5-13; Browning: 1967; Aßfalg: 1968; Hamilton: 1980, 195-199; Graffin 1982; Palmer: 1985, 81-82; Hage: 1992 (Michael) etc. 129

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apart from the Armenian version of Michael’s chronicle and one (!) remark in the Armenian chronicle by Kirakos Ganjakecʻi (or: of Gandzag), Michael is not mentioned at all in historiographical texts of non-Syriac origin. Not even his existence was worth a report. What does this silence actually mean? May we conclude that Michael’s existence and that of the Syriac Orthodox Church were too insignificant to warrant any comment? Did the Syriac Orthodox sources grossly exaggerate, so that any further biography of Michael was unnecessary? The events surrounding Mōr Bar Ṣawmō render this possibility unlikely. If, conversely, Michael was systematically informed about the Latin church structure133 and many political and ecclesiastical details, while the Latin authors seem, in comparison, to have been profoundly ignorant about the Syrians,134 is it because the less powerful had to be interested in what were the important events in the Near East? Most scholars think this may be the case. Byzantines, Latins and Muslims were rarely forced to gear their actions to the existence of the Syrians. When for reasons unknown to us they did take the Syrians into account, as is sometimes evident even in observations given below, the Byzantines, Latins and Muslims had no interest in reporting it. The fact that Michael is not mentioned in the texts of this and the next century is therefore also related to the specific intentions of the authors who wrote them: each historiographer of the time pursued his own goals. One’s own group, ‘we’, usually takes centre stage in these accounts.135 In the historical construction of this ‘we’ there is no proper place for people who cannot clearly be classified, who are neither unambiguously ‘we’, nor ‘the others’, ‘the enemies’. So, for lack of non-Syriac sources, how should we assess the accounts of the Syriac chronicles, and how high should we judge the position of the patriarch? When Michael started to write his historical work is unknown,136 but he was probably already an expert on Syriac Orthodox church history, which takes up a very broad space in his chronicle. His description of himself was therefore not just written ex officio. Moreover, it had to measure itself against 600 years of Syriac Orthodox patriarchs, against their merits and demerits and their spiritual achievements for ‘īdṭō dīlan/our Church’. These factors made a self-portrait a difficult 133 On the foundation of dioceses, their boundaries and some names of the first officeholders, cf. Michael, C 607 (III, 222). 134 A different analysis and assessment is found in Schöndorfer: 1997 on Jacob of Vitry, Historia Orientalis, though without a comparison with Eastern Christian literature. 135 On William of Tyre, cf. Hiestand: 1997, whom I thank for suggestions on this point. 136 On this, see some considerations below 119-121.

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task. Yet there was a precedent for coping with this difficulty: the work report of Patriarch Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē († 845) in his world chronicle. Michael gives an excerpt from Dionysios’ deliberations in which he is concerned with this question: Dionysios speaks here as follows: After boldly writing down this discourse and frankly recording the histories from the beginning of the book up to here, neither praising nor criticizing anybody out of hypocrisy — now that I have come to this chapter, I wanted to hold my peace and readily let another writer record what relates to my humble self, if only there were someone who can describe the things that concern me as accurately as I myself can, who would fearlessly tell of my mistakes and weaknesses, and of the inadequacy which is mine, who would disclose my sins as well as my good deeds (if in fact they are worthy of praise), then he should tell and not I. But because there is nobody who knows me better than I do, I am forced by the situation. And because truth is more valuable to me than vain public opinion, I will write down my entire memory of both, foregoing praise, lest it seem to the incessant grumblers as if I were lauding my own work.137

Dionysios reflected on his writing. He asserts a claim to independence (not an abstract requirement of objectivity), which he sees clashing with the fact that he himself is now an involved party (which again is not the same as subjectivity). But he seems to have persuaded himself that he is up to the task of judging his own actions, if nobody else can relieve him of it. Because the chronicle has been lost, it is hard to assess how he acquitted himself of this task. However, we should note that as an old and tired man, after the report on his eventful patriarchal life, he allowed the addressee of his work, an old friend, an insight into his despair about his own inadequacy. He was defenceless against it, because his time had passed and he would not have a second try.138 It may well be that, in the tradition of Dionysios and as the next history-writing patriarch, Michael introduced his time of office with historiographical reflections. This is no longer verifiable. Strikingly, his report on the election and the first years is lacking. Were these pages, unlike all the others, loosened from the codex and corrupted because they were read so often?139 137

Michael, C 503 (III, 42). Michael, C 538-543 (III, 104-110). This unusual and surprisingly personal passage requires further study. Useful comments are made by Arthur Vööbus: ‘We can admire what he [Dionysios] was able to achieve under the circumstances which governed his work. The dialogue which the patriarch held with John of Dara at the end of his chronicle should be taken into account. What we learn here is very moving [trs. AR].’ Vööbus: 1964, 286-287. 139 Books XVIII and XIX are lacunose or completely ruined. Apart from that, only the proem and the first quires have been lost or badly damaged, which is obviously more 138

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Bar ʻEbrōyō and the Chronicle to the year 1234 also describe Michael as an office-holder, if with different emphases, and they too, having acquired profound knowledge about the history of the Syriac Orthodox Church, were influenced by traditional figures and topoi. But, as we have already found, the Syriac Orthodox chroniclers were not inclined to panegyric accounts. Criticism of the way the patriarchs conducted their office was possible at any time. Infringements of the law were exposed, weaknesses or stubbornness were noted. This tendency leads to a source-critical observation: if Michael had been wholly unworthy of his power, this would have found expression in the chronicles. On the other hand, in composing a history of the patriarchs Michael did not relate with whom he was on good or bad terms, or describe daily life. Rather he chose to describe in his report the main areas of his office: enacting laws, leading synods, consecrating metropolitans, bishops and churches, blessing oil of myrrh, and his pastoral journeys.140 In this way he could also stress the centralistic and representative character of the office. Michael describes both good and bad patriarchs in his chronicle, recounting various histories which reveal his evaluative criteria. Two aspects will be mentioned here. Among patriarchs whom Michael characterizes as responsible and good office-holders it is above all their modesty which he emphasizes. John VII (1042-1057) is reported to have made several attempts to escape election by fleeing, being literally hunted through field and meadow by the assembled bishops. Concealed in a field, while the bishops were walking around it, he was finally discovered by a she-ass.141 Patriarch Athanasios I (595-613), whose chief concern is said to have been the attainment of a humble attitude, had passed the election synod with a salt-laden camel and been chosen with great reluctance and weeping. Only on condition that he might do his humble work for another year could he finally be persuaded to accept the patriarchate.142 likely than the loss of middle quires. We should point out that the passages quoted by Bar ʻEbrōyō in the following occupy an intermediate source-critical position: they mainly go back to Michael’s account and therefore, exceptions apart, will contain little more than he reported. On the other hand Bar ʻEbrōyō was an independent spirit; so we should reckon with transformations, personal commentary and distinctive treatment of the material. On the comparison between Bar ʻEbrōyō and Michael, see below 191-202. 140 On the patriarch’s area of jurisdiction, see Kawerau: 1960, 18-22; Selb: 1989, 219-221. 141 Michael, C 573 (III, 160-161); cf. Michael, C 580 (III, 174); 581-582 (III, 177). 142 Michael, C 389 (III, 376). This Vita probably goes back here to mediation by Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē. Dionysios and Michael were not wholly averse to spectacular scenes.

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Iwannis III (1086-1087) is praised for his naïve faith in God, with which he shouted at locusts, exorcized them and thus induced them to gather in a field and eat earth there. They did so and perished.143 These and other descriptions belong to the ancient ecclesiastical tradition.144 Patriarchs should evidently be men who abhor power, are independent of the secular rulers, are able to keep together their congregations with a firm hand and friendly admonition, and provide stability with a devoted faith in God. Michael portrayed himself in all humility as a patriarch who embodied these very characteristics. By mainly confining his notes to eminent official actions and by forming his own person after the tradition, Michael gives an account of himself that has therefore been anonymized to a certain extent. Yet — like the other great patriarchs — he also had a temperament which shines through the warp and woof of his biography and makes him specifically recognizable. As we saw in the construction of the waterworks, part of this temperament was an open attitude to the present and its requirements. 7. INVESTITURE, PROGRAMME, REALIZATION Michael’s election in 1166 led to disagreements. As a rule, the patriarch was chosen from three candidates by the drawing of lots. When Michael heard of his election, he fled and hid in a corner of his monastery, which at first sight is not surprising. Yet this was not simply the customary modesty. Michael did not want to be controlled by the synod, like Athanasios VII, but wanted to dictate conditions himself: he is the first patriarch whom we know to have sought from the bishops a commitment to a precisely defined reform programme, laid down in 29 canons, and to have made acceptance of the office dependent thereon. To the growth of local episcopal power in the 12th century Michael thus reacted with a new administrative method, consisting in a publication of his intentions and of the contractual commitments between patriarch and synod. The canons have not been preserved. However, Michael emphasizes two — the ban on the purchase of offices and on the procurement of an episcopal see through the will of a secular ruler. This is highly political: Michael was loath to be outplayed by local rulers.145 143

Michael, C 582-583 (III, 177-178). Cf. the biography of the Jerusalem Bishop Narcissus in Michael, C 113f (I, 190-192) and Eusebius, HE X, 6. 145 For some remnants, cf. Vööbus/Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 74-76. Michael’s own summary: Michael, C 707 (III, 357-358). 144

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While they were still looking for Michael in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, disputes arose in the synod. We have seen how typical this is. But the disputes turned into a tumult when, after the bishops arrived in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, Michael proposed his conditions. The patience of Dionysios bar Ṣalībī gave out. With his usual sternness he thundered at everybody how necessary reforms were and how they could only wish for such a man as Rabban Michael, who had clearly been sent by the Lord: ‘truly, anyone who refuses to give in is the Satan! — Now everyone agreed and raised their hands.’146 It was customary to assume an official name, but Michael declined. Understandably, he did not want to become Athanasios VIII. In the past centuries ‘John’ and ‘Dionysios’ had often been used as episcopal and patriarchal names, so these were available. But he preferred ‘Michael’, and thus became the first bearer of this name in the Syriac Orthodox tradition. This is remarkable: in a world where tradition was an extremely important measure of one’s actions, Michael showed unmistakably that he wanted to do things in a new, different way.147 Michael’s programme was the administrative, moral and material reform of the church hierarchy, which was to minister to the congregations independently of the secular powers. As regards the independence of the hierarchs, he may have overestimated what was possible. At the same time he underestimated the structural problems which left the metropolitans no choice but to come to an arrangement with local powers. Yet independence was the cornerstone of his reform work. For him it seems to have been the fundamental condition for renewal of the Church, and remained his ceterum censeo to the end.148 This programme was also the focus of his legislation, passed at the many reform synods during his period of office.149 He not only drew up 146 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 539 (540), my emphasis. On Dionysios’ habits of speech, cf. below 229-234. Excerpts of Dionysios’ speech are preserved in the election report in Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 537-539 (538-540). Chabot hoped that he had found this speech in another place, but noticed that his discovery concerned a liturgical investiture sermon: Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, Encomium, 87. Vööbus/Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 77 does not believe in the existence of two different sermons and is convinced that Chabot had in fact found the corresponding document. But there can be no doubt here. 147 On the veneration of St. Michael in the Middle Eastern area, cf. Lueken: 1898, though he concentrates on the motif’s historical derivation. 148 In the late 60s he impressed it on Theodoros on his journey to the West, cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 313-314 (234). With this argument he refrained from offering petitions to the Armenian King Leon II in 1193: Michael, C 724 (III, 387). 149 Cf. the compilation of the few preserved remnants in Vööbus/Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 74-88, 254-256; Vööbus/Synodicon, 232 (246). From a source-critical point of view it is impossible to decide here why very little of Michael’s legislative work has

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instructions for the bishops and metropolitans, but together with Dionysios bar Ṣalībī reflected on the office of patriarch and his relationship with the synod.150 They required the patriarch to accept the advice of experienced bishops here. One suspects Dionysios’ influence, a circumstance which does not devalue this canon, but merely indicates the close cooperation between the two. While Michael’s legislative reforms raised relations between the patriarch and the synod to a new level of co-operation, he enforced sanctions attaching to these canons with considerable harshness during his entire period of office. Several bishops lost all their ecclesiastical honours for misdemeanours, such as a change of see. This rigour led to dissatisfaction in his own ranks — but more on this development later. No one has yet researched why the episcopal change of see became the important problem that emerges from Michael’s chronicle. Perhaps the bishops withdrew from cities in which collaboration with the authorities was difficult or the city was financially unattractive for the office-bearer, so that the congregations were abandoned. Michael also lists a whole series of new buildings and restorations. His resources were apparently considerable.151 Besides the restoration and construction of urban and monastic churches, his main concern was to design the patriarchal residences in Amid and Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. In this way he tried to reverse, along with other signs of withdrawal, an increasingly pronounced 12th-century trend to convert churches into mosques,152 been preserved. We also lack precise knowledge about the relationship between legal norm and legal reality in the 12th century. 150 Vööbus/Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 254-256. On the remains of the canonistic work of Dionysios bar Ṣalībī himself, cf. likewise Vööbus/Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 240-253. 151 1171 Amid; Abū Ġālib monastery near Gargar, Michael, C 697 (III, 341); 1172 Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, Michael, C 701 (III, 347); 1172-1177 Melitene, construction of the great church (‘of the courser’): Michael, C 701-703 (III, 347-348); 1173-1176 again Amid: Michael, C 705 (III, 354); 714 (III, 370); 1173 Qanqrat, monastery, Michael, C 706 (III, 355); 1173 Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, Michael, C 703 (III, 350); 1180-1193 rebuilding of the church and restoration after the fire in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, Michael, C 721 (III, 382); 727 (III, 393); 730 (III, 399), 736 (III, 409). New sources have been published since the compilation by Kawerau: 1960, 119-120 of Syriac Orthodox buildings 1150-1300. But on the present state of the buildings, cf. Monneret de Villard: 1940; Hellenkemper: 1976; id. 1978; Leroy: 1968; Bell/Mango: 1982; Wießner: 1982-1993. We may compare this description with the monastery church of Mar Mūsa (Nabk, Syria) and its mural paintings of the same period: Kaufhold: 1995, 48-119; Christliche Wandmalereien: 2005; Westphalen: 2007, 99-112. 152 In 1171, only a few years after the death of Patriarch Athanasios, who often resided in Amid, the church buildings were in need of restoration. Two years later all the representative buildings had again been lost to the Muslims, cf. Michael, C 701 (III, 347); 705-706 (III, 354-355); 700-702 (III, 347-349).

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and at the same time led the congregations and the patriarchate to take part visibly and self-confidently in shaping the urban space. The resistance of the local clergy in Melitene, who rejected the building measures because they feared the Muslim population and the authorities, indicates the fact that these were risky political decisions.153 The construction of the new church in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō from 1180 to 1193 and the church in Melitene were the two principal works; Michael notes that the urban church in particular turned out much larger than the previous building.154 As the heart of a fortress, the monastic church did not have to be elegant. All the more striking, then, is the extravagant interior which Michael created. According to the information of the anonymous chronicler, it was completely decorated with mural paintings. Precious fittings were purchased. The success of Michael’s efforts emerges in the account of the anonymous chronicler, always somewhat the connoisseur, who emphasizes the provinciality of the building, but cannot help praising it.155 8. AN HONOURED MAN: THE

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Michael was the first to move the patriarchal residence from Amid to Mardin, where it stayed until the beginning of the 20th century. In Amid he installed Dionysios bar Ṣalībī as metropolitan, who was apparently prepared to accept this diocese from Michael’s hand.156 Whenever Michael visited Mardin, he stayed in the old monastery of Mōr Ḥanōnyō (Dayr az-Za‘farān),157 where he went now too. He reveals that he thought highly of the Muslim ruler of Mardin, Naǧm ad-Dīn (1155-1176), an Artuqid. The Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version (version I) reports that this family was on the whole sympathetic to the Syriac Orthodox Christians, because the relic of St. Bar Ṣawmō had cured the head of the family — St. Bar 153

Michael, C 701-703 (III, 347-348). Michael, C 701-703 (III, 347-348); 736-737 (III, 409-410). 155 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 314-315 (234-235). 156 Testimonies on behalf of Mardin as residence in Michael, C 767-768 (III, 479-482); Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 331-333 (247-248); Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 543 (544). Cf. Bell/Mango: 1982, 132. Honigmann believed that the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery had this status: Honigmann: 1954, 57-70; Kaufhold: 2000, 2: ‘After being elected patriarch he — like some of his predecessors — stayed quite frequently in the monastery, so that it can be designated as a patriarchal residence’, only seems to restate the problem. 157 Michael, C 697 (III, 341); 707-708 (III, 357-360); 717 (III, 374) etc. On this monastery, cf. Bell/Mango: 1982, 132-135. 154

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Ṣawmō again!158 The former prior of the powerful monastery may therefore have been very welcome. Moreover, the diocese of Mardin and the monastery had been reformed and extended in the past decades by the energetic metropolitan John, a task which had yet to be performed in Amid.159 But this may not have been the only reason for choosing the Mōr Ḥanōnyō monastery. The monastery possessed a unique relic, the Chair of St. Peter from Antioch, which was believed to be authentic. The relic dates from Antiquity and lends particular significance to this remote monastery: the Syriac Orthodox patriarchs had succeeded, at least materially, in taking their claim to the see of Antioch with them.160 In the 1160s and 1170s the patriarch travelled a great deal and with great speed. Usually he rode accompanied by an entourage. In 1167 he made a first trip to the West. One of the stops was at Edessa, where according to the anonymous chronicle he was received with great pomp by Bishop Basil bar Šūmōnō:161 Basil supported Michael, and so after all the years of independence Edessa had clearly been regained for the patriarchate. Early in 1168 Michael travelled around Cilicia, which is all the information we are given.162 On the way to Jerusalem he brushed past Antioch without entering the city, but not without accepting the greeting of Prince Bohemond III (1163-1201) before the gate.163 If our reading of the 1156 church consecration is correct, Michael’s visit may have coincided with a positive mood in Antioch. Bohemond III, for his part, like Joscelin I and Joscelin II before him, seems to have taken an active interest in Eastern church politics. At present we do not know his motives.164 Michael travelled to Jerusalem by boat, visited the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, blessed the oil of myrrh in the Syriac Orthodox Mary Magdalene monastery and celebrated Easter. Bar ʻEbrōyō tells us that on (Syriac Orthodox) Easter Sunday he met with the Latin patriarch 158 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 305. As stated above Langlois followed version I, see Schmidt: 2013. 159 Vööbus: 1969; 1963; 1971; 1977; Vööbus/Synodicon, 233-256 (247-269), or Vööbus/ Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 104-121. 160 Leroy: 1977. Cf. Leroy: 1968. 161 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 307 (230). For Michael this visit was perhaps less important, or that is how it appears in Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 543 (544) — however, Bar ʻEbrōyō may have abridged Michael’s text at this place. 162 Cf. Schmidt: 1996, 304. 163 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 543 (544). 164 Hamilton: 1980, 191-193 etc. suspects that the Latin rulers wanted to utilize Syriac Orthodox influence on the Muslim rulers. In the 13th century the good relations between prince and patriarch continued, Bar ʻEbrōyō CE occ. 653 (654).

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Aimery (1158-1180).165 In Jerusalem he apparently persuaded the authorities to give the Chapel of St. James in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre to the Syriac Orthodox congregation, which by then no longer possessed a place in the church.166 Afterwards — no doubt taking the same route — he returned to Antioch. On arriving in Antioch, Michael visited the Latin patriarch Aimery, who since 1166 had lived outside the city in Al-Quṣayr, and who is said to have received him with great joy. According to Bar ʻEbrōyō, he was incensed by the presence of the Greek opponent Athanasios (1157-1170) and therefore paid great honour to the Syrian.167 This argument seems convincing, and yet this reception was also aimed against Bohemond, who had been responsible for Aimery’s departure.168 The anonymous chronicle further reports that the patriarch was lifted onto the throne in the great St. Peter’s Cathedral. If this report is correct, it was a good opportunity to make Athanasios look foolish and to demonstrate that independent action was possible.169 It also shows that Athanasios’ position in Antioch was too weak to prevent this insult. Michael used this opportunity, remained in Antioch until Easter in 1169, and consecrated at least three bishops.170 One of the reasons why Athanasios’ position was so weak was that neither the emperor nor Bohemond was interested in confrontations:171 apparently the presence of the two estranged patriarchs of Antioch had led to tensions between the denominations in the city. This is only to be expected: ‘Because in this period, when the patriarch was in Antioch, the Greeks provoked a controversy over the faith, the patriarch wrote a booklet in which he laid down the definition of our creed.’172 So it appears that the Greek Orthodox complained — in accordance with valid Byzantine law — about the ‘heretics’. Michael sent this confession of faith to Emperor Manuel Komnenos (1143-1180), who accepted it: 165

Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 545 (546). Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 545 (546), cf. Hunt: 1995; Palmer: 1991; Meinardus: 1960 and 1963. 167 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 545 (546). 168 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 331 (Budge 289). Hamilton: 1995, 276. 169 Chronicle to the year 1234 CE I 307 (230), a very similar report for the Armenian Catholics in Kirakos of Ganjakecʻi (of Gandzag), C (Bedrosian), 108, though Schmidt/ Halfter: 1999, 52-53 doubt the truth of the report that Gregory III was received in Antioch. 170 Bar ʻEbrōyō CE occ., 545 (546). 171 Manuel’s motives are not entirely clear. One explanation is perhaps the model of a ‘politics of embrace’, cf. Lilie: 1993, 142ff. 172 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 549 (550). 166

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Manuel, devout king, born to the purple, … to Lord Michael, leader of the Jacobites! Through God’s goodness he announces: our Majesty was extremely pleased to see the document that you have written; truth of right faith it shows and wise doctrine. And our Majesty greatly wishes to see you.173

There is no reason to doubt the authenticity of the letter. The context of the report in Bar ʻEbrōyō suggests that it reached Michael in Antioch, which would mean that, despite the problems caused by his presence, Michael had still not been removed by the city rulers.174 Michael did not accept the invitation, not even when renewed with express assurances that he would not be forced to make concessions. In the past this had happened, and Michael knew it.175 In these years disputations did in fact take place between the Greek Orthodox, the Armenian and the Syriac Orthodox churches. Michael personally received a certain Christophorus, apparently not much later. That this encounter must have taken place in Antioch is also clearly shown by the next legations. He could not receive the next legate because the latter could not pass through Mesopotamia.176 Yet clear conditions appear subsequently to have been 173

Bar ʻEbrōyō CE occ., 549 (550), this report is regrettably the only source for Dölger: 1995, no. 1487, but the editor did not realize that the source is Bar ʻEbrōyō and not Michael as he failed to recognize the insertion in Chabot’s translation. On this problem, see above 10-11. Manuel is probably referring to Michael, Confession of Faith: ‘… Dei inquam, Verbum, homo Iesus Christus, qui est ex duabus rebus, divinitate scilicet et humanitate, ex duabus hypostasibus et naturis, una hypostasis et una natura, Christus unus. Sed quia nonnulli cum nos audiunt unam hypostasim dicentes et unam naturam, continuo adversus nos occinunt, quod cum Eutychete explodendi simus et cum iis omnibus qui confusionem in sancta unione factam dicunt; nos utique confitemur naturarum ex quibus est Christus incolumem esse differentiam; neque dicimus divinitatem immutatam ut caro fierit, neque carnem mutatam in divinitatem: sed divinitas, mansit divinitas; caro autem, caro perstitit. … Nam sicuti anima et corpus unum hominem efficiunt, et cum hae duae naturae sint, fieri tamen nequit, ut homo dicatur duae naturae; sic et de Christo Dei Verbo loquimur, quod neque divinitas mutata sit neque corpus. Atque ita videlicet unum Christum confitemur, unum hypostasim, unamque naturam, Deum perfectum, itemque perfectum hominem …’. A different version is held by the Vatican Library, Ms. arab. 83, cf. Levi della Vida: 1939, 205-213. On the confession of faith, see also Graf: 1947, 266, who refers to a version in Ms. Šarfeh syr. 9/32. 174 Cf. the chronology of the talks with the Armenian Church, which Zekiyan: 1980, 439 sees starting in 1165. 175 Bar ʻEbrōyō CE occ., 557 (558). Cf. e.g. Michael, C 575-577 (III, 165-168). That Michael may have had such fears is confirmed by the safeguard for Theodoros bar Wahbūn to Constantinople Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 312-314 (233-234). On the negotiations for union in the 10th and 11th centuries, cf. Benner: 1989; Michael, C 544-566 (III, 112-148), Michael, C 571-605 (III, 158-218). 176 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 551-553 (552-554). Abbeloos/Lamy say that he was a ‘vir eruditus’. This term is not found in the Syriac text. Again misquoted after Bar ʻEbrōyō:

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formulated which, as before, were unacceptable to the Syriac Orthodox patriarch, and negotiations proved fruitless. Nevertheless, there are many indications that this time was marked by attempts to reach agreement.177 According to Bar ʻEbrōyō, the emperor invited Michael five times altogether. Manuel’s interest in an active participation of the Syriac Orthodox in the negotiations with the Armenian Church had therefore in fact been emphatic. Michael’s decision to decline the invitation to a personal participation did not involve a fundamental refusal. Thus he agreed by letter on the theological position and procedure with the Armenian catholicos Nerses, who had also been invited to Constantinople and had also decided against the journey.178 Besides excellent knowledge of Greek, such disputations required a particular theological, philosophical and rhetorical education. It made sense to delegate this task to specialists, who possessed the necessary skills in this field. In the 12th century the Syriac Orthodox Church could muster several such specialists.179 One of them was Bishop Iwannis of Kayšūm, who at Michael’s behest contested a disputation for the Syriac Orthodox side.180 No union could be achieved, as we also read in the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, although these reports almost go up to the 1179 Synod of Hromkla (Rumkale), where in fact the Armenian Orthodox Church opted for a union with the Greeks.181 Dölger: 1995, no. 1490. On these negotiations, see the extensive discussion of the sources and the literature in Kaufhold: 1990, esp. with a view to the role of Theodoros bar Wahbūn; Theorianus, Disputation. The Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois) gives 1483 as the time of the first contacts. This cannot be right. Once a certain Christophorus was sent, twice Theorianus. The negotiations related to the union: Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 329-331. On these negotiations, see Tékéyan: 1939, 21-33; Zekiyan: 1980. 177 Cf. Beck: 1980, D155-157; Magdalino: 1993, 75-88; Runciman: 1982; Amalric’s visit to Constantinople: William of Tyre XX, 22-24. 178 Zekiyan: 1980, 421-422. Kaufhold: 1990. Cf. Ter-Minassiantz: 1904, 128; VardanʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 330. An argument against the wording of Michael, Confession of Faith is that Michael was prepared to make concessions in Christology. Tékéyan: 1939, 31-32 has doubts about the letter’s authenticity. But he regards Michael as untrustworthy, not the Armenian redaction, as he should in this instance. On Nerses, see Nersessian: 1978. 179 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 330; John bar Andreas had already died, cf. preserved fragments of his work in Baumstark: 1922, 294; Dionyius bar Ṣalībī was not a very good diplomat. Later Theodoros Wahbūn, who had established a reputation as an Aristotelian, took over as leader of the negotiations; on this subject and on Theodoros’ philosophical and legal education, cf. Kaufhold: 1990. 180 Theorianus, Disputation, 287-298. 181 On the more recent literature and the Armenian sources for this synod, see Magdalino: 1993, 75 no. 189; Hamilton: 1978 (Armenian Church); Zekiyan: 1980. Cf. Nerses of Lampron, Synodicon. On the various Armenian versions and further Italian translations, cf. Thomson: 1995, 175.

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In the following years the patriarch stayed in the Muslim area in the north, and mainly travelled to the cities of Amid, Mardin and the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery, in which he oversaw the restoration of the buildings discussed above. That he could do this points to steady relations with the Turkish rulers of this area.182 In 1178 Michael once again stayed in Antioch. Meanwhile Patriarch Aimery had returned to the city. Michael writes: In this year, when we were in Antioch, the pope sent letters from Rome to the Frankish patriarchs of Antioch and Jerusalem, calling on them to come to him on account of a heresy which had broken out there. The patriarch of Antioch sent the bishop and two of his priests from Tarsus to us and asked that we accompany him because of this matter.183

He inquired about the facts of the case. Besides various details about this heresy, he found out that the Roman who is called apostolus by them decided on an ecumenical [!] synod. But after explaining that for many different reasons we are unable to go to this area, we wrote a lengthy treatise and showed where and when Satan had produced something similar and by which Fathers this heresy was rejected.184

This event must have taken place during the summer of the year 1178. For two patriarchs of Antioch to have formed a joint delegation would have been a canonical sensation. Rudolf Hiestand suspects that union negotiations were behind this invitation.185 Hiestand is right: by calling this synod ‘ecumenical’, Michael has already legally acknowledged it! But what does ‘union’ mean here? Most certainly it does not mean recognition of Roman primacy or subordination to the Latin hierarchy. Michael never fails to distinguish between the Latin patriarchs, the Roman pope and himself. In his view, the ‘Roman’ had no authority over him:186 from his perspective, there were four equal patriarchates; this is how the apostles had arranged it.187 When Michael thought about forming this unheralded touring group, he did so in pragmatic recognition of the ecclesiastical variety188 and on the assumption that this council was 182

Michael, C 701-703 (III, 347-348); 705-706 (III, 354); 706 (III, 355); 714 (III, 370). Michael, C 718 (III, 377). 184 Michael, C 719 (III, 378); cf. Le Troisième Concile de Latran: 1982. We do not know more than what Michael reports about the invitation and the bishop, cf. Tékéyan: 1939, 9. 185 Hiestand: 1994, 12; likewise Hamilton: 1995, 280. 186 On these facts, see the canonical investigation by de Vries: 1953. 187 Michael, C 519 (III, 68). Cf. de Vries: 1980; Orsy: 1989. 188 Michael, C 607 (III, 222). 183

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in fact the first truly ‘ecumenical’ one after more than 700 years — not least because of his own presence. Is it possible that Michael later dressed up the facts of this case, in order to cover up the subordination that actually ensued? Two facts speak against this. First, he wrote a ‘lengthy volume’, which he hoped would be his contribution to this council, an action which expresses self-confidence. He wanted to give public support to the ‘Roman’ and his assembly. Second, at this point in time Aimery’s position was actually weaker than Michael’s. His real area of jurisdiction was in fact smaller and his relations to the city rulers were changeable.189 We know nothing about Aimery’s position on the question of union. But Michael’s statements leave no doubt that at this time there was a state of mutual tolerance, even if Michael was unwilling or unable to make Antioch a permanent residence. In 1178 Michael probably made a brief trip to Mōr Bar Ṣawmō.190 He must have returned immediately, as in Tešrīn I 1490, i.e. in October 1178, he set out from Antioch to Jerusalem. Again travelling by ship, he called, as always, at the coastal cities on the way. ‘And in Akko we met the young King Baldwin. When he saw the letter from his father191 that we had, he was delighted, honoured us and also gave us his letter of commendation.’192 Michael explicitly describes this journey as his third journey to Jerusalem. Yet only two journeys — this and the preceding one in 1168 — can be dated. In Jerusalem Michael gave the Coptic patriarch Mark III (1166-1189) official help against a rebellious theologian. He composed a dogmatic letter to Mark, exhorted him to improve the ecclesiastical practice of confession, and sent letters to the Coptic bishops in which he supported the excommunication of the theologian in question.193 Roger Akhrass studied this intervention and the sources of the Coptic Church in detail.194 From the perspective of the Syriac Orthodox Church, relations with the ‘brother patriarchate’ were unclouded: colophons date ‘… in the days of our 189 Cf. e.g. Hamilton: 1980, 36-51. On the self-assurance of the Antiochian patriarchs, cf. Hiestand: 1987. 190 The synod is also dated to 1178 by Fiey: 1993, 32. That is hard to believe. Chabot: 1924, x, therefore refrains from dating this synod and indicates only that it must have taken place before Michael’s departure. 191 Emendation by Chabot, Michael III, 379, no. 3. 192 KTBH ‘M ŠWWDY’, Michael, C 719-720 (III, 379). The king’s presence in Akko is confirmed by a colophon, cf. Michael, Autographs. 193 Michael, C 720 (III, 379-380). Esp. Graf: 1920; Graf: 1923. 194 Fiey: 1972, 353. See now Akhrass: 2015.

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Fathers’, i.e. the patriarchs Mōr Mark and Mōr Michael.195 From Jerusalem Michael returned to Antioch and spent the winter there again. In 1491 AG, i.e. 1179/1180, he travelled from Antioch back to Mōr Bar Ṣawmō.196 The accounts of the Syriac sources present Michael’s travels in the West as triumphal processions. Wherever he goes, the patriarch is received with honour and often given presents. Emperor Manuel I Komnenos, the Frankish kings and the Latin patriarchs are interested in making his acquaintance. The accounts also give the impression that Michael’s advice is asked on all possible dogmatic problems. And always Michael is able to pronounce on the topical issues, and is the one to speak admonitory, corrective and reconciliatory words. Michael emerges as a truly universal patriarch. Of course this image requires qualification. But is the opposite true? Can it not be part of the truth? His relationship with the Armenian catholicos Nerses was certainly good. Yet, according to the Armenian sources, Michael did not hesitate to ask him about his attitude to Julian of Halicarnassus in connection with the usual exchange of creeds. A letter from Nerses Shnorhali has survived in which he answers correspondingly and indicates certain advisers who falsely imputed Julianist tendencies to the Armenians.197 The historiographer William of Tyre may have seen our patriarch. Yet his history is silent about the man whom the highest hierarchs were apparently keen to salute.198 Perhaps this omission has to do with the fact that William, due possibly to the close relations which developed between the Latin and the Syriac Orthodox Church there, regarded the entire North Syrian-Antiochian area as somewhat suspicious.199 195 Add 14, 690, fol. 178b, 179a, Wright: 1870, 206. Together with John, the maphrian, in Add 14, 737, fol. 84. Though Wright’s reading (1870, 275) is somewhat unclear, nobody else can be meant here. Note in this context that Mark III was Syrian, History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church, 204 (102). 196 Michael, C 721 (III, 382). The details are difficult to untangle here, because they are given in different columns and only indicate ‘at this time’, ‘in the same year’, ‘in the following year’. 197 ‘Ea quoque intelligimus, quae verbo enarravit [Johannes Episcopus, i.e. Iwannis of Kayšūm] Nobis de quibusdam, qui dixerunt coram Vobis, Armenios habere dogma Juliani Alicarnensis, qui Christi mortem apparentem asseruit, non autem realem. Anathematizat Catholica Ecclesia talia dicentes et amplectentes, Nosque injuste calumniantes. Porro Nos confitemur Christum juxta Nicaenam sanctorum Patrum professionem, et juxta omnes orthodoxos Ecclesiae Doctores…’, Nerses Shnorhali, Works, 249, to which I was referred by H. Kaufhold. On Nerses also van Lint: 2005; Russell: 2005. 198 Michael’s failure to mention William is not decisive in this context. William was not a patriarch, and Michael concentrated on the history of the Latin patriarchs. He lists office-holders and describes diocesan divisions. 199 On the character of William’s account, cf. Hiestand: 1997. Since Schwinges: 1977, William’s ‘tolerance’ has been extensively and controversially discussed, without enough consideration of his attitude to the Middle Eastern Christians.

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Contemporary historians are understandibly interested in whether the two northern churches of the miaphysitic denomination were Grecophile, Latinophile or Islamophile in their mutual relations, and in whether they were ultimately trustworthy or changeable. But these sometimes moralizing debates seem to obscure our view of the real historical conditions, which show every side to be much more unstable, shifting and capable of complex conduct. In the military political sphere this has long been recognised. The interest of the Syriac Orthodox was focused principally on Antioch, its titular see, and secondly on access to the holy places in Jerusalem. In Jerusalem, besides, they were responsible for the Copts. Syriac-Coptic double occupancies were not usual at this time.200 If Antioch was at least occasionally available as a residence, in cooperation with the secular and ecclesiastical rulers, then the Syriac Orthodox were eager to take advantage of this situation. Given this objective, the first half of Michael’s period of office saw very productive relations with the secular and ecclesiastical authorities in Antioch.201 The attitude of the Latin secular and ecclesiastical rulers to the Syriac Orthodox Church is subject, as we have seen, to regional and chronological variations. Yet it is clear that, as regards church politics, the atmosphere in northern Syria in the 1170s conduced not to confrontation but to rapprochement. Here we can mention Hugo Aetherianus in Constantinople, Patriarch Aimery of Antioch, Patriarch Michael of Antioch, Catholicos Nerses Shnorhali in Hromkla, Bishop Nerses of Lampron, Bishop Iwannis of Kayšūm, and many others who took part in the discussions of these years. A narrow, one-sided view does not help us to understand the situation; at most one can observe for this decade a greater tendency within the Armenian Church to incline towards Greeks, and a corresponding affinity of the Syriac Orthodox with the Latins. In my view, there is no justification in Michael’s work for Andrew Palmer’s remarks about the ‘eagerness with which the Jacobites were to espouse the ideology of the Crusaders’.202 Nor can one speak about ‘Islamophilia’ — what would this actually mean?203 200 The first Coptic metropolitan of Jerusalem was Anba Basilius I (1238-1260). Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 657-659 (658-660). 201 Cf. Prawer: 1985, 80-81. Joshua Prawer has rightly pointed out that Michael never moved the official residence to Frankish territory. However, his constant sojourns in Antioch are striking. 202 Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), xiii. Gelzer: 1898, 432: ‘… with love and respect, indeed with admiration he relates the gesta Dei per Francos’ etc. 203 Cf. Dédéyan: 1998, 99.

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In Michael’s view, the Crusades were not Holy Wars, but acts of vengeance for the attacks on Western pilgrims in 1098 and for the conquests of Edessa in 1144 and of Jerusalem in 1187. He only seems to have been sympathetic to the First Crusade, or at least he does not reject it explicitly. He seems more dismissive about the two other ventures, perhaps also disappointed.204 At the same time, according to him, war, no matter how necessary for keeping public order, no matter how willing Michael is to recognize personal integrity and courage, is one of the fundamental evils of humanity.205 Occasionally he seems to shake his head at the constant tumult of war and its trivial causes. After a military clash had been decided, he notes drily that the armies turned around and everybody went home.206 Naturally Michael’s attitude to Byzantium tends to be harsh; that is only to be expected. But even in this instance he is able to appreciate the rule of individual basileis.207 Conversely, the traditionally close relations with the Armenian Church do not stop him from criticizing the Armenian petty rulers.208 For the rest, praise and censure are more or less equally divided between Turks and Latins — and always Michael refers to individual persons, and as possible specifies names and biographical data. He never refers to collectives, or to stereotypes. This independence is a characteristic of all three late Syriac Orthodox chronicles. Hence from time to time they reach very different conclusions: whereas Michael regards Nūr ad-Dīn’s virtuous behaviour as dishonest, the anonymous chronicler praises his conduct.209 204 1st Crusade: Michael, C 585-588 (III, 182-185); 2nd Crusade: Michael, C 638-639 (III, 275-276); 3rd Crusade: Michael, C 735-737 (III, 408). On the 1st Crusade, cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP, which gives no grounds for the event, on the 3rd, Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 202 (151). Here the author agrees with Michael that this was a totally pointless enterprise. Still useful the analysis by Lüders: 1964; also Hillenbrand: 1999 for comparison. 205 War caused the Flood and can be interpreted as a second, social Fall: Michael, C 7-8 (I, 15-16), cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP I 40 (29), which has the same sentence in a somewhat different context. 206 Michael, C 624 (III, 250). 207 On Manuel Komnenos, Michael, C 721 (III, 381). 208 Hamilton: 1978 (Armenians), 65-67 even describes Michael’s account as antiArmenian. I do not think this is appropriate, unless one would state in the same breath that Michael’s chronicle and the anonymous chronicle are anti-Syrian. In any case Vardan did not share this view: ‘Michael, personnage illustre et d’un grand mérite, receuillera une brillante récompense devant Dieu, et méritera la reconnaissance des églises orthodoxes, car on voit, par son livre, qu’il a montré beaucoup d’amour et d’affection envers notre nation’, Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 374. 209 Michael, C 705-706 (III, 352-353); Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 170 (127-128).

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A very broad historiographical horizon corresponds to Michael’s independent position. The limitations and achievements of his account have already been systematically discussed from a source-critical point of view.210 However, in terms of the history of historiography the result must be assessed in a different way: it goes without saying that not all Michael’s information is excellent and that its quality tends to decrease with the remoteness of events. As regards events at the various large and small courts between Baghdad and Constantinople it is therefore better to consult local sources. Yet Michael’s account is in fact the only one that attempts a systematic record of the political, military and church-political history of the entire Near Eastern area, that includes all the Frankish kings, sultans of Rum and Khorasan, caliphs, Byzantine emperors, that offers a church-historical account of various denominations in this area and adds to it many local and socio-historical details. Michael possessed to a high degree the ability to keep the wider picture in view: to record the constant displacements of the intricately composed groups, the battles between Franks, their tension about seasonal crusades from outside, and clashes among Turks and their consequences; and to assess the geographical reach of the emperor and of the crusader states and evaluate it in relation to the small principalities. One wonders how he managed to accumulate this information. This was not book learning he could glean from Syriac Orthodox libraries on his travels, but information which had to be obtained by questioning legates and other contacts. He would have had to exercise diplomatic caution in order to avoid accusations of treason. Indeed, Michael’s reproach to the Franks is precisely that they failed to observe such circumspection and keep such an overall picture. He remarks of Joscelin II, the loser of Edessa in 1144 and 1146, that in a crisis situation he was unable to make a correct evaluation in respect of possible allies.211 Here we see the practical function of Michael’s broad horizon of information. In order to lead the Syriac Orthodox Church, he had to know exactly on whose side a city was. Instead of simply accepting broad generalizations like ‘the Muslims’, ‘the Franks’, he had to know whether a city was flying a different flag from last year. Only in this way 210

Cf. the survey on the state of research. Michael, C 629 (III, 260). This goes far in toning down the statements of his sources, cf. Chronicle to the year, CP II 117-118 (88-89) on the same events. Dissension among the Latins is something that Michael and the anonymous author both observe, cf. here Chronicle to the year 1234, CP 68-70 (50-55); Lüders: 1964. 211

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could he travel, and only in this way could he practically realize the patriarch’s authority to issue directives. He recognized this necessity and possessed the personal skills to obtain the relevant information. One of Michael’s criteria in assessing the various ecclesiastical and secular rulers was their conduct towards the Syriac Orthodox Church, which was and had to be the starting-point for all his considerations. In connection with the catastrophic earthquake of 1170, Michael notes that though great destruction was caused in some cities, the Syriac Orthodox communities got off comparatively lightly. ‘But we, that is to say, the rest of our people in all these cities, were greatly assisted by God, perhaps because our people had no king or rich men.’212 Against the background of this position, which contrasts ‘our people’ with those who possess kings and riches, the distinctions between Byzantines, Franks, Muslim troops or plundering Kurdish nomads do in fact become blurred. This can be summed up in a sentence which at the same time is one of the very few showing anything like ethnic stereotyping or cultural reservations. Characterizing the difficult relationship between one of the intellectual bishops and his city ruler, Michael describes the latter, Philaretus, as follows: ‘He was a ruler of Armenian origin, Frankish in his behaviour, but Greek through his heretical way of thinking.’213 Partisan is he who counts on advantages — or knows of disadvantages. Michael knows the consequences for the population, which suffers from the constant wars, the looting, massacres and famines.214 Here he becomes compassionate. He even regrets the death of a caravan of Persian merchants or a group of nomads in the snow and desert; it no longer matters to what denomination or religion such sufferers belong.215 212

Michael, C 696 (III, 339). Michael, C 641 (III, 283). We need to research which topoi Michael brings up here. At any rate the Chronicle to the year 1234, for instance, expresses a certain cultural self-assurance, embodied by the culture- and science-orientated city dweller of refined manners and good clothes. On the Latin side this contrasts with the image of effeminate Syrians. It is unclear which denomination William is targeting here, but in this context it does not matter: William of Tyre XXII: 16 (15), 1029. The accusation of effeminacy could be due to a certain cultural gap. On Philaretus, see e.g. Yarnley: 1972; Dadoyan: 1997, 75-78. 214 Michael, C 572-574 (III, 158-159); 606 (III, 219-220); 703-704 (III, 351). Likewise Morony: 2000, 48: ‘Part of the reason for this negative image, and for the value of his chronicle, lies in the fact that he presents the point of view of the subject population.’ 215 Cf. Michael, C 614 (III, 236); 704 (III, 351). Cf. also Michael, C 640-641 (III, 282); 709 (III, 357). 213

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10. LIMITS OF POWER Though Michael understood the political-military game perfectly, he could not control it. In the first place this can be gauged from his itinerary: Michael’s travels covered an important area of the Syriac Orthodox settlements. In his work we hear — and therefore know — little about communities outside this space. Perhaps he did not take account of the entire geographical area containing important SyriacOrthodox communities? It is striking that Michael refrained from visiting the communities south of Edessa, and after 1167 even this city itself. It is understandable why he did not travel specifically to Segestan. But he could have visited Aleppo, Homs and Damascus. However, he seems to have avoided these cities, perhaps with a characteristic exception: a note on a stay in Aleppo remains vague and no date is given. Michael reports on this visit in connection with the 1170 earthquake. In this earthquake fell Beroea, i.e. the city of Aleppo, in which there was as much godlessness as in Sodom and Gomorrah. With our own eyes we saw many instances of its godlessness, as it contained many thousands of Christian prisoners. Only on Sundays were they allowed to enter the church with iron shackles on their feet and necks. And their cries rent the clouds. What tongue can tell or ear hear the suffering which the prisoners underwent there?216

The 1170s saw increased military activity and uncertainty in this area. This and the Eastern territories formed part of the central areas of Muslim unification under the Zangids and later the Ayyubids. To my knowledge, there is no evidence of formal recognition by Nūr ad-Dīn, Sayf ad-Dīn or Saladin. In 1172 or 1173 Edessan Armenians tried to play off Nūr ad-Dīn against the Catholicos Nerses and Patriarch Michael. Though this plot failed, in the course of the affair the Metropolitan of Edessa, Athanasios, was brought up into court in Aleppo, where the matter was to be investigated. From the seventies Edessa was therefore a dangerous place.217 Michael had to beware of Nūr ad-Dīn’s long arm: Nūr ad-Dīn’s influence or the mood in the area of Muslim unification led to local riots 216

Michael, C 695 (III, 338). Michael, C 703-4 (III, 351-352). Hamilton suspected that the Latins were interested in contact with the Syriac Orthodox patriarch in order to make use of his relations in the areas controlled by Muslims: 1980, 188; 191; 193. Bohemond wanted to exploit Michael’s relationship with Nūr ad-Dīn: 1980, 196. If this were in fact the case (is this truly a realistic consideration?), their hope was in vain. 217

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against the Christian communities in the north, to plunder and to confiscations.218 Victims included the communities in Aleppo, Mardin, Amid and Edessa; the important library of Nisibis, once a centre of Syriac scholarly life, was completely destroyed.219 Against this background Michael’s material reforms seem a rearguard action. Since the conquest of Edessa at the latest, the Syriac Orthodox communities could not build churches as fast as they were laid waste or converted to mosques or Muslim schools. Michael and the anonymous chronicler did not foresee that this would be the beginning of the end of urban Syriac Orthodox culture in this area. A century later Bar ʻEbrōyō describes the area of the patriarchate as more or less destroyed, and many cities which for Michael are a natural part of the church-political map have ceased to exist for good.220 Already in Michael’s time the Syriac Orthodox communities were susceptible to blackmail for the sake of their very survival: against the payment of higher taxes Michael was offered the existence of the Amid churches.221 Incidentally, it was their Greek relations that were used to play off Nūr ad-Dīn against Michael and Nerses: ‘And they [an Armenian splinter group in Edessa] found a man from Alexandria who spoke Arabic and was eloquent. He went to Nūr ad-Dīn and slandered the catholicos and us and also the Edessans by saying: “Legates and letters are coming from the king of the Greeks to the Armenians and Syrians, in order that they deliver up Edessa to him.”222 Such an accusation of treason could have robbed Michael of all his power to act. At the same time we recognize here a watchful public eye which could observe and, if necessary, exploit all the moves of the hierarchs. This situation helps to explain Michael’s preference for the coastal areas. Large parts of his area of jurisdiction were thus more or less left to their own devices. By means of letters and messages Michael could 218 Sivan: 1967, 120 holds that, despite the revival of discriminatory laws against dhimmis, the tolerant policy towards Christians was maintained in the 12th century. Peyronnet: 1993 also takes a very positive view of the cohabitation between Middle Eastern Christians and Muslims at the end of the 12th century in the Syrian-Palestinian area. However, he does not discuss the sources reviewed here. 219 Cf. Kawerau: 1960, 94. Michael, C 695 (III, 337); 697 (III, 340); 700-701 (III, 347348); 705 (III, 352) etc. 220 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. 459 (460). 221 Michael, C 706 (III, 354). 222 An Alexandrian was probably needed as an interpreter. This raises the question of how widespread the use of Arabic was in Edessa in the 12th century: Michael, C 704 (III, 351-352).

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intervene in these dioceses and obtain information from them. But this indirect power depended critically on the changing local situation, on the bishop’s loyalty and on the position of the community: if a community like Edessa could not agree on and more or less unanimously propose a metropolitan, Michael would or could not publicly appoint one. In any case this is how the anonymous chronicler explains the interim after the death of Basil of Edessa.223 At the very beginning of Michael’s time in office various bishops formed an opposition party which helps us better to understand the geographical limits of Michael’s power. They were, first of all, the bishops of Gīḥōn (Ceyhan)224 and Ṭūr ‘Abdīn, and the metropolitans of Damascus and Kallinikos. He was soon finished with the bishops,225 but not with the metropolitans. Both Peter Kawerau and Walter Selb believe that Syriac Orthodox metropolitans held a more or less honorary office and did not fundamentally possess more powers than the bishops. In particular the right to organize their provinces, to bless myrrh and to appoint bishops seems to have passed completely to the patriarchs.226 It is true that we hear virtually nothing about such consecratory acts by the metropolitans.227 In general, however, the chronicles do not systematically describe the official powers of the metropolitans, so that we know little about them. On the other hand John of Mardin is reported to have performed such official acts.228 But if we consider Michael’s 55 consecrations of bishops, we see that in this regard too he did not rule within every diocese. Among his predecessors the situation was similar.229 The Zangids and Ayyubids ruled the areas subordinate to the metropolitans of Damascus, Homs and Kallinikos in the second half of the 12th century, so that the wheel of geographical observations comes full circle. Homs was loyal to the Syriac Orthodox Church, but the situation of the Syriac Orthodox congregation in the city seems to have been catastrophic. Apparently no one could be persuaded to take over this see, so that the venerable John, despite his profuse and tearful complaints, was not allowed to withdraw but forced to stay in office. Michael even

223 224 225 226 227 228 229

Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 307-310 (230-232). Cf. Vööbus/Syrische Kanonessammlungen, 85. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 543 (544); Michael, C 707f (III, 357f). Kawerau: 1960, 35; Selb: 1989, 189-190. Kawerau: 1960, 35. Vööbus/Synodikon, II, 220. Michael, C 765-766 (III, 476-479).

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appointed the poor man again, when the metropolitan David died shortly after his elevation.230 John’s predecessor had been strangled by Arabs.231 It was Michael’s attempt to remove the metropolitan of Kallinikos from office which led to a clash with the Zangids in 1174.232 The person of Iwannis of Kallinikos had already occasioned conflicts under Michael’s predecessor Athanasios, and he too had failed to remove Iwannis from office. In the light of the following events this is not surprising: Michael was abducted from Mardin to Nisibis, as a prisoner of Sayf ad-Dīn Ġāzī. He conveyed to Michael that, because by God’s will you are under our sword, it is not right to elevate yourselves against the king’s will. … He [the king] had earlier decided that in the cities of his jurisdiction in Mesopotamia, Kallinikos, Ḥarran, Serugh, and the region of the Ḥabūr (Khabur), this shepherd will be metropolitan over their people. Therefore declare yourselves likewise and you will return in peace to your place — and if not, the turnout will be different …233

Princely attempts to control the investiture of bishops were mentioned above in connection with Latin ambitions for power in the metropolis of Edessa. Significant here is that ‘the region of the Ḥabūr’ did not come under the jurisdiction of the Kallinikos diocese in the first place.234 Incidentally, we hear nothing about a consecration for the Khabur region under Michael’s predecessors or under his own rule, which indicates again that some metropolises arranged their affairs independently. Under threat of physical violence Michael is supposed to have said in this situation: There are three books in which the laws have been laid down: the Torah for the Hebrews, and the Gospel for the Christians, and the Koran for the Muslims. Test all three! And particularly yours! And see — God did not order kings to regulate the affairs of faith by the sword, for faith exists only in free will, not through violence.235

230

Michael, C 715-716 (III, 372). Michael, C 625 (III, 255). 232 Michael, C 707-709 (III, 357-360). 233 Michael, C 708 (III, 359). 234 The Khabur was claimed by the maphrian in the 1130s: Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 304 (228). Perhaps its jurisdiction was controversial. For instance, it is unclear who — patriarch or maphrian — ordained the metropolitan Abraham, cf. Fiey: 1993, 185, who does not discuss the problem in hand. According to Vööbus/Synodikon, II, 212 the Khabur came under the jurisdiction of the metropolis of Mardin. 235 Michael, C 709 (III, 359), my emphasis. 231

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Had Sayf ad-Dīn (‘Sword of Faith’) entertained any doubts about the patriarch’s political impartiality at this moment, Michael would have been in danger. Incidentally, the partriarch seems to have convinced him. Later he ordained two further metropolitans for this city, who came from regions more in his control: John, from the region of Mardin, and Basil, from the region of Antioch.236 11. THE MEETING WITH QILIJ ARSLĀN II: SIGN OF CHANGE? On 9 July 1182 Michael met the Seljuq sultan Qilij Arslān II. The meeting made a deep impression on Michael; he presents it as a spectacular and, for him, honourable occasion. The description tells us that since 1181 the sultan had obtained information about Michael, and had already showered him with presents. In 1182 he invited Michael to Melitene, which now formed part of his territory. At first Michael was suspicious, and the honorary escort of three emirs seemed particularly ominous: ‘I considered whether there was not absinth in this honey.’237 Before Melitene the sultan came towards him and accompanied Michael’s horse on foot into the city; a cross was carried before and songs of praise were sung. A great religious service took place. The sultan was even moved to tears during a disputation. For Fiey, this report can be explained by the superstitious Seljuq belief in the occult powers of the Christian religious leaders.238 He even claims that the sultan was a closet Christian.239 We have already talked about the veneration of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, so that we may have a possible starting-point here. We should also consider that spectacular meetings between Muslim rulers and high dignitaries of the Syriac Church had taken place repeatedly in the past. Michael stayed in Melitene for a month, and accepted presents, including a precious reliquary with a relic of Peter, given to him by the sultan. During his visit Michael and the sultan continued their conversations about issues of Christian faith. When the sultan left Melitene, Michael followed his court; he does not say where to or for how long. But one of his travel companions was a philosopher from the sultan’s 236 237 238 239

Michael, C 767 (III, 481). Michael, C 725 (III, 390). Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II 187 (140). Fiey: 1980, 225-226. Möhring: 1993, 133 rejects this assertion. Tessera: 2006, 177-191.

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court, a Persian by the name of Kamāl ad-Dīn, with whom, in the sultan’s presence, Christianity was again debated. Apparently the conversation with Kamāl ad-Dīn was excellent, and Michael is therefore happy to call him a learned man. ‘And when he [Kamāl ad-Dīn] praised the wisdom of the Syrians (Suryōyē), the sultan was delighted.’240 For his part Michael must have approached the sultan, and apparently he does not mind his readers knowing this. The letter from the sultan included in his historical work addresses him as follows: Qilij Arslān, Great Sultan of Cappadocia, Syria and Armenia, to the certain Patriarch, the good friend (rōḥmō) of our dominion and prayer for our welfare, who resides in his monastery Bar Ṣawmō and is delighted at the triumph of our dominion …241

The sultan expresses his thanks for Michael’s prayers for military success in the conflict with Byzantium. In the following years he kept corresponding with Michael.242 These expressions of loyalty did not themselves limit the patriarch’s scope: rather, they showed how limited it suddenly was. Manuel Komnenos had died in 1180, Frankish influence was in decline under pressure from Saladin, and communication with the new rulers, whose very names bore their faith (‘ad-Dīn’), was difficult. At this point in time Michael had to stake everything on Qilij Arslān II. It is doubtful whether he drew much benefit from this: Qilij Arslān’s power was also on the wane, something about which Michael was well informed.243 In the 1190s Michael travelled almost exclusively between Mardin and Mōr Bar Ṣawmō/Melitene. There were no longer any spectacular receptions. From the beginning of these years Michael withdrew to his monastery. Eventually a legation from the Mardin community complained before a synod that the patriarch was neglecting the diocese. In 1195 he therefore put his nephew, Maphrian Gregory II, in charge.244

240 Michael, C 726 (III, 391). Peters considered this Persian philosopher to be Kamāl ad-Dīn ibn Yūnus (551/1156-639/1242), but so far no confirmation for this meeting has been found, correspondence from N. Peter Joosse from June 7, 2005: Peters: 1968, 277. I am more than hesitant to agree. 241 Michael, C 728 (III, 394). 242 Michael, C 729 (III, 394-395). On this episode see Weltecke: 2012, 73-95. 243 On the advance of Ayyubid power and the decline of the sultan’s influence, cf. the section in Michael on world and local history, C, 727-734 (III 393-410). 244 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 330-333 (246-248).

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12. SCHISM In this complicated world full of shifting fronts and changing alliances, ambitious people were propelled upwards very rapidly, and influenced daily events appreciably. The central powers, whether in Baghdad, Constantinople or Cairo, or also in Ikonion or Jerusalem, could do little about it. The same was true for the Syriac Orthodox Church. Michael’s policy of staying informed could not prevent the influence of parvenus. In 1180 the time had come. In this case too opposition was born close to the centre. The details seem clear to some extent, though the chronology seems to have been deliberately confused by all parties. A Theodoros bar Wahbūn had made a name for himself as a scholar and had been promoted by Michael since the 1160s. Before 1180 Theodoros seems to have embarked on an unsettled wandering life, but returned to Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, where Michael took him in and, as he said, hoped for change, ‘for he was educated and learned with books. I thought well of him, as God, who searches the heart, knows — and many others’.245 The circumstances seem to make it sufficiently certain that the expression of his feelings which Michael permits himself in his report was not calculated: Theodoros was one of the specialists who were sent to Hromkla to negotiate with the Greeks. Michael was apparently very concerned about his safety and provided him with a letter of safe-conduct, copies of which he distributed at certain places.246 In the following years Theodoros became increasingly close to the patriarch and functioned as his pupil and protosyncellus. In 1180 Theodoros bar Wahbūn had himself proclaimed counter-patriarch and remained in this office until his death in 1193.247 He was supported by the metropolitans of Arzūn and Amid, the bishops of Ḥisn Ziyād (Harput) and Sibaberek (Siverek), and the ruler of Amid.248 245 Michael, C 722 (III, 383); Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 311-312 (233). Cf. Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 148 (149). 246 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 312-314 (233-234). 247 A more detailed account of events than given here is found in Gerber in the introduction to his edition of the Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Gerber), 3-9 and Kaufhold: 1990, 119-135. Further detailed investigations are necessary. There is no consensus on dating: cf. Gerber: 1911, 3-9; Baumstark: 1922, 300; Selb: 1989, 210. Michael’s report on the schism: Michael, C 722-724 (III, 383-388) and 727 (III, 394); 730 (III, 399); 735 (III, 409). In my view, Michael, the Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 327 (244), and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 589 (590) verify Chabot’s chronology, with which I concur: Chabot: 1924, xi-xiv. 248 Michael, C 724 (III, 383), cf. Kaufhold: 1990, 124. Meanwhile political changes had followed here, and it was apparently no longer possible to continue the politics of consensus.

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Michael’s report on the meeting with Qilij Arslān II shows that this problem was discussed. Because the high-handed action of the Amid city ruler also affected the sultan as secular ruler over the area, the patriarch and the sultan shared a mutual concern. A report on Theodoros’ election justifies his supporters with the argument that Theodoros did not at all want to take up his office until after Michael’s death. People merely wanted to prevent Michael from bequeathing the office to his nephew Joshua.249 This is not convincing. Only after 1189 did nepotism became an accusation that could be levelled against Michael.250 And it was indisputably Theodoros himself who at the time occupied the position closest to the patriarch. It is impossible to determine why of all powers the Latin patriarch of Jerusalem was the first to recognize the counter-patriarch: at the end of 1183, after the death of the Jerusalem metropolitan Ignatius (1139-1183),251 Michael had hastily transferred his brother Athanasios to Jerusalem instead of appointing a new metropolitan.252 After Eraclius (1180-1190) had returned to Jerusalem from his European journey,253 Athanasios spoke out to him against Theodoros.254 But the latter had already successfully entered into negotiations with Eraclius. Theodoros himself described their relationship as friendly.255 249 Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 148 (149); Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Gerber), 36 (37). Bar ʻEbrōyō CE occ., 579 (580). Nerses tried to designate his nephew as catholicos and failed. It seems that Michael therefore refused to recognize Gregory IV, because he was not Nerses’ desired candidate: so much, at least, is stated in Michael, C 705-6 (III, 353-354). 250 Owing to these two reports, Kaufhold believed that this development could already be foreseen in 1180, Kaufhold: 1990, 125; 146. However, neither Bar ʻEbrōyō nor the anonymous excerpt published by Kaufhold are primary sources. Kaufhold dates the report to around 1195, so that this report too was written when the schism was past history. Bar ʻEbrōyō may have been familiar with this interpretation. Michael’s second nephew Joshua, who had been taught like Gregory and Athanasios in the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery, had meanwhile become Rīš-Dayrō there. At the beginning of the 1180s he already seems to have exercised some influence in the monastery. According to Theodoros, he had ill-treated him during his monastic imprisonment. Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 138 (139). His ambition certainly cannot be doubted. 251 On the basis of the Jerusalem Colophon discovered by him, Martin: 1888, 486 dated the period of office of the Jerusalem metropolitans to the 12th century. 252 In the light of this problem Hamilton’s theory that by appointing his own brother in Jerusalem, the patriarch wanted to express his special closeness to the Franks, should be rejected, Hamilton: 1980, 198. 253 Cf. Kedar: 1982, 191-193. 254 Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 138 (139). 255 Note that for lack of sources these events cannot be illuminated from a Latin perspective. Michael, C 723 (III, 386). Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 138 (139); Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Gerber), 34 (35).

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In the long term Athanasios could do little to stop Theodoros. He saw himself exposed to resistance in the Syriac Orthodox monastery of Maria Magdalene, where Theodoros was now probably staying.256 In a letter to Michael, Theodoros states that he has convinced both Eraclius and Athanasios of his innocence. Athanasios may have switched sides in Jerusalem, but this cannot be gathered from Michael’s account. Theodoros also tells him that Eraclius was critical of Michael. Indignant over the title ‘Patriarch of Antioch of Syria’ under which Michael had written to him, Eraclius in his capacity as spiritual head of Jerusalem had ordered that Michael’s name be erased from the commemoratio of the Syriac Orthodox, Coptic and Armenian masses. This was public non-recognition.257 It could be averted by means of a payment of money. ‘And see — we now expect that the matter can be settled with a small gift.’258 Who is ‘we’ here? Theodoros and Eraclius? Or Theodoros and Athanasios? Therefore, do not hesitate, O father: both for the monastery and for us your coming is of great benefit. First, to carry through your decisions:259 I am prepared to come before you — I personally. And second that you be recognized and honoured by all confessions and languages. And third, so that everyone be acquitted of the charge260 and that your holy name be commemorated in accordance with custom and you be confirmed as in your real proclamation.261

The recognition of Michael in Jerusalem obviously depended on Theodoros’ acquittal, to be effected at an open Syrian-Latin synod. Theodoros apparently had a very high opinion of his current position. In 1180, after losing all ecclesiastical offices for all time at the synod in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, he remarked that even a modest preferment there might induce him to leave Jerusalem. As things stood, however, he preferred to stay put.262 It is doubtful whether Michael would have gone to Jerusalem:

256

Michael, C 727-8 (III, 394). Selb: 1989, 221. 258  Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 140 (141). One can imagine that Michael’s reproach to Theodoros may have been justified. The chronology of events may have been the other way round. Theodoros may have bribed the Latin patriarch, after which, suddenly outraged, he refused a mode of address which cannot have been unknown to him. The failure to recognize Michael is in any case incomprehensible. 259 Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold). 260 Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), ‘freed of the sinner’ [trs. AR]. 261 Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 142 (143) indicates that the reading is uncertain. He proposes ŠWBḤ’ and translates accordingly. I would prefer to keep to ŠWWDY’. 262 Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 144 (145). 257

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Theodoros’ threatening hints at the influence he wielded with the spiritual and secular powers there were hard to ignore. However, Michael would not have had enough time in any case: though the letter is not dated, it could not have arrived in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō before 1186 or 1187, when Jerusalem was reconquered by Saladin. Two years later the patriarch committed the worst error of his period of office. Perhaps it was nepotism. Yet the situation suggests that Michael may have acted out of the same calculation as when he dispatched his brother to Jerusalem. Maphrian John had died in 1189. Instead of accepting, as usual, the candidate proposed by the eastern communities, a certain Karīm bar Masīḥ, he appointed his nephew Gregory I as maphrian in 1189. In this way he provoked a second double election.263 Contact between Theodoros and Karīm was soon established. In 1189 the bishops were prepared at a synod in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō to adopt a resolution in which Theodoros was again excommunicated on account of his activities, and Karīm bar Masīḥ for the first time on account of his contact with Theodoros.264 In this document the patriarch also had it confirmed that the appointment of his nephew had been lawful. The arguments are not convincing; a breach of law was concealed with doubtful precedents. Meanwhile Maphrian Gregory depended essentially on the support of the Mōr Ḥanōnyō monastery and the community of Mardin. There could be no question of a real assumption of office in the East in the residence at Tagrit.265 This could be a reason why the diocese of Mardin was signed over to Gregory. The decisive commitment of the Mardin community to Maphrian Gregory is explained by their attachment to the patriarch. There are reports of spontaneous support in other places too.266 After 1189 both sides tried to gain the support of the Muslim rulers: while Theodoros and Karīm turned to, among others, Qadi Muḥyī ad-Dīn of Mosul,267 Michael turned in 1190 to Saladin in Damascus. In 1184 his 263 Michael, C 732 (III, 402-403). The date is confirmed by the colophon of Add. 12, 177, cf. Wright: 1870, 58. 264 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 315-317 (236-237). Fiey dates this resolution to 1193, cf. his translation, 236, note 1. Kaufhold: 1990, 127 agrees. I prefer the early dating to the synod of 1189. It is confirmed by Michael, C 735 (III, 408) and fits better in the context of the anonymous chronicle. Fiey: 1993, 32 does not cite any of these synods. 265 Chronicle to the year 1234 CE, 317 (237); 322 (240); 331 (247). Michael, C 734 (III, 406). 266 Chronicle to the year 1234 CE, 317-318 (237); 321 (240). The report is biased. 267 Chronicle to the year 1234 CE, 322 (241). It is very interesting to see how well the Christians were informed about the factions at the Muslim courts and how well they knew how to use the intrigues there for their own interests.

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connections with the court in Damascus had still been strong enough to bring about Theodoros’ expulsion. Scribes of Saladin successfully argued for supporting Michael’s recognition.268 Now, however, the relevant contacts seem to have evaporated. Michael could not content himself with sending a letter, but had to send a legation. It was apprehended and robbed on the way. Athanasios, the Syriac Orthodox metropolitan, left Jerusalem after its conquest by Saladin in 1187 and visited Michael in his monastery.269 His flight confirms that Athanasios had not been able to evade the Jerusalem web. As impartial as the patriarch had to be, so little could the metropolitans afford to be unclear in their attitude. Whether in Kallinikos, in Anazarbus or in Jerusalem, the loyalty of the Syriac Orthodox metropolitans to the city rulers had to be beyond question. After the conquest by Saladin the Syriac Orthodox Christians of Jerusalem had to pay the price. Their St. Mary Magdalene monastery was converted into a Muslim madrasah.270 Michael seems to have relied further on Athanasios; perhaps there was no alternative, perhaps his successes were sufficient. He now sent him to Antioch as his deputy.271 For Jerusalem he consecrated a new metropolitan.272 Around 1190 Theodoros had found new allies both in the Armenian ruling house and in the catholicos. Again, therefore, Athanasios and Theodoros arrived at about the same time. The Syriac Orthodox communities of Cilicia came under the metropolises of Anazarbus, Tarsus and Antioch. If Anazarbus and Tarsus could no longer be influenced, then at least the opportunity to strengthen the patriarch’s position in Antioch should be taken. The Armenian catholicos Gregory IV (1173-1193) had supported Michael until 1183 at the latest.273 Now he had Theodoros proclaimed as rightful patriarch in both the Syriac Orthodox and the Armenian communities of his jurisdiction. Gregory also interceded for him with the Turkish rulers of Syria and Mesopotamia by giving them lavish presents. 268

Michael, C 386 (III, 723). Michael, C 736 (III, 409); 737f (III, 411f). 270 Cf. Pahlitzsch: 1997; Fraenkel: 1994, 4. 271 Michael, C 737 (III, 411). 272 On the identity of the priest Sōhdō, cf. Kaufhold: 1990, 129-131, Michael, C 738 (III, 412). 273 Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 138 (139): ‘We took up residence in the monastery of the Armenians. We were received with great honour by their superiors. Because of your letter to the catholicos we were expelled from there.’ In Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Gerber), 34 (35) he claims that Michael bribed the catholicos. But actually it is not clear whether these events can be related to the years around 1183 to 1184. 269

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He genuinely believed that Theodoros would give him control over the Syriac Orthodox Christians.274 The relationship between Michael and Gregory was troubled from the outset, and there was no reason for Gregory to be loyal to Michael. Michael reports a letter to Gregory IV on his assumption of office in 1173. He indicated there his disapproval of the circumstances under which Gregory had obtained his office. He intimated his belief that Gregory had, first, bought his office and, second, received it by grace of Nūr ad-Dīn and the Armenian prince Mleh.275 This unpleasant business is given a grotesque new twist in the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version: instead of censure of the unseemly dependence on a secular ruler, one reads here of joy at Gregory’s election. Furthermore, the Armenian version tries to show that the entire process of Gregory IV’s installation took place in accordance with the Armenian (!) tradition and that Gregory promised to act on Michael’s other admonitions (against simony).276 None of this is in question in Michael’s account. These changes show how palpably Michael’s censure was still felt a century later by the Armenians and how sceptically the Armenian version should be read. Gregory was reserved for another reason: it was precisely in 1184 that he had sought recognition in Rome and received the pallium. Theodoros had likewise been recognized by the Latins through Eraclius, and at the time Gregory gave him his support.277 This turn of events is again completely ignored by the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version.278 In my view, the background to the Armenian-Syrian dispute is the fragmentation of the political map. It was no longer possible to establish a unified approach. In 1179, when the Armenian Orthodox synod in Hromkla resolved upon union with the Greeks, the relationship between Patriarch Aimery of Antioch and Michael was at its zenith. In 1189, 274 Michael, C 724 (III, 386). Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 327 (244). Cf. the shortened and thereby changed report in Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 583-585 (584-586). 275 Michael, C 705-6 (III, 353-355). 276 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 336. The change of wording here can be seen as a veritable fraud. 277 On this complex problem, cf. Hamilton: 1978 (Armenians); Halfter: 1996, 112f; on the Syrian-Armenian relation also Tékéyan: 1939, 47-51, who mainly emphasizes Michael’s unwillingness to come closer to the Latins. Historical judgements in this tricky area often seem not entirely uninfluenced by the researcher’s denomination. 278 Kaufhold: 1990, 134 believes that it simply no longer held significance for the Armenian redactors, having taken place too long ago. In my opinion, it is nevertheless part of the work’s bias and its attempt to Armenianize the problems of the 80s and 90s: for this period the Armenian redaction can therefore be read as a reply to Michael’s chronicle, which obviously also reflects a recent, contemporary change in Armenian-Syrian relations.

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when Michael could no longer expect anything from Latin relations, they were very useful for Armenian ecclesiastical and above all secular politics. In his isolated position Michael may have had the superior moral arguments on his side. However, in these years this rigid position was his weakness. Meanwhile the relationship with the Coptic patriarchate was not disrupted, because the Copts did not need to take part in the changeable Latin and Byzantine politics and had Muslim rule in common with the Syriac Orthodox Christians. It is impossible to determine Michael’s motive when he offered to resign after the election of Theodoros in 1180/1181. He himself claims that he wanted to be free of this tiresome office, in the performance of which he had failed and in which he had caused division through his conduct. But perhaps it was a tactical manoeuvre to secure the loyalty of the bishops.279 In 1193 the last general synod on this matter took place. It was celebrated with the festive consecration of the new monastery church on the feast of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. Again Michael offered to resign from office, again the synod supported him. In the divided situation it would not have been difficult for a dissatisfied clergy to get rid of a patriarch with whose politics it disagreed, particularly after Theodoros had been officially recognized in Cilicia. The schism ended with the sudden deaths of his opponents Theodoros bar Wahbūn and the catholicos Gregory. The fact that the deaths took place soon after the synod, noted with satisfaction by Michael, caused general amazement according to the anonymous chronicle too.280 13. MŌR MICHAEL — LEARNED CONTEMPORARY,

COLLECTOR AND ARTIST

It was Bar ʻEbrōyō who left a written memorial for Michael: He [Michael] was very learned in the holy books, with a splendid physique and glorious appearance, his voice was strong and beautiful, he wrote diligently day and night. He left the Church of God wonderful books.281

Such sentences honouring a special patriarchal or scholarly life are often found in Syrian chronicles. Despite many formulas they seem wholly individual, which makes it worth examining Bar ʻEbrōyō’s words more closely. The first striking feature is that he does not really celebrate 279 280 281

Michael, C 723 (III, 384). Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 327 (244). Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 605 (606).

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Michael as a great scholar.282 Special knowledge of languages, e.g. Greek, is not recorded. How extensive was Michael’s knowledge of languages in fact? Langlois assumed that Michael had a thorough command of Greek, Armenian, Syriac and Arabic.283 This is not improbable. To this very day Syrian Christians possess a truly breathtaking multilinguality, resulting from their long cohabitation with different language groups on the one hand and from their minority status on the other. At a basic level, however, it must be said that little is known about the linguistic situation of Syriac Orthodox communities in the 12th century. Strong regional differences, illustrated, for instance, by the refusal of the designated maphrian Lazarus to accept this office because he did not speak the local language, can be assumed. Apparently, the Tagritians spoke Arabic. On the other hand Patriarch Athanasios objected that the former incumbent had performed the office for 30 years ‘without knowing Arabic, and he had not learned a lot more’. The Tagritians used the general multi-ethnicity of the administration to put Lazarus at ease: ‘The good Emir Muğāhid ad-Dīn is of Armenian descent. And he dearly loves the population of this region. And when you meet him, you will receive great honour from him.’284 Michael’s knowledge of Arabic and Armenian is in any case verifiable.285 As for Greek, we simply do not know. Undoubtedly Michael knew the Greek theological terms of his sources; while many Greek words filtered into Syriac anyway.286 Michael had no command of Latin or French. We do not know the languages of communication between Syrians and Latins in all the crusader principalities.287 In Jerusalem people seemed to have switched to neutral Arabic. But if, for instance, in Edessa an Alexandrian who happened to be present had to act as an Arabic interpreter, this cannot have been the case everywhere. Armenian was perhaps more obvious as a common language here, both in urban life and with the Armenian-Latin noble family.288 Michael talked to Sultan Qilij Arslān II by means of an Arabic-Persian interpreter.289 282

Cf. Michael’s statements on Dionysios bar Ṣalībī: Michael, C 698-699 (III, 344-345). Langlois: 1868, 9. 284 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. 335 (336). 285 Michael, C 603 (III, 213); 770 (III, 505). 286 Michael, C 68 shows an attempt to represent Greek letters. The copyists manage it only imperfectly. 287 Some remarks in Jankrift: 1997. In addition: Theodoros bar Wahbūn, Letters (Kaufhold), 140 (141) talks about Michael’s letter to Eraclius in Arabic; in the discussion between Athanasios VI and Bernard of Valence in Antioch the interpreter translated (incorrectly) from Syriac, not from Arabic. 288 But cf. also Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 301 (226). 289 Michael, C 725 (III, 391). 283

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Yet Michael seems to have been interested in these languages. Sometimes one gets the impression that the patriarch liked to show off his knowledge a little: he talks about the ‘King of the Franks in Jerusalem, that was Sīr PWG [Fulk]’,290 about ‘frēr [frères], i.e. “the brothers”’, who call themselves D’WYH, i.e. “the consecrated”’.291 The pope is said to have sent one of his four great ones, who ‘are called LYQ’ṬW [legati] and each of whom is a deputy for him’.292 Something similar can be observed for Turkish: Michael noted in his work the name of the God whom the pagan Turks are accustomed to worship, and established that ‘to this very day it is the case that when you ask one of their simple people, he answers and says ‘QK ṬNGRY’, QK being ‘sky-blue’ in their language and ‘ṬNGRY’ ‘God’.’293 It is clear that Michael was superbly informed. Apparently he liked to receive reports on all kinds of events, from the Latins in Antioch, and from the Persian philosopher Kamāl ad-Dīn at the court of Qilij Arslān II, to mention only the most salient meetings. His way of obtaining information reflects a form of engagement with the present that goes far beyond reformed book knowledge: he not only asked the Syriac Orthodox authorities to establish what the situation was with the Turks, he asked the Turks themselves; he proceeded likewise with the Franks. This interest shows him to be rather cosmopolitan. The cultural and ethnological knowledge which he demonstrates in his work294 was not a usual component in the Syriac Orthodox educational canon. Apart from Michael’s knowledge of the ‘holy books’ — his knowledge of biblical and liturgical texts — his erudition is therefore more likely to have been unconventional. A more normal Syriac Orthodox education was received by Ignatius of Melitene, of whom Michael says:295 He [Ignatius] was fluent in the languages, both in ours and in that of the Greeks,296 and in the Holy Books as well as in the Old and the New Testament, but also in the profane books, grammar, rhetoric and philosophy and 290

Michael, C 625 (III, 253). Michael, C 588 (III, 207). See Weltecke: 2003, 53-77. 292 Michael, C 625 (III, 255). Ms. offers LYW’ṬW, Chabot emended ‘W’ to ‘G’. But the emphatic consonsants represent the received pronouncation of the Latin word correctly. 293 Michael, C 570 (III, 156). Ms. QN, rightly emended by Chabot. The word is vocalized. Hilkens: 2015, 406 considers QN an original feature from Michael. It could be a misreading of the K by scribes. 294 Michael, C 566-571 (III, 149-157); 595-596 (III, 201-203). Cf. also the Muslim repossession of the temple 735 (III, 405), and the migratory behaviour of the Turkomans 732 (III, 400). See Dickens: 2008; Dickens: 2006, 433-450. 295 Michael, C 575 (III, 165-166). 296 It seems remarkable that Michael does not even think of Arabic here. 291

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furthermore the art of logic and in the [translation]297 from one language to another, like Mōr Jacob of Edessa and Thomas of Harkel. And he was simple and upright …298

It was mainly in others that Michael admired knowledge of profane philosophy and dialectics. He did not become a celebrated thinker on speculative theology either. His theological works rather deal with the theology of spiritual practice, with dogmatic history, and with the history of the Church. Akhrass suggests that the major work on the practise of individual confession considered by some to be of Coptic origin was in fact written by Michael himself as a follow-up to his intervention in a Coptic controversy. He praises it for its diligent use of sources and in general observes methods comparable to those established in the present study with respect to Michael’s historical writing.299 It is particularly regrettable that Michael’s work on Manichaean heresies has been lost. In this field — the history of heresies and theology — Michael was very well informed, as his chronicle shows. The chronicle in fact contains a short note on the Bogomils in Constantinople, whom scholars have tried to connect with this heresiological work.300 Thus these works and the chronicle derive from the same context. Apparently Michael also wrote a treatise on the authorship of the Book of Job, which has not been preserved except for a student extract.301 A final work of ecclesiastical history should be mentioned; it is the so-called ‘Work on the Order and History of the Priesthood’. A text thus entitled was passed down together with the Armenian versions. Yet it is clearly a phantom: at least the version transmitted with the Armenian adaptations cannot derive from Michael, since these texts are fully Armenianized.302 At most it may be a revised excerpt from the chronicle, 297

Emendation by Chabot, Michael, C III, 166, no. 4.57 On Patriarch John VIII bar Šušan Michael, C 577-578 (III, 170-171); on Theodoros bar Wahbūn 722 (III, 383). 299 Cf. Graf: 1947, 266; Graf: 1923; Akhrass: 2015, 411: ‘… le LC33 nous a dévoilé son visage de théologien dogmatique et spirituel. Du point de vue de la méthode, en revanche, nous avons noté sa fidélité à la technique de compilation qu’il employa dans la Chronique et dans laquelle il fait preuve d’ingéniosité dans l’agencement et l’exploitation des sources. Chez lui, compilation et nouveauté ne sont point exclusives l’une de l’autre.’ 300 Michael, C 638 (III, 277-8). 301 Berlin, StB, Sachau 39, 109a, cf. Sachau: 1899, no. 223, 701-704. Syrian authorities like Jacob of Edessa and Ephrem the Syrian opted for a late origin of the Book of Job. Michael favoured a Mosaic, i.e. for Michael prophetically inspired, authorship of the book, which in my view indicates that he attached special importance to it. The contents of the codex containing this small excerpt are formed by grammatical paradigms, calendars and exercises. The Ms. dates to 1777. 302 Cf. Langlois’ translation following the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 363ff. 298

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e.g from appendix V,303 or the revision of an otherwise unknown text. The Syriac sources are unaware of such a treatise.304 In contrast to his works of restoration, art and history, Michael’s poetry was not exactly held in high regard, by Ignatius Aphrem I Barṣawm for one.305 He composed a liturgical work, an anaphora,306 and several versified homilies (mīmrē) about special personalities, like the steadfast Christian woman of Mosul, John of Mardin,307 Dionysios bar Ṣalībī or St. Bar Ṣawmō.308 In view of this relatively small œuvre it is at first surprising to read how explicitly Bar ʻEbrōyō praises the patriarch’s extraordinary diligence as a writer. According to the anonymous chronicle, however, Michael took his pastoral and administrative correspondence with the communities very seriously.309 As we observed above, letters were the pre-eminent means by which Michael extended his reach into the remote areas of his jurisdiction, and which probably provided him with his information as soon as he himself was no longer travelling.310 Regrettably, almost none of this administrative correspondence has survived.311 Apart from this epistolary activity, Michael edited. Shortly after his installation he edited the pontifical ritual,312 and he edited a Life of Mōr Abḥay based on older manuscripts.313 The root ṬKS (i.e. the semantic field of ‘to order’) occurs often in his statements about his writings and in his chronicle, not just in his explanation for the 1188 redaction of the Life of St. Mōr Abḥay, which he himself expressly called a restoration.314 At 303

Michael, C 775 (III, 505). Schmidt assumed that, according to Bar ʻEbrōyō, this treatise was bequeathed together with other objects to the sons of Īšō‘ when the possessions of Patriarch Ignatius III David were divided. But this view is based on a translation error, Schmidt: 1996, 305, no. 32 etc. The bequest here was the ‘large book on ordination which Michael wrote’, i.e. the pontifical ritual: Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 693-695 (694-696). Chabot also held that the text on the priesthood was not authentic: 1924, xxi. 305 Barsaum: 2000, 11 drew up a classification of all Syrian poets and placed Michael in the third class (of four); on Michael cf. also idem 146-147. 306 Michael, Anaphora. For an introduction to this text, see Panicker: 1993. 307 This mīmrō has not been published. Cf. Vööbus: 1971. H. Kaufhold was kind enough to make available to me a reproduction of Ms. Mardin, Syriac Orthodox Episcopate, no. 176. 308 Michael, Vita of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, the basis for this photographic edition is Ms. Damascus, Patriarchal Library, 9/16. 309 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 314 (235). 310 Michael, C 730 (III, 398-399). 311 Letter to Theodoros, Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 312-314 (233-234). 312 Kaufhold holds that Rome, Vatican, syr. 51 is the oldest copy of the original, c. 1188/1189: Kaufhold: 1993. Cf. also Michael, Pontifical Ritual and Vosté: 1946. 313 Michael, Vita of Mōr Abḥay. 314 London, BM, Add. 12, 174, cf. Wright: 1872, 1124 = Michael, Vita of Mōr Abḥay, 614-615, ṬKS appears five times here alone. 304

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night the patriarch wrote his letters, but during the day he copied.315 For above all Michael was a collector. If we ask what writing activities he himself found important, then these certainly included collecting, acquiring books, copying them and having them copied. He put this on a par with his building activities and his literary work:316 for instance, Michael compiled a collection of the complete poems of Jacob of Serugh, and also a collection of the complete poems of Ephrem the Great; these are the Syrian poets par excellence.317 Obviously he also collected narrative historical texts, documents and theological works. We do not know what his library looked like. However, indications of his activity as a collector are given by volumes which he commissioned after a devastating fire at the monastery in 1183, or those which he ordered to be purchased for other libraries: in 1190 he obtained from Egypt, for instance, a Syriac manuscript of the sixth (!) century on vellum, containing a very old translation of the homilies of Patriarch Severus.318 This was kept in Michael’s cell or patriarchal residence, but ‘anyone who wants to can read in it’.319 Another, likewise very clean 9th-century manuscript written on vellum contains texts by Gregory of Nazianzus, which he probably received from a deacon named Severus after 1183.320 A further collection has been preserved, which Michael ordered for the library of Mōr Bar Ṣawmō and which was handed over to the monastery library in 1197.321 This codex, too, contains patristics, encyclicals of early patriarchs and hagiography. At the end of the 1170s Michael provided a somewhat differently composed, but comparable, and very extensive collection for Mōr Ḥanōnyō; perhaps a second copy was in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. Parts of the texts collected there are also found in Michael’s chronicle.322 This kind of writing activity seemed hardly original and has therefore not been appreciated up to now. Its cohesion and purpose lie in the framework of Michael’s reform work. Books in bad repair were an obstacle ‘for scholars’ that was combatted by Michael.323 His work as an author and a copyist therefore has eminently didactic components, and 315

Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 314 (235). Michael, C 703 (III, 350). 317 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 314 (235). Versions of these texts in Damascus, Patriarchal Library, 12/15. 318 London, BM Add. 14, 599, Wright: 1871, 546ff. 319 Autograph of Michael: London, BM Add. 14, 599, fol. 194b, Wright: 1871, 547. 320 London, BM Add. 18, 815, cf. Wright: 1871, 436. 321 London, BM Add. 12, 174, fol. 452b, Wright: 1872, 1137. 322 Cf. Shahīd: 1971, 25f and Shahīd: 1993. 323 Michael, Vita of Mōr Abḥay, 614. 316

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was purposefully meant to foster scholarly endeavours. Moreover, his interest in collecting, ordering and restoring, evident till the end of his life, is consistent with his chronographical activity. Furthermore, Michael was a practising artist. Nothing, however, remains of his artistic work: Bar ʻEbrōyō and the anonymous chronicle talk about the ‘beautiful’, even uniquely beautiful books which Michael wrote. This does not mean learned or poetical, as we have already seen. His books were not linguistically but materially beautiful books. Michael was a calligrapher. One celebrated work merits the highest attention for the time and place in which it was made. On the basis of a description from the 14th century, Jules Leroy tried to find comparable specimens and give an idea of its decoration: C’était évidemment un Évangéliaire de grand luxe, avec plaques de reliure en argent, un index multicolore comme les différents Capitula lectionum si nombreux encore aujourd’hui, un manuscrit teinté avec lettres d’or sur fond d’argent et lettres argent sur fond d’or, comme le manuscrit précieux de Ḥoms, et des tableaux de la vie du Christ insérés dans le texte, comme dans le manuscrit de Deir es-Za‘faran. En plus des scènes de l’Évangile ceux-ci comportaient une image pour la fête de la Croix et probablement une de la Dormition. Peut-être aussi les portraits des évangélistes y figuraient-ils. La page initiale, où il n’y avait que de l’or, était sans doute consacrée à une grande croix au milieu d’un cadre multicolore où dominait l’or comme celle qui orne le frontispice du manuscrit de Ḥoms.324

For the 12th century a chrysograph is an extraordinary achievement, in Byzantium and the West too. It is highly remarkable within the Syriac Orthodox tradition, in which books were mainly written for their practical benefit, and which normally had neither the means nor the use325 for the extravagance evinced by opulent manuscripts in Byzantium or Baghdad. The other field in which he was artistically active was music: ‘Rōm qōlō hwō wa-ḥlē ne‘mtō’, notes Bar ʻEbrōyō.326 The importance of (liturgical) singing as a personal and, above all for the Syriac Orthodox tradition, as a central spiritual means of expression, can hardly be overestimated. Michael’s singing voice seems to have been exceptional. 324 Leroy: 1964, 428-429, cf. pl. 4. Leroy refers to a quotation published by Chabot from an unpublished historical account, a šarbō d-dayrō Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, from the 14th century, in the possession of Patriarch Ignatius Ephrem I Barṣawm. It was not possible to examine this manuscript, but cf. Chabot: 1924, xx-xxi. In the 14th century the Gospel was already badly impaired, cf. ibid., xxi. 325 Leroy: 1964, 17-18. But cf. the Gospel with gold lettering, on parchment, ‘en belle écriture esṭrangēlā’, dated Mardin, 1170: Damascus, Syriac Orthodox Patriarchate, 12/7, Dōlabanī et al.: 1994, 604. 326 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 605 (606).

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Michael as a radiant and tall man, as a great singer and calligrapher, as an undaunted organizer, urbane conversationalist, diligent collector and editor, reformer and pastor — who then came up against his limits in the structural problems of his office — such may constitute the basis of the memorial tradition surrounding this man, a tradition which awarded him the honorary title ‘the Great’. 14. SŌBŌ QADDĪŠŌ Bar ʻEbrōyō reports that, after the unexpected death of the catholicos Gregory in 1193, Michael received presents from a remorseful Armenian ruler, Leon II (1187-1289):327 thus his standing in Cilicia was restored. The Armenian chronicle of Kirakos Ganjakecʻi (of Gandzag) tells us that Michael was present when Leon II was crowned Armenian king.328 It was Kirakos’ concern to present this coronation as a universally significant event which united all peoples. The truth of this report is undisputed.329 Yet doubts seem warranted: the coronation took place in 1198. The distance was not too far, compared with Michael’s travel programme in his younger years. But Michael was old. Since the beginning of the nineties he referred to himself as a sōbō, an ‘old man’.330 He had long stopped travelling. In his own report, moreover, there is no indication of an improvement in the relationship with Armenia. Bar ʻEbrōyō describes Michael in his last years as ‘sōbō qaddīšō’, the holy old man. Even though Michael remained interested in the political events of the Near East, and apparently gathered information systematically up till a few years before his death, he makes a weak impression, at least in his dealings with his nephew. The wording of the document in favour of his nephew Gregory, which, according to the anonymous chronicler, he was persuaded into signing,331 shows him to be a man who, having lost control of the situation, simply authorizes the documents put before him. Bar ʻEbrōyō reports that, while Michael was still alive, his nephew Joshua declared his wish to 327 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 587 (588). Perhaps by mediation of Nerses of Lampron? Cf. Nerses of Lampron, Letter to King Leo II, 593. 328 ‘… and the Syrian kat’oghikos who sat in the monastery of the blessed Barsuma by the borders of Melitene …’ Kirakos Ganjakecʻi (of Gandzag), C (Bedrosian), 121-122. 329 Cf. Hage: 1992 (Michael). 330 Michael, Autographs. 331 Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 331-333 (247-248).

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become patriarch, but saw no reason to visit Michael in his monastery.332 Likewise the other nephew, Maphrian Gregory, seems only to have looked up the patriarch in order to obtain a written guarantee of his inheritance — in case he could not be present at his death.333 It was, perhaps, an unfortunate end. Since the time he entered office the situation of the Syriac Orthodox Church had not, despite his efforts, improved, but had become even more precarious. Churches were dispossessed and destroyed, pressure increased: How much ridicule and abuse and injustice the Muslims inflicted upon the persecuted people of the Christians [after 1187] in Damascus, in Aleppo, in Ḥarran, in Edessa, in Amid, in Mardin, in Mosul as well as in the rest of their territory, cannot be described in words.334

There was no peace: in one of the last entries Michael describes the consequences of the 1183-1191 war between Kurdish nomads and Turkomans for the region of northern Mesopotamia — how the Christians were caught between the deadly fronts because the Kurds stored booty in Christian villages, which therefore became the target of Turkoman retribution. Arduous campaigns by the various rulers tried to restore order. Michael was saddened by all this dying, no matter on which side. He ran out of words to describe these events.335 He was just as concerned when considering the events of the failed Third Crusade, for instance the attack on Akko: ‘People were killed by both sides, until the streets were filled with corpses.’336 The deaths of the great rulers of the period, Qilij Arslān II and Saladin, again triggered wars of succession. Michael’s account ends with the description of these conflicts, the clashes between Armenians and Latins, the effects of new locust infestations and terrible famine. The account is open-ended, concluding almost mid-sentence and seemingly without any final word:337 without any

332

Bar ʻEbrōyō occ., 603 (604). These documents have survived: Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 333-335 (249250). Present at Michael’s death was a bishop John, previously monk David from Amid. He calls himself the writer of a pontifical ritual and reports the circumstances of Michael’s death: Damascus, Syriac Orthodox Patriarchate, 5/52, cf. Dōlabanī et al.: 1994, 582. His brother was priest Abū Naṣr Mhallā, Rīš-Dayrō in Mōr Mattai. Could this be the same John who attested the signing of the treaty on the transference of the Mardin diocese in 1195, i.e. John of Ṣemḥō, Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 333 (248)? 334 Michael, C 734 (III, 404). 335 Michael, C 733 (III, 402). Cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 370 (321). 336 Michael, C 737 (III, 407). 337 Michael, C 733f (III, 410). 333

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prospect of an end to the war, any solution to the change of office, to the famine, to the agreement, to the renewed discord; without any triumphant note, such as will become dominant in the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version,338 and without any positive outlook.

338 Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois): ‘Nous prions, nous supplions avec l’intercession des Saints, le Tout-Puissant, le Miséricordieux et le Bienfaiteur Suprême, de prolonge l’existence de ces princes, d’ajouter à éclat de leur puissance de nouveaux honneurs, d’étendre leur domination sur tous les Arméniens, de la perpétuer de génération en génération à leurs descendants les plus reculés, jusqu’à la venue de Jésus-Christ, Notre Seigneur et Dieu, le seul roi éternel et tout-puissant qui est béni dans les siècles des siècles; Ainsi-soit-il!’

CHAPTER IV

TEXTUAL CRITICISM, SOURCES AND LINGUISTIC FORM IN MICHAEL 1. SURVEY OF THE STRUCTURE OF THE CHRONICLE’S TEXT Chapter1

Pages

Preface: aim and method - LACUNA -

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I

Adam till Flood. On the office of priest

8

6/11

II

History of the world from the Flood till Abraham. On the office of priest

8

11/19

7-17 (I, 14-32)

III

Abraham till the time of the judges. Patriarchs till the high priests

10

10/16

18-27 (I, 33-48)

IV

Time of the judges till the end of the Babylonian captivity (end of the 5th mill. world era). High priests

21

38/56

27-65 (I, 49-104)

V

Darius I (522-486) till Passion of Christ. High priests till apostles

10

28/47

66-93 (I, 105-151)

VI

Christ’s resurrection till Constantine the Great (324). Apostles till (Christian) patriarchs

10

28/54

94-121 (I, 152-205)

VII

Constantine the Great (324-337) till Theodosios I (379-395). Councils and heresies

9

43/85

121-163 (I, 239-323)

VIII

Arcadios (395-408) till Marcian (450-457). Council of Chalcedon 451 and consequences

14

79/126

163-241 (II, 1-125)

IX

Leo I (457-474) till Justinian I (527-565). Church conflicts

34

111/156

241-331 (II, 126-281)

X

Justin II (565-578) till coming to power of Heraclios (610). Church conflicts

27

62/118

331-402 (II, 282-399)

XI

Heraclios (610-641) till Constantine V (741-775), beginning of Islamic conquest till siege of Constantinople. Continuation of orthodoxy by patriarchs of Alexandria and Antioch, Armenian catholicos

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76/130

403-478 (II, 400-529)

Book

Contents

*

Reference 1-6 (I, 3-13)

1 The number of chapters is often just as doubtful as their subdivision and their numbering, which is omitted with increasing frequency in the course of the book. In this survey I follow Chabot’s reconstruction of the subdivision, with which I basically concur.

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Book

Contents

Chapter

Pages

Reference

XII

Leo IV (775-780)/al-Mahdī (775-785) till Theophilos (829-842)/al-Muʻtaṣim (833-842). Patriarchate Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē (818-842)

21

67/111

478-544 (III, 1-111)

XIII

Michael III (842-867)/al-Wātiq (842-847) till Zoe and Theodora (1042); Byzantine reconquests. Patriarchs of Antioch and Alexandria

7

23/37

544-566 (III, 112-148)

XIV

Origin and customs of the Turks, primeval times till 11th century

5

6/9

566-571 (III, 149-157)

XV

Constantine Monomachos (1042-1055), also beginning of Turkish rule/Toghril Beg, Sultan of Khorasan, till 1122. Patriarchs of Antioch and Alexandria

14

35/61

571-605 (III, 158-218)

XVI

1123/4 till 1143 (John II Comnenos, 1118-1143). Patriarchs of Antioch and Alexandria

10

22/39

606-627 (III, 219-257)

XVII

1143/Coming to power of Manuel I Comnenos (1143-1180) till 1152/change of rule in Melitene. Patriarchs of Antioch and Alexandria

14

28/51

628-655 (III, 258-308)

XVIII 1153-1165

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39/19

656-694 (III, 309-327)

XIX

1166 [Election of Michael I as Syriac Orthodox patriarch of Antioch] till death of Nūr ad-Dīn 1174. Michael’s patriarchate - LACUNAE -

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12/28

695-706 (III, 328-355)

XX

1175/Death of King Almeric (1162-1174) till 1179/advance of Saladin. Michael’s patriarchate

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14/25

707-720 (III, 356-380)

XXI

1180/Death of Manuel I Comnenus, Alexius II Comnenus (1180-1183), till 1195/death of Qilij Arslān II (1156-1192) and of Saladin (11711193), advance of Leo II (1187-1219). Beginning of schism in S. O. patriarchate till Michael’s victory, continuation of his work

8

19/33

721-739 (III, 381-413)

7/15

741-747 (III, 427-441)

Appendix I

Names of all kings and patriarchs men- tioned

Appendix II

Prehistory of the Syrians

4/6

748-751 (III, 442-447)

Appendix III

Patriarchs of Antioch from Severus to Michael I

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17/43

752-768 (III, 448-491)

Appendix IV

Bishops of Jerusalem, Edessa, Melitene, Amid and Tagrit

2/13

768-769 (III, 492-504)

Appendix V

Kings and catholicoi of Armenia

6/17

770-775 (III, 503-519)

Appendix VI

Catholicoi of Apostolic Church of the East

3/4

775-777 (III, 520-523)

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117

Michael’s chronicle consists of a historical account in 21 books and, in Chabot’s count, has six appendices, whose authenticity need not be doubted.2 The apparently random breaking off of the descriptive text suggests that Michael had wanted to continue it.3 Yet it can be proved that after 1195 Michael was systematically occupied with clarifying his work and with compiling the appendices, so that this assumption misses the point. The open ending of the historical account is significant; it is intentional. The books are referred to as mīmrē. They are divided into a varying number of chapters, qpaliōnē. Book headings indicate the beginning of the period in the various calendars: While I raise myself to him, the power, who is capable of all and who knows all and directs all insight, and ask what will come and he strengthens me in his goodness, I begin the fifth book, which starts with the period of the beginning of the 6th millennium, year 20 of Darius the Persian and the first year of Macedonian Alexander and the beginning of the Roman consuls and the return of the Jews.4

Often they are also charged with numerical symbolism: With the help of the One who is known as three personae we start the third book. And in it [this book] starts the canon of chronology, of the kingdoms and of the kings set in sequence by Eusebius, who shows very clearly when each kingdom started and where it ended, how many kings each had and how old each one was.5

Or again: Our Lord Christ, who took it upon himself to fulfil the law on the eighth day and will come on the eighth day and renew everything, while we proclaim him, we start the 8th b[ook], which starts with the beginning of the reign of Arcadius and of Honorius, the king of the Romans, and Yadzegerd, the son of Shapur, [king] of the Persians.6

The chapter headings either follow this form or point to elements of the historical account. On the whole they are stylistically much plainer: ‘4th chapter of the seventh book — on the time of the rule of Constantine’s 2

Likewise Chabot: 1924, xxiv. Chabot: ‘Notre manuscrit ne porte ici aucune clausule; ce qui n’a pas lieu de surprendre, l’auteur ayant pu avoir l’intention d’ajouter ultérieurement quelque nouveau chapitre à son ouvrage.’ Note on Michael, C III, 413, no. 9. 4 Michael, C 66 (I, 105). 5 Michael, C 18 (I, 33). 6 Michael, C 163 (II, 1). 3

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sons’.7 At the end of the section the period is summarized again, for instance: This is the end of the 9th section, which gathers together the period of 108 years in which 6 kings ruled the Romans and 5 the Persians. But by Adam this year is the year 6073 and by Our Lord the year 567 and by the years of the Greeks 877.8

On the whole the authenticity of these superscripts and subscripts is not called into question. For the large section headings it is adequately supported by the style and frequent use of the first person. But as regards the chapter headings we have Rudolf Abramowski’s judgement that where Michael quotes the chronicle of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, there is a marked change in style, and that at least these chapter headings cannot be ascribed to Michael.9 Certainly Michael may have drawn inspiration from Dionysios. But a heading like ‘This chapter consists entirely of events that took place in the Church …’ cannot derive from Dionysios’ work.10 Michael’s authorship of chapter headings further down in the account is once again proved by the use of the first person.11 The survey shows no apparent formal purpose of the division, such as the creation of equally large sections of text or periods of time. Chabot held that ‘habituellement le commencement des livres coïncide avec un changement de règne’.12 But this observation explains nothing, since in several thousand years of world history there is always some change of rule or other available. The division may have purely practical grounds; but, on the other hand, it does not seem to be totally random. We must therefore return to this problem later.13 As is also customary in Latin chronography, Michael treats the past in great detail compared with his present time.14 A strong increase in selected source material can already be observed for the time of the 7

Michael, C 134 (I, 265). Michael, C 331 (II, 281). 9 Abramowski: 1940, 24. 10 Michael, C 516 (III, 64): Dionysios’ work consisted of two independent parts, a church history and a world history. In his account this heading would be pointless, in Michael it is necessary. 11 Michael, C 719 (III, 378). 12 Chabot’s note on Michael, C III, 328, no. 1. 13 Cf. below 197-199. 14 Cf. the periodization of Latin chronicles in von den Brincken: 1969, table VI. In particular the works by Lambert of Hersfeld (c. 1025-after 1081), Annals and Gregory of Tours (540-594), Ten books of histories, fall outside the scope of her list, but according to her definition these works cannot be regarded as chronicles. 8

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Jewish exile in the 6th century BCE. This richness of detail reaches a climax in the central part, book VIII, in which 8 years (!) are treated in 76 pages in the original. 2. DATE So far it has not been possible to date Michael’s work exactly. All the same we can make some internal observations. These can only form the basis of hard statements, however, if we assume that Michael constructed his work from front to back and piece by piece. At present there is nothing to rule out this assumption: in fact it is suggested by the graphical structure of the text. We know that Michael put the finishing touches to the chronicle’s text in the year 1506 AG or 1195 CE because of his dating of the final passage15 and because of a gloss.16 At the time, in 1195, Michael was almost 70 years old. As the penultimate appendix V (in Chabot’s count) shows, appendices I-V must have been completed before 1198, because they evidence no awareness whatsoever of an Armenian kingdom — or would they ignore it?17 The final appendix cannot be dated, because Michael did not take the list of Nestorian catholicoi beyond the beginning of the 11th century.18 This could suggest that he died while compiling that list. As the author indicates on the first pages, the final book was written after 1193.19 A report on the year 1067/8 contains a proleptic reference to 1164/5, to the construction of the fourth watchtower in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. Books XV-XX were therefore composed after 1164/5.20 If this remark is assumed to be original, we can date book XVII after 1166, since Dionysios bar Ṣalībī is said to be the bishop of Amid, which he became after Michael’s election.21 In this connection we need to take a comment into account: for the year 1090 Michael reports the foundation of the Pesqīn monastery. The first years of its existence apparently saw a dogmatic (or power) conflict between the diocese and the monastery. 15

Michael, C 738 (III, 413). Michael, C 450 (II, 483). 17 Michael, C 774 (III, 515, 516). Michael takes the view that the Armenian kingdom had come to an end. 18 Michael, C 777 (III, 524). 19 Michael, C 721-725 (III, 382-388). 20 Michael, C 575 (III, 164). 21 Michael, C 635 (III, 272). 16

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Patriarch Athanasios VI (1091-1129) decided that there were no objections to the monks and the healings they performed. Michael’s comment, ‘We also approve of his opinion’, sounds authoritative. His official recognition could indicate that this passage too was not recorded until after 1166.22 Chabot proposed to date the account in book XIV to approx. 1140, and for this reason denied it to Michael, who was supposedly too young at the time.23 The dating of book XIV is a special problem. It is a selfcontained account which may have been inserted as a whole, independently of how the remaining text was shaped. So it may in fact have been written earlier than the rest of the chronicle, but not as early as Chabot believed. The relevant passage relates that an invasion by the Turks took place at the end of the Persian empire, a hundred years before the Arab invasion, ‘that is, some 600 years before the present time’. In Michael’s chronicle the end of the Persian empire coincides with the assassination of the Persian king Yadzegerd, an event which it dates to 956 AG/ 645 CE.24 This means that book XIV was not written until around the middle of the 1140s.25 At this time Michael was 20. He may very well have been active as a scholar. As we shall see in more detail, it is also a safe assumption that a chronicle like this will have required extensive investigative and graphical preliminary work. We must therefore take a longer preparatory phase into account. In addition, preparatory and writing phases may have alternated in the work process. Beyond these details, there is at present no other material that could further narrow down the time of writing. Given the lack of unity in style and construction, one would not like to attach much evidential value to internal criteria.26 Michael’s glosses, which may have contained more precise information, are corrupt and perhaps partly lost.

22

Michael, C 585 (III, 182). Chabot: 1924, xxxv. 24 Michael, C 418 (II, 424). 25 Cf. Cahen: 1968, 24. 26 But cf. Lüders: 1964, 22: For Lüders, the legend about the destruction of iron figures discovered in an Antiochian tower is hostile to the Franks and was influenced by the end of the first kingdom of Jerusalem: Michael, C 587 (III, 183). This would mean that a large part of book XV and the next books were written after 1187. Perhaps she was swayed here by the formulation in Chabot’s translation. A better rendering would be: ‘On the time of the departure of the Franks, who conquered Jerusalem.’ Michael, C 585 (III, 182). Moreover, this passage is actually friendly to the Franks. In fact, the event prophesied by the old blind woman took place long before the figures were destroyed, as the text clearly stresses. 23

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Arguing ex silentio is never very convincing, yet two final clues should not be ignored: nothing indicates that in books XV-XX the author already had an inkling of the schism to come. Remarkable, too, is the recapitulatory construction of book XXI after the detailed report on 1175-1179 in book XX, covering only five years. If not a proof, this does suggest that books XV-XX were in fact written before 1180. This would mean that between 1180 and 1193 the author tarried with his work, which is not implausible in view of his anger at the schism and the uncertainty about its outcome. For the year 721/2 the chronicle reports on the triumphant entry of the Syriac Orthodox patriarch Eliya into the city of Antioch. After 203 years Eliya was the first patriarch able to enter the city.27 Wouldn’t one expect a proleptic reference here like the reference to the construction of the watchtower? Surely Michael would not have missed the opportunity to point to his own entrance into Antioch, if it had already taken place at the time of writing. In that case books I-XI, i.e. more than half the work, would have to be dated to the period before 1167. This hypothesis too is not implausible. 3. DEALING WITH SOURCES: ASPECTS OF MICHAEL’S CONCEPTION OF HISTORY At the beginning of the 20th century Marie Schulz established the elements of the medieval historiographical method, described above as the ‘chronistic’ method. It includes excerpting, compiling and composing a new text from earlier sources, comparing information and occasionally marking material that does not seem credible.28 Melville pointed out that European chronographers themselves also recognised their methodological achievement in the processing of available material into a new account.29 Something similar can be observed in Syrian chronography: Ignatius of Melitene says it explicitly.30 Basically Michael also follows 27

Michael, C 456 (II, 490). Schulz: 1909. 29 Melville: 1988, 140; Schmale: 1985, 58, 85-105. 30 Michael, C 545-7 (III, 114-6). Nothing is known about Ignatius’ chronicle. We therefore confine ourselves to some impressions here: from 842 Ignatius sees himself as a universal historiographer only. As earlier sources he lists Eusebius, Socrates, Sozomen, Zacharias, John of Asia, Jacob of Edessa, Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē and ‘many others’, and distinguishes ecclesiastical histories and short chronicles. In my view, he regards the authors mentioned here as church historians. Ignatius apparently takes his chronicle to be an extract and says that he quotes Jacob and Dionysios verbatim; moreover he has found 28

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this method. His treatment of sources is therefore neither Oriental nor unoriginal, but meets the chronistic standard. This standard also applies to certain narrative elements: miracles, heavenly visions and the like, as Michael’s English contemporary Gervase of Canterbury reports, belong to the basic chronistic baggage,31 because they are part of events and because God is part of historical events. Michael is conscious of and has therefore reflected on the basic criteria of his historical source criticism. These principles are revealed by the discussion of a report which Michael is not prepared to believe. Two conditions have been met — several high-quality manuscripts contain the same report, it is confirmed by credible men — but, thirdly, something similar has never been seen before, so that Michael cannot bring himself to accept it.32 On the whole, as we shall show, his textual work far exceeds the norm. many Greek sources of his own and has summarized in one place the most important matters, which would otherwise be scattered. From his statements we can infer that he is solely concerned with two groups — the patriarchs of Antioch and the Byzantine emperors: Michael, C 545 (III, 114). Michael reports that he has fully inserted Ignatius up to 843: Michael, C 547 (II, 116). He calls Ignatius’ work ‘Book on the computation of the years’ i.e. chronography, and brackets it with John the Stylite: Michael, C 377-378 (II, 357). Michael, C 544-545 (III, 112) talks in somewhat more detail about Ignatius’ outlook and confirms my assumption about his concentration on Byzantium and the patriarchate of Antioch: he relates that Ignatius ignored Eastern (Arab and Turkish) history. Together with his knowledge and his interest in Greek sources one could perhaps describe Ignatius’ chronography as Byzantine imperial history in combination with a history of the patriarchate of Antioch. Though surprising at first sight, this can be explained by the historical context: in the 11th century Melitene was Byzantine territory! The Gr. Or. patriarchate and Metropolitan Ignatius himself were subject to acts of repression, mainly at the hands of the Greek Orthodox patriarchate in Constantinople, less from the ruling house, cf. the thorough study by Benner: 1989, and Michael, C 576ff (III, 165ff). In any case, despite the tensions, Ignatius apparently put his money on Byzantium. He starts with Emperor Constantine as the one who ended the persecution of the Christians. In Michael this is followed by excerpts from Eusebius’ Vita Constantini, and these may also have been mediated by Ignatius; Michael seems only to have made some insertions: Michael, C 121f (I, 239f). Because this passage does not correspond to the chronographical staccato style, detailed narrative entries in Ignatius’ chronicle may have been offset by periods of time on which he reports nothing (which is why Michael laments his brevity). Chabot too ascribes a large part of the Byzantine imperial history in Michael to Ignatius: Chabot: 1924, xxxiv-xxxv. Besides the quotations mentioned by Chabot I have found others: Michael, C 121 (I, 240); 545 (III, 112); 547 (III, 117); 576 (III, 167). However, before 843 Michael explicitly quotes Ignatius only twice; we have already mentioned the first quotation. The second passage again shows him to be a loyal Byzantine, Michael, C 136 (I, 266). 31 Gervase of Canterbury, C 87-88. 32 The report concerned a year-long eclipse of the sun: Michael, C 296 (II, 220), van Ginkel: 1995, 235, no. 54 doubts whether Michael is talking here and proposes Ignatius of Melitene instead. Given the many source-critical remarks which cannot be denied to Michael, what we have here is not very unusual, and nothing therefore stands in the way of an attribution to Michael.

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Compilation as the result of chronistic production may be variously structured, depending on how many sources a chronographer consulted and how extensively he elaborated them. The excerpts may be strung together or interlinked.33 Michael’s chronicle is an interlinking, or as he himself would say, a weaving compilation. As central threads he described the various genealogies and calendars. Into these he wove, as it were, his information.34 While inserting information Michael simultaneously structured the work both diachronically and by content. This system is too complicated to be dealt with in a few words here. It will be investigated in detail in the following chapters. In accordance with his method Michael further distinguished between kinds of sources. He recognized sources which give information about chronology and calendar (these are the ‘books on the computation of the years’), and also sources which contain historical material.35 Finally, he did not adhere to the basic principle which Amos Funqenstein established as the normal source-critical standard of the Latin chronographers. He neither fundamentally regards the oldest source as the best nor does he take over, more or less unchanged, the statements drawn from there.36 Rather he subjects the reports to a surprisingly thorough examination. We know about Michael’s method because he thinks it important to disclose part of it: thus, on average, he identifies at least one source per page. We are given, besides, details about biblical quotations in the various Near Eastern Bible editions: Septuagint or Syro-hexapla, Syriac Pšittā37, Samaritan-Hebrew Torah, Jewish-Hebrew Tanakh.38 These quotations are very common in the first five books. Michael names some 150 different sources, of which he identifies around 50 authors and texts that he understands to constitute historical literature.39 Among them, the patriarch lists all the works named above in the survey of Syriac Orthodox universal historiography; some he inserted integrally. Chabot already 33

Cf. Melville: 1988. Michael, C 544-547 (III, 112-116). 35 Michael, C 54 (I, 77); 128 (I, 255); 253 (II, 149); 377 (II, 355-357); 461 (II, 500). 36 Funqenstein: 1965, 71. 37 Denoted transdenominationally in this transcription. 38 To my knowledge, as ‘non-historical’ sources, the biblical quotations have not attracted any interest so far. The preface to the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version in Parisot’s translation with Michael, C I, 2 indicates that it must have been Jacob of Edessa from whom these comparisons derive, if indeed there were not already in Eusebius. If this is right, it certainly has consequences for assumptions about the form of Jacob’s chronicle. 39 That is, texts from which Michael draws historical facts and which he does not characterize as theological literature, a specification often easily recognized. Not all these names have been source-critically investigated, and there is no scope for it here either. I hope to pursue this elsewhere. 34

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recognized that Michael cannot have collected and read all the texts he mentions.40 However, the number assumed by Chabot must be further reduced: Michael himself says that he had no pre-Christian literature at his disposal, but could only acquire knowledge of the early period via Eusebius and others. Michael finds out that this material was mediated by Greek chronographers from, again, Jacob of Edessa, who conducted the source research and added to the Eusebian material.41 Together with specifically named texts of hagiographical and polemical literature, documents, authentic and apocryphal letters and acts of council whose origin still requires thorough research and which only in part go back to historical compilations, the reduced number of identified sources is still very considerable. This broad canvas and the precise characterization of documentary material is surprising from the perspective of Latin history of historiography.42 The fact that Michael was also able to describe with comparative precision the sources not directly analysed by him is apparently due to a feature of the Syriac Orthodox tradition: his sources, too, mentioned their sources by name. In particular John of Litarba seems to have been diligent in this regard: ‘John the Writer, when basing his history on the first book of Eusebius, says …’43 Michael often explicitly disclosed his 40 Chabot: 1924, xxiv-xxxvii started from the following, already historiographically processed material: 1. Jacob of Edessa, Chronicle, 2. [Pseudo-]Epiphanius, Life of the Prophets, 3. Asaph, Chronicle (first and second book), 4. Meander, the Magician, Chronicle, 5. Zamardus, the Magician, Chronicle, 6. Qūmabarus, the Assyrian, Chronicle, 7. Arūd/Arwād the Canaanite, Chronicle, 8. Andronicus, Chronicle, 9. John of Litarba, Chronicle, 10. unknown Syriac compilations of the ‘synoptics’, 11. John of Asia, Ecclesiastical History, 12. Zacharias Rhetor, Ecclesiastical History, 16. John Rufus, Plerophoria, 17. Cyrus of Batnae, Ecclesiastical History, 18. Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, Chronicle, 19. Ignatius of Melitene, 20. Lazarus of Sergisyē, Monastic Chronicles, 21. other anonymous monastic chronicles, 22. Basil of Edessa, Chronicle, 23. Iwannis of Kayšūm, Chronicle, 24. Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, Chronicle. The Arabic and Armenian sources directly processed by Michael have yet to be identified. In Appendix V Chabot seems to indicate the use of the Armenian Chronicle by Moses of Khoren, cf. Chabot on Michael, C III, 506, no. 1 etc., to my knowledge the problem has not been pursued. 41 Conclusive evidence on this issue is provided by Michael’s source-critical remarks in Appendix II 748-751 (III, 442-447). 42 Schmale: 1985, 86. 43 Michael, C 40 (I, 68). See Debié: 2015, 554-555 for bibliographical notes. No mention has been made of the following suggestions of the 2003 version: I offer some provisional considerations based on the reading of Michael’s chronicle. John is first cited by Michael at the time of the Flood: Michael, C 10 (I, 20). In a gloss abridged by the copyist Michael refers to the work as ‘Book of the computation of the years’ = chronography 377-378 (II, 357), again in 461 (II, 500). Here someone, presumably Michael, declares to ḤMYL the chronicle, which Chabot translates as ‘résumé’. In my view, John’s chronicle may be completely incorporated in Michael. When Michael quotes a John, it need not always be the Stylite, but can also refer to John Malalas. Yet Michael seems

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indirect knowledge in this way, as in ‘Annianus the monk presents the evidence from the Book of Enoch and says …’44, or ‘According to Eusebius the writer Josephus shows that …’45 The position in the text is often also indicated, e.g. ‘… from the third chapter, which Zacharias copied from the chronicle of a pious man, who wrote in Greek to a certain man called Eupraxius, who was employed in the service of the king [i.e. emperor] …’46 He also gives information about the range of the sources in his account:47 Know well, O reader who loves the truth and is concerned about accuracy, that, because many authors have started their writings from the beginning of the pious king Constantine — thus Socrates and John of Asia, also chiefly to have valued the Stylite’s chronicle for its series of high priests, explicitly so in 51 (I, 76), hence we can also explicitly identify 32 (I, 54), 33 (I, 54), 43 (I, 57), 37 (I, 64), 38 (I, 66), 40 (I, 68), 50 (I, 76), 51 (I, 76), 52 (I, 76), 54 (I, 77). One of the Stylite’s main sources must also have been Eusebius: Michael, C 40 (I, 68); 54 (I, 77), and there is mention of a John who wrote about Hebrew history in Michael, C 66 (I, 106) = 69 (I, 110) (repetition of information), so that identity with the Stylite is likely here too. Another identifiable passage is concerned with Hebrew history, 81 (I, 126), but also with Antioch and its relics. In world history Michael never discusses the Stylite apart from the two instances mentioned; here he focuses on other authors. In my view the Stylite’s chronicle may therefore have dealt with a history of the high priests and the early Christian Church, perhaps only in Antioch, and it may have intended to show a kind of succession of teachers. Though this chronicle does not have a universal horizon, it does have a universal claim. 44 Michael, C 1 (I, 3). Michael thus reveals that he himself has not read the book of Enoch — cf. Brock: 1968. 45 Michael, C 88 (I, 137). Repetition at the end of the excerpt: Michael, C 89 (I, 139). 46 Michael, C 185 (II, 37); at the end of the book by Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē 538 (III, 101), id., in the 2nd book, in the chapter about Amorium 568 (III, 150), John of Asia, at the beginning of his book [not the third part] 121 (I, 239), 122 (I, 242), id., beginning of 3rd book 337 (II, 292), etc. This quotation by Michael regarding Zacharias’ ecclesiastical history differs from Pseudo-Zacharias Rhetor, HE, III, 1 ff, where it is said, 144 (100): ‘Ma‘hed ak men maktbōnūtō d-Zakaryō gabrō mhaymnō d-akteb yawnō’īt lwōt nōš Eupraks šmeh pōlḥō wa-‘nō b-tešmeštō d-malkō’ and further down, 146 (101): ‘Rīšō qaddmōyō dīleh d-šarbō mšawda‘ ‘al aylēn da-gdaš b-sunhōdōs [ak] d-men maktbōnūtō d-nōš da-šmeh Zakaryō d-mašre d-nektub yawnō’īt lwōt Eupraks hōkwōt.’ This is clear. But Michael is just as clear, only different: ‘Badgun qpalyōn qaddmōyō men rīšō 3 da-ktab [note the change from Aph‘el to Pe‘al] Zakaryō Mlīlō men maktbōnūtō d-gabrō mhaymnō d-akteb [only now Aph‘el] yawnō’īt lwōt nōš da-šmeh Heuprakos da-‘nō b-tešmeštō d-malkō aylēn da-gdaš b-kalqidōnōyō … [my emphasis].’ The two sentences are almost identical, apart from a few words, but precisely these change the sense. In Pseudo-Zacharias, Zacharias himself is the ‘pious man’, not in Michael; Michael lacks pōlḥō (servant, official), but in Michael Zacharias is specified as mlīlō/Rhetor, not in Pseudo-Zacharias, where, in the second sentence, he is merely ‘a certain man called’. The spelling of the name Eupraxius is not identical. For further references see Debié: 2015, 337-340. 47 On Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, the beginning: 378 (II, 357) and end 554 (III, 111); Ignatius of Melitene, the main source from here 544-545 (III, 112).

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Theodoret, he who is outside our Church, and Ignatius of Melitene —, we however have started this book at the beginning of the world, we, so far in this fabric, have compiled and collected from old books such as Eusebius, but from here onwards have also gathered together in the weave from those who start in these times — in the Lord who leads us, amen. Beginning of the book of Theodoret …48

The fact that Michael himself is speaking here can be recognized from the reference to Ignatius of Melitene. It is not his occasional mistakes but his methodological competence which stands out as the remarkable feature of Michael’s statements. This note, moreover, illustrates his scholarly diligence, here identifying the beginning of the excerpt of a book which the patriarch probably did not have to hand.49 Michael insists time and again that his quotations are excerpts. He often explicitly distinguishes between excerpt50 and copy51: indeed, he inserts, as it were, suspension points, like the formula ‘… and a little later …’, or ‘… and after other things …’52. A quotation from Gn 1 regarding the first day of creation is followed by: ‘… and thus the prophetic spirit tells about the days, about one after the other, and when he arrives at the sixth day in the story, on which God created Adam after all the creatures, he says …’.53 A few lines further on Michael concludes with ‘… and afterwards he continues to complete what is lacking, on the creation of Eve …’54 The breaking off of an excerpt or copy is often marked, for instance by ‘… and this must suffice for now’.55 Many of his excerpts were not only preserved in their original character — and also their beauty — but set with a few clarifying words as if with precious stones. The passage on Zacharias is one of these. Another is the excerpt from the ingenious Tmemata by John Philoponus, a polemic on the doctrine of nature in the Tomus Leonis:56 48

Michael, C 121 (I, 240). Cf. Michael, C 180 (II, 28). John was cited earlier: Michael, C 121 (I, 239), 121 (I, 240), 122 (I, 242), 135 (I, 271). Was this remark moved from a different place through a copying error? 50 Kunōšō, Michael, C 218 (II, 92), ‘from, of’ 400 (II, 394), detailed statement cf. 554 (III, 127), with reference to the place of the complete version 385 (II, 371), 502 (III, 41) etc. 51 Īsōnō, Michael, C 403 (II, 402). 52 Cf. the letter of Amphilochius of Sidon to Emperor Leo I, Michael, C 251-253 (II, 145-148), or Antimus to Severus 289 (II, 210). 53 Michael, C 1 (I, 3). 54 Michael, C 1 (I, 4). 55 Michael, C 636 (III, 274). 56 The Greek version is lost. Enthusiasm for this work by John went together with rejection of his tritheistic writings, known only from minimal fragments in Michael’s chronicle. On the reconstruction of these tritheistic writings, cf. Van Roey: 1980, on John besides, Baumstark: 1900, 156-223. 49

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Excerpt from the Tmemata of John Philoponos, which clearly shows the bitter denial and the godlessness which took place at the Synod of Chalcedon, from which the holy Fathers distanced themselves and kept the orthodox faith without vacillation and change.57

This is followed twenty pages later by: From the four Tmemata, that is, the Tomoi of John Philoponus, the grammarian in Alexandria, we have gathered and placed here according to the order of the arguments.’58

Michael’s chronicle is peppered with source-critical and methodological comments.59 A clear decision about their author cannot always be made, but we already saw that only some of these comments can derive from Michael himself. Others go back to his sources or the sources of his sources. Pride of place goes again to Eusebius, who talks at length about the quality, scope and origin of his models.60 Michael’s own remarks flow from two problems: his aim is to produce a universal account which systematically and fully records the various secular realms and empires and the various Christian denominations of the Near East. As he himself explained, his concern was, if possible, to leave unbroken all his chronological threads — the various successions and genealogies.61 However, with the source material available to him, this aim was impossible to achieve. The patriarch therefore looked at the scope of his sources, and at the reasons why no information could

57

Michael, C 218 (II, 92). It must be plural. Michael, C 238 (II, 121). 59 Some remarks deserve mention: Michael observes that more must have happened before the Flood than the sources say; he reflects on the quality of the ‘prophetic’ books 5 (I, 11); he discerns that the succession of high priests is better documented since the return of the Jews from exile 70 (I, 106); he comments on the quality of the succession of kings in Jacob of Edessa 128 (I, 255); he remarks that John of Asia has much to say about the plague 305 (II, 235); that the number and names of the bishops of the first Council of Ephesus can be found in Zacharias 173 (II, 16); that the Plerophoria are excellent and authorized 203 (II, 69). He highlights that Ignatius of Melitene is the only source for this period, but too scanty and confined to the Greeks; he remarks that there is no information in Ignatius’ work about either the Turks or the Arabs, while at the same time Ignatius limits himself to the Syriac Orthodox patriarchs and leaves the other churches out of account 544-545 (III, 112); he notes that Ignatius of Melitene was unable to find the names of the Arab kings in the Greek sources, but he himself found them easily in Arab sources 547-548 (III, 117); he corrects the reign of the Byzantine emperor Alexius — though wrongly 583 (III, 177). 60 As an example, cf. the discussion of the quality of Josephus’ writings in Eusebius, HE II, x, 10. 61 Michael, C 546 (III, 116). 58

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be found about certain facts: a document was unavailable, for instance, because it was abroad.62 Damianus sent this letter to Jacob, says Cyrus of Batnae. John of Asia says that Jacob also sent an answer to Damian with enthusiasm and joy, and that we do not have that of Jacob, but it is kept by the Egyptians.63

Another text is criticized for being too one-sided, Michael observing that it therefore needs to be supplemented. In addition, he establishes political-historical conditions for his lack of sources. The most important are as follows: early Syrian history, in the first place, is no longer preserved in original, Aramaic reports, because the Syrians, after converting to Christianity, no longer valued their old books. Today they therefore depend on Greek reports in which these texts were incorporated.64 The empire being divided, secondly, interest in events in the Western Roman Empire petered out. The Syrian chronographers confined themselves to the Eastern emperors and ‘these they give the title “emperors of the Romans”’.65 As a result of the schism, thirdly, lists of the Chalcedonian patriarchates were no longer continued. And this is assumed to have happened for two reasons, first because Arab rule spread to Syria and Egypt, regions in which our people and the Egyptians live, and they had neither the ability nor the need to inquire into the Chalcedonians, the opponents and persecutors. And second, because the Chalcedonians were extremely heretical and became increasingly so, as we have shown and will show again, and when the holy Fathers, the authors of our church, saw this … that they confess two Christs instead of one, they therefore turned completely away from them and studied their language and script just as little as before.66

Michael therefore had to confine himself more or less to what happened to have been passed on. As if this were not enough, the patriarch develops, as a by-product, so to speak, of his work on successions and genealogies, a diachronic succession of his sources: he accordingly distinguishes between the revealed or prophetic books of the Bible and the chronographers.67 From the latter 62 Michael, C 362 (II, 332). The chronicle of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrēs only starts after Cyrus, so that this remark must come from Michael. 63 Michael, C 362 (II, 332). 64 Appendix II, Michael, C 748-751 (III, 442-446), cf. below, chapter VII, 4. 65 Michael, C 239 (II, 122). 66 Michael, C 452-454 (II, 486-488). I would ascribe this remark to Michael as well, because he is clearly referring to his own account. 67 Michael, C 1 (I, 3).

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he differentiates the ‘old’ books, i.e. pre-Christian and late-classical texts,68 from which Eusebius and Julius Africanus are occasionally distinguished as ‘mediators’.69 It is only through these texts that any view of the pre-Christian era supplementary to the Bible is possible at all. And, finally, he distinguishes ‘our’ and other books, i.e. texts, which were written after 451. This diachronic division fades into the systematic differentiation mentioned earlier. Michael’s second problem was that the statements in these sources are contradictory. He therefore felt compelled to compare them with a degree of subtlety which, in its detail, is unusual for the historiographical works of his time, but which links up with Jacob of Edessa’s source research. Thus in the first five books he discusses almost every name in his succession of high priests. His concern here is not just to show the contradictions. Rather he tries to find a solution of his own, or at least appraise the quality of the statements. He consciously did not choose the easy way out, that is deciding in favour of a statement and then consistently following it. And this distinguishes him from the anonymous chronicler, for instance, who is content broadly to identify great confusion and inconsistency in the sources.70 This technique, which may now be called 68

Michael, C 41 (I, 73). Esp. in appendix II, Michael, C 748-751 (III, 442-446). 70 Thus Chronicle to the year 1234, CP I, 26-27 (17-18). But cf. as an example Michael’s meticulous source research on the succession of high priests: he quotes Holy Scripture 18 (I, 33); Holy Scripture 18 (I, 33); Holy Scripture 18 (I, 33); Holy Scripture 18 (I, 33) (different passages each time!); Holy Scripture 19 (I, 35); Pentateuch 26 (I, 46); LXX 26 (I, 46); he highlights the end of the maktbōnūtō of Moses; identifies the prophet 26 (I, 43) as source; names Jacob of Edessa 28 (I, 50) as source; Jacob of Edessa 28 (I, 50) again; Andronicus 28 (I, 50). Michael states that, among all other writers only these two authors — Andronicus and Jacob — portray the high priests; again these two authors 28 (I, 51), but differentiated, since Jacob reports 60 years for Abiu, 46 for Andronicus (both authors dated the successor’s period of office to the time of Deborah, but give him different names, reported by Michael) 29 (I, 51). Michael again highlights the existence of different dates in the sources, and the same problem with the successor, and discusses the dating and concludes with his own decision 29 (I, 52). Concerning the next successor Michael again detects different statements in Jacob of Edessa and Andronicus 29 (I, 52); likewise with the next 30 (I, 53), where Jacob and Andronicus at least agree on the name of the high priest and the sequence. Michael explains that because the topic of this column happens to be the priestly succession, great care in its composition is needed, and therefore these problems had be dealt with on the basis of the two sources mentioned. This is also done with the next two names in the hierarchy. Here John — of Litarba — is also used in the source discussion 30 (I, 54); a summary of the period concludes this segment 30 (I, 54). Michael continues the series and discusses the next position with Jacob of Edessa 35 (I, 59); again 36 (I, 60) according to Jacob, Andronicus and ‘another’ (Chabot, no. 11 suspects John of Litarba, this is not necessary); and again Jacob of Edessa 36 (I, 60). Michael remarks again that he edits the history of the high priests according to Jacob and Andronicus and observes that in this 69

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genuinely source-critical, dates from late Antiquity. The method distinguished authentic writings from pseudepigraphs, and implied the need for rational demonstrations to underpin the respective decisions. The technique was implemented, for example, in criticism of the Revelation of John.71 Eusebius, like Josephus before him, had used these techniques in historical writing too, as can be studied in his ecclesiastical history. And Michael takes his place in this scientific tradition. However, a significant shift can be observed. Eusebius’ textual discussion included more or less all sources. Michael systematically discusses only the sources up to and including the chronicle by Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē († 842). These were apparently generally approved in his tradition, and are also mentioned time and again in the commentaries and prefaces of other chronographers.72 But since the time of Dionysios treatment of the sources seems to have undergone a change. An examination of Michael’s references to sources will clarify the nature and cause of this shift. Michael’s references to sources are not evenly divided over the work. Books I to VI (up to the death of Constantine the Great) show just under 330 on 121 pages, i.e. 2.7 references per page;73 books VII through XII (up to the death of Theophilos or of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē in 845), some 200 on 323 pages, i.e. 0.6 references per page; books XIII through XVIII (up to 1166), just under 40 references on 184 pages, i.e. only way he has advanced up to here, concluding that the next high priests are known only by name but not as regards their period of office 36 (I, 61). This is followed by a comparison of Eusebius, John (of Litarba?), and Jacob of Edessa, whose difference compared with Andronicus Michael highlights 37 (I, 64). Michael observes once again that it is important for his account of the succession to collect these names without lacunae. He remarks magnanimously that historians had tried their hardest to identify the differently spelled names, but had not succeeded in consistently computing their periods of office: each had ordered them according to their own lights, wherefore Andronicus arrived at the result quoted by Michael 38 (I, 65), and compared against John 38 (I, 66), Eusebius 38 (I, 66), Jacob of Edessa 39 (I, 66). The next name in the succession Michael compares again with Jacob 39 (I, 66), and Andronicus 39 (I, 66). He mentions a chronological problem already addressed before, and compares Andronicus 39 (I, 67), Epiphanius 39 (I, 67), Jacob 40 (I, 67), Andronicus 40 (I, 67), John (noting that he relies on Eusebius) 40 (I, 68), Jacob 41 (I, 68), again Andronicus 41 (I, 73), etc. Cf. also the determination of the year of the Passion according to the world calendar Anno Mundi, Michael, C 90 (I, 142). 71 Naturally this debate is also mentioned in Eusebius’ ecclesiastical history. cf. Eusebius, HE VII, 25. 72 Cf. the prefaces of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē Michael, C 378 (II, 357-358), Ignatius of Melitene 546-547 (II, 114-116), Dionysios bar Ṣalībī 626 (III, 257). 73 The count does not include quotations from the Bible and the Fathers in cited documents and literary references, because both (particularly the former) would distort the picture.

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0.2 per page; and, finally, the 44 pages of books XIX-XXI yield merely a handful.74 In assessing these numbers we need to bear in mind that Michael depended on the accuracy of his predecessors. But whereas one would expect the references to become more detailed and precise as the account approaches his own time, we find quite the contrary to be true. At the same time there is a second class of references, the unspecified quotations, which leave the witness anonymous, although his name is known to Michael or his sources. These include diverse ‘Arabic books’,75 ‘the Chalcedonians’,76 an ‘Armenian work’,77 or even totally unspecified allusions without any reference to origin.78 In the entire chronicle these stand to the specified quotations in the proportion of roughly 1 to 10. Besides these unspecified quotations, we should mention an important third class of references — the class of absent references.79 These have not hitherto been discussed in the source criticism, although, or perhaps because, they rather confuse our picture of Michael’s source research. There can be no doubt that the patriarch used a host of texts and excerpts for his chronicle which he did not specifically name. We have already seen that he emphasized limits in his corpus of sources; nevertheless, he constantly tried to extend these limits! Hence even in the more thoroughly studied sections of the chronicle not all the sources are known. For his commentary on books XIV through XXI Chabot eventually resorted more or less to speculation, because in the end the source references dry up completely. It is natural to assume that here too Michael must have had written reports on events in Jerusalem, Baghdad, Byzantium and Antioch. At the same time, as we saw in previous chapters, here too he worked as systematically as possible to prevent any of his successions from being broken off. But he never mentions the sources of his knowledge. And he rarely bothers to remark that he himself has observed

74 Cf. the excerpt from a letter of Qilij Arslān II to Michael: Michael, C 728 (III, 394-395). 75 Michael, C 548 (III, 117); 579 (III, 170). This is a later gloss, but because it is integrated in the early modern text, it cannot come from one of the later readers. Nevertheless the attribution is uncertain, 603 (III, 214), 427 (II, 440). 76 Michael, C 545 (III, 114). 77 Michael, C 770 (III, 505); 774 (III, 515). 78 Michael, C 545 (III, 112). 79 Cf. the analyses of Thomson: 1987; 1989 on Vardan, C, whose system introducing the class of absent references is in my view very useful. Thomson has the advantage of being able to establish very precisely the source-critical relevance of absent references in a small chronicle, because the ‘suppressed’ sources can also be determined. This is not possible here.

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an event or heard of it.80 Michael’s historical argumentation differs primarily from other forms discussed above in that it appeals almost exclusively to written sources. This does not mean that Michael did not note down information based on ear- and eye-witness accounts. But the identity of these witnesses were not systematically recorded. The advantage of quoting from written testimonies — quite apart from their straightforward utility — is obvious: in a controversy references offer a solid foundation which the opponent cannot easily undermine. Once again this feature probably continues from the late antique tradition of interdenominational and interreligious polemics. Eusebius, for instance, refers in his preface only to the fragments of written memories.81 On the other hand, the validation of the account as presented by the Venerable Bede (672/3-735) in the preface of his ecclesiastical history takes a different line: At uero in prouincia Lindissi, quae sint gesta erga fidem Christi, quaeue successio sacerdotalis extiterit, uel litteris reuerentissimi antistitis Cynibercti vel aliorum fidelium uirorum uiua uoce didicimus. Quae autem in Nordanhymbrorum prouincia, ex quo tempore fidem Christi perceperunt usque ad praesens, per diuersas regiones in ecclesia sint acta, non uno quolibet auctore, sed fideli innumerorum testium, qui haec scire uel meminisse poterant, adsertione cognoui, exceptis his, quae per me ipsum nosse poteram.82

Judging by what we know about Michael’s preface, such statements would be out of the question for him as well as for Eusebius. But there had been further changes since Eusebius’ time which seem to have rendered it advisable not even always to mention the written sources by name: after the Muslim conquest this appears to have applied systematically to all the books of ‘other peoples’, which were widely read but no longer attested. Here we also see a gradual disappearance of precise, verbatim quotations and their markings (Michael’s ‘quotation marks’). This process had already clearly started in the chronicle of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē. The reason for this emerges from a gloss in Michael’s chronicle, in which a reader expresses his indignation that the text describes the Council of Chalcedon as ‘orthodox’. The reader has 80 Besides the places mentioned above, cf. Michael, C 636 (III, 274), 652 (III, 303), 655 (III, 307), 695 (III, 338), 718 (III, 376). As we noted, he must have personally got to know the Templars at the attack on Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. He does not say so: Michael, C 643644 (III, 285-288). 81 Eusebius, HE I, i. 82 Bede, HE Praef. 6.

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not looked closely enough — the text in question is a carefully introduced excerpt from the conciliar acts and the term therefore comes from the source.83 But it is perhaps precisely the danger of such misunderstandings which makes it necessary to mar in some degree the scholarly façade of the work by suppressing explicit citations and references. Moreover, it is surely not the same for Michael openly to quote the words of a holy man like Patriarch Dionysios as against those of a Muslim or a Chalcedonian historian. Even in cases where Michael cites verbatim from an Arabic source, he withholds the author’s name.84 In my view, we can sensibly assume that Michael treats such texts critically too. Indeed, he must take even greater care because of the mistrust he is obliged to show to the writings of ‘the others’ on historical and religious grounds. However, where approved authorities are lacking, writers like Jacob of Edessa, Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, Michael, the anonymous chronicler and Bar ʻEbrōyō are not content, as Byzantine chronographers from the 7th century onwards generally are, to limit themselves to the narrow horizon which this situation appears to impose.85 Certainly that is one of the most remarkable features of this historiography. In Michael’s chronicle we can therefore distinguish three parts, in each of which the sources are treated differently. He could apply textual criticism and textual comparison to the approved corpus up to 862. This material may have been present in Melitene and Mōr Bar Ṣawmō; some of it he will have obtained himself. Occasionally this material was supplemented with other information whose origin is now very difficult to pinpoint.86 For the period up to the mid-twelfth century, of which Michael himself says that the available Syriac Orthodox sources are very sparse, he was already compelled to find the largest part of his material himself. So far nobody knows what this material was and where and how it could be found. Only part of it could still have come from Syriac Orthodox libraries. At this critical juncture Michael even broadens his horizon by systematically including, from the end of the 11th century, the Turkish 83

Michael, C 316 (II, 255). Michael, C 603 (II, 213). 85 On the narrowing of the Byzantine horizon, cf. Mango: 1988/1989. Mango saw it mainly as a constriction of the mental horizon. 86 On the limits, cf. e.g. Lilie et al.: 1998ff, Prolegomena 221-223. Note that the comparatively sketchy account of the 9th and 10th centuries cannot be put down to mainly corrupt text, but resulted from the condition of Michael’s sources, cf. Lilie et al.: 1998ff, Prolegomena 223. 84

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sultans of Khorasan and Ikonion and later the Latin kings, in addition to the Byzantine emperors and caliphs. Finally, in his own time he needed to conduct journalistic rather than chronographical research in order to fill the broad horizon of his work. His labour here probably resembles the way that Bede acquired sources, with the difference that Michael was constantly forced to cross cultural, linguistic and religious borders. 4. CRITERIA

OF THE SELECTION OF SOURCES AND EXCERPTS

—

A METHODOLOGICAL PROBLEM

Michael, of course, can only have drawn on a finite set of sources. But we will never be able to determine precisely what this set looked like. Two theories are therefore hard to prove: either that Michael used everything he could get hold of, or that he did not. But what were the patriarch’s criteria in selecting his excerpts? By which methodological means can we establish these criteria? The author’s statements are of little help here. As a rule he merely says that the relevant excerpt was useful for his purposes, or sufficient to represent the facts of the case. This does not yield more comprehensive criteria. Jan van Ginkel compared the third part of John of Asia’s ecclesiastical history with Michael’s text. He was able to show that Michael shortened John’s text by more than two thirds, leaving out the passages he had no interest in touching 600 years later. According to Ginkel, these include the tritheism dispute and the missed opportunities of reconciliation with the supporters of the Council of Chalcedon. Michael’s account also differs fundamentally from John’s in its new arrangement and its abridgements, as well as in style — shorter sentences, a less associative account. That is why van Ginkel was the first to contradict the view, prevalent since Chabot, that Michael’s excerpts had the status of primary sources. Up till then Michael’s chronicle had seemed to offer the best way to restore the lost, older texts. Van Ginkel dismissed this possibility for the first two parts of John of Asia’s ecclesiastical history. According to him, this history is irretrievably lost, though used by several chronographers.87

87 Van Ginkel: 1995, 46-68; 1998, 357-358: ‘Therefore I would strongly argue against attempts to ‘reconstruct’ sources on the basis of these fragments ….’ Perhaps this scepticism should not be taken too far.

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However, for this very reason such a procedure soon comes up against limits. Only for the smallest part of the chronicle can a comparison between Michael and his sources be carried through consistently and with evidential value. In the end the largest part is no longer verifiable, being limited by the secondary and tertiary mediation of the sources and the loss of the early chronicles. It is true that this method can be combined with a second element, which has been successfully tested for shorter passages: the comparison with other chronicles which used the same sources. But apart from the fact that such a comparison would be a huge task, even for a team, the limits of what can be encompassed are ultimately the same — indeed, the uncertainties increase vastly in that the criteria operative in these chronicles have by no means been established. Let us be frank: source criticism cannot restore the intellectual foundations of this historiography. The work is not based on one definite text or even a traditional corpus of texts. Rather the writer obtained his sources by intercultural exchange, by research, by letter, by word of mouth, and by excerpts. He composed the text across several stages of revision and reflection. The evidential value of source-critical studies for the understanding of historiographical works seems, in any case, significantly overrated. An incalculable number of variables have to be taken into account for any individual note or piece of information: one note may have attracted interest for psychological, another for poetic, still others for methodological, typological or exegetical reasons. Many others were probably included because the source was highly approved and could therefore on no account be missed. Another may have been so well known as to require no further discussion.88 The motives for selecting each individual piece of information cannot be ascertained in this way. But in any case, even were it possible to establish the detail of such minute decisions, we should not thereby be brought much closer to Michael’s larger purposes. The text-critical method is therefore of limited use for the present inquiry, which aims rather to sketch rough outlines for the (re)construction of Michael’s historical thought, even though proceeding without further source analysis might entail risks. Yet the findings so far are useful: if we don’t want to be hypercritical and invent several stages of phantom anthologies, we can take two things as proven. First, Michael definitely selected from his material for his 88 Michael says very little about Jesus’ life and death, but certainly not because it was not important to him: Michael, C 90-91 (I, 142-146).

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account of the 6th and 7th centuries. Second, this proposition can be extended to the entire work, since, as we have seen, Michael wove into his chronicle many methodological comments which demonstrate conscious selection, abridgement and presentation. In order to get to know the main emphases and objective of his work, however, a somewhat different line of approach has been adopted in the present study. Having first explored the tradition and typical features of the genre and the biographical circumstances that help to explain Michael’s broad field of vision, we now need to consolidate our observations on the form of the account. 5. INTERIM FINDINGS Like Eusebius in his ecclesiastical history, Michael constantly addresses technical asides to the reader, outlining what he proposes to do now or what he has just done. At the same time he comments on the substance of the events he describes. We encountered some of his summaries and comments when discussing his account of the 12th century. As regards the chronicle’s linguistic form, it is clear that, in combination with the highly detailed discussion of (approved) sources, Michael consciously decided not to write a ‘smooth’ narrative text. Given the cuts to be made, Michael preferred, with the same single-mindedness and in the same scholarly tradition as Eusebius, to expose the individual building blocks of his text instead of filling in his ‘spolia’ with narrative cement. But let us hold on to Michael’s own metaphor: this chronicle is a tapestry whose several threads are clearly visible. It is in fact meant to show them, and it also reveals the origin of the individual strands, differentcoloured, of unequal width and pulled from different kinds of cloth. With surprising intensity, Michael was concerned with the practice of historical writing. The practice led him to reflections on the diverse functions of source texts — computations of time on the one hand, and memoriae/‘uhdōnē on the other — on the historical background of their existence or non-existence, and on their diachronic sequence and periodization as well as their interrelationship. He was attentive to all the different components of historical writing, which he consciously folded into each other — ‘interwove’. But he also reflected on the distinctive character of bygone worlds and periods of time and historical change, thus leading to methods of thought that may, without the danger of anachronism, be called historical philosophy.

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Michael’s reflective approach to historical writing is exemplified in his habit of interspersing the text with hypertextual or, to put it more prosaically, bibliographical references. The books thus assembled around the chronicle transcend the limits of his account, pointing beyond themselves to new levels: But anyone who wants to know down to the last detail what effort, sweat, wondrous deeds and great miracles brought about their [the Christians of Asia] conversion, he should read the book of the saint which he wrote about their conversion. And therefore he was called Mōr John of Asia and described as ‘missionary of the heathens’. Moreover, he wrote very precisely and in great detail about all the events in his time between the kings of the earth and in the churches [pl. sic!].89

The environment of the chronicle is a world in which the reader, striding through the volume, repeatedly turns aside to pursue threads of thought in the library for which there was no room in the work itself. Scholars have hitherto taken it for granted that compilation and cohesive presentation are mutually exclusive. Andrew Palmer, for instance, called Michael’s chronicle ‘a compilation rather than a coherent whole’.90 But this contrast is not appropriate to Michael’s work. Quotation, demonstration and argumentation are fundamental functions of his historical writing. These techniques serve to substantiate his truthfulness, and thus to guarantee both the intersubjective persuasiveness of his account, and the didactic guidance received by the reader. In the 20th century the historical discipline debated whether a narrative or a discursive historiography is more scientifically precise.91 It is not going too far to maintain that Michael, within the compass of his possibilities, wrote discursively. He did so even though a narrative historiography without source references is technically much less laborious. The other great chroniclers preferred the latter mode for a good reason. Flowing and uninterrupted historical prose may also be better literature — but historiography is not literature. Its elements can be more clearly discerned here than is possible today. Narration is not the only means of organizing language, and it is only one of the means of organizing historical writing.92

89 Michael, C 288 (II, 207-208). See e.g. also the reference to an astrological problem 450-451 (II, 480), to the great book about Providence by Dionysios bar Ṣalībī 634 (III, 269), to Michael’s own works 699 (III, 345). 90 Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 32. 91 Kocka: 1989. 92 Droysen: 1977, 445-450.

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We may further state that the patriarch is not only speaking in his commentaries but also in his excerpts and quotations. In other words, his text is not inauthentic or anonymized merely because he does not use his own words. As his own statements affirm, quotations formed a necessary modus of his writing through which he nonetheless expressed his own mind. Commenting on his account of the end of the first century CE, Michael noted: And that is why the empire of the Romans alone was victorious. In this time there were small kingdoms in remote regions, to which we referred above through that scholium of Jacob of Edessa, but because in Gaul, Syria and Egypt only one kingdom, that of the Romans, was powerful and because no other kingdom was equal to it in the whole world, the chroniclers arranged the yūbōlē da-šnayō/series annorum according to this one only — but anybody who for the love of teaching wants to know the yūbōlē of these small kingdoms that existed at the time will find there in this scholium how each one started, how it ended and how many and which kings ruled in them.93

93

Michael, C 102 (I, 168), cf. 82 (I, 126), 76-77 (I, 118-122), my emphasis.

CHAPTER V

‘CHRONOGRAPHIC’: GRAPHIC ASPECTS OF MICHAEL’S HISTORICAL METHOD 1. CHABOT’S

COPY

Michael’s chronicle has a graphic dimension, consisting of a systematic arrangement of text on the page, and the keying of this text to a chronological table. As Chabot recognized, the layout was already abandoned by the Arabic translator on account of its complexity.1 This graphic dimension has not been studied hitherto. The analysis is hindered by a well-known but generally unheeded fact: we only have Michael’s chronicle in the copy of a copy. Chabot’s stemma has remained unchanged during the last 70 years. The basis of Chabot’s edition is the copy of a lacunose text from a 16th-century manuscript. According to Chabot, this late copy also became the source of an early Arabic translation, which became the Vorlage for other Arabic versions.2 Bar ʻEbrōyō does not comment on the graphic form of Michael’s chronicle, and he himself organized the text in entirely his own way. This is also true of the Arabic translations. Thus neither Bar ‘Ebrōyō’s chronicle nor the Arabic translations qualify as sources for the reconstruction.

1

Chabot: 1924, xxiv. Chabot: 1924, xlviii. Seven Arabic manuscripts were known to Chabot. The two oldest are from the 18th century, the others from the 19th century. Chabot: 1924, xliii-l. Two of them reached Europe. Margoliouth: 1899 on London BM Or. 4402: Karshuni, paper, dated to 1846, 422 fol. Cf. Meissner: 1894, who published unique material from Ms. London BM Or. 4402, a Syriac list of patriarchs, which was added to this version. Meissner does not state anything further about the manuscript. Ms. Rome, Bib.Vat. arab. 929. Cf. Nau: 1905, 436: this version seems to have been produced by Rahmani, which Chabot does not mention. Finally, in 1996 in Aleppo a modern Arabic translation was published, which is based on the same copy. To my knowledge, apart from the Jerusalem copy, the manuscripts remaining in the Orient have not been described; see Baumstark: 1913 (no. 35). The Jerusalem copy resides in the Syriac Orthodox St. Mark monastery, and is dated to 1899, Karshuni, written in Serṭō, lacunose, chronicle fol. 2v-361r (compared with the length of the Syriac version this must actually be an excerpt), followed by lists and a modern continuation with ‘increasingly numerous historical notes’! As far as I know, these have not been published. 2

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Some details of the following analysis will be hard to verify. Yet it is necessary. If we do not understand the relationship between the lost original and Chabot’s copy, we cannot assess Michael’s formal intentions either. Chabot knew this and decided in favour of his copy: ‘Cependant, elle [the arrangement] doit se rapprocher de la disposition primitive dans laquelle Michel s’était efforcé de mettre son texte en correspondance avec les tableaux chronologiques, tout au moins dans les six premiers livres de la Chronique.’3 He could not prove this claim.

a) Chabot’s copy and facsimile Jean-Bapiste Chabot had his copy made by Syriac Orthodox priests in Edessa between 1897 and 1899. It is now in Louvain.4 What reasons, one might ask, did Chabot have for publishing the manuscript in facsimile, instead of typesetting the text? To typeset texts for editions was the usual practice, which he himself followed in other cases. A facsimile edition is an expensive business. The costs seem to have dissuaded the Société Asiatique from further participation in the project.5 Chabot himself indicated his motivation. His 1899 publication notice shows that at this time he was still convinced that there was something special about the visual structure of the work.6 His edition is thus a rare stroke of luck in publishing practice. The facsimile edition is only a little less legible than the manuscript exemplar.7 As Chabot explained in Mes chroniques, this copy was secretly made by someone who would suffer severe consequences if his betrayal were discovered.8 Errors of haste are therefore to be expected; and Keseling and Erwand Ter-Minassiantz have in fact found orthographic mistakes. But they, like Chabot himself for that matter, had no opportunity to compare Chabot’s copy with the Vorlage.9 In Mes chroniques Chabot maintained that his copy was supervised and corrected by Abdallah, who was supposed above all to safeguard documentary accuracy. Yet there are no 3

Chabot: 1924, xli. Ms. Louvain, CSCO syr. 09, cf. de Halleux: 1987, no. 9. 5 Cf. Nau: 1905. 6 Chabot: 1899, 483: ‘La plupart des chapitres de la Chronique sont partagés en trois colonnes … — Il nous a paru fort utile, pour ne pas dire indispensable, de garder cette disposition du texte dans notre édition.’ 7 De Halleux: 1987, 40. 8 Chabot: 1947. 9 Ter-Minassiantz: 1904, 178-197; Keseling: 1927, 237. 4

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correction marks by a different scribe.10 Chabot, of course, knew this. Could he be confident that Abdallah had simply found no mistakes? In his commentary Chabot nevertheless tended to ascribe most mistakes to the original, because he could not check the quality of his copy, but for obvious reasons did not want to see it called into question. Chabot started to harbour doubts while comparing his copy with the Arabic versions, if not before. The version which Chabot used to collate the Syriac text, referred to in his commentary as the ‘version arabe’, is London, BM, Ms. Or. 4402.11 He recognized that the lacunae in his copy and those in the Arabic translation do not correspond exactly. Moreover, in one place London, BM, Ms. Or. 4402 has the text of a heading lacking in Chabot’s copy.12 On at least two other occasions the Arabic version contains information which is absent in Chabot’s copy. These features do not undermine Chabot’s proposition that the Arabic translation goes back to the same early modern Vorlage, but they do call into question the reliability of his copy. Since, meanwhile, he himself could not be certain about the assumed 16th-century examplar, it seems that he decided to try and conceal the problem.13 For these doubts may explain why the layout of his translation does not imitate the Syriac version, though Chabot did not raise this problem again in his introduction. Rather the layout imitates the Arabic translation, as if he now held after all that it was the superior witness.14

b) The model for Chabot’s copy: Michael bar Barṣawmō Chabot’s copyists used a copy which in his time was held in the Syriac Orthodox Church of St. Peter and Paul in Edessa. Since 1924 it is kept in the Syriac Orthodox community of the Edessians, St. George, in Aleppo. The glosses in the copy itself essentially provide the sources for 10 The copyist corrected himself and guides the reader by means of annotation glyphs if he forgot a line and attached it elsewhere. Compare also the correction mark: Michael, C 370 (II, 345). 11 Cf. Chabot: 1924, xlvii. 12 Michael, C 706 (III, 355). 13 At one point, for instance, he writes helplessly: ‘Nous fixons le commencement du livre à l’année 1478, d’après la clausule de la version arabe …, bien que nous ignorions sur quelle donnée l’auteur de cette version s’appuie pour en déterminer l’étendue.’ Chabot, commentary on Michael, C III, 328, cf. III, 355; III, 494, no. 19. 14 Cf. the colophon of London, BM, Ms. Or. 4402 in Chabot: 1924, xlv-xlvi. Margoliouth: 1899 gave no detailed description.

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its provenance.15 They show that the manuscript was originally in the possession of the Mōr Abḥay monastery in Gargar. In the year 1598 the work was completed by a monk called Michael bar Barṣawmō from ‘Urbiš. This coincidence makes it necessary to differentiate between glosses of the copyist Michael and those of the author Michael, which is not always possible. Michael bar Barṣawmō is known as a copyist from other works too. Though he did not become a famous calligrapher, he was highly ambitious in this field: a miniscule, seven-centimetre-high Gospel in his hand has survived.16 It is not known when exactly — after private ownership and a temporary stay in the Mōr Ḥanōnyō monastery near Mardin — Michael’s copy reached Edessa. The terminus post quem is 1810.17 In 1826 and 1849 two high-ranking Syriac Orthodox clerics added glosses to the manuscript. Incidentally, this takes the shine off Rahmani’s ‘discovery’. Fortunately Mōr Gregorius Yuhanna Ibrahim of Aleppo and George Kiraz published a very welcome facsimile of Michael bar Barṣawmō’s copy in the year 2009.18 At present (2015), during the civil war in Syria, the library of Aleppo is under great threat. For the inititial analysis in 1999 I used a microfilm of the Aleppo manuscript provided by Sebastian Brock. After examining the film, Sebastian Brock concluded that the 16th-century manuscript would not afford sensational new insights. He attaches no significance to the orthographic errors.19 After comparing the layout as well as the column and page break in both film and facsimile, I agree with Brock. Chabot’s assurance that his exemplar was a documentary copy can therefore be confirmed today, with minor reservations. The differences in make-up are confined to occasional displacement of the last or first lines.20 The lacunae — except for the errors already noticed by Chabot — are faithfully reproduced. From time to time glosses are ignored, but 15

For a description of the copy and for its provenance, cf. Chabot: 1924, xxxvii-xliii. Damascus, Syriac Orthodox Patriarchate, 12/10, dated to 1597, Dōlabanī et al.: 1994, 605: ‘Petit Évangile. Relié d’argent. Copié par Mīḫā’īl de ‘Ūrbīš bar Barṣawm en 1908 des Grecs, 1597 A.D. (Belle) écriture de Gargar sur…? Format: 7×5. Pages: 369.’ Cf. also Damascus, Syriac Orthodox Patriarchate, 5/28, dated to 1588, Dōlabanī et al.: 1994, 579, of which no details are given. H. Kaufhold kindly informs me: ‘Beautiful handwriting does not go to the heart of the matter. Rather it is special handwriting, namely Gargarian (which was used for very small manuscripts, there is no further lit. to my knowledge). The translators and editor of the catalogue were apparently unable to read all the Syriac text of the description by Dam 12/10.’ 17 Chabot: 1924, xxxix. The gloss in question was not included by Chabot’s copyists. 18 Michael, C (Edessa-Aleppo Codex). 19 Communication from S. Brock. 20 56r; 133v; 137v; 170r; 177r; 185r; 187v; 188v; 191r,v; 193r; 200r; 271r; 388r etc. 16

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often these merely contain a request for the reader’s intercession. The 19th-century annotations were not copied either. Chabot supplied these readers’ remarks and some longer glosses in his introduction. In doing so he seems to have enlisted the help of the Syriac Orthodox scholar Aphrem Barṣawm, the later patriarch Ignatius Aphrem I Barṣawm (1887-1957).21 Michael bar Barṣawmō’s copy differs from Chabot’s copy only in handwriting and presentation. Instead of the red ink which Michael bar Barṣawmō used for the headings, Chabot’s copy set a black line over them. Unlike the extremely neat execution of Michael’s copy, the arrangement of its text, in his professional book hand, always being aimed at symmetry and clarity, Chabot’s copy has uneven, ragged margins. The handwriting is an ordinary, everyday cursive. And Chabot’s copyist has sometimes corrected himself in such a way that the result is all but illegible. All in all, Michael’s manuscript therefore has a much more pleasant appearance and is considerably easier to read. This difference is important. With Chabot’s graceless edition in hand, it is hard to imagine that the autograph should have been much more elegant.22 Michael bar Barṣawmō’s copy contradicts this view. Despite the reservations already mentioned, Chabot’s copy is a reliable witness. Today, however, the basis of the analysis must be the facsimile of the copy of Michael bar Barṣawmō and not Chabot’s. c) The model for Michael bar Barṣawmō: Moses of Mardin Michael bar Barṣawmō identified the scribe of his Vorlage. Unfortunately it was not the author himself. The manuscript which Michael used for his copy came from a certain Moses from Ṣawrō near Mardin.23 Today — as Chabot had already surmised24 — he can be identified with Bishop Moses of Mardin. 21 Chabot: 1924, xxxvii-xl, cf. xxxix, no. 4. In 1913 he added a remark of his own to those of the readers. Chabot’s collaboration with Aphrem Barṣaum goes back to Aphrem’s time as a monk and therefore to the turn of the 20th century. It ended under similar circumstances to his contact with Ignatius II Rahmani. On Ignatius Aphrem I Barṣaum, cf. Strothmann: 1952; Macuch: 1976, 441-445; see Barṣaum: 2015. 22 From the perspective of European medieval studies it may seem strange to talk here constantly, and as a matter of course, about an ‘autograph’, instead of assuming a commissioned copy made by a professional scribe. Yet there is no reason to doubt that Michael the Great wrote his work himself, especially because he was known as a professional scribe, as can be seen above, chapter IV. 12. 23 Michael, C 295 (II, 221). 24 Chabot: 1924, xxxix.

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Unlike Michael bar Barṣawmō, this copyist is well known in Europe. Indeed, he is a key figure in relation to early Syriac studies. In the 16th century Moses of Mardin travelled through Europe and was a driving force behind the first printed version of the Syriac New Testament.25 He was also in close contact with some European scholars and taught them Syriac.26 A hundred years later he was apparently still so celebrated that a short biography, commentaries on his work, and part of his correspondence with the humanist scholar Andreas Masius were published in Berlin.27 Moses probably wrote his copy after his travels, since otherwise the existence of Michael’s chronicle would very probably have become known to his European interlocutors. Chabot named 1560 as the terminus post quem; Kaufhold put it at 1578.28 This suggests that towards the end of the 16th century there were at least two copies of Michael’s chronicle. But the trail of the original and of Moses’ copy subsequently goes cold.29 Nothing is known about Moses’ relation to Michael’s work or his reasons for copying it. Moses was not a professional scribe, and therefore must have taken on the labour more out of scholarly or antiquarian interests. One possible motive may be suggested without too much speculation: the autograph was in a sorry state. Since entire quires are missing, it seems probable that the binding was broken and the codex a fragile collection of loose leaves. The remaining text was partly corrupt, probably due to decay or fire damage. Moses thus saved Michael’s chronicle from destruction. Moses’s responsible treatment of the autograph is to be expected from an educated and personally interested man like him. But the text as he had it in front of his eyes could not be simply copied.

25 In 1555, 500 copies were printed, cf. Strothmann: 1971, 13. One copy is held in Munich, BStB, Cod. syr. 1, cf. the photographs in Blum: 1983, 75-76. 26 Cf. e.g. Levi Della Vida: 1939, 205-213; Strothmann: 1971, 11-15. 27 Cf. Müller-Greiffenhagen: 1673. 28 Kaufhold: 1986, 207-208. 29 Moses’s origin points to the Ṭur ‘Abdīn. One may recall that the oldest known Arabic translation was written in the Mōr Ḥanōnyō monastery, cf. Chabot: 1924, xlvi. After the plunder of his monastery Mōr Abḥay, the version by Michael bar Barṣawm was also given (!) to the Mōr Ḥanōnyō monastery and the ownership restored only later. All this points to Mōr Ḥanōnyō as the place where either Moses’ version or the autograph was kept, or both.

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2. GRAPHIC ELEMENTS a) Structure, text block, glosses Chabot’s introduction and his commentary give detailed information about the textual lacunae, which need not be repeated here. But some observations may be added. The preface and the beginning of the chronicle have been lost. Chabot believed that this loss cannot amount to more than a page, since the foliation starts with  (= 1).30 But, as he himself showed, the work’s page layout cannot possibly have corresponded to the autograph,31 which means that he overestimated the significance of the early modern foliation. Apart from that, there is no proof that Michael’s chronicle was foliated in the original.32 The length of the preface should not be judged by the Armenian version either, since the Armenian writer evidently paraphrased and partly shortened the text uncomprehendingly.33 Entire pages are left blank. Chabot assumed that a page indicates the loss of an entire leaf. Obviously this too is just a conjecture.34 In general he observed that, as compared with the original, the copyists must have strongly economized on space.35 It would follow that the original was more loosely laid out, or written in a larger hand, or perhaps that it was simply a larger book.

30

Chabot: 1924, xl. Chabot: 1924, xli. 32 The sequence of quires or leaves was by no means always indicated, cf. Sachau: 1889, xii. 33 On the Armenian adaptations, which declare themselves to be translations of the Syriac text, see above, chapter III. Cf. the Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 17-21 with the Vardan-ʻĪšō version for Michael, C I, 1-2 (translation Parisot). Vardan-ʻĪšōʻ version, Cv (Langlois), 19: ‘… Saint Jacques d’Édesse, qui résuma tous les précédents historiens; Denys le diacre, qui raconte les événements survenus depuis Maurice jusqu’à l’empereur byzantin Théophile et jusqu’au règne de Haroun, khalife des Arabes, Ignace, évêque de Mélitène, Slivéa, prêtre de la même ville [?!], Jean de Kessoun et Denys d’Alexandrie [sic!], fils de Saliba, qui composèrent des résumés historiques depuis Adam jusqu’au temps où ils vécurent …’ The hodge-podge of Ṣalībī, Dionysios, priest, deacon and patriarch is just as mixed and varied as the size of the historical works themselves. Also, the phantom ‘Guryō’ finds his way from here into the scholarly debate, where his relation to Cyrus of Batnae is still being discussed. Cf. Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 213, where the older literature can also be found. 34 Chabot: 1924, xl. On the size of the lacuna, see also Chabot’s note on Michael, C I, 36, no. 6, on the sequential errors, i.e. the chapter misnumbering, Chabot: 1924, xl. 35 Chabot: 1924, xli. 31

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No text follows the heading of the 10th chapter of the third book. The section contains only the familiar closing words instead.36 The lacuna clearly disturbs the structure here. The heading is redundant at this place; the scribe, as proves repeatedly to be the case, did not know what to do with it.37 In the same way, the visually well-marked announcement of a new source on page 180 appears several pages too late.38 In the first books the original was only preserved in loose fragments, as can be seen clearly in Chabot’s edition. This fact explains the obscure structure in this section. In book VIII and subsequently there is once again great confusion in the division of chapters. The numbering makes no discernible sense; the relation of main chapters to subsections is unclear. Perhaps headings have completely dropped out. This would explain why numbering is increasingly absent and is abandoned altogether towards the end of the chronicle. We can now understand why — over and above the linguistic techniques mentioned — the text of Michael’s chronicle also seems incoherent. Sometimes Moses simply had nothing to guide himself by. On page 560 left, for instance, there is a text fragment in a frame. The copyist states that it was loosely inserted at this place, ‘and I did not know where it belongs, since its beginning is also torn off.’39 He was also flummoxed by the fifth appendix, in which the text division is again extremely obscure: ‘And there are also other things arranged in this report, but I cannot copy them, because they are torn off at the beginning and the end.’40 Individual passages may also have been lost in the process of copying. Chabot’s copyist, for instance, forgot lines which he then had to insert later.41 He makes this mistake very often. The other two copyists might easily have done likewise. In addition, we can prove here that the copyists meddled with the wording of certain passages. Thus Moses of Mardin did not copy verbatim a lengthy scholium of Michael, which will occupy us further below, but only paraphrased it. Here we are interested in the conclusion: 36 Chabot comments cautiously on this further numbering error: ‘Les chiffres donnés ici sont en désaccord avec le titre de ce Livre.’ Note on Michael, C I, 48, no. 2, cf. the heading of the first chapter. The copyists’ inability to render correctly the already corrupt text is apparently so evident even to Chabot that he does not attribute the mistake to the author, which he otherwise tends to do. 37 Again the heading Michael, C 16 (I, 85) is not followed by a corresponding text etc. 38 Michael, C 180 (II, 28). Cf. the preceding pages. 39 Michael, C 560 (III, 145). 40 Michael, C 774 (III, 517). 41 E.g. Michael, C 69.

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… and because the three authors — Zacharias Rhetor, Cyrus of Batnae and John of Asia, that is, the Bishop of Ephesus — advanced their chronicles to this time and ended their books here, for their path had come to an end and they departed from this world, the deceased Patriarch Mōr Michael put this commentary here. He showed that the river of his chronicle was filled with ancient authors and also with mediators.42

Moses says that there was once a commentary by Michael here; unfortunately he did not copy it word for word. A second example:43 Michael has just been speaking about himself in the first person. The copyist then breaks off the paragraph and paraphrases the rest: Know therefore, everyone who comes upon this, that where the blessed Mōr Jacob ended his account of the computation [i.e. the chronography], that is, in the year 1021 of the Greeks, Patriarch Michael started to write from this year and to show the computation of the years, that is, from the year 1022 to the year 1506, in which this [i.e. the scholium] was written down, altogether 484 years.44

The copyist dates Michael’s scholium to 1506/1195. This means that the writer commented on his work in a second phase. It is important to know that these scholia were therefore probably inserted in the margin or in open spaces. In addition, glosses may have been entirely ignored by the copyists: it is clear that less solicitude is shown for these passages than for others. The copyist of Ms. London BM Or. 4402, too, decided midsentence not to copy the colophon. Instead he merely paraphrased it.45 In the course of his translation Chabot constantly stresses that somebody must have changed the text of the chronicle.46 This assumption is supported by an external witness. Reconstructing the chronicle by Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, Abramowski remarked: ‘Bar ʻEbrōyō can only be used to verify Michael, not independently. But then he does yeoman service.’47 Because Bar ʻEbrōyō’s Sondergut does not come from his own reading of Dionysios, it must derive from Michael’s chronicle.48 42

Michael, C 377 (II, 356-357), my emphasis. Michael, C 450 (II, 483). 44 Cf. Chabot’s note on Michael, C II, 483, no. 4. 45 Text in Chabot: 1924, xlv-xlvi. I confirm his claim that the erasures in the sentence already begun are clearly recognizable. The blackened text is illegible. 46 Cf. Chabot’s note on Michael, C I, 241, no. 1. 47 Abramowski: 1940, 19, tr. AR. 48 Abramowski: 1940, 19, cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 129 (Budge 119) with Michael, C 484 (III, 9), and also Chabot’s note on Michael, C III, 9, no. 5, who again supplements the translation with the help of Bar ʻEbrōyō, and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 363-364 etc. 43

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Since these passages usually offer source identification, they probably are part of the original glosses lost in the copies. When Bar ʻEbrōyō quotes Michael, we can often observe verbatim correspondence; a comparison with the anonymous chronicle likewise shows an exact correspondence where it shares the same source with Michael. But we should not forget that it is not the original, but only Moses’ version of a partly corrupt text that has been passed down. We do well not to blame the author for strange sentence links and obscure structure.

b) Graphics and numbers The eighth chapter of the first book contains a summarizing diagram.49 The original clearly displayed arrows, lines and colours here, as is still shown by the present arrangement. But in Chabot’s edition this diagram is visually even less successful than in Michael bar Barṣawmō’s copy. The clear deterioration of its condition strongly suggests the changes which must already have taken place. The chart contains a summary in red: ‘End of the book in which are contained 2256 years from Adam to the Flood in the days of Noah the righteous — may the reader therefore pray for the sinner who copied this.’50 Chabot remarked that this number is wrong and ascribed the mistake to the author, who had not succeeded in harmonizing his numbers while processing various chronologies.51 Philological experience, however, teaches us that mistakes are particularly liable to slip in when numbers are copied.52 The second book also concludes with a diagram, which contains an expanded table of nations after Gen. 10.53 Chabot noted: ‘Ce tableau est incomplet et confus.’54 The graphic composition of this table of peoples is in fact unsatisfactory. But here too we can discern remnants of lines and different letter sizes, which were originally meant to clarify the various levels and genealogical connections.

49 50 51 52 53 54

Michael, C 6 (I, 12). Michael, C 6 (I, 13). Chabot’s note on Michael, C I, 13, no. 1. Cf. e.g. Helm: 1924, 18-43. Michael, C 17 (I, 31). Chabot’s note on Michael, C I, 31, no. 1.

Fig. 1: Table of nations after Gen. 10, Michael, Ms. Aleppo St. George, 8v = copy Chabot p. 17. By permission of H.Em. Mōr Yuhanna Ibrahim.

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c) Page layout, columnar system, canon The most striking features of the text are the three systematic columns and the chronological canon. Apart from exceptions, which we will discuss later, these two elements dominate the entire chronicle. The columns are Michael’s own invention. The most detailed report comes from the copyist Moses of Mardin, in the paraphrase mentioned above: From these five books the deceased patriarch Michael gathered recollections of state affairs and church histories in accordance with the plan preceding his arrangement. He separated the church affairs as far as possible and collected them in the upper column, as we wrote, and the succession of kingdoms in the middle and the coincidences and the miracles in the lower column. However, the separation was difficult for him. In particular the recollections in the book of Bishop John [i.e. John of Asia] are confused, as he himself knew, because of the persecutions inflicted upon him, and the changes of location. He wrote the reports one after the other and something that took place in the time of a previous king is written in the middle of the time of the king that followed him.55 And because this and similar things are confusing for the reader’s mind, particularly for those who do not follow the reports, therefore, as far as possible, Mōr Michael ordered, separated and added … .56

This paraphrase shows, first, that Michael’s introduction must have contained painstaking explanations of his columnar system, a nīšō. For obvious reasons the Armenian adapters passed this over. Second, Patriarch Michael seems to have thought it useful here to refer repeatedly to the system, pointing emphatically to his layout and its function. The ‘ordering, separating and adding’ is part of his historical conception. But what does this gloss say about the arrangement of the text? Apparently the following is meant: Coincidences and miracles

Succession of kingdoms

Ecclesiastical history

Fig. 2: The systematic columnar system of Michael’s chronicle according to Moses of Mardin.

55 Moses can hardly know this from his own reading: the only manuscript known today, which moreover contains only the third part, dates from the 7th century from the Nitrian Desert collection, London BM Add. 14, 640. 56 Michael, C 377 (II, 356-357), my emphasis.

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Chabot writes: En principe, celui-ci [le texte] est disposé sur trois colonnes. La colonne supérieure (celle de droite) est attribuée, comme la plus honorable, à la succession sacerdotale, celle du milieu à la succession des empires, et la colonne inférieure (de gauche) à des faits divers.57

He thus seems to follow Moses — but his interpretation is wrong! Miscellaneous

Secular Ecclesiastical Secular Ecclesiastical Miscellaneous succession succession succession succession

Fig. 3: Description of the systematic columnar system of Michael’s chronicle by Chabot.

Contrary to Chabot’s explanation, the right-hand column very often is continued left on the next page, the left-hand column right. How was this possible? Naturally Chabot saw that ‘above’ is only to the right on the right-hand page. For instead of two congruent pages the copyist created a symmetrical arrangement: Ecclesiastical Secular Secular Ecclesiastical Miscellaneous Miscellaneous succession succession succession succession

Fig. 4: Actual arrangement of the systematic columns in the Edessan manuscript and in Chabot’s copy.

Given this contradiction, what exactly is meant by ‘above’ and ‘below’, terms that the author Michael also uses?58 The copyist Michael says: Know, O reader, that from now on and henceforth wherever there is the beginning of a section, either on this page or on the other, we write — that is, I write — the history of the apostles and the fathers in the upper column, since it is not fitting for the fathers and their history to be in the lower column.59

(He was almost about to talk about himself as the patriarchs do in the book which he is copying, but he notices this impropriety just in time and corrects the first person plural to the first person singular.) The realisation of his intention can be checked. Unfortunately the symmetrical system is not entirely consistent. There are exceptions to the rule: On the next

57 58 59

Chabot: 1924, xxiv. See above 121-134. Michael, C 98 (I, 162).

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occasion after this gloss Michael starts the ecclesiastical history on the left page in the right column.60 But the next time he writes it on the outer left.61 His plan has apparently left him perplexed. For a little later he has got into a muddle and must again write glosses which bear witness to his error; again and again he will now mix up the columns.62 Still, a symmetrical layout is probable. Gabriel Rabo alerted me to Ms. Mosul no. 6, written between 1222 and 1234: it shows the symmetrical arrangement of a double commentary (su‛rōnōyō/rūḥōnōyō) by Dionysios bar Ṣalībī. The colophon provides a reading instruction which suggests that ‘above’ means outer right and left in the codex.63 Thus, it was Michael’s teacher, who produced a synoptic text arrangement in a symmetrical order.64 Chabot could not be sure, because he only had his recent copy in front of his eyes. Later in his introduction he referred to the columns only as ‘interieur’ and ‘exterieur’ without solving the contradiction.65 The inconsistencies could have been errors by his own copyist — and thus would have fundamentally called into question of his copy. He therefore preferred to turn a blind eye. Michael bar Baralawmō did not. For him, the space on the page was full of significance and caused hierarchies between the different elements. Now and again the ‘fathers’ were inappropriately ‘below’. The copyist therefore resolved to limit the defects, thus causing further damage. He blurred the intentions which the author had pursued with his arrangement. But in any case he provides an important indication here that spatial organization on the page creates meaning. Michael the scribe may have carried out further changes to the layout. We can observe two hyper-complex features which make no sense and therefore raise questions about the Vorlage. This includes the text layout itself. From page 3 the text enters the columnar system. The beginning of both side columns is lacking. Only the middle column of the first book has been divided into eight chapters, though these are barely indicated. We cannot determine how and whether the text in the side columns was included in this chapter division (see fig. 5). Because the page break 60

Michael, C 107. Michael, C 109, 119, 121, 129. 62 Michael, C 112 (I, 188); 114 (I, 192); 338 (II, 295); 323 (II, 269). 63 This layout undermines my initial idea that the symmetry in Michael’s chronicle is secondary, Weltecke: 2000. 64 On the double commentary see now Ryan: 2004. On Dionysios’ role in the development of the chronicle, see below 229-234. 65 Chabot: 1924, xlviii and passim. 61

Fig. 5: Michael, Ms. Aleppo St. George, 5 = Chabot’s copy, p. 12. By permission of H.Em. Mōr Yuhanna Ibrahim.

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does not correspond to the original, the treatment of the columns is probably also inconsecutive. In the next books too the structure is at first completely unclear. In the first books the side columns show increasingly large gaps. The gaps can be partly identified as lacunae in the Vorlage, which have to be made visible.66 A different situation is found on page 8 left, where an excerpt from a new source starts. On page 12 right the text is broken off mid-paragraph and continued on 13 above left. The paragraph on page 14 above left belongs to the next chapter. These pecularities are suspicious. It is conceivable that the three columns were to be connected with each other by means of variable line intervals. At least in the interrupted paragraph on page 12 such a connection ought to be found. But nothing of the kind can be discovered. The mid-paragraph break is therefore pointless. Finally, the paragraph on page 14 above left is simply misplaced. Here, remaining space was used to copy a forgotten passage later. Yet the copyist must have had a reason for this loose arrangement. Perhaps he was imitating a visual impression whose function he did not understand. Furthermore, the columns display striking irregularity. In the first place the central column appears twice as wide as the side columns. These are moreover written twice as small, which makes them very difficult to read in Chabot’s copy. But from page 88 most columns are suddenly written in just as large a hand and, apart from exceptions, are roughly just as wide.67 The loose arrangement of the paragraphs now also disappears. Chabot believed that the first 87 pages were more similar to the original than the rest.68 The copyist had therefore simplified his work from page 88 onwards. This assumption fits well with AnnaDorothee von den Brincken’s findings for the manuscripts of the chronicle by Martin of Troppau.69 She was able to show that Martin’s chronicle became simpler and therefore more corrupt every time it was copied. In the end the result did not benefit Martin’s reputation as a chronicler.

66 Michael, C 8 right; cf. Chabot’s addition, note on Michael, C I, 17, no. 6 on the basis of the version of the text by John of Dara after a copy by Ignace Guidi, cf. Michael, C I, 14 no. 5. 67 At Michael, C 606 and 608 the middle column is again clearly wider. This also supports the assumption that it is a fossil of the original. 68 Chabot: 1924, xli. 69 Von den Brincken: 1988.

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The different column width in the first books led Andrew Palmer to surmise: In the chronicle of Michael the new priorities are already implicit in the layout of the page. The central column is given to secular history, so that the natural disasters … and the church history … appeared as ‘handmaidens’ of secular history.70

This theory is untenable for reasons of content. It is all the more important to explain the function of the layout. The wide middle column could be a fossil of the original layout. Its form could have to do with the chronological canon. This canon is introduced in the third book. The heading announces: With the help of the One who is known as the three holy persons (hypostaseis) we start this third book. And therein starts the canon of the chronology, of the kingdoms and of the kings arranged by Eusebius, who shows very clearly when each of the kingdoms began and where it ended, how many kings each had and how old each [king] was.

At the bottom of the page begins a table of numbers which provides a synchronic survey of the empires (see Fig. 6). Against the ‘sum’ of years the table synchronizes from bottom to top the chronology of the ‘Hebrews’, the ‘Assyrians (Ōtūrōyē)’, the ‘Sikyonians’ and the ‘Egyptians’. It is not a pleasure to read this table. The handwriting is minute. What makes it even more difficult is that in many columns several numbers were squeezed into one line. Naturally this cancels the function of these numbers in the table. In Eusebius they serve to synchronize different systems of time calculation and thus produce an general measuring system. This could then be used to derive reliable chronologies, which calls for painstaking accuracy. Here this accuracy was not observed. For instance, the bottom two lines should run with exact synchronicity; both count up to 56. In fact they have already come apart on this first page; the synchronization with the other columns is completely unclear. Chabot also observed: ‘Les chiffres des deux premiers tableaux sont disposés confusement.’71 Almost all the tables are placed at the bottom of the page. However, there are exceptions which may provide important clues.72 Page 21 consists of two strips of canon tables in the middle and small-written text 70 71 72

Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 86. Note on Michael, C I, 207. Cf. Michael, C 707, 110.

Fig. 6: Beginning of the canon, Michael, Ms. Aleppo St. George, 9r = Chabot’s copy, p. 18. By permission of H.Em. Mōr Yuhanna Ibrahim.

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on the right and left. The canon is marked here in large handwriting as ‘Chronology of the years’. The left side contains text in smaller handwriting, with the heading ‘Succession of priests’. The right-hand side of the table also has text, but without heading. And by economizing on space, the copyist has again made clarity impossible and has been forced to make additions left and right of his canon. This constantly causes errors.73 Why would the copyists suddenly use headings only on one page and in a striking size of handwriting as well? It seems possible that these headings form the remnant of the original inscription of the columns in the chronicle. The ‘Succession of priests’ is confirmed by the text, and ‘Succession of kings’ is also a term often used.74 In the headings of the first appendix we find the contraposition of ‘yūbōl kohnūtō/Succession of the priesthood’ to ‘yūbōl malkwōtō/Succession of kingdoms’. The mixed reports do not seem to have been headed. The arrangement of the canon on p. 21 with its column headings is more complicated than the predominant layout. It suggests that and how text and numbers could have been brought into relation with each other in this manuscript. The page should therefore be taken seriously as a source for the original layout. The production of a such an arrangement of text and numbers is an extremely elaborate graphic process, as Mosshammer noted in describing the Eusebian canon.75 The composition of a work containing synchronistic tables of dates as reckoned in several systems interconnected with historical text is extremely difficult. The more carefully a scribe or translator preserved the format and arrangement of his exemplar, the more accurately the synchronistic lists and the position of historical notices with respect to them were likely to be transcribed.

There is an indication that Michael’s chronicle was also constructed with difficulty. An appendix to book XV shows that the next passage, which ‘comes from an Arabic work’, was ‘arranged’ at the very end of this book76 ‘… and this happened for two reasons: first, the Arabs count lunar years and, second, we only found the Arabic book afterwards.’ In view of the copy we have today, this remark is surprising. So far, we have got to know the patriarch as a highly conscientious author. Why then this 73 74 75 76

Cf. Chabot’s note on Michael, C I, 208-209. Michael, C 30 (I, 53), 36 (I, 61), 38 (I, 65) etc. Mosshammer: 1979, 66. Not: ‘Nous avons copié entièrement …’ Michael, C 603 (III, 213).

Fig. 7: Arrangement of tables and headings, Michael, Ms. Aleppo St. George 10v = Chabot’s copy, p. 21. By permission of H.Em. Mōr Yuhanna Ibrahim.

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sudden workshyness? Why a canon at all, if it was too much trouble to convert lunar years? Why couldn’t book XV simply be formulated a second time? After all, for the Edessan manuscript it makes no difference whatsoever where and which dates occur in the text. But the author’s argument seems convincing if we assume that a second redaction would mean that the dated reports had to be converted and related to the canon. In that case the layout of the entire chapter would have to be reconfigured. On page 21 other features can be observed: we see two successive canon sections, i.e. the count of the right-hand table is continued on the left-hand one. The text in the outer (left) column corresponds to the ‘ecclesiastical history’, the inner (right) column is the ‘miscellaneous column’, as to be expected. But the ‘history of kingdoms’ is lacking; the text was torn off or corrupt. Before this page there is a noticeable gap. It may be that page 21 is a compilation of fragments. Page 32 may also represent a compilation of fragments. The structure of this page is unique too. At the bottom of the canon we find all kinds of text. This is the mixed column, which is unusually arranged here: it is not just in the wrong place, but also upside down and written in the opposite direction to the tables. As on page 21, however, we can observe a relation between text and numbers. This connection may be seen as a relic of the original structure as well as a further clue that should be discussed in this context. On page 88 a change of layout is announced: As regards the count of years noted in the canon tables: up to this point we wrote in black letters those years whose beginning is the first year of Abraham and those in red by which we represent the years of the Greeks. And from now on and downwards we put in black letters the years of the Greeks; the red characters represent the years since the birth of Lord Jesus, the Messiah.

The Edessan manuscript gives a very prominent place to this sentence, which is put into practice in the canon. We can hardly assume that it was introduced by the copyists, as it contrasts markedly with the actual niggardly arrangement of the table of numbers. There is something else: this clearly emphasized indication is not placed above the canon or at least near it, as one might expect, but in isolation at the top of the page. It seems that explanation and table may have been secondarily separated by the copyists.77

77

Michael, C 74, gloss right of the canon.

Fig. 8: Columns and canon in Michael, Ms. Aleppo St. George, 16r = Chabot’s copy, p. 32. By permission of H.Em. Mōr Yuhanna Ibrahim.

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For one of the copyists himself, the canon table was also unsatisfactory. He noted deficiencies elsewhere too.78 The author of these glosses is identifiable: ‘Know, our brother, that the count of the Christian years is entirely mistaken! I do not know whether the mistakes come from the scribe or from the author. Pray for me!’79 He is almost dizzied by this frightful confusion.80 It must therefore be the second copyist who steps in here with growing displeasure, Michael bar Barṣawmō. He clearly could do nothing about it. We can hardly blame him, since to untangle the knot he needed to enlist other sources, which apparently were not at his disposal. The corrupt canon is an area which has not been investigated since Chabot’s reconstruction. Helm observed in connection with Eusebius’ chronicle that numbers in tables are better protected in the copying process than ‘free’ numbers.81 However, this does not apply to a table like the one we are discussing, for here reasons of economy, as we saw above, have often led the copyist to abandon the arrangement of lines, thereby opening the door to every kind of confusion. The author’s sources for the table can no longer be determined.82 We should note, however, that Michael’s canon suffered from an inconsistency that may already have led to mistakes in the original. Just as Eusebius’ chronicle was not Roman enough, so Jacob of Edessa’s was apparently too ‘Western’, leading Michael to supplement it with Eastern sources.83 Second, Jacob corrected Eusebius’ chronology by 3 years. Because Jacob, judging by everything we can know about his chronicle, did not construct a new canon for the pre-Christian period, Michael also refrained from correcting his own (pseudo-)Eusebian canon. He simply added Jacob’s canon to the former and repeatedly pointed out that this junction and the computational errors in the first part should be taken into account.84 A newly edited canon would certainly have been the best solution. At the same time one can imagine that the canon was not of primary importance for the ‘restorer’ of the chronicle, Moses of Mardin. 78

Michael, C 110 (I, 237); 112 (I, 237) etc. Michael, C 113 (I, 238). 80 Michael, C 117 (I, 238). 81 Helm: 1924, 18-43. 82 As we already explained, Michael’s chronicle cannot be directly traced back to Eusebius’ canon. As regards Jacob of Edessa’s canon, it would make more sense to reconstruct the fragments of the original version from Michael’s chronicle, not the other way round. However, Jacob’s canon certainly must have been instrumental for Michael. 83 See a detailed description in Van Rompay: 1999, 270. 84 Michael, C 128 (I, 255). 79

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He therefore treated it somewhat neglectfully, to the annoyance of his followers and all other readers. In books VII, VIII and IX the amount of text versus tables of numbers increases disproportionately. The canon disappears and the division of columns becomes inconsistent. From page 174 we see only two columns. From page 185 the three-column arrangement seems to prevail again. However, these are no longer parallel, systematic columns, but one consecutive text. The question here is whether this structure is original. For again there are certain absurdities. A strongly emphasized sentence announces: ‘here we place three letters of the holy patriarchs, which clearly show why they abandoned their sees, zealous to revere God and keep the true faith.’85 However, limited by the two-column layout, only two letters can initially follow namely the letter by Patriarch Antimus to Patriarch Severus and the answer of the latter. It is unclear therefore which of the two correspondences of Patriarch Severus presented here, one with Patriarch Antimus and the other with Patriarch Theodosius, are supposed to be ‘the three letters’. This is hardly intelligent. Help is provided here by Moses’ gloss, which we have already looked at. In his Vorlage Moses notices a clear differentiation: And as regards a history or a section which is long and detailed, either in the reports on the kingdoms or those on the Church, the patriarch wrote it entirely on the whole width of the page, and we blotting have likewise written page by page, so as not to cut it up and not to confuse the reader. In accordance with the book’s arrangement, the abridged reports have been divided into columns and organized into chapters, each chapter containing what has been announced at its beginning.86

Michael bar Barṣaumō was therefore the one who destroyed the original arrangement in his, the extant Edessan copy. As a result, he arranged the detailed reports in an unnecessarily complicated way, which can be irritating for the reader. This becomes particularly clear in book XIV, which consistently has two columns. The five chapters are arranged right and left down these two columns, forcing the reader to leaf back and forth. The layout of the original cannot have had this form. The chapter numbering was left out by the copyists. Chabot’s reconstruction of the sequence is nevertheless correct.87

85

Michael, C 288 (II, 208). Michael, C 377 (II, 356-357), my emphasis. 87 The last sentence on Michael, C 571 right is certainly the final sentence of the entire book. This makes it the 5th section and the one starting on Michael, C 568 right the 4th. 86

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d) Appendices The appendices are usually not given further consideration. Yet they deserve the closest attention, palaeographically too. Appendix I offers a synchronoptic survey: Through God’s help, the Almighty, we write the names of the high priests / rišaykōhnē in the upper column and the kings in the lower, one after the other, as they are ordered in the book, so that they can be found with ease.88

‘High priests’ refers to (a) the Jewish high priests and (b) the patriarchal residences Antioch, Ephesus, which was moved to Constantinople, Alexandria and finally Rome. Tables of contents in chronicles are also known from the Latin chronicles. However, the present table is extraordinarily elaborate and therefore extremely complicated. It is accordingly corrupt to a high degree. Columns are mixed up, the numbers and spelling of the names do not agree with the chronicle’s text, etc.89 In view of this monumental synchronization of so many different successions and genealogies, it is hard, despite the poor legibility, not to feel a sense of respect. Apart from that, however, we search in vain for the promised instrument by which the kings and priests may be ‘found with ease’: there is no apparent relation to the text of the chronicle. This cannot be original. The kings and patriarchs are numbered in this table. We can probably assume that these numbers were also recorded in some form in the chronicle, chiefly in the margin. Moreover, the names of the kings and priests may have been originally highlighted, so that it was easier to look them up. All this may have taken place in the second phase of work. The fourth appendix comprises lists of bishops.90 In their present form these lists too have no real function as regards information content. Most of the bishops were already mentioned in the previous appendix III. Chabot therefore thought it right to add the other episcopal sees. This addition is based only on the modern reader’s need for information; it is not justified by anything in the structure. So what does this list mean? We can detect remains of embellishments to some names, pointing to an 88

Michael, C 741 (III, 427). Cf. Chabot’s note on Michael, C III, 427f. 90 Michael, C 768ff (III, 492ff). Chabot’s copyist forgot to mark the fourth succession from the right as belonging to Melitene, so that it is completely corrupt, cf. Chabot on Michael, C III, 494, no. 19. This mistake does not occur in Michael bar Barṣawmō’s copy, see Michael, C (Edessa-Aleppo Codex), 772. 89

Fig. 9: Michael, appendix I, Ms. Aleppo, St. George, 321r = Chabot’s copy, p. 742. By permission of H.Em. Mōr Yuhanna Ibrahim.

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originally lavish form. Undoubtedly the bishoprics in question are special: Jerusalem is a holy city in the Syriac Orthodox tradition as well. Edessa, the ‘blessed city’, is the city of Syrian Christianity. The importance of Melitene has already been described. In the Middle Ages Amid was temporarily a patriarchal residence. Finally, Tagrit was the residence of the metropolitan of the East, the maphrian. Yet the choice is not entirely convincing. Other cities could also have been mentioned, such as Seleucia-Ctesiphon, Kallinikos, Mardin or Mosul. The number of cities thus becomes a focus of attention. The term used here supports the idea that the number five was actually the original emphasis. The text talks about rišaykōhnē/high priests.91 The list thus links up with the rišaykōhnē of the first appendix. There, too, five series are recorded.

e) Production and script In contrast to what the heading of book XIV announces, a few lines later the thread of the text is not resumed in 1442 but in 1436 Seleucid time. 1436 is also wrong, yet is found both in Ms. London BM Or. 4402 and in Michael bar Barṣawmō, but not in Bar ʻEbrōyō.92 Presumably the error therefore goes back to the copyists. It can be readily explained:  may have been easily miswritten as . 1435 is in fact the correct date. But how could  have been miswritten as ? Not much is known about Michael’s handwriting. Only smaller autographs in Serṭō survive.93 Nau’s observation that the patriarch’s writing shows how much and how fast he wrote is certainly correct. But the writing does not seem careless;94 it is steady, regular and easy to read. Michael’s handwriting is, however, truly individual. The ascendants and descendants of , and  (l, g, m) are boldly elongated. In particular the last could lead to copying mistakes, because the copyists read  as , as the error Eusebius  from  testifies.95

91 Chabot’s copyist writes the word correctly only once on this page. Cf. also Michael, C 770. Elsewhere he also writes without any comprehension, such as QNLSṬYNY (QN from P) for Palestine. Michael, C 748, line 30. 92 Cf. Chabot’s note on Michael, C III, 219, no. 4. 93 Michael, Autographs, cf. Chabot: 1924, Fac-simile de l’Écriture du Patriarche Michel le Syrien, n.p. 94 Contra Nau: 1914, 389. 95 Michael, C 748, line 24.

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There can be no doubt that Michael used Esṭrangelō for his chrysograph.96 If we write the wrong number of the heading in Esṭrangelō, we see the possible graphic cause of the error: . This means that the headings in Michael’s chronicle may have been written in the monumental script.97 This assumption is supported by the fact that the copyist Michael bar Barṣawmō sometimes also inserted Esṭrangelō, particularly the concluding formula  at the end of the columns. It is unlikely that he himself introduced this script secondarily. We indicated that Moses of Mardin was probably not a professional scribe. So he was likely less competent in Esṭrangelō than Michael bar Barṣawmō. Further remnants of monumental script are found in appendix III. It contains a list of patriarchs of the Syriac Orthodox Church, which is superfluous after the ‘table of contents’ in appendix I.98 The list starts with Severus, whose name Chabot’s copyist tried but failed to write in Esṭrangelō.99 Monumental script is highly suitable for embellishing these names. It is still easy to recognize that the numbers of the patriarchs were originally also embellished by Esṭrangelō letters. Michael bar Barṣawmō used red ink to emphasize the numbers. Colour contrast also seems probable for the original. Today the list is rather simple, but one can imagine that it was once virtually a manifesto, a monument containing the great names of the past with whom the author felt united.100 In other marked places in the chronicle Esṭrangelō must also have been used. The red-outlined concluding scholium on Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē in the Edessan manuscript suddenly describes the size of his historical work in Esṭrangelō script — again Chabot’s copyist fails.101 There are thus some indications that the chronicle in its original form was a lavish, calligraphic manuscript. A remark by Bar ʻEbrōyō is worth mentioning here. His work tells us that after the death of Patriarch Ignatius III David102 (1222-1252) objects were given back to the Mōr 96 Cf. Leroy: 1964, 428-429 or Tables, no. 4. On the chronological differentiation of Esṭrangelō, cf. Palmer: 1989, 77f. 97 In the palaeographic investigations available to me I cannot discover ‘mixed’ manuscripts. Cf. the illustrations in Payne-Smith: 1864; Wright: 1872, here also a thorough palaeographic introduction, xxv-xxxii; Hatch: 1946; Leroy: 1964. 98 This list is badly corrupt: Michael, C 757: Chabot’s copyist made a mistake in a line, thus causing subsequent errors. 99 Michael, C 752. 100 Cf. Michael, C 761, 766 etc.: ‘… his prayer be with us, amen’. 101 Michael, C 544, line 8. 102 Count according to Fiey: 1993.

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Bar Ṣawmō monastery. The patriarch’s treasures were inherited by the Armenian catholicos, ‘apart from the special objects’, which the monastery received. These included a golden cross, a silver fan, a complete set of vestments, a chronicle and a complete Bible. Other very precious objects, such as a patriarchal throne, a silver myrrh vessel, three sets of vestments and the golden crook of a shepherd’s staff and much more were shared out to other receivers. ‘The great book on ordination, which Mōr Michael wrote’, was given for instance to ‘the sons of Īšō‘’.103 Without really being able to prove this, scholars generally assume that the ‘chronicle’, the ktōbō d-maktbōnūt zabnē, refers to Michael’s work.104 The assumption makes sense, because Michael’s chronicle must in fact have returned to Mōr Bar Ṣawmō in connection with this transfer. The chronicle is mentioned here in the same breath with highly representative and valuable objects. The work was apparently considered equal in value and workmanship. The calligraphic devices in Michael’s chronographic work underlined his intended messages, raised the status of the text and gave the chronography a monumental character. Michael used all the graphic devices as modes of the representation of history, modes whose function requires further study. 3. ‘CHRONOGRAPHIC’ a) The archetype: Jacob of Edessa Michael the Great based his account on, among others, the chronicle of Jacob of Edessa († 708).105 Its significance for him emerges from the 103 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 693-695 (694-696). On the pontifical ritual and Ms. Vat. Syr. 51, see Kaufhold: 1993. 104 Schmidt: 1996, 305. Schmidt: 2013 stresses the beauty of the Armenian versions and publishes some images; their form affirms the assumption of a calligraphical original. 105 Jacob’s importance for Michael is essentially known, cf. Baumstark: 1922, 254. There is controversy over when exactly Jacob’s chronicle starts. Michael, C 128 (I, 254-255) provides an excerpt from Jacob’s preface, a longer version of London BM Add. 14, 685 is supplied by Wright: 1870-1872, 1062-1064, or the edition. Here Jacob indicates that he started his own canon in the 20th year of Constantine’s rule. However, the notice by *Theodosius of Edessa which follows Jacob’s remark in Michael, C 378 (II, 358) reports that Jacob translated Eusebius’ work and enlarged the canon of the latter with notices from Adam onwards. Keseling: 1927 and others do not believe that Jacob translated Eusebius’ chronicle in its entirety. But we find traces of his revision of at least the first part of Eusebius’ chronicle, the chronography. Up to the said excerpt from Jacob’s preface: Michael, C 3 (I, 5); 10 (I, 20); 19 (I, 34); 28 (I, 50); 28 (I, 51); 29 (I, 51); 29 (I, 51);

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beginning of a gloss, whose paraphrased conclusion we already encountered. Michael frankly says that Jacob’s chronicle inspired his own enterprises in this field. Know, whoever encounters this book in joyous zeal, love of work and thirst for knowledge, that we have assembled from the books of recognized authors, and written this chronicle in great detail, with discernment and precision, and from many books existing in our language that deal with the matter at hand and particularly from the chronicle of Father Mōr Jacob from Edessa, whose chronicle was placed in its entirety here, so far as it regards the account of the computations and sum of the years from Adam, that is, from the beginning of this temporal world, which he showed with great consistency and which we gather together completely here — with sufficient parts of the rest — through the help of Him with whom all hope lies. And because the chronicle of the bishop came to an end here, because in this time he reached the end of his road and passed into eternal life and because after him we found no one who laboured to give such descriptions and counts of the years and it shows the cycle of time with particular clarity, and in the form of a pillar, which rises in the middle of the house and which, as is well known, supports the house’s entire roof in which it is, so those accounts of the computations of the years [the chronographical table], which are placed in the middle of the pages of this book, show like a painting the image of each time, the famous events and when and where and how they were.106 And this matter encouraged me, the ignorant …107

Here, unfortunately, the copyist breaks off. We would have liked to know what happened to Michael when he was encouraged. There must have been further explanations here. Jacob’s chronicle contained an elaborate methodological preface, chronographic lists and finally a canon after the Eusebian model in the Eastern tradition. On both sides of the numerical tables there were the typical short lemmas. For the modern reader this makes dry and difficult reading.

30 (I, 53); 31 (I, 52); 32 (I, 54); 35 (I, 59); 36 (I, 60); 37 (I, 64); 39 (I, 66); 39 (I, 66); 40 (I, 67); 40 (I, 68); 42 (I, 71); 44 (I, 74); 45 (I, 74); 69 (I, 107); 76 (I, 118); 82 (I, 126); 83 (I, 127); 84 (I, 127); 85 (I, 128); 86 (I, 128); 86 (I, 129); 89 (I, 140); 89 (I, 141); 90 (I, 142); 102 (I, 168). For the state of research on Jacob, see Kruisheer/Van Rompay: 1998. 106 Cf. Hugh of St. Victor, De tribus maximis circumstantiis gestorum, 491: ‘Tria igitur sunt in quibus praecipue cognitio pendet rerum gestarum, id est, personae a quibus res gestae sunt, le loca in quibus gestae sunt, et tempora quando gestae sunt.’ 107 Michael, C 450 (II, 483).

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After Jacob’s preface108 there can be no doubt that, in his own view, that both his own and Eusebius’ material are extracts — we remember the Whitean definition of chronicle.109 Jacob says that he continued Eusebius’ canon with notes on people marked by exceptionally positive or negative conduct. His view is strikingly focused on individual people, and not on office bearers. Jacob was taken with the possibility of connecting all these individual histories in a comprehensive account.110 For all that, the attitude he expresses is cool and reticent — on the surface ‘purely antiquarian’. In his gloss Michael picks up formulations from Jacob’s preface, which he had already included in an abridged version in his work.111 Michael’s remark is therefore vital to an assessment of the reception situation and to the interpretation of both works. Again Michael describes what he expects from historiography. At first sight these sentences make a ponderous impression. But on closer consideration they lay bare a fundamental problem of his historical conception: when did events happen, where, how, how many years elapsed and who acted.112 This is a quantitative and a qualitative mode of questioning also found in Jacob. A story, more precisely, a narrative text, was apparently not a necessary element for Michael to find such an account lucid and appealing. Rather he emphasizes a different dimension — the graphic nature of chronography. What seems dry and abstract to modern readers stimulates Michael’s aesthetic sense and meditative imagination. For him, Jacob’s historiography is beautiful and clear, it becomes an image to him, a painting even. To some extent the comparison between text and painting is a topos.113 But the image of a pillar supporting the entire house goes beyond ossified formulas. It alludes to the great importance which Michael attaches to the graphic element of the canon as the backbone of Jacob’s chronicle.

108 Michael, C 127-128 (I, 253-255). Edition of the preface according to Brit. Mus. Add. 14, 685 first in Wright: 1872, 1062-1064, then in the edition of Jacob of Edessa. 109 Hayden White: 1973, 6. 110 Cf. Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 36. 111 Michael, C 127-128 (I, 253-255). 112 Michael, C 18 (I, 33), here too with the term ‘very clear’. The term ‘lucid’ is a source expression. 113 It is also found elsewhere in Michael: Michael, C 121 (I, 241), cf. Theodoret, HE I, 1. Theodoret praises the advantages of writing over painting, because its products last longer. Michael does not have this judgement, but only a comparison between the painter, who works with paint, and the writer, who ‘paints’ with words.

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Precisely the possibility of coordinating times and events fascinates him. He states that this very possibility motivated him actually to attempt it himself. This visibility of the passing of time may have had an extremely strong effect on him as a sensitive observer. For the universal computation of time was not an omnipresent factor of his period. Furthermore, for Michael as a scribe, writing, graphics and organization of the twodimensional space cannot be separated. Therefore the boundaries are necessarily fluid, indeed, the alternation of writing and abstract graphics cannot actually be called an alternation of media here.114 In Michael’s chronicle, words are not the sole carrier of meaning. Meaning is carried here by all the visual elements. It is only the combination of words, universal computation of time and graphic organization of space that creates Michael’s ‘painting’. In this respect Michael’s chronicle may well be compared with the Latin tradition. In recent years European medieval studies have focused more sharply on the graphic mode in chronistic texts. The devices — circles, arrows, diagrams — stand in different iconographic and historical relations. They also serve different purposes, which cannot be discussed here. For Aramaic studies, too, it is worth considering that European chronography did not just use graphic or even artistic devices as decorative details. Rather they were sometimes independent signifiers alongside and with the written word. The topics of the graphic dimension are chiefly synchronism and diachronism, succession and hierarchy.115 An English chronicle of the 13th century may serve as an example, because the design of the space — here in a scroll — immediately recalls Michael’s concept of ‘pillar’. To the right and left of a vertical series, showing medallions with pseudo-portraits of English kings, we find historical information as written text. The medallions are connected by lines, indicating the succession. A few of these lines are very long, in order to bridge dynastic breaks. According to Bernd Michael, they have a significance of their own, pointing to the existence of an uninterrupted English royal dynasty. 114 Cf. the work of Studt: 1995, who contrasts the media ‘writing’ and ‘image’. Because our case does not actually involve an ‘image’, but only abstract graphics, i.e. a graphic sign, which is no more illustrative than the written sign, the difference between graphics and writing is blurred here. 115 Besides Melville: 1975; 1987; Rieckenberg: 1983; Wirth: 1983; Vizkelety: 1988; Gädeke: 1987; Gädeke: 1992; Michael: 1991; von Bloh: 1993; Schmid: 1994; Studt: 1995; Schmid: 1996 etc. I thank B. Michael for his kind comments and for showing me manuscripts.

Fig. 10: Anonymous English chronicle, Berlin StB, Hdschr. 343. By permission of The Staatsbibliothek Berlin.

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The line of rulers extends from the earliest times to the present. In this way the medallions and the lines express a historical interpretation which the text alone would not supply (cf. Fig. 10).116 These findings encourage a search for similar phenomena in Michael’s chronicle. In the surviving version of Michael’s chronicle we saw that the canon is nothing less than a painting which is able to show everything in a clearly organized way. The same applies to the only surviving manuscript of Jacob’s chronicle. No one doubts today that Ms. London BM Add. 14, 685 goes back to it,117 but its condition is very poor. Preserved only in a few paper fragments (probably from the 10th century), the pages were bound together in the wrong order. In the process of copying the dates and the accompanying text, many mistakes have slipped in. Lines have been displaced; connections were lost.118 And we are probably only dealing with an excerpt.119 All this clearly shows the problems arising from the copy of such a text. We do not know what version of this chronicle Michael had, what its condition was and how old it was. But we may assume that Jacob’s original was more lavishly decorated than Ms. London BM Add. 14, 685. For there is another witness. A hundred years before Michael another Syriac chronicler used this work. Nowadays scholars assume that his chronicle has been preserved in autograph in Ms. London BM Add. 7197.120 The author of this chronicle was Eliya of Nisibis (975-1046), bishop of the Apostolic Church of the East.121 His manuscript holds great evidential value for the history of historiography because for a Syriac historical text it has been sumptuously handcrafted. The only practician of the chronographic genre whose work has survived in a form produced by himself or under his supervision shows clearly that he attached more importance to this labour than the copyists of Michael’s and Jacob’s work: the manuscript is polychromatic and written on parchment — a costly writing material in the 11th century 116 Berlin, StB, Hdschr. 343. I thank B. Michael for the slide. On this manuscript, cf. Michael: 1991, esp. 394-396. 117 Cf. Brooks: 1899, 262-264. 118 Wright: 1872, 1062-1064; Brooks: 1899, 262-263. Cf. also Brooks: 1899, 550; Fraenkel: 1899, 534-537; Serruys: 1913, 1-36; Witakowski: 1987, 80; Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 40. 119 Brooks: 1899, 263. 120 Brock: 1979, 27 among others. Debié: 2015, 626 rathers sees his secretaries at work but in parts also Eliya himself. Harrak: 1999, 9-17 proves that the Chronicle of Zuqnīn is also an autograph, likewise with graphic additions, in the form of astrological drawings. 121 On the disputed date of death, cf. Samir: 1988, whom I follow here.

Fig. 11: Jacob of Edessa, C, London BM Add. 14, 685, 14v. By permission of The British Library.

Fig. 12: Eliya of Nisibis, C, London BM add. 7197, 29v, 24v. By permission of The British Library.

Fig. 13: Eliya of Nisibis, C, London BM add. 7197, 29v, 24v. By permission of The British Library.

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Christian East. Eliya knew and used Jacob’s chronicle in a version better than the surviving one. At first sight his endeavours seem less focused on events than on the calculation of dates; an interest also assumed for the Latin chronographer Sigebert von Gembloux (c. 1030-1112), who wrote just a little later.122 For this purpose he developed a new method which departed from the Eusebian tradition. Eliya placed the series temporum in the extreme right-hand margin and predetermined the limited space for his notes by drawing lines. From right to left this is followed in every line by the year, the source (!) and the lemma. Many years contain no entries. This phenomenon is well known from the Latin Middle Ages (well known too is the outdated editorial practice which ignored such seemingly empty sections).123 The synchronic comparison between historical notes is evidently neither intended nor possible in Eliya’s manuscript. By contrast, the different computations and the strongly emphasized sources can be clearly recognized in the ‘picture’. Moreover, Eliya assigns a separate colour to each of the series annorum. This results in a structure; the course of history is periodized. Thus the beginning of Muslim rule can be recognized at a glance.124 Was the polychromy of Eliya’s chronicle inspired by Jacob’s chronicle? Jacob was also a practised scribe. A manuscript attributed to his own hand was also multicoloured. Here too the different colours of ink have a structuring function and provide didactic guidance.125 At the same time the extant version of the chronicle shows the remnants of a typical graphic element. The chart has arches which immediately recall Eusebius’ canon tables for the gospels. The Eusebian canon tables of the gospels were treated with great care both in Syrian and in European book illumination.126 They could be used as an index. But they also showed how the gospels are interrelated. So, when Jacob used this iconographic element for a historical account, he did not simply draw up dry tables. Like Eusebius, he compiled a canon of the times in which everything is connected with everything and can be compared, each element can be read through every other part and ultimately all goes back to one root. Furthermore, as a graphic design the synchronoptic pillar admits of a visual representation. This image 122 Interpretation of the chronicle by Sigebert of Gembloux seems to be ongoing. Cf. von den Brincken: 1988, 205. 123 Cf. the edition of Eliya of Nisibis. 124 Eliya of Nisibis, London, BM Add 7197, 29v. 125 Ms. London BM Add. 11, 734. cf. Wright: 1872, table V (xxx). 126 For Europe, cf. Nordenfalk: 1938. For the Syriac tradition, cf. the magnificent manuscripts in Leroy: 1964, illust. vol., 17ff.

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does not simply show historical events as an enumeration, but does more: the tableau represents the factuality of temporal events. Meditative contemplation leads to an understanding of the world’s temporality, which pervades all things. In any case this is Michael’s perspective. At the same time the iconographic element ‘canon table’ was again being used for historical accounts in Europe as well. In the chronicle of Hugh of St. Victor (1096-1141) this account is combined with a treatise on the function of historical knowledge as exegetical propaedeutics.127 For all their different emphases, in Eusebius, Jacob of Edessa, Eliya of Nisibis, and I assume originally in Michael too, the combination of methodological introduction and tabular work was a constitutive element of the account. This fact requires further study.128 We cannot determine here what Jacob’s ‘images of each time’ represent in detail. We can only give an impression. Jacob’s cool preface contrasts with the content of his account. The chronicle reports an increase in clashes between the two empires of the ‘Romans’ and the ‘Persians’ or ‘Arabs’ in Jacob’s native region. On top of that came persecution of the miaphysitic denomination in both Persian and Roman territories. Both combined to form an oppressive dynamic, the drama of which is heightened by natural catastrophes and solar or lunar eclipses with violent portents.129 Such awful realities were hard to accommodate within the providential framework within which Eusebius understood Constantine’s conversion and transformation into the most Christian emperor. In Europe, as in Michael’s contemporary, Bishop Otto of Freising, they can be counterbalanced by Augustine’s concept of the two civitates.130 But there is no room for such a dualism in Syrian historical thought. 127 Hugh of St. Victor, De tribus maximis circumstantiis gestorum, 491: ‘Divinarum scriptuarum expositio omnis secundum triplicem sensum tractatur: historiam, allegoriam, et tropologiam, id est moralitatem. Hystoria est rerum gestarum narratio per primam litterae significationem expressa. … Sed nos hystoriam nunc in manibus habemus, quasi fundamentum omnis doctrinae primum in memoria collocandum.’ A comparative reading of these introductions also makes the difference in chronographic intentions very clear. 128 In Ms. Leipzig UB lat. 350, fol. 95-125 we see the typical arches of the Eusebian canon table. Cf. Ms. Paris BN lat. 15.009, fol. 1v-77v. On the manuscript evidence, cf. Goy: 1976, 36-43. J. Ehlers kindly gave me access to the microfilms of these two manuscripts dating to the end of the 12th century. On Hugh, see Ehlers: 1973. Piazzoni: 1999 has nothing new to offer. 129 Andrew Palmer compared the solar eclipses in Jacob with those that actually took place, in order to prove Jacob’s intentional use of these signs. The argument rests on the assumption that there was enough astrological literature in this area to obtain information about actual solar and lunar eclipses: Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 260-263. 130 Otto of Freising, C, see Goetz: 1984.

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b) The original of Michael’s chronicle The precondition for Eusebius’ and Jacob of Edessa’s system to work as Michael describes it is a direct connection of numbers and text. No such connection is recognizable in the Edessan manuscript of Michael’s chronicle. This cannot be original: whether in Sigebert of Gembloux or in Eliya of Nisibis — as soon as numbers are a systematic element of the account, they are brought into relation with the text. I would assume that the canon was placed between royal succession and miscellaneous reports. This arrangement could explain several oddities in the Edessan manuscript. The loss of the canon was responsible for the peculiar form of the first 88 pages. The copyists had removed only the canon. This first left double the space for the middle column, before Michael bar Barṣawmō abandoned this system. Both pages 21 and 32 point to a placement of kings and miscellaneous reports left and right of the canon. If the canon is fitted in between world history and miscellanea, a new relation suddenly emerges: the canon starts ‘above’ with the principal or leading dynasties. On pages 21 and 32 these are Hebrews and Assyrians. At the same time they dominate the account of the succession of kings, which now has a meaningful position next to them. There are reliable indications that the individual elements of the chronicle were provided with headings and annotations, to connect them with the table of contents. Michael may have undertaken to add headings and annotations from 1195 onwards. In any case we could prove here that he added glosses to his work around this time. As we could see at the beginning of this section, he was, at this time, apparently engaged in rendering more precisely his methodological foundations for his work and making it even more accessible. The chronological canon as visual motif could now be studied with ease on the page. But apparently Michael expanded this motif by means of new elements and thus opened up the genre. Michael described his work as a ‘weave’, a term whose metaphorical usefulness has already been examined. Michael thus captures the intermesh of successions and recollections. Now we see that it is not just a metaphor. Rather it has now materialized as an image. This zqūrō has literal texture and is meaningful in its systematic, hierarchical and chronological relations. As we saw in the analysis of his source research, Michael’s fundamental problem is how to represent past events in their temporality, changeability, complexity and systematic structure. His world-historical thought,

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i.e. his conception of the total structure of historical events, is conveyed artistically. The remaining traces indicate that the autograph of Michael’s chronicle most probably was a polychrome calligraphical manuscript capable of representing relations and meaning. As a professional scribe and inspired by the methodological possibilities of the chronological canon in Jacob of Edessa, he himself was up to the challenge of his invention, but not the copyists. The appropriate way of absorbing his ‘chronographic’ is not to read or even hear it rapidly and straight through, but to contemplate, browse through and study it meditatively. His target audience is the rational reader in search of knowledge, whom Michael constantly addresses. However, beyond knowledge that has been processed and conveyed as clearly as possible (‘clear’ is a favourite term of Michael’s), the reader is to learn even more: he is to ‘understand’ something. Michael makes this plain at the very outset by putting particular emphasis on the creation story131: … that every reader should understand profoundly, for if it is not profoundly studied and understood in the sense of the saints, what came to pass in the days thereafter will not be understood.132

Michael therefore aims at a synthesis of historical and religious understanding, which his entire work is meant to convey.

131 The Armenian reader appreciated Michael’s endeavours: ‘This book is like a useful and agreeable garden; it is full of deep thoughts, expressed in few words in a way that it presents us by way of a concise form all the events from the ancient ones to the recent’. Vardan-ʻĪšō version; Schmidt: 1998, 360-361. 132 The text is lacunose here: Michael, C 1 (I, 4). Chabot, note on Michael, C I, 4, no. 1. The chapters on source critical methods and graphical devices are represented unchanged from the original version. Younger books cited them, including the colour plates, without reference.

CHAPTER VI

ASPECTS OF HISTORICAL THOUGHT IN MICHAEL: COMPARISONS AND CONTEXTS 1. PATRIARCH MICHAEL AND PATRIARCH DIONYSIOS († 845): SUCCESSION OF THE CHURCH, THE END OF THE WORLD

ORIGIN AND

The second important teacher for Michael alongside Jacob of Edessa was Patriarch Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē († 845), to whom he refers as the ‘wise Dionysios’.1 Rudolf Abramowski called him the Syrian Thucydides.2 Abramowski’s original reconstruction of the work remains fundamental, some changes proposed by Palmer notwithstanding.3 Dionysios’ achievement consists in the breadth of his source studies, his extremely refined Syriac and the poetic and intellectual depth of his account. These aspects of his work have attracted scholarly attention in the past.4 For our purposes it is his formal innovation which is more significant. What we know about the form of his work comes from none other than Michael himself. Dionysios’ historical work was a two-part historical treatise, of which the first part contained an ecclesiastical history, the second a world history. Each section was divided into eight books, which in turn were divided into chapters with headings.5 Like Jacob 1 Michael, C 544 (III, 111). Theodor Nöldeke and François Nau refused to attribute to him the text today best referred to as the Chronicle of Zuqnin. On this chronicle, cf. Witakowski: 1987, who holds to the term ‘Pseudo-Dionysius’, cf. his new translation of the Chronicle of Zuqnīn. See the review by Kaufhold: 1998. Harrak: 1999. It is questionable whether Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 85-221 should have called his compilation of fragments from Michael, C, and the Chronicle to the year 1234 ‘Dionysius Reconstituted’. 2 Abramowski: 1948, 116. 3 Abramowski: 1948, 126. Cf. also his reflections on the reconstruction and form of the work, ibid. 21-28, cf. Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 102f. Hoyland: 1997, 418 corrects. 4 Hoyland: 1991; Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 85-89; Hoyland: 1997, 419. Safeguarding of fragments in Abramowski: 1948; Chabot: 1940 identifies another short passage; Altheim/Stiehl: 1973; but the passage in Michael, C 273-274 (II, 183-185) cannot derive from Dionysios. Hoyland: 1991, who corrected himself in the question of Dionysios’ source research: Hoyland: 1997, 416-419 and now attributes the Arabic sources to the Chronicle to the year 1234. Conrad: 1992; Hoyland: 2011, 11-13; Harrak: 2015. 5 Michael, C 544 (III, 111).

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(and probably Michael), Dionysios presented his methodological views in a preface, which again Michael knew at least in part. The aim of Dionysios’ preface was to clarify his intentions: Even though many wise men have written about earlier times from the beginning of the creation to the time of the devout king Constantine and gave information about the creation of the world, the design of the creation, the genealogical succession from Adam onwards, the calculation of its years, about the kings that ruled and [about] the duration of their rule, yet their writings are not called eqlēsiastiqos but kronograpes, i.e. ‘description of the times’, like those which Eusebius,6 Andronicus, Africanus and Annianus, George [Synkellos?]7 and John of Antioch [Malalas] produced. Finally, Eusebius Pamphilius wrote the eqlēsiastiqī, i.e. ‘ecclesiastical histories’. Eusebius was the first to begin, followed by Socrates and Sozomen8 and Theodoret, and Zacharias Rhetor9 and John of Asia, and after all these Cyrus, the priest of Batnae. And he also made another yūbōlō da-šnayō, I mean Jacob of Edessa, and John the Stylite from Litarba.10 On the other hand Daniel bar Mushe, from the Ṭūr ‘Abdīn, wrote histories which imitate the eqlēsiastiqi, as well as another one, who is called John bar Samuel, from the western region, and another one, who is called Theophilos as well as Theodosius, the Metropolitan of Edessa. Yet those whom we have now enumerated fashioned their histories summarized and as a segment, while they observed accuracy neither in the time nor in the sequence of events. … Therefore we continue the arrangement of the former and start where Cyrus of Batnae ends …11.

6 YWSYKS, read: Eusebius. Chabot read ‘Josephus’. This cannot be right. It must be’WSYBYWS, i.e Y from ’ and K from B. 7 Anonymous 1234, CP I, 26 (17) presents George, bishop of the Arabs (ord. 687-724: Michael, C 447ff (II, 474ff), as one of the older chronographers, and mentions him in the same breath as Eusebius, Andronicus and Jacob of Edessa. An otherwise unknown chronographer called George is George RGṬYA, named in *Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, who is mentioned in a series after Eusebius, Andronicus, Africanus and Annianus: Michael, C 378 (II, 358). These two series therefore agree except for the identification of George. Because the anonymous chronicler used Dionysios extensively, but hardly knew the old sources themselves, he or a copyist may have hypercorrected here. If this is true, the only candidate that really fits George in the anonymous chronicle is George Synkellos († 810); he wrote a chronicle in 284 CE, but also compiled other material which was processed by Theophanes. Cf. Lilie: 1998, 222. Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 95 supports this identification and proposes Rakkat as place of origin, i.e. George Ragṭōyō. 8 Ms. ZWSYMWS. 9 WLLY’, but MLY’ is certainly the superior reading, cf. Chabot’s note on Michael, C II, 358, no. 4. The reading of WL from M, as we observed above in another case, may be due to the peculiarities of Michael’s handwriting. 10 Ms: DBLYT RB. 11 Michael, C 378 (II, 358), that is: ‘wrote summarized histories dealing with limited periods’.

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His remark certainly does not mean that the historiography of his time was actually poor or anecdotal, nor that Dionysios necessarily thought it so. Andrew Palmer, who holds that he did, translates msaykō’īt wa-mpasqō’īt as ‘compartmentalized and fragmentary’.12 In my view, however, msaykō’īt cannot be rendered as ‘compartmentalized’. Dionysios seems simply to be referring here to brief summaries and chronologically delimited texts.13 Furthermore, Dionysios contrasted his work to those written in the vein of ecclesiastical histories — intending by this either actual church-historical works or historiographies. He did not have a term for the latter genre, but was concerned primarily with the similar narrative form. According to Hoyland, the (lost) work by the layman Theophilos was in fact a text best described as a historiography, or classicising history.14 There is also a comparative example for brief historiographies: Dionysios could mean writings resembling the so-called chronicle of Joshua the Stylite, to take one example. Susan Ashbrook Harvey has pointed to Joshua’s moral-theological, or rather his apocalyptic interpretative approach. On the other hand Watt has emphasized similarities to the classical historiographical tradition.15 His work therefore matches the description given by Dionysios. As regards the chronological disarray described by Dionysios, it may have served a purpose and need not imply a lack of quality. However, Dionysios does maintain that the precise sequence of events should be observed in the framework of larger universal chronicles. As ecclesiastical histories these texts are no good either. A text which includes a collection of ecclesiastical reports — as in Joshua and in Daniel bar Mushe — does not yet make an ecclesiastical history, because the universal approach is still lacking. In our discussion of the historiography of Syriac universal history we asked why the 8th and 9th centuries saw a sudden narrative expansion in chronography. The theory that Syriac Orthodox world chronography exploded under the influence of secular historiography, particularly the work of Theophilos of Edessa (the ‘Chalcedonian’), is not convincing.16 12

Palmer: 1993 (Syriac Chronicles), 92. Payne Smith: 1879-1901, 2553. I agree with Hoyland: 2011, 11: ‘… composed their narratives in a summary and fragmentary fashion …’ 14 On Theophilos, cf. Baumstark: 1922, 341f; Lilie: 1998, 217; Hoyland: 1997, 631671; Hoyland: 2011, 21-23; Conterno: 2014. 15 Joshua the Stylite, History. Harvey: 1988, 299-301; Watt: 1999. Cf. Palmer: 1990 (Joshua the Stylite); Harrak: 1999, 4-9 against Witakowski: 1996, xix-xxv. 16 Witakowski: 1987, 83-89; Hoyland: 1997, 408-409. 13

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This influence cannot be proved for the sources; nor is it consistent, as such a theory ought to be, with the manner in which Dionysios or Michael conceived of their own writing. In purely social historical terms the assumption is unhelpful, since the milieu in which the texts were produced was, in both cases, neither courtly nor secular-urban. It was not secular historiography — Dionysios has now concept of such a thing. Yet he did not in fact write a chronographical work, but a narrative historical account. And for him narrative history was ecclesiastical history. Here, moreover, influences and sources can be explicitly named, since he expressly wants to conform to this genre, and to continue the work of Cyrus of Batnae. As he correctly notes, the ecclesiastical history had dried up in the Syriac Orthodox tradition. This did not happen without reason, and when Dionysios took up this genre again, he had to invent a new formal concept. Eusebius’ concept of progressive sacralization through the apostolic succession in a Christian empire was no longer applicable, and Augustine’s Civitates were unknown.17 Clearly a history of the people as a history of the Church, as found in the Venerable Bede, was not possible.18 In relation to the structure of the account, Abramowski described the essential points. Dionysios starts in the year 582, shortly before the Muslim conquest. From the ashes of the empire destroyed by the Greeks themselves he sees a new empire rise up. He is aware that Muslim dominion does not create a paradise, and he describes the social problems. Yet he feels affiliated to this new empire. Apparently he had therefore come to terms with the fact that he was living in an empire that would never become Christian. In this way he brought about a decisive change in historical thought, a change that may partly explain why a continuation of Syriac Orthodox world-historical writing could take place at all. For his conception of church history, he had to introduce a change of horizon. The miaphysitic denomination, consisting of Armenians, Copts 17 Fürst: 1999, 299 remarks: ‘Within the framework of the intensive research into Augustine such questions [regarding reception in the East] are among the few that have been rarely focused on. For the Oriental churches nothing at all has been achieved in this regard …’ This also applies to historical thought. But so far there are no grounds for surmising such an influence, cf. also Fürst’s comments on the late Greek translations of Augustine, 303-307. Serious problems with this concept already occur in the later Greek church histories, cf. Leppin: 1996 (christliches Kaisertum), 260-272. Here and also in Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē we see that historiographical concepts also express hopes within the world, which have to be adjusted to the corresponding changes. 18 Cf. Goffart: 1988.

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and Syriac Orthodox, took centre stage. In his account, these denominations (as heirs to the early Christian patriarchs) and the Arabian caliphate (as heir to the Persian and Greek empires) took over from the old constellations as the decisive actors in world history. ‘The source of his [Dionysios’] strength lies in the consciousness of patriarchal succession and in the iron will to compromise with the caliphate.’19 Abramowski went so far as to see Dionysios as the designer of an ‘imperial ecclesiastical system’. But this overshoots the mark, as we shall see.20 The solution to the salvation-historical problem of ongoing Muslim rule — thinking in terms of an encounter between Orthodox patriarchate and the caliphate — was achieved in Dionysios’ shrewd division of ecclesiastical history into a church-historical and a secular-historical part. By means of this scheme he could once more comprehend the world in a historiographically homogeneous way. In my view, his work is the decisive formal impulse for the ‘developed chronicles’, even if the accounts of Pseudo-Zacharias and the Chronicle of Zuqnīn had already experimented with the symbiosis of church history and chronicle. The concept is taken up quite directly by the anonymous chronicler and by Bar ʻEbrōyō, and developed differently by each. The most important element that Michael took from Dionysios’ concept is the parallelization of an ecclesiastical and a secular account. But apart from the fact that Michael brought this parallelization to a synthesis on the page, he also struck out independently in his system by ‘ordering, separating and adding’. Jacob and Dionysios had also described events outside of the successions in church history. Michael now lifted these from the succession of the patriarchs.21 The result was the hitherto incomprehensible third column. As we can now recognize, this did not contain more or less superfluous reports which did not fit anywhere else.22 Rather it comprised events which Michael sorted out from ecclesiastical and secular history in order to achieve a clearer comparison of his successions. At the same time the ecclesiastical successions could be further differentiated and expanded in the third column, for instance to include the Latin patriarchs of Antioch and Jerusalem, the biblical prophets, and the development and sequence of heresies.

19

Abramowski: 1948, 121. Abramowski: 1948, 120. 21 E.g. Michael, C 597 (III, 34). Michael lifts the report on Ḥarrān from the ecclesiastical history. 22 Thus the characterization by Duval: 1907, 197 etc. 20

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The second formal element which Michael took up from Dionysios was ecclesiastical history as a narrative form. We have already seen that Michael’s chronicle is not a strict chronography. What distinguishes his work from a chronography — disruptions in the chronological canon, a wealth of material, detailed narratives across the full breadth of the page, division into chapters, and books with systematic headings — is nothing other than ecclesiastical history. It is amalgamated with the chronological canon. This means, however, that Michael’s chronicle is in fact more an ecclesiastical history from this perspective. And indeed, the many narrative flashbacks and flashforwards make it easy to follow dogmatic developments in his account. They are always found in the context of the oppositions from which they arose, the emperor’s church-political dealings, the synods and exchanges of letters and the negotiations. Michael not only presents fundamental sources, but, not least because he allows the sources to speak for themselves, also draws lively portraits of individual personalities in their conflicts over doctrine and sometimes in their fragility.23 Naturally Michael anathematizes developments which are heretical from the perspective of the Syriac Orthodox Church. But a particularly striking feature of this ecclesiastical history is the fact that its development is described, down to the elaboration of confessional formulas, as a historical process within the world. Again and again it is actually new challenges which elicit further dogmatic answers. In this way developmental phases within the Church’s history can be distinguished. Moreover, Michael compared the Church’s situation with the secular political picture.24 This contextualization is intended everywhere, even when Michael does not draw explicit conclusions, since this is the whole purpose of the synchronization. For his part, Michael’s own historical insights will have emerged from the overall view with which he aims to present the reader. Often it is not easy to decide whether Michael himself is speaking or whether he is citing Dionysios. In the same way a reading of Abramowski’s interpretation of Dionysios may give the impression that he is talking about Michael. Clearly they shared a similar approach. Within this affinity there are, nevertheless, some differences which reflect Michael’s specific way of thinking. In the first place Michael lengthens the history 23 Obviously this account is particularly rich for the time from which ecclesiastical histories were available as sources, i.e. Michael, C 94-478 (I, 152-III, 111). 24 Michael, C 606-609 (III, 221-226).

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of the Church retrogressively by means of his columnar system. From the available sources he produces his own version of church history since the incarnation. In his account the history of the patriarchs opposed to Chalcedon gradually and systematically develops as the only branch from the principal early Christian bishoprics. In Michael there is no ‘day one’ of the ‘monophysitic history of the Church’.25 Michael does not just trace this history back to the four late classical patriarchal sees before 451, but follows other series, including Edessa and Jerusalem. The latter was apparently more important for Michael than for Dionysios.26 In his account Jerusalem only loses its pre-eminent importance after siding with the decisions of Chalcedon under Bishop Juvenal in the 5th century.27 These episcopal successions lead back to the apostles — but then Michael goes even further back. Eusebius’ ecclesiastical history, it is true, highlighted how the preexistent Logos revealed itself to the prophets. He also showed that Christianity was not something ‘new’. But this was only by way of a short explanatory introduction to the real historical account, which begins with the incarnation.28 In Eusebius’ work ecclesiastical history was a history of the Church and of the apostolic succession, as in Dionysios and the Anonymous chronicle to the year 1234. In Michael it is extended backwards. This idea had already been present in the older chronographies in the successions of high priests. But to my knowledge it is developed here systematically for the first time. A universalization which seems similar at first sight is found in Michael’s contemporary Otto of Freising. But the differences between them are illuminating. In his summarizing review at the beginning of the eighth and last book, Otto argues: Cum enim civitas Christi seu regnum eius secundum presentem statum vel futurum ecclesia dicatur, aliter se modo, quamdiu bonos et malos in uno gremio fovere cernitur, habet, aliter tunc, cum solos bonos in superni sinus gloria servabit, habitura erit, aliter, antequam plenitudo gentium introiret, sub principibus gentium vivens, se habuit.29

25

Cf. Harvey, 1988, 297. Michael, C 768-769 (III, 492-495). 27 Identified as an excerpt from the ecclesiastical history of Pseudo-Zacharias Rhetor, HE: Michael, C 215ff (II, 88ff). 28 Eusebius, HE I, 5. 29 Otto von Freising, C, VIII, 390. 26

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The shift in interpretation between Otto and Michael resides in the central concepts of ecclesia versus ‘high priesthood’, and in Michael’s understanding of the time before the incarnation as a phase in which the high priests and the biblical patriarchs were legitimate bearers of the same priestly office. In his account the history of the patriarchs therefore develops historically from the history of the Jewish high priests, and the latter from the history of the biblical patriarchs. Michael calls all of them together rišaykōhnē; though the Jewish high priests, in Michael’s view, suffer a decline on account of their investment by Herod,30 he nevertheless has no doubts about their spiritual legitimacy. He also took the utmost care to produce a complete yūbōlō d-kohnē, as we indicated above. In this way, as he said, he compensated for Herod’s deed, who destroyed the sources in order to conceal the fact that he himself did not belong to this ‘honourable people’ of the Jews.31 Because Michael writes the history of the universal high priesthood, instead of the history of the apostolic succession or of the ecclesia, the moment when the Christian Church was born is necessarily just one of several transformations of the same phenomenon — if an important one. Jesus preached under the high priests Hannan and Caiaphas, offered himself as an expiatory sacrifice and thus ended sacrifice for ever. And then the first bishop James was chosen for Jerusalem. It happens almost imperceptibly.32 Instead of tracing Jesus’s lineage back along the tree of David,33 Michael not only emphasizes Jesus’ office as high priest,34 but also his descent from a Levitical family.35 A study of the theological ideas involved here and how they reached Michael would be worthwhile and important. However, our inquiry must confine itself to exploring the historical function of Michael’s account. Going back from the biblical patriarchs, Michael directly traces the historical origin of the priestly office to heaven. Not for nothing he points emphatically to the significance of his account of the earliest time.36 Here, with the aid of the heavenly hierarchy of Pseudo-Dionysios Areopagita and a work by John of Dara on the origin of the priestly 30

Michael, C 88a and 88c (I, 137). Michael, C 90 (I, 142). This does not mean that ‘the Jews’, like ‘the Greeks’, cannot feature as a disruptive factor in his account. 32 Michael, C 91 (I, 145). 33 Mt 1:1-17, Lk 2. 34 Heb 1:17-18; 4:14; 5:10; 7:9. 35 Michael, C 26 (I, 44). 36 Chabot did not take this view: ‘Ces passages sont d’ailleurs sans intérêt pour l’histoire.’ Chabot’s note on Michael, C I, 5, no. 6 etc. 31

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office, he justifies the divine institution of the office as God’s great gift to man, which allows him to remain in contact with God.37 Like Otto of Freising’s ecclesia, Michael’s priesthood is therefore a necessary function of universal salvation-historical thought. From the outset history must demonstrably contain the seed of salvation in the world. Yet we should mark the peculiarity of Michael’s concept: he writes about the high priests, and his thought does not have a dualistic character. But note that the ‘kings of the earth’,38 whose history will be discussed in the next section, do not possess nearly the same legitimacy as the high priests. Obviously for this reason alone Jesus does not belong in their succession. In his last chapter Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē talked about the end of the world. He was old, and thought doomsday imminent. Portents were multiplying, and he suddenly feared that he had failed.39 In this chapter we see an abrupt change in style and in the writer’s attitude to all that has gone before. His vision of an imminent apocalypse must truly be a turning-point: Dionysios, the cosmopolitan, who talked elegantly and cleverly about the ways of the world, power and himself, all at once betrays profound doubts about himself, and desparately misses God in the world. Everything was in decline: The crops of the poor were ruined by the Iyadōyē and the prefects, and there was no helper and no king who opened his door. And what is particularly bitter: God averted his face. And when we cry out, he does not hear us, for we have angered him with evil deeds.40

Michael liked this passage: ‘At the end of his chronicle, which he wrote at the end of his days, he wrote convincing words, a mixture of remorse and admonition as follows …’41 He thus indicates what he appreciated about these closing words: the ability to mourn, the candid examination of one’s own achievement and the religious words of encouragement — but not the eschatological speculations. Again and again Michael describes apocalyptic messianism, which is not necessarily the hope of a speedy victory, but is sometimes connected with a feeling of loneliness and forlornness. Apparently these feelings were a cyclically recurrent element of Syriac Orthodox history. He himself 37

Michael, C 7f (I, 14f), after John of Dara. Michael, C 620 (III, 244) etc. 39 Michael, C 538-543 (III, 104-111). 40 Michael, C 541 (III, 108). 41 Michael, C 538 (III, 104). I assume that ‘at the end of his days’ refers to the completion of the entire chronicle, since this also is alluded to in Dionysios’ preface: Michael, C 378 (III, 357). 38

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seems to have been aware of these cycles. But Michael’s own historical thought seems not to have been infected by apocalyptic angst.42 This becomes particularly clear in book XIV on the origins and customs of the Turks. They are identified with the peoples of Gog and Magog.43 Michael also tells the story of Alexander, who locked them up behind the great gates in the Far East, whence they would one day come.44 But now they are here and one can talk sensibly with them, find out about their religion and customs, think about the nature of their faith. Michael came to the conclusion that the Turks were monotheists who did not yet realise the fact. Assimilated to Arabian culture, they become in his work a normal historical factor, as such requiring appropriate critical respect. Michael criticizes Ignatius of Melitene for not taking this consideration into account.45 Historically, the apocalyptic motifs explain only the origin of the Turks and the reason for their foreignness. They no longer say anything about eschatology.46 For Otto of Freising the entire course of history is tied into a precise apocalyptic timetable. Talking about the nature of the future end is already part of his historical account.47 The end is also present in Michael, because it is a necessary component of this kind of Christian thought. The consciousness that this world is finite does not leave him for one moment. In his chronicle he cries out to his companions apropos of an earthquake which occurred in 1170: ‘But if this earthquake already creates every horror, who shall endure the great day of the coming judgement?’48 He is familiar with different apocalyptic motifs, which is not surprising in view of the widespread apocalyptic literature of the early Islamic period. Besides the motifs already mentioned, he knows Daniel’s doctrine of kingdoms, and the theory of the termination of world time in the 7th millennium.49 He himself is living in this 7th millennium, but he refuses to 42

Thus Harvey: 1988, 306. Ezek 38:2 or Rev 20:8. 44 On this complex of motives, cf. Prester John: 1996 as well as Reinink’s introduction to his edition and translation of Pseudo-Methodius. 45 Michael, C 544-5 (III, 112). 46 Michael, C 566-571 (III, 149-157), thus Suermann: 1992. The same applies to his understanding of the information content of the plerophoria, cf. Harvey: 1988, 307. 47 Otto von Freising, VIII. 48 Michael, C 695 (III, 337); Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 339 (Budge 296). 49 Doctrine of four kingdoms: Michael, C 62 (I, 100), which does not provide explanations about the topical significance of the system. On the 7th millennium, cf. the research on the apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius and on the Edessan Pseudo-Methodius in Reinink’s introduction; moreover Brock: 1993, on Michael’s reception of PseudoMethodius, also Witakowski: 1993. Cf. Harvey: 1988, 298ff. On the different forms of world ages, which are always apocalyptic tropes, cf. Schmidt: 1928. 43

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deduce any certain answers regarding the future, writing at the year 6000 of world time: We know and believe that 6000 years have been completed and that this transitory world will end — but we do not understand when. We wait for God, who alone knows everything that existed before it came into being and what will come.50

One of the purposes of the formula, used so often in his work, of the almighty, freely acting God, is therefore to prevent any apocalyptic restriction of the historical process. Michael’s reluctance to talk about the end of time is first and foremost a theological decision, but — as in Eusebius — it has profound consequences for Michael’s historical thought. For it constantly leads him back to contemplate what actually happens in the world. At the same time, for Michael, the narrative and theological sublimation of events into a coherent historical plot is by no means not yet, but rather no longer possible. We will look more closely at this state of affairs in the next section. The strange ending of his work, that is, its lack of an ending, turns out to be a historical statement: only the beginning of the historical process is definable for Michael; future events are undetermined. Michael merely took up the threads of prehistory and inserted the recollections of those who lived before him — memoria/dukrōnō as a spiritual bond over time is always present51 — searching for material … so that this fabric is not reduced, but is woven as from its beginning to the end of our life, so that those concerned with it can build in the same way on this foundation, each in his time, to the end of this temporal and changeable world.52

2. PATRIARCH MICHAEL AND MAPHRIAN BAR ʻEBRŌYŌ († 1286): SUCCESSION AND ORIGIN OF THE EMPIRES

The person who continued Michael’s chronicle ‘in his time’ was a hundred years younger. He was also the last Syriac Orthodox universal historian of the pre-modern era. Ludger Bernhard and others grant that Maphrian Mōr Gregorios Abū-l-Faraǧ, called Bar ʻEbrōyō (1226-1286),53 50

Michael, C 264-265 (II, 168). Michael, C 249 (II, 142), 258 (II, 157), 295 (II, 220), 376 (II, 354), 402 (II, 399), 575 (III, 164) etc. 52 Michael, C 544-5 (III, 112). 53 We cannot do justice to Bar ʻEbrōyō here. We refer the reader to the Bar ʻEbrōyō bibliographies of Fiey: 1988; Teule: 1997; Takahashi: 2005. On the chronicle, cf. Todt: 51

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condensed Michael’s chronistic structure and wrote with greater narrative competence. His work is seen as more modern, more rational, because it cast off the chronistic character, dispensed with the ‘tables’ and the miracle narratives and was heading towards ‘real’ universal historiography.54 Here we detect the continuing influence of Theodor Nöldeke’s authority, for whom Bar ʻEbrōyō was one of the very few Syriac Orthodox authors to be taken seriously. In Nöldeke’s view, Bar ʻEbrōyō was not a Syrian, and this is why, at least incipiently, he could think in an objective way.55 We are not seeking to overturn this appraisal here: that would be to miss the point. In any case, Bar ʻEbrōyō’s theological and philosophical achievements are not at issue here; we are concerned only with his Syriac world chronicle. For that matter, a more recent contribution by Hambye shows that Bar ʻEbrōyō’s historiography can be described in the same vocabulary with which we are familiar from our examination of Michael.56 The summary by his translator, William Budge, shows very explicitly how similar the starting position of the meta-historiographical outlook is in both cases: He [Bar ʻEbrōyō] deals with histories, religions, languages, the manners and customs of peoples; and adds biographies of great warriors and physicians; he describes battles and sieges and the capture of cities; and the coming of comets and extraordinary appearances in the heavens; and earthquakes, famines, falls of snow, and the freezing over of the Tigris and Euphrates; and the prices of foodstuffs in times of famine and scarcity. He also reports Court scandals, and repeats gossip of all kinds, and tells ‘laughable stories’ (many of which are extremely Oriental in character) … .57

The term ‘Oriental’ here is a modern topos which says nothing meaningful about the relationship between Western and Eastern Christian universal historiography. In fact the shared features are surprisingly salient. We find an abundance of the elements enumarated by Budge in the work of Gregory of Tours (c. 540-594), for instance, or Liutprand of Cremona (c. 920-c. 972).58

1988, who presents a comparison between the Syriac and Arabic versions of the chronicle, Conrad: 1994; Aigle: 2005, 3-31; Actes du Colloque Barhebraeus: 2008; Débie: 2015. 54 Bernhard: 1969 (Universalgeschichtsschreibung des christlichen Orients), 124; cf. Baumstark: 1922, 312-320. 55 Nöldeke: 1892, 253-273. Nöldeke assumed that Bar ʻEbrōyō was the son of a Jew. This has long been refuted, cf. Teule: 1997; Lane: 1999, 20; Fathi-Chelhod, 2001. 56 Hambye: 1990. 57 Budge in his introduction to his translation of Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP, v-vi. 58 Liutprand of Cremona; Gregory of Tours; cf. Goffart: 1988; Heinzelmann: 1994.

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Bar ʻEbrōyō’s interest in the highly comical, surprising indeed for a church hierarch, is confirmed by a collection of ‘laughable stories’.59 It seems almost disrespectful here to refer to this small collection rather than to his political- and moral-philosophical statements.60 For this small volume Bar ʻEbrōyō adapted stories of Arabic-Muslim origin for a Syriac Orthodox circle of readers.61 However, because Bar ʻEbrōyō was such a well-educated thinker, we are entitled to expect that the role which humour plays in his thought is not unintentional or without design. This collection reveals a characteristic feature of his chronicle, which more than all the other formal innovations distinguishes it from its predecessors: his historiography is conspicuous for its many descriptions which provoke laughter, and convey self-irony as well as wise equanimity.62 Certainly this can also be ascribed to the influence of his Arabic and Persian sources.63 But it is signficant in itself that Bar ʻEbrōyō — who even told light-hearted stories on his deathbed, in order to cheer up his weeping monks — uniquely made humour an integral and productive component of Syriac universal historiography.64 Here we must limit our discussion to the fact that Bar ʻEbrōyō took Michael’s chronicle as his starting-point and changed the latter’s system. We cannot do justice to Bar ʻEbrōyō’s own historiographical concept here, but his changes do help to reveal additional aspects of Michael’s chronicle. In contrast to the historical works discussed so far, Bar ʻEbrōyō’s chronicle survives in several, in some cases early, manuscripts. 59

Bar ʻEbrōyō, Laughable stories. See Teule: 1999, also for more recent editions and translations of the works. 61 They almost all derive from Abū Sa‛d Manṣūr b. al-Ḥusayn al-Ābī (died c. 417/1030), see Marzolph: 1985; id. 1992, esp. 236-237. 62 They are found everywhere, cf. e.g. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ. 659-661 (660-662). See also Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or., CE occ. (Wilmshurst). 63 Cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 369 (320). Teule: 1996. See also Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP (Talon). 64 Continuation of Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. by his brother, Bar Ṣawmō: 471 (472). Nothing like this would have been told about Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, cf. the last section of this chapter. On the laughable stories, cf. the remarks by Budge, who after discussing the ‘higher’, ironic and critical, passages in the collection, is just as helpless in the face of the rest as his Eastern copyist: ‘More than twenty of the stories deal with matters which are not generally discussed or mentioned in books which are intended for popular reading among western nations. Some of these refer to the physical relations of men and women, and others are decidedly “coarse”. The scribe who wrote the India Office manuscript, which I used in preparing my edition of the “Laughable Stories”, seems to have realized that not all of the them were profitable or suitable for all readers. By the side of some of these he wrote on the margin the word shewar, i.e. “skip”, and by the side of others he wrote ḳrī, i.e. “read”’, Budge’s Introduction to Bar ʻEbrōyō, Laughable Stories, li-lii. 60

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These manuscripts do not always contain all three parts of the chronicle. The connection between the individual sections had apparently become looser; they were and are read independently of one another.65 So was it a collection of independent parts, or truly a chronicon tripartitum? In his preface Bar ʻEbrōyō announces his intention to write a chronography conceived in three parts. He links his work to the ‘blessed sōbō’ Michael, who also wrote a large three-part chronicle.66 The first part deals with wordly dominion from the creation onwards. Bar ʻEbrōyō sees the second part as ‘ecclesiastical history’/‘eqlēsiasṭiqī’, though apparently, like the anonymous chronicler to the year 1234, no longer in its traditional form. Compared with the latter, Bar ʻEbrōyō’s ecclesiastical history shows greater formal rigour and a more traditional focus on the highest office. Yet its design is much simpler. Bar ʻEbrōyō attached little value to the synchronistic structure we found to be typical of this genre. Rather, he simply enumerated the individual patriarchs in sequential order. This technique recalls that described by Peter Nagel for the Apostolic Church of the East; its meta-historiographical foundation cannot be pursued here.67 Compared with the historiographers discussed so far, Bar ʻEbrōyō’s preface gives an impression of indifference: John of Asia, Eusebius’ chronicle, Zacharias Rhetor are all the same to him. He probably does not know them firsthand; and as far as he does know them, he does not consider them special. In his view, Michael’s early sources are all ‘chronicles which had become old and well-worn’. He did his historiographical reading in Azerbaijan in the library of Marāġā; here he collected Syriac, Arabic and Persian sources, which he added to Michael’s material.68 The reception process can therefore be described as follows. Bar ʻEbrōyō does not belong directly to the formal tradition of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē’s ecclesiastical history, but develops this tripartite form from Michael’s chronicle. He shifts Michael’s column of church history into his own church history, the column of world history into his world 65

Cf. Brock: 1979, 19; Baumstark: 1922, 318, no. 6. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 2 (Budge 1-2). 67 Cf. Nagel: 1991, earlier in his monograph Degen: 1968. 68 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 2 (Budge 1-2). Cf. Bowman/Jones: 1967/8, 39. This active collecting of sources undermines the persuasiveness of Teule’s interpretative technique. He traces back the profile of Bar ʻEbrōyō’s works to the corpus of sources, cf. Teule 1996; 1999. This gains nothing: it fails to answer the question why certain sources were selected. On his sources see also Borbone: 2009. 66

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history. He dispenses with the canon, with the book and chapter headings, and also largely with the miscellaneous reports in the third column. Ancient Eastern and early Christian history up to the Islamic conquest is drastically cut. In the first few pages of his world chronicle he seems, like Michael, to lay the spiritual foundations for the subsequent account, though striking out on completely new paths.69 Besides the East-Syriac historical tradition mentioned above, Bar ʻEbrōyō’s genealogical structure may also reflect a rubrication or a consecutive numbering in Michael’s chronicle, for whose presence there we argued above. Though Bar ʻEbrōyō conceived his chronicle as tripartite, he did not, unlike Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, provide an interconnecting structure for his three parts. This looser arrangement seems intentional. In the first place he dispenses with Michael’s spiritual derivation of the priestly office, and only starts in history with Aaron as the first high priest. The world-embracing concept of Church, so decisive for the two patriarchs Dionysios and Michael, is now only formally retained by some short lists of the apostolic succession.70 But then the author remarks: ‘Because our eastern lands are subject to the jurisdiction of the see of Antioch, we specially order its succession in this series ….’71 Bar ʻEbrōyō refrains from describing unity and division in the Church. What is more, Michael’s and Dionysios’ claim to the primacy of Antioch’s patriarchate in the Syriac Orthodox Church seems to be retrospectively undermined here. Bar ʻEbrōyō intimates it so artlessly that it seems to go without saying: ‘And I have also conceived this second [church-historical] part as two sections, the first section on the western high priesthood in Antioch and the second section on this eastern one of ours.’72 In reality, however, we are dealing with an innovation: Bar ʻEbrōyō’s account, distinguishing the maphrianate from the patricarchal context as the Eastern metropolis, makes it historically autonomous. He thus openly goes against Michael and his tradition.73 To achieve this historical autonomy, he determines a new, independent origin, starting his apostolic series with ‘Apostle Thomas, the first Eastern high priest’.74 Thomas, like the names Adday, Aggay and Mari, is inextricably linked with Edessa, 69

Cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 5-7 (Budge 5-7) ff. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 35-39 (36-40). 71 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 39 (40). 72 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 2 (Budge 2). 73 Michael, C 411-413 (II, 413-417), on Bar ʻEbrōyō’s self-confidence, cf. Kawerau: 1960, 8. 74 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. 3 (4). 70

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the blessed city, which Bar ʻEbrōyō claims here for the maphrianate as part of its original apostolic heritage.75 This is an important step, since Edessa is seen as the cradle of the Syriac language.76 Yet when Bar ʻEbrōyō claims Edessa for the maphrianate, it becomes the properly Syrian metropole in the sense of being culturally and ethnically representative.77 But what is then left for Antioch? Bar ʻEbrōyō’s series of maphrians incorporates the history of both the Armenian and the Nestorian catholicoi. This too is a novelty in Syriac Orthodox ecclesiastical historiography. Michael had done some groundwork in his collection of material on the maphrians, his information about the Armenian Church and his succession of the catholicoi of the Church of the East. Yet these are marginal to his work.78 Bar ʻEbrōyō now reverses this implicit valuation, and in turn pushes the patriarchate of Antioch to one side. In his view, Seleucia-Ctesiphon, Baghad, Mossul and Tagrit are the principal cities. His Eastern ecclesiastical history becomes virtually an ecumenical church history of a region, instead of a history of Orthodoxy in the world, as in Michael. This ecumenical rapprochement with the catholicate of the Church of the East was so successful in church-political reality, too, that on the occasion of Bar ʻEbrōyō’s death the catholicos Yab-Allāhā III (1281-1317) closed the bazaar and arranged an extraordinary funeral, in which all denominations and languages took part.79 One wonders whether Michael would have agreed with this continuation of his work and with Bar ʻEbrōyō’s church politics. But what we know of Syriac Orthodox historiographers shows that they were not averse to change, criticism and new developments. Nor can it be denied that Bar ʻEbrōyō’s chronicle reflected his models in that it faithfully represented the Syriac Orthodox experiences, and the important centres of events, of the 13th century. Michael’s world no longer existed; many

75 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. 11 (12)-21 (22). On Edessa, cf. Drijvers: 1982; Devos: 1967; Desreumaux: 1983; on Thomas, cf. Mimouni: 1991. Michael’s attitude to Edessa will be examined more closely in the next section. 76 Michael, C 522-524 (III, 76-78), again Michael, C 748-751 (III, 442-447), Chronicle to the year 1234, CP I, 112-114 (88-90). 77 He ascribes the foundation of Edessa to Enoch, whom he identifies with Hermes Trismegistus, and who invented not only the art of writing but also astronomy and the system of law. None of this is found in Michael. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 5 (Budge 5). 78 On Michael on the Church of the East, van Ginkel: 2008. 79 Continuation of Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. by his brother Bar Ṣawmō, 473-475 (474-476). On Bar ʻEbrōyō’s ecumenical thought, see Hage: 1991; Teule: 1999; Pinggéra: 2000. On the catholicos of Mongolian origin, cf. Fiey: 1988.

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ancient cities were lain waste; the dioceses around Melitene had been destroyed. And Bar ʻEbrōyō had long since finished with the West.80 But it was not this highly original development of universal Orthodox church history into the ecclesiastical history of the East which seemed ingenious to modern interpreters. The secular history suggested to Ludger Bernhard that Bar ʻEbrōyō was moving towards a real universalhistorical theory — which, being in Bernhard’s view unthinkable without a positive idea of the State, had never been achievable by the Syrians.81 Enthusiasm for a positive idea of the State as the theoretical centre of universal-historical thought is probably no longer shared;82 meanwhile Bar ʻEbrōyō’s division interests us as well. This world history is divided into 11 major sections, which are called yūbōlē: Yūbōlō/Series

Content

Chapter Reference

*

Aim and arrangement of the Chronicon tripartitum

1-2/1-2

I

Adam to Moses

-

3-14/3-13

II

Patriarchs to judges

-

15-17/15-17

III

Judges to kings of the Jews

-

17-27/19-27

IV

Kings of the Jews to kings of the Chal- deans

27-28/29-30

V

Kings of the Chaldeans

29/31

VI

Kings of the Medes to kings of the Per- sians

29-35/33-38

VII

Kings of the Persians to pagan kings of the Greeks

35-45/39-46

VIII

Kings of the pagan Greeks to kings of the Romans

45-86/47-80

IX

Kings of the Romans to kings of the instructed (converted) Greeks

86-95/81-87

X

Kings of the Greeks to kings of the 18 Arabs

95-506/89-431

XI

Kings of the Arabs to kings of the Huns 7

506-599/433-509

-

80 Bar ʻEbrōyō was angered not to have been consulted on the election of Patriarch Philoxenus (1283-1292), as was his right. He reacted to accusations in this letter, which was meant to make it clear that he was satisfied in the East and by no means claimed the patriarchate himself. He was irritated only by the breach of law. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE or. 459 (460). 81 Mensch und Weltgeschichte: 1969, discussion of Bernhard’s paper, 131. Cf. among others Brock: 1979, 19. 82 On this issue, see the debates as a whole in Mensch und Weltgeschichte: 1969.

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There is no division based on content. Rather the work is constructed on a strictly chronological basis. Within the books there is, moreover, a genealogical division: ‘Then Enoch, his son’, ‘then Shem, his son’, etc. These yūbōlē are simply what we referred to as Michael’s ‘leading dynasties’, and Bar ʻEbrōyō consistently identifies those which, for Michael too, dominate the course of history. Thus Bar ʻEbrōyō’s choices highlight the historical-political division of Michael’s chronicle, which hitherto has been overlooked. Each change of yūbōlō in Bar ʻEbrōyō, in fact, is recorded as a historically significant turning-point in Michael. It is often accompanied by comparative calculations and summarizing reflections on the world time that has passed since Adam, and is graphically converted in the canon.83 Finally, as we saw above, Bar ʻEbrōyō’s 10th yūbōlō is further subdivided in Michael, who lived through this time. Bar ʻEbrōyō has therefore simply extracted his yūbōlō division from the yūbōlō d-malkē, the succession of kings in Michael. Despite all the correspondences — which are also present in terms of content, since some of Michael’s formulations have been adopted verbatim — a decisive change has taken place. For although Michael saw and described exactly the same phases, he did not divide his worldhistorical overview accordingly. In his work there are almost always at least two dynasties which share world dominion in the yūbōlō d-malkē, while other dynasties play a background role. This view develops from, among other things, the chronological canon, for which the experience of parallel dominion is a precondition. But this has historical-theoretical consequences. Ludger Bernhard described the change of empires in Bar ʻEbrōyō as translatio imperii. He thus took up Bar ʻEbrōyō’s terminology, in which the yūbōlō ‘changes’ or ‘goes over’ from one king to the next. Yet he used an unfortunate term. In Bar ʻEbrōyō it is precisely not the one Roman Empire that continues while changing, will be the last empire on earth and often makes expectation of the imminent end plausible. 83 Cf. the transition from the biblical time of the patriarchs to the time of the judges: Michael, C 27 (I, 49) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 15 (Budge 15); judges to kings: Michael, C 34 (I, 58) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 17 (Budge 19); kings to Assyrians — structured somewhat differently — Michael, C 47-52 (I, 83-84) (cf. Nebuchadnezzar in the miscellaneous column) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 27 (Budge 29); Assyrians to Medes (Darius) to Persians, Michael, C 63-64 (I, 101-104) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 29 (Budge 31-33); Persians to Alexander/Ptolemies, Michael, C 72 (I, 113-114) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 35 (Budge 39); Ptolemies to Romans, Michael, C 87 (I, 137) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 45 (Budge 47), Romans to Byzantium, still clearly recognizable in Michael despite lacunae, Michael, C 353 (II, 316) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 87 (Budge 81); Byzantium, Michael, C 403 (II, 400) and 408 (II, 408) and Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 95 (Budge 89).

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Because the Roman Empire is not the basis, the historical sequence of secular empires noticeably lacks schematic order in Bar ʻEbrōyō. It also seems as if Bar ʻEbrōyō’s account can be compared with what Alfred Heuss called the ‘Hegelian relay’:84 cultural and historical significance is transferred from one empire to the next, while those left behind sink into darkness. Heuss describes this concept as outdated,85 but this may have been the pattern by which modern scholars read Bar ʻEbrōyō’s chronicle and part of the reason why it seemed so attractive to European readers. Yet such an interpretation grossly misrepresents Bar ʻEbrōyō: he does not attach metaphysical significance to this relay; it just happens.86 The reason for the reduction of his Vorlage to a single succession of empires lies rather in his specific outlook: Bar ʻEbrōyō consciously focuses his account on the Middle East, since that is the geographical area in which his church-historical interest lies. His chronicle is not, of course, thereby devalued. The interaction of secular chronicle and Eastern church history constitutes an innovative departure towards a regional historiography of culture which aims to include all levels of human life and all social groups, and can thus be considered universal in a different way. For Michael, by contrast, the variety and the simultaneity of secular empires forms the historiographical problem. With the help of the canon, the yūbōlō d-malkō and the miscellaneous column, he condenses this variety and orders the secular empires hierarchically according to worldpolitical significance. In his work, too, the succession of empires is not part of some metaphysical plan, especially since neither the Hebrew, for example, nor the Persian, nor the Byzantine empire truly comes to an end with the change to the Chaldean, the Greek or the Arab empire, but continues to exist in the yūbōlō d-malkē until its actual demise.87 In particular the Byzantine emperors remained the most important leading dynasty into Michael’s own time, in relation to which the synchronizations are realized with the ‘calendar of the Greeks’ (i.e. the Seleucid calendar). 84

Heuss: 1976, 6. Ibid. 86 Thus Bernhard in the debate on his lecture in Mensch und Weltgeschichte: 1969, 132. Bernhard clearly did not realize that his observation contradicted his own interpretation of the work. Cf. the appraisal of the differences between Bar ʻEbrōyō and Armenian historiographers with regard to the Mongol conquest, Lane: 1999, 1-3. 87 The destruction of Jerusalem with the definitive end of the Hebrew empire, Michael, C 100-102 (I, 161-168). End of the Persian empire strongly marked by the death of Yezdegerd, Michael, C 418 (II, 424). 85

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His periodizations are therefore predicated on the greatest possible synchronic and diachronic differentiation: instead of a single day, X, of destruction and ascendancy, as in Bar ʻEbrōyō, in Michael the ancient ‘Greek empire’, say, branches off into the Diadochi empires, which come to an end at different times, and so on and so forth.88 We saw that Michael rejected the use of apocalyptic motifs to establish the future. At the same time his account ruled out the application of such metaphors of temporal progression, whether imperial or epochal doctrines, because the successions of kings do not follow a unified rhythm. Again, one has to say that he was by no means prepared not yet but rather no longer to find this unified rhythm in the historical development, for he was familiar with these metaphors.89 The successions of kings correspond to the parallel variety of successions of priests, but with one significant difference: in contrast to the existence of the priesthood, the existence of empires is founded only within the world. In Michael’s view, they are the consequence of a second and third ‘Fall’, which differs from that of Adam and Eve in that it took place in the social life of people in the world. From various sources90 he obtains the beginning of man’s disunity, the coronation of a first king, who is followed by the second, and therefore the establishment of two empires.91 Division and dissension are inherent in the system; the result is unavoidable: God permitted them to fall into horrible wars and they were killed in their thousands and myriads, such that the earth on which their battles took place was sullied by their blood. Their bones were piled up into great mounds on account of their large quantity. After this — or because of this — the Flood occurred in the 6th month, on the 27th day.92

88

Michael, C 72-93 (I, 113-151). We also see a breaking up of simple metaphors of temporal progression in the account of Otto of Freising, who shows among their major phases a multitude of ramifications, forks, simultaneities, although, limited by the linear text, he shows them much less than Michael. However, cf. the graphic representation of Otto’s work in Goetz: 1991, Figure 5, Schematic survey of Otto of Freising’s conception of history, 258, again in Goetz: 1999, 191. There is particular significance for the interpretation of Michael’s chronicle in the change from the Byzantine to the Arab empire, which is described as a divine punishment. This certainly bears the mark of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē’s influence, see also Michael, C 410 (III, 412-413). Yet all the empires need to be incorporated in the discussion. 90 They are unclear, especially because (several) steps of mediation need to be taken into account, cf. the statements in Michael, C 1-17 (I, 3-32). 91 Michael, C 2-3 (I, 5). 92 Michael, C 5 (I, 10). 89

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Warned by this experience, Noah gave his sons fixed places with the threat of malediction, aiming to avoid conflict in the future.93 However, limits were soon overstepped,94 and the Tower of Babylon was built. The next stage is the invention of weapons, whose art of manufacture soon spread.95 War and man’s disunity becomes the theme which Michael will elaborate in his history to the very end, variating across the modes of world history, ecclesiastical history and local history. Greeks, Persians, Arabs, Turks, crusaders, patriarchs, bishops, congregations — all dance to the same tune. To secure dominions, to revolt against these, to fall, to rise, to create new dominions, to form new groups, to battle against each other: according to Michael, that is the striking characteristic of this world. As we saw, it is a reality that sometimes filled him with grief.96 Again one is unexpectedly reminded of Otto of Freising, and again the comparison shows Michael’s singularity. Otto writes: Civitas perversa triplex eque status invenitur, quorum primus ante gratiam, secundus tempore gratiae fuit et est, tercius post presentem vitam erit. Primus miser, secundus miserior, tercius miserrimus.97

Michael’s conception of history does not distinguish a civitas perversa. The contrast he draws between the ‘kings of the world’ and the churches implies a different kind of separation. Nor is the earth a vale of tears. We see in history, as the third column demonstrates, the development of writing, of cities and the sciences. But, like the Bishop of Freising, Michael found that the main characteristic of the world is its mutability. As a world-historical description, he takes this conclusion to extremes unknown in the medieval West. In Michael the divine offer of reconciliation is only passed on in the succession of high priests, and it is only this act which lends a certain continuity and regularity to the course of history. As we indicated before, the overall structure of his work, as expressed by the book division, does not seem to be quite so random as it appears at first sight. In the first place it reveals remnants of older epochal divisions.98 Secondly, however, these seem to have been overlaid 93

Michael, C 7-8 (I, 16). Michael, C 9f (I, 9f). 95 Michael, C 11 (I, 22). 96 Michael, C 733 (III, 402), 737 (III, 407). 97 Otto of Freising, C, VIII, 391. 98 Schmidt: 1928, 301-305. We will not discuss his derivation from commentaries and speculations here, but he refers to e.g. the following eras: Adam-Noah-Abraham-Davidexile; Adam-Noah-Abraham-Moses-birth and passion of Christ; also Adam-flood94

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with a plan of periodization designed according to fundamental breaks in church history.99 The resulting rhythm represents phases which followed from Michael’s historical outlook, and which should be understood within his overall view of world history and church history. Like Dionysios and Bar ʻEbrōyō, Michael’s account deals with a specifically Eastern-Christian experience of secular rule. Where was the salvific plan here? Michael’s response to the experience of how variously power was exercised and boundaries shifted in the world, an experience which he faced up to and tried to control chronographically,100 centres on the autarchy of the priestly office as immanent component of the creation and of universal history. At the same time this autarchy stood for his own church-political platform. In this respect he took a different road from Dionysios and Bar ʻEbrōyō, who were more prepared to orientate themselves to the caliphate or the khanate as a guarantee of stability, and seem to have seen secular power as a second historical mainstay.101 3. QUERELLES D’HISTOIRE — MICHAEL’S

CONCEPTION OF HISTORY AS

WORK ON AND IN REALITY

In Michael’s world … there is no intellectually critical position on secular things, and thus this great work stays completely in the established framework of medieval historiography, which in the truest sense of the word is a contemplation and does not offer critical judgements.102 Abraham-Moses-1st temple-2nd temple-Christ, after Eusebius C, 14-17, who certainly exercised the most influence here. 99 In the first two books the division is disordered, book III begins with the succession of patriarchs, in book IV this leads into the succession of high priests, book V starts with the high priests of the post-exilic period, book VI with the apostles, book VII with Silvester’s pontificate and the conversion of Constantine, book VIII revolves around the Council of Chalcedon, book IX starts with the exiled Oriental patriarchs’ hope of reformation under Leo I (457-474), book X begins with the dramatic church-political developments of the 6th century and concludes with the successful union of the dissident patriarchates of Antioch and Alexandria, book XI begins with the henoticon and concludes with the end of the systematic account of the Chalcedonian patriarchates, book XII begins with a repercussive conflict about the Eucharist under Cyriacus and ends with the patriarchate of Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē and his reform. 100 Harvey: 1988, 306-308. 101 In my view, however, neither Michael nor Bar ʻEbrōyō show signs of cherishing a dream of ‘national independence’. Such views are anachronistic: Fiey: 1974. Certainly one can agree that Michael, Bar ʻEbrōyō and Dionysios did not abandon this world, and hoped that compromises were possible. 102 Lüders: 1966, 12. On writing history in the 11th to 13th century, see van Ginkel: 2010; on Syriac historiography of the Crusades see Moosa: 2003.

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We have already seen that Anneliese Lüders’s appraisal needs to be revised, but in proceeding to the next stage of our inquiry and illustrating other aspects of Michael’s chronicle, it is appropriate to re-emphasize the importance of remaining sensitive to the contemporary context. In the multireligious and multicultural world of the 12th century in the Near East, contacts between the many different groups led to religious disputations, but often also to conflict, as we saw in Antioch in Michael’s day, and occasionally to violence. Besides the disputes of 1141, those of the 1170s, or the encounter between Michael and Qilij Arslān II, social tensions could provoke banal conflicts which must have been part of everyday life. As long as people in a closed group can believe in their religious mission, they will hardly be shaken from their existential certainty, as we know well enough from fanatical movements and traditional enmities. But in the Near East in the 12th century the population was always mixed: people met their opponents while strolling through the suq, in the church, in the mosque, or in the synagogue. This plural religious reality is well known. However, it is interesting to note that religious disputes were connected to the formation of historical identity. Some banal examples may illustrate this connection between religion and constructions of history. Sayf ad-Dīn told Michael that it was God who placed the Syrians under Islamic rule.103 The patriarch could not deny this, but both as a theologian and as a Syrian Christian he could not avoid at least quietly thinking about the hypothesis. The sudden deaths of Theodoros bar Wahbūn and Catholicos Gregory in 1193 were seen by the anonymous chronicler and Michael as a just punishment, and according to Bar ʻEbrōyō had a similar effect on the Armenian Prince Leo.104 On the other hand, in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō in 1183, a devastating fire had broken out which had destroyed the entire library and much else. In Armenian Cilicia and in the group around Theodoros bar Wahbūn this immediately prompted speculation that the saint, wanting to punish the monks as well as Michael, had left the monastery. Indeed, pamphlets were published to this effect.105 With this claim in mind, Michael’s treatment of the matter seems very logical: he reports a series of (very simple) miracles, and, secondly, holds human failure responsible for the fire (it was an old monk, called Denḥō, who 103

Michael, C 708 (III, 359).  Chronicle to the year 1234, CE 327 (244), Michael, C 725 (III, 388), Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE, occ. 587-589 (588-590). Bar ʻEbrōyō indicates that he obtained this information from Michael’s ecclesiastical history. It can no longer be found there. 105 Michael, C 728 (III, 395). 104

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had simply forgotten to blow out his candle.) The dangerous suspicion that the saint could have turned away was allayed.106 On higher levels, too, religious disputes may have been connected with historical questions. After 1176 Aimery, the Patriarch of Antioch, ordered scholarly literature from the ‘specialist in interdenominational questions’, Hugh Aetherianus in Constantinople. Besides a treatise by John Chrysostom, and another on the descent of the Holy Ghost, he asked for: Secundo, pro cronicis quae habentur apud … ex illo tempore quo imperatores eorum a Romano divisi sunt imperio, usque ad nostra tempora. Tertio, pro practica Nicaeni concilii, quam audivimus esse penes dominum imperatorem.107

The chronicle is not an alien element in this list, but points to a relationship between confessional and historical thinking to which Michael’s historical writing may also be linked. Like Aimery, Michael probably already possessed historical works about history after the division of the empire, works which adopted a clear denominational position. This denominational position included a historical interpretation of the fall of the Roman Empire in connection with the Council of Chalcedon: the definitive division of the Empire took place under Emperor Marcianus (450-457), who split the Church and the Empire at the same time.108 It seems significant that Aimery asks for a chronicle which begins with the imperial division. He may have tried to obtain a historical account of this state of affairs by those who recognized Chalcedon. In any case, we can say that there must always have been rival models for the interpretation of past events, for the different religions and the denominations all referred to the past. The pessimistic view of modern historiography — namely that it reads its own preconceived interpretations into history — obscures the ironic fact that these interpretations are themselves challenged and undermined by the very historical conditions under which they are formulated. Above all we cannot presuppose a vacuum in which historiography could, say, be tested for its ability to interpret historical events, as if it only talked about the past. Rather, at least where Michael is concerned, we are confronted with a world in which past and present events are always already interpreted, and in which this fact can trigger conflicts: ‘querelles 106 107 108

Michael, C 726 (III, 391). Aimery of Antioch, Rescriptum, cf. Hugh Aetherianus, Epistula. Michael, C 163-241 (II, 1-125).

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d’histoire’. From this perspective it is evident that many individual events must have been controversial. Here it seems worthwhile to concentrate on two questions which seem to have been particularly important for Michael, and which he could answer by means of historiography.

a) Who are the Syrians and why do they not have kings? As regards the identity of the Syrians there is a statement by Dionysios which Michael and the anonymous chronicler have passed down in similar words:109 the pšīṭē, the ‘ordinary people’, but here in the sense of ‘the simpletons’, ‘the fools’, were those who believed that Mesopotamia was the ‘true Syria’. By no means, says Dionysios, who believes a historical digression is necessary. First of all he points out that the peoples living west of the Euphrates trace their lineage back to Cyrus, who ruled there when the Israelites sojourned in Egypt. The context of this remark is unknown. Two observations by Abramowski are relevant here. He rightly remarked that Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē rarely and rather haphazardly included reports on the Apostolic Church of the East.110 The reason for this cannot be its lack of importance. In the 8th and 9th centuries the caliph’s Christian interlocutor was not the Syriac Orthodox patriarch but the catholicos of the Church of the East, who in the end had to represent the interests of all Christians. The Eastern Syrian Christians in Baghdad occupied crucial positions and supplied secretaries, ministers, courtiers and physicians.111 At the same time Dionysios was involved in the argument with the eastern part of the Syriac Orthodox Church.112 Abramowski emphasized that the rivalry between maphrianate and patriarchate dominated Dionysios’ entire ecclesiastical history.113 Abramowski places the passage quoted in this context of competition. This is not a foregone conclusion; rivalry with the catholicate and the Church of the East seems more obvious at first sight. But, whether it be the challenge of the Church of the East or of the maphrianate, Abramowski

109 110 111 112 113

18-19.

Chronicle to the year 1234, CP I, 112-114 (88-90); Michael, C 522-524 (III, 76-78). Abramowski: 1948, 82-85. Cabrol: 2000. Michael, C 521 (III, 731). Abramowski: 1948, 85-100. On the internal problems, cf. also Strothmann: 1936,

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is convincing when he sees Dionysios’ struggle for a Western Syrian identity in the light of contention. We notice other conflicts which suggest the topical relevance and real-life function of the historical work. Dionysios also remarks: ‘And I have said this because people say, “Why did a king not arise from among the Syrians?”’ Giving biblical examples quoted, as the use of the term ‘Syrians’ proves, from the Syrohexapla (called LXX)114 — the Hebrew version talks about Aram and the Pšittā about Edom — he connects the Syrians historically with the ancient Aramaic kingdoms north of Palestine. And he concludes: ‘It follows that the true Syrians are west of the Euphrates.’ Those who live east of the Euphrates are only called Syrians in an extended sense, because they also speak Aramaic. But the language is bound up with Edessa: ‘… and the root and foundation of the Syriac language, that is, Aramaic, is Edessa’. All speakers of Aramaic are therefore Syrians, but only the descendants of Cyrus living in the west, north of Palestine, are Syrians in the proper sense. If we understand Dionysios rightly here, he separates the Aramaic language from the term ‘Syrians’/Suryōyē. This complicated derivation is not entirely convincing.115 But it shows that in his time Dionysios’ patriarchate was apparently the scene of a historical conflict about Syrian identity in connection with linguistic identity.116 Dionysios’ definitions also presuppose a highly positive connotation of ‘Syrians’. Otherwise it would not be so appealing to claim this name. In the 8th and 9th centuries Syrian scholars and physicians were a prominent presence.117 It is easy to imagine that Syrians were then more than ever praised for their wisdom, as they still were in the presence of the Seljuq sultan in the 12th century.118 As in the modern debate surrounding the self-designations ‘Assyrian’, ‘Syrian’ or ‘Aramean’, the problem in Dionysios is not just historical and linguistic, but also political and cultural.119 114

On this convention, see Brock: 1980. But cf. Abramowski: 1948, 107. 116 There are indications that this was also the case in the western region, where both the Melkites and the Miaphysites emphasized their Syrian identity. For the Melkites, cf. Rubin: 1998 (Arabization), 185. 117 Cf. Fiey: 1980, 30-81; Troupeau: 1991; Cabrol: 2000. 118 Michael, C 726 (III, 391). 119 ‘Consequently, I cannot see the problems arising from an identification of the two names Syria and Assyria and the only questions remaining are linguistic and dialect, to explain various forms of the same word such as Athur and variants. I was not interested in the modern political questions which are an entirely different subject.’ Frye: 1997, 36. ‘Can we call the peoples of the various Aramean principalities in geographical Syria ‘Assyrians’ if ‘Assyria’ is synonymous with ‘Syria’? In his magnum opus, The Heritage 115

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Dionysios was not interested in whether or not the ‘Syrians’ were ‘Assyrians’. On the contrary, he was most careful to avoid the term ‘Assyrians’. In contrast to the ‘kings of Syria’, he referred to the Easterners as kings of Arabia, of Niniveh and of Babylon. In this context the term Ōtūr is not mentioned, though it is otherwise used as a matter of course for the Mesopotamian region in question. As always a thorough researcher of sources, Michael tackled this problem systematically in appendix II, and discussed all the evidence available to him: With the help of God we record the memory of the kingdoms which belonged to our Aramean people in the olden days, that is, the sons of Aram, who are called Syrians, that is, people from Syria. We have carefully gathered the evidence about them from the approved books.120

This heading reveals a shift in comparison with Dionysios, due to the equation of ‘Arameans’ and ‘Syrians’. At first sight this may not be obvious. But we should not forget that these men are used to disputing terms. It makes a big difference whether all those who speak Aramaic can be called Syrians in a ‘secondary’ sense, as in Dionysios, or whether Arameans are always described as Syrians if they come from Syria, as Michael says. Like Dionysios, but clearly with different intentions, Michael too looks into the empires of the ancient Near East, which are first enumerated on the basis of his sources. On the basis of 2 Kgs 18: 26, a famous passage in Hebrew studies, Michael proves that the Assyrians spoke and wrote Aramaic, an accurate conclusion, in fact, for the time of Sennacherib (705-681 BCE). ‘And this testimony of the prophetic book shows that the Chaldean kings and the Assyrian kings possessed the Aramaic language and script.’121 The next question to be cleared up is why these kings are called Assyrian or Chaldean. After agreeing with Josephus122 of Persia, Frye wrote of the omnipresence of the Aramean people … Can we call these Arameans ‘Assyrians’ since the Arameans are called Syrians? One may argue that the word Syria is derived from Assyria … but surely that does not transform geographical Syria and the predominantly Aramean inhabitants of the Fertile Crescent into Assyrians.’ Joseph: 1997, 42, cf. Strothmann: 1936; Sauma: 1993; Heinrichs: 1993. Barṣaum, s.a. Since the publication of the original version the debate continued unabated but shall not be followed up in detail in the present work. 120 Michael, C 748-751 (III, 441-447). For a detailed discussion of this passage, see Van Rompay: 1999. 121 Michael, C 748 (III, 443), taking up again the Dionysios passage already quoted, cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP I, 112-114 (88-90). 122 Josephus, Antiquities, I, vi, 1.

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that the names of the Near Eastern peoples were graecized by the Greeks, the Arameans being called Syrians and the Ōtūrōyē Assyrians, Michael defines the name ‘Chaldeans’ as the umbrella term for all. The next problem, as Michael announces, relates to the sources: And by what cause did the names [of the Assyrian and Chaldean kings] perish and were they erased from the books of the Church Fathers? We will demonstrate the reason in the present history, when the word reaches the appropriate place.123

Meanwhile Michael needs to continue the historical discourse, which turns now to Sennacherib and Nebuchadnezzar II (604-562 BCE). Nebuchadnezzar II is briefly sketched as a great and complex king, and a master builder with hubristic tendencies, before Michael breaks off: ‘Lest we digress, these minor details from Polyhistor’s book and Josephus must suffice.’124 In Michael’s chronicle Nebuchadnezzar plays an important role. He is discussed at length as a figure relevant to the tension between exile, loss of the temple and Daniel’s works, who in the time of his madness humbly ate grass before he acknowledged God and regained his humanity.125 Appendix II explains why this is so: ‘It is our aim to show that until the time of Cyrus the Persian a kingdom with our language and our script lived on.’ In Michael, Nebuchadnezzar is not a symbol of God’s omnipotence, but a fragile and complex person who is part of Aramean history. Next, Michael again refers to the passage in Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē already discussed, quotes his peculiar sentence about ‘Syrians in the proper sense’,126 and yet draws a different conclusion: the Syrians here are part of the larger people of the Arameans, which lives west and east of the Euphrates, with Edessa as the language’s root and foundation. Dionysios’ opposition between language and ethnic affiliation has been effaced. After these words Michael repeats: ‘They are wrong who say that a king never ruled in this people.’127

123

Michael, C 748 (III, 443). Michael, C 749 (III, 445). This must also be based on an excerpt from Jacob, cf. Van Rompay: 1999, 278. 125 Historical commentary on the change of rule in Assur, replacement by two Chaldean kingdoms in the north (Nineveh) and south (Babylon): Michael, C 45 (II, 78). The reconciliation between Nebuchadnezzar, God and Daniel in Michael, C 59-60 (I, 96-97), cf. Dan 4. 126 Michael, C 750 (III, 446). 127 Michael, C 750 (III, 446). 124

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Michael’s systematic reappraisal of the question in this late passage clearly indicates the problem’s centrality. At the beginning of his chronicle he had already discussed at length — though ultimately not with complete consistency — the identification of the various Aramaic-speaking peoples with and without script. In the table of nations, which divides the descendants of Shem into peoples with and without script, we read: ‘The names of the peoples of Shem’s descendants that possess script: Chaldeans, Ōtūrōyē, who are the Suryōyē, Hebrews, Persians, Medes, Arabs.’128 Here particular emphasis appears to lie on the synonym. A few pages before, Michael seems to write something different about the descendants of Shem: ‘The descendants of Shem: Ōtūrōyē, Chaldeans, Lydians, Ōrōmōyē, they are the Suryōyē.’129 And he follows Jacob of Edessa by supporting the theory that the Assyrians are descended from the Arameans.130 Or are these contradictions perhaps secondary?131 First of all we must conclude that Michael’s chronicle, like the one by Dionysios, too cannot simply be used as a ‘source’ for the semantics of these expressions, since clearly these terms are already objects of historical-political debates. The discussion of the table of nations and appendix II achieve the historical localization of a controversial identity, which can be analogously described as a proof of antiquity (Altersbeweis). It is clear, besides, that Michael attempts a harmonization of different argumentations, in which he succeeds in identifying Syrian with Aramean and Assyrian history. Unlike Dionysios, he was not concerned with a hegemony of the various Aramaic-speaking peoples in the Assyrian and Babylonian area on the one hand and in the western regions north of Palestine on the other. Undoubtedly Michael sees the Syrians as descendants of the ancient Assyrian and Babylonian empires and of the ancient Aramean kingdoms of the west, such as Damascus. The shared language is the common element and the decisive criterion. Because of the language’s importance, we will briefly look at the problem of the primordial language, which Milka Rubin analyzed in detail.132 As a proof of antiquity this language also had political-cultural significance, and constituted a weighty argument in the querelle d’histoire.

128

Michael, C 17 (I, 32). Michael, C 7 (I, 16). 130 Michael, C 18 (I, 34). 131 Chabot (note on Michael, C I, 16, no. 2) refers to Bar ʻEbrōyō: ‘Le même tableau est dans BH. Chron. syr., p. 7.’ This is incorrect. The Arameans are lacking here. 132 Rubin: 1998 (Language). 129

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Here too Michael tries to harmonize the different positions:133 Heber, the wise forefather of the Hebrews, speaker of the primordial language, was the only one to disagree with the building of the Tower of Babylon, which is why only his language survived.134 Michael also takes up the second hypothesis,135 that the term ‘Hebrews’ derives from the stem ‘BR with ‘to cross (a river, the Euphrates)’, that it can therefore be proved to be an Aramaic word, and that Abraham was a speaker of Aramaic. This point leads him to an integrating proof of antiquity, which Aramaicizes Heber, but does not dismiss the claim connected with his person, even if it seems to do so at first sight: ‘But we say that they all speak the truth. The primordial language is Aramaic, from which Hebrew originated.’136 The 133

Differently Rubin: 1998 (Language), 326. Michael, C 9-10 (19-20). Josephus, Antiquities, I, vi; Rubin: 1998 (Language), 309-315. 135 Michael, C 10 (I, 20). 136 Today [the year 2000] this debate serves to dispute the ethnic justification of Israel’s existence. Cf. the following Pan-Arabic remarks (language errors are not emended): ‘Some historians considered the history of the Jewish to go back to the Akkadians of Babylon, some to the Aramaeans and others to begin with the history of Abraham. … These historians committed their error as a result of their negligence of chronological order to the historical events. … A-Pre Moses Age: This age [is] called the age of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob. It is an Autonomous Arabic Age. 1-His language was the Aramean language which is the mother tongue of the Arabic language. … C-The Jewish Age: … 1-His official and public language was the Aramean. 2-Domination: was by Persians, Greek and Romans. … 5. A. Lods: He attribute[s] the Jewish to the Semites which means Arabs, and favours that they belong to the Arameans, supporting his theory by the following: a-The two peoples applied the tithe tax system, to be offered to the Gods. b-The Tora hymns contained what indicate their kinship to the Arameans. Our comment about this honorable historian [is] that he does not point out what the Jewish stole from the Arabs (Arameans, Canaanites, Egyptian, and Assyrians before the Torah writing on 531b-c). The origin of these thefts appeared in Tel-el-Amarna, “Ras shamra”, Ogaret and others [apparently this scholar believes “Ras shamra” and “Ogaret” to be two different villages] c-The famous hymn is: “My father was an Errant Aramean” intend Jacob (Israel) who is an Arab (Aramean) furthermore, he is the nephew of Abraham, was found at Yabous on 1800b-c while the Jewish did not appear and the Torah also only 531b-c. There is no relation between Jacob and the Jewish. The Jewish had stolen this hymn and inserted it in the Torah. About what he said regarding the two languages he forgot that the Jewish adopted and learnt the Aramaic from the Assyrians, then they wrote their Torah with the Aramaic language and the Assyrian calligraphy after the Captivity. Lods confused between the Chaldean and Aramaic language in spite of [the fact that] the two language[s] [are] one language, the “Aramaic”[;] the difference was between the two peoples names as we say the Iraq and Egypt. The Torah has been written with the Aramaic language[,] then they called it Hebrew. … 2-The Abiro Term: The Arabic tribes in Northern Arabia [were] nominated with Abru, Abiro, Arabo, Ahlamua. They commonly meant the nomadic Bedouin, who were continuously at a war with the settled population, then all these terms united under the name “ARAM” which means “High”[.] It may [be] also that Abraham is descended from the dynasty of these tribes. The name Aram [is] also the name of the son of Noah, the famous Arab prophet. … Thus, we may say that those who crossed the river with Abraham were his Aramaic clan, the Arameans according to the historical logic 134

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subtle differences between Michael and others are encapsulated in the sentence: ‘But we say that they all speak the truth’, in the admiration for Heber, and in the remark that the Syriac Bible derives from the Hebrew text.137 For Michael such results are apparently a solution. We may say that Michael’s universality is not a mere claim,138 but is realized in his historical writing. What becomes clear at the same time is the urgency which the task of self-definition assumes in a context where the controversial mode is historical in character: the exultant ‘you do not have kings’ seems to question the justification of the Syrians’ existence in their own understanding too. Otherwise it would be unnecessary to oppose this theory in Syriac. There were probably ample occasions for such clashes in the area of the County of Edessa and in Cilicia. Historical construction appears here as a way of managing a present reality pervaded by competing interpretations and real conflicts. In appendix II, after his excursion into the Near Eastern kingdoms, Michael carries on with the main problem: But now that we have collected this from the writings as carefully as we could, we shall now also clarify [sic!] what we earlier promised to establish by what cause the names have disappeared from our language.

First of all his answer is again a historical one: It was like this: for after these earlier empires had perished through the empire of the Persians, which started with Cyrus and ended with Darius, who for his part was killed by Alexander, the empire of the Persians, for a period of 231 years, subjected every people in the regions of Asia to the yoke of the Persians. Alexander was followed by the time of the house of Seleucus and Antiochus, who were called kings of Syria, and their time lasted 220 years until the beginning of the Roman Empire of Gaius and Augustus, in whose time the Saviour of everything came into the world, the Anointed One, the Son of God. And that is why our people did not have kings for a period of 550 years, and because in this time the life-giving teaching of the Gospel appeared and this people embraced it joyfully and was instructed, they rejected utterly and abhorred all other books which preserved the memories of these kings. And in ardent zeal for the fear of God they burned all the books they possessed which preserved the memory of these kings, since the names of the kings and the succession of their times are neither Jewish nor Israelites, because Israel (Jacob) was not born and his appearance was on 1800b-c, therefore, there is no Hebrew people with [the] meaning Jewish, unless the Arameans were Jewish, the historical logic does not proved [sic].’ Hadde: s.a., 3-21. In this connection, cf. Wellhausen: 1894 and the writings published in the ‘Babel-Bible’ dispute, which is also a ‘querelle d’histoire’. 137 Michael, C 11 (I, 23). 138 Witakowski: 1993, 655-656.

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were also interwoven with demonic stories from their heathendom. And therefore, as from a foul stench, they turned away their faces from all these books and burned them in the fire, so that their memory could not be preserved among their sons and the next generations. … And they did this in many places and through many generations after the appearance of the Saviour, … and wherever there was a note that preserved the memory of the heathen stories and tales about their gods: it ended up in the fire. And that is why the memories of the heathen kings disappeared from our language, because the fathers belonged wholly to Christ … . Therefore, after Christ, they proclaimed him to be king who believed and had been given the name of Christ, the victorious Constantine, and in the same way all believers and Orthodox kings. And those who afterwards deviated from the Orthodox faith they regarded as strangers. And hence we can boast not of an earthly kingdom, but of Christ, whose kingdom is not of this world.139

The fact that the sources were destroyed turns out to be a fatal weakness in this querelle d’histoire. Because the Syrians no longer possess their own historical accounts, they cannot prove the antiquity of their culture. The pious damnatio memoriae by the early Syrian Christians leaves speakers of Syriac open to historical attack, since only written proof could parry it. And that is exactly what happens here: We have collected this here in this book against the Greeks full of vain pride, whose pride is their disgrace, because, when they saw our holy fathers, whom they left, because for their part they had left Christ, they complained pitifully, in order to lead the simple folk astray, and said that no king has ever arisen from our people, and that we would not recognize any ruler at all, as it is [the case] with them, and we had therefore abandoned them.140

The adversary has a face: they are ‘the Greeks’. Here we can recognize that behind their ridicule of the people without kings lies a reproach of insufficient self-control, of anarchy and treachery, which is directly connected with religious dissent. By contrast, here as well as in other places, Michael clearly emphasizes recognition of the orthodox emperors: of course Syrians can be loyal, he seems to be saying, but only to authorities that deserve it. 700 years after Chalcedon these two peoples, who since Hellenism and in Christianity had been so closely connected, seem to have been engaged in a ceaseless quarrel over the fact of their separation. Faced with these arguments, it is possible to imagine what disputes must have been fought out in Syrian-Greek Melitene. One had to be able to defend 139 140

Michael, C 750-751 (III, 447). Ibid.

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oneself verbally, and the best way to do this was by striking the opponent’s weapon out of his hand: That is why we have collected this from their own books, because they themselves have not completely renounced paganism, and St. Gregory the theologian testifies that one finds in the Greeks’ own books histories of their pagan fathers; Eusebius equally published from books in our language, and Mōr Jacob of Edessa refuted it [that the Syrians did not have kings] from their own books; we showed that the empires of this our people were more powerful than all the empires of their time.141

Michael emphasized their want of kings as a special feature of the Syrians.142 Associated with so many agonizing debates, it is an aspect of their history which is taken up again at the end of Michael’s treatise, where a solution is offered which promises to end the obsession with a glorious past and make life possible in the present. It turns out, he says, that there is no reason for the Greeks to feel superior to the Syrians. Even the great Eusebius trusted Syrian books: the books cannot, therefore, have been all that bad, while Eusebius becomes an heir both to the Syrians and the Greeks. It is in fact from originally Greek sources that Jacob and, following him, Michael, drew the knowledge which the Syrians themselves had condemned. This circumstance is not without irony. And ultimately, as Michael concludes: ‘Today, by renouncing their temptation, we belong to the Anointed King of all things.’143 This is not a clamorous reference to Syriac Orthodoxy. Michael’s appendix II is relatively unpolemical, for its object is rather different: by construing it in terms of Christian freedom and autarchy, the difficult position of the Syrians is at once strengthened and set in a more optimistic light.

141 The translation in this paragraph deviates more from Chabot’s translation than elsewhere, so that we offer it here by way of comparison: ‘Nous avons réuni ces choses dans ce livre, contre les Grecs vaniteux, dont la vanité est leur propre confusion. Quand ils virent nos saints Pères se détourner d’eux, parce qu’eux-mêmes s’étaient éloignés du Christ, ils se plaignaient, et disaient pour tromper les simples, ‘qu’il n’était jamais sorti de roi de notre peuple’, nous supposant ainsi gratuitement dans l’anarchie, (et ils ajoutaient) ‘nous nous séparons d’eux’. Aussi avons-nous tiré ces choses de leurs propres écrits; car eux-mêmes ne l’éloignèrent pas complètement du paganisme. Saint Grégoire le Théologe atteste que, dans les propres écrits des Grecs, on trouve l’histoire de leurs ancêtres paiens; Eusebius explique pareillement nos écrits d’après les livres (des Grecs), et Abbas Mar Jacques d’Edesse démontre, d’après leurs livres, qu’il s’éleva de notre peuple des empires plus puissants que tous les empires de leurs temps.’ Michael, C 750-751 (III, 447). 142 Michael, C 696 (III, 339). 143 Michael, C 751 (III, 447). Cf. Prawer: 1985, 82: ‘… for the Jacobites there was only one consolation, the providence of God’.

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b) Who drives the course of history? When Michael describes the Syrians as subjects of the Anointed King of all things, he immediately steps into another minefield. The next question is whether this king also takes care of his people. Peter Kawerau commented that Michael’s chronicle is laden with theological reflections. ‘The focal theological idea which dominates his entire account is the conception of the unlimited power of God, who can do what he wants.’144 For Kawerau this was above all a mark of the book’s irrationality, which he contrasted with the ‘down-to-earth way’ of Bar ʻEbrōyō. We have already dealt with this common misconception; but the premise upon which Kawerau erects the contrast is unimpeachable. The development of faith is a central theme in Michael’s chronicle, like thinking and talking about God. It is not for secular historical science to decide whether theological reflections have an ecstatic character as such. What we are entitled to enquire, on the other hand, is whether, in the sphere which produced Michael’s chronicle, these reflections do not answer some rational and comprehensible purpose. God’s omnipotence was a historical factor that formed a common starting-point for Sayf ad-Dīn, Saladin, Michael, Aimery, Eraclius and Theodoros. Nevertheless, as we saw above, this assumption could, in the first place, serve to exacerbate disagreements where interests conflicted. In the second place, the view of history as a divine chessboard, which characterized the religious outlook in much of the Near East, was not universally shared in this region, any more than it was in Europe. In the East there were many other ways of life and modes of thought in which the present, the past and the future were conceptualised differently, including various Zoroastrian and Manichean or polytheistic views.145 And then there were mathematics and astrology. Astrology in particular is brought up quite frequently in Michael’s chronicle. It goes without saying that to some extent astrologers were among the natural opponents of theologians, and they were in fact combated — with scant success — by both the Muslim authorities and Christian theologians.146 But there are plausible grounds for supposing that, due to socio-historical developments, astrologers became extremely 144

Kawerau: 1960, 5-7. Cf. Russell: 1987; Dadoyan: 1997, 54-80. 146 Nallino: 1913; Pingree: 1979; Fahd: 1993; de Callatay: 1996; on the Christian polemic against astrology by Eliya of Nisibis already discussed here, cf. Samir: 1977, on that of Maimonides, Baer: 1926, 158ff. 145

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popular precisely in Michael’s time.147 Polemics against astrology may seem, prima facie, an unlikely preoccupation for a chronographer who included a wealth of celestial phenomena in his work. But Michael questioned not so much the physical observation of constellations or astronomical calculations,148 as the theological consequences that could follow from them. The same nice distinction can be seen in Bar ʻEbrōyō, who took a profound interest in astrology.149 Michael reports that the destruction of the harvest in the autumn of 1173 was described by astrologers as the result of a unique and accidental constellation which could not return. The following year, as if to prove his omnipotence, God brought about a snowfall which covered everything as far as India. This event led the population to perform acts of penance, until the astrologers reassured them by explaining that the heavy weather was caused by a certain constellation of stars and could not persist — acts of penance and almsgiving were therefore unnecessary. Consequently, this bad weather also occurred the next year. And now all doubters were convinced that the hand of God had guided events.150 In September 1186 a day arrived for which astrologers had predicted a Flood-like event.151 Herman Grauert wrote about this prediction: ‘It concerns … one of the most famous astronomical-astrological prophecies ever circulated.’152 Anxiety about the imminent destruction led everybody to construct shelters and caverns, and to secure their treasures.153 According to Michael, the Christians refrained from taking such precautions, but instead organized processions, whereupon they were ridiculed by the astrologers, who argued that even God was powerless against fate. Those who asked [us in] our humbleness in letters about this matter we answered in truth that not even a bird, as it is written, nor a leaf falls from the tree unless through the will from above.154 147

Cf. Spuler: 1958, 335. Michael, C 731 (III, 400). 149 He positively introduces astrology on the very first page of his chronicle in the characterization of Enoch = Trismegistus, but precisely this identification subordinates it to theology, genealogically too: Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 5 (Budge, 5). 150 Michael, C 703-704 (III, 350-351). 151 Michael, C 729-731 (III, 397-400); cf. Bar ʻEbrōyōʻ, CP 369 (320), who gives even more information. The truly surprising thing about this notice is the claim to have known about the prediction for decades, as until now 1179 is regarded as the date of origin, cf. the following note. 152 Grauert: 1902, 176, on the sources, see there (except for the Syriac ones). There is scorn on all sides. Cf. Baer: 1996, 119. 153 Cf. de Callataÿ: 2000, though he does not mention the Syriac sources. 154 Michael, C 731 (III, 399). 148

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The predicted storm not only failed to materialize, but everywhere people enjoyed a particularly windless and placid day of sunshine.155 The concern which filled the questioners, and the scorn which the astrologers poured on their fears, were clearly part of another conflict: the astrologers believed that they could understand the course of history, from the past into the future, through the concepts of chance and fate. In the first case contingency is absolute, in the second it is impossible. But in any case it is within the bounds of what man can control, because the science of nature is mathematical. The assumption of their science, too, is belief in the connection between heaven and earth — with the exception that God is explicitly relieved of his control of the world. In both cases Michael tries to prove that the astrologers’ claims contradict experience. Just as he sets God’s free omnipotence and man’s ignorance against any religious, i.e. eschatological, restriction of the future, so he proves against astrological calculation that the course of events is neither foreseeable nor predetermined by fate. The anxious letter-writers, then, find no reassurance here: for Michael there are no grounds even to attempt to interpret the future. This means that contingency is integrated as a real experience. Believers are liberarated from the immutable certainties imposed by a determinist cosmology; yet they are never abandoned to a spiralling and fearful contingency, since God’s omnipotence provides an ultimate surety. But what about God’s omnipotence? Not only astrologers doubted it: clerics, too, engaged in astrological predictions, and thus entered dangerous theological territory.156 Deep rifts, moreover, had occurred in spiritual life. Michael relates how, shortly before the mid-12th century, a heresy arose in Constantinople which not only represented Christ as an ordinary human being, but interpreted the entire course of world history as being in the hands of demons. Michael probably heard about this Manichean development in Bogomilism through the publicity which it had gained in Constantinople due to the efforts to combat it made by Emperor Manuel and the relevant synods.157 He shakes his head when 155

Michael, C 731 (III, 400). In particular Michael mentions the deacon Abū-Sa‛d, a physician and philosopher: Michael, C 622 (III, 246). Cf. the beginning of the report on the events of 1186, Michael, C 729 (III, 397). 157 Cf. Borst (new edition of the classic with a preface by Alexander Patschovsky): 1997, 62-63; Dölger: 1995, no. 1332a, 1351. At the Council of Constantinople in 1143 the bishops Clement and Leontius were held guilty of having spread their Bogomil views ‘in plures cappadocum animos’, i.e. in Michael’s direct vicinity. See also Stoyanov: 2000, 179-183. 156

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contemplating this heresy,158 since, as his middle books sufficiently prove, the existence of the good Creator-God and God’s sacrificial love in Christ’s incarnation are the central elements in his theology.159 The dichotomy between good and evil could be carried to extremes, and the experience of evil in the world could be expanded into the theology of the evil Creator-God. For Michael the Bogomils are a Greek problem, and symptomatic of their generally heretical attitude. But there were disturbing signs that the problem was more widespread. Michael knows that in Europe, too, many people have likewise ceased to believe in the holy sacraments, and gather themselves together into heretical groups; perhaps he had learnt this from conversations with Aimery. Today we know that these people, the Cathars, developed dualist theologies, perhaps under Bogomil influence. Michael may also have had this development in minds when he offered his help to the 1178 Lateran Council and started to write about similar heresies.160 But then, Melitene and Mōr Bar Ṣawmō were considerably closer to Constantinople than to Italy and southern France! Michael says nothing about any possible effects of this Greek heresy on Syriac Orthodox congregations. But he does report strong and continuous doubt about God’s goodness and omnipotence. The constant existential insecurity of many communities could easily produce a sense of meaninglessness and of God’s absence in the world. Michael understood the psychology of this problem: he attributed, for instance, the blasphemous claims of some Christians in Aleppo, that God’s omnipotence did not extend as far as there, to the heaviness of their lot.161 The same psychological effect was to be feared when the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery was attacked. Clearly at the time of writing Michael was still fearful of this possibility: That no one at all, beloved, be led by the story of this disaster through wavering principles to lack faith in God’s power in his saint, by thinking: ‘Now then, why does also this one, who performs divine miracles, retreat and give way to the Evil One?’, but as is fitting for Christians, you should believe that nothing at all happens outside of God’s knowledge, which has examined all things, and that everything shall happen and happens in his knowledge.162

158 159 160 161 162

Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael, Michael,

C 638 (III, 277-278). C 94-478 (I, 152-II, 592). C 719 (III, 378). This work has been lost. C 695 (III, 338). C 642 (III, 283).

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However, the very fact that he is so insistent on this point, that, without ever mentioning himself, he makes his eyewitness account so detailed, and that he also inserts a sermon by Dionysios bar Ṣalībī on this problem, could reflect his own doubt. Michael was in his early twenties when this event overtook him. He had grown up in a time of peace in Melitene under Emir Ġāzī, with an untroubled sense of the importance of the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō monastery. Now years of war were inflicted on the region. In 1148 Joscelin destroyed the buildings, sent his Latin and Armenian soldiers to ransack the monks’ possessions, and stole the relic. In 1149 refugees camped around the mountain and attracted Turkish troops. The warriors blackmailed the monks, first forcing them to give these people up, then treacherously plundering the monastery — and neither Bar Ṣawmō nor God himself could prevent the destruction and despair.163 Alongside the report on the Bogomils Michael includes a notice concerning Bishop Basil of Edessa, who had been imprisoned by Joscelin II. In prison Basil wrote a treatise against those who claimed that Jesus’ blessing on King Abgar of Edessa had been ineffective.164 To derogate from Edessa’s prestige was to threaten one of the spiritual foundations of Syriac Orthodox identity, which the loss of Antioch in 518 had served to render even more important.165 We outlined in the preceding section how central the city was to the Syrian language and identity. But more than that, Edessa was also the first Christian city, and therefore something like a new Jerusalem. Michael’s commentary on the Latin conquest of Edessa, when he triumphantly reports that the Latins have compared this event to Edessa’s first conversion in Antiquity, gives us a telling picture of Syriac Orthodox joy and self-affirmation.166 Edessa was the city of the legendary first Christian king, Abgar Ukkōmō, who wrote a truly royal letter to Jesus: Abgar, the black, to Jesus, the good physician, who appeared in the land of Jerusalem: peace be with my Lord! I have heard about you and about your manner of healing, that you do not heal with drugs and roots, but with your word …

163

Michael, C 647 (III, 290-291). Michael, C 638 (III, 277). 165 Cf. the detailed discussion of the early Christian history of Edessa in Michael, C 94-121 (I, 152-205). Doubts about the special importance of Abgar, at least for Jacob of Edessa, are expressed by Van Rompay: 1998, 273; 276-281. 166 Michael, C 587 (III, 184). 164

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Being ill himself, Abgar asks Jesus to visit him; Jesus might thereby also escape his Jewish persecutors. ‘I possess a small city, it is beautiful and sufficient to accommodate two.’167 Hendrik W. Drijvers analysed the historical background of this legend. He argued for a later dating of organized Christianity in Edessa, and pointed to the legend’s original function as a tool in the debate with Manichean movements.168 Its reception into Syrian chronography was slow.169 At the same time it acquired new functions. The letter was an apotropaic device on doorposts, and, according to the pilgrim Etheria in the 4th century, was carried to the city gates and read out loud during sieges.170 In the 12th century a fountain and a garden commemorated the generous king and his palace.171 In Europe, too, the legend was regarded as authentic, though not unanimously.172 Edessa, the blessed city,173 sanctuary and port of refuge by the grace of Jesus, had survived Persian and Roman wars, the reconquest by the Byzantines and their withdrawal — and this city was now in ruins.174 The catastrophe of Edessa and the attack on Mōr Bar Ṣawmō, streams of refugees and uncertainty, marauding troops and skirmishes throughout the area, the destruction of another monastery and the death of the holy Raban Thomas, the imprisonment of the metropolitan of Edessa by Joscelin: the world descended with terrible harshness on the Syriac Orthodox communities at this time, and filled them with a terrible despair which was articulated in their writings.175 In the deathly silence of the ruined streets, in which, as Michael relates, unburied corpses were piled up high, prey to animals prowling in the night,176 the Syriac Orthodox started to feel unjustly treated as subjects of the Anointed King. ‘In this 167 168 169 170 171 172

Doctrina Addaei 3 (4), Eusebius, HE I. Cf. Drijvers: 1982; 1985; Bauer: 1934, 7-34. Van Rompay: 1999, 279-281. Cf. Devos: 1967, 392-400; Dobschütz: 1900, 1899. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II, 134 (101). Decretum Gelasianum 5, (57), but see Phillips’ introduction to Doctrina Addaei,

ivff. 173

Cf. Segal: 1970. On the conquest of Edessa, cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II, 118-126 (89-94), Matthew of Edessa/Gregory the priest, Cv (Dostourian) 234-257, William of Tyre, C, XVI, iv, 718-721; XVI, xiv-xvi, 734-738, Michael, C 630-631 (III, 260-263), 634-637 (III, 270-272). 175 Rücker: 1935; again Malich: 1996 (192: Dionysios and John did not base themselves on Michael, it was the other way round), cf. also Dédéyan: 1998, 89-110, esp. 99; Tarzi: 2000. 176 Michael, C 637 (III, 272). 174

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period’, writes Michael, ‘a conflict broke out in our churches about whether or not it is through God’s will that tribulations come and accidents and disaster occur.’177 This conflict had been smouldering for a long time. Even before the disaster,178 John of Mardin presented a treatise in which he tried to prove that there is no scriptural warrant for the view that catastrophes and misfortune are sent by God. The theologians opposing him, Bishop Timothy of Gargar and the learned monk Abū-Ġāleb, were unable to advance anything decisive in their treatises, and for the time being the dispute was settled.179 John had been appointed as metropolitan in 1125 and had emerged as a committed reformer. He was highly esteemed and his word carried great weight.180 Nor was he inclined to give any ground in his controversy: But when a little later Edessa was smitten by this hard race and almost all the Christians grumbled and said: ‘Why then did God allow the priests and the holy monks to be killed and the virgins to be violated’, etc., John began to write publicly … .181

John presented a longer discourse on the fall of Edessa, in which he absolved God of responsibility for the catastrophe and instead named chance as the cause. God never decided to consign the city to destruction and hand it over to the Turks. If Frankish troops had been in the city at the time, Zangī could not have captured it.182 We can add that John was devoting his time and personal energy to efforts to release the hostages and slaves made in the conflicts.183 Michael is known to have respected him, and the two later worked together. He sought a psychological explanation for John’s attitude: John was not acquainted with the Holy Scriptures from an early age, but only as a mature man. This may be a hint that John’s theological knowledge was, in Michael’s view, inadequate.

177

Michael, C 631 (III, 265). This treatise is not dated by Michael. But he indicates that it was published shortly before the fall of Edessa: Michael, C 632 (III, 266). Apparently all the various writings have been lost. Cf. Rücker: 1935, 133-134; Baumstark: 1922, 293-294; 298. 179 Michael, C 632 (III, 266). 180 Cf. Vööbus: 1963; 1969; 1971. 181 Michael, C 632 (III, 266). 182 Michael, C 632 (III, 266-267). 183 Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II, 147 (111), Michael, C 620 (III 263-264). 178

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Parallel to the account of this first verbal exchange Michael included Dionysios bar Ṣalībī’s theological response to the conquest of Edessa. Against John, Dionysios blames the events on human sin, and calls on people to accept blameless misfortune as an admonition. The actions of the almighty God, he points out by way of conclusion, are beyond comprehension.184 The fact that Michael quotes this sermon verbatim, whereas John’s reasoning is merely reported, makes it clear with which position he himself agrees. Michael remarks that Dionysios wrote this sermon when still a deacon in Melitene. He would have heard or read it himself as a young man, together with Dionysios’ consolatory sermon about the attack on Mōr Bar Ṣawmō. In the monastery the monks debated the downfall and its causes, and apparently also the hazardous dispute of the theologians.185 The young monk, whose family suffered as a consequence of ʻAyn ad-Dawlās’ pressure on Melitene, would have developed a very personal interest in this problem.186 Later, Dionysios pursued the theme in a book and two mīmrē. Basil of Edessa, an eyewitness who was very well informed about the events, and highly conscientious in his account of them, wrote three mīmrē. Michael recommends his readers to consult all these works for further information.187 In the course of time such treatises had been produced with some regularity.188 Before and after Michael, however, they were not incorporated into Syriac Orthodox historiography; his systematic examination of the debate is therefore a special feature of his work, and hence requires an explanation. The chronicle of Bar ʻEbrōyō brings out an aspect of the argument of which Michael’s own account has been lost.189 In Bar ʻEbrōyō’s version 184

Michael, C 631-633 (III, 265-267). Michael, C 636-637 (III, 274). 186 Michael reports how monks with relatives among the refugees moved the reluctant convent not to send the people away: Michael, C 647 (III, 290). 187 Michael, C 633 (III, 267). Baumstark: 1922, 293, 294, 298. 188 Baumstark: 1922, 42, 43, 49 (Aphrem), 67 (Qurillino, anonymous), also an admonition by Simon the Stylite, a priest’s answer to this, Baumstark: 1922, 61, as well as two other mīmrē on another event from the 5th century; for the 5th century, see also Michael, C 169 (II, 19), finally the writings by two members of the Church of the East, from the 6th century, Baumstark: 1922, 116. Apart from Ephrem and Dionysios bar Ṣalībī only a 9th century monk seems to have addressed the problem of divine Providence systematically, Baumstark: 1922, 147. Next, some Syriac Orthodox mīmrē from the 11th century, Baumstark: 1922, 291, 292. Cf. more van Lint: 1999 for the Armenian response to the Edessa catastrophe. 189 Michael, C 656 (III, 310) breaks off after a few sentences; Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 305ff (260ff). 185

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the conflict between John and Dionysios had to be settled before the patriarch. Metropolitan John complained about the lowly rhetor190 who contradicted him. In kindness to the metropolitan, the patriarch prohibited Dionysios from continuing his polemic. But Dionysios read out his work before the synod, whereupon he was not only exonerated but also granted a bishopric.191 His reply to John’s attack on God’s omnipotence was therefore the basis of his ecclesiastical career. Bar ʻEbrōyō’s account indicated that the ordination took place around 1154, and this date has entered modern scholarship. But the first words of Michael’s account show that here he was intending to catch up on Jacob’s ordination. It is only because of Bar ʻEbrōyō’s abridgement, in which these introductory words are lacking, that the date 1154 was connected with this event. An earlier date of ordination is made likely by the dynamic of events: would John have waited 10 years before he complained about the rhetor? That is implausible.192 Bar ʻEbrōyō did not say anything else on this subject; on the contrary, it is striking both how smoothly and unconcernedly the church realises its programme in his ecclesiastical history, and that he makes no attempt to connect it with the account of the simultaneous massacres in his secular history. Yet the events should have directly affected his historical understanding of Eastern priesthood, with its roots in Edessa. Michael’s thought, by contrast, was directly affected. The fall of Edessa, the misfortunes of the Orthodox, and the public debates over omnipotence or chance, rule of the Anointed King or anarchy, are central problems in his historical account of the 12th century.193 Otherwise we hear little about such disputes and the role of ‘intellectuals’ in the Syriac Orthodox congregations. Here Michael affords us a direct view. Dionysios’ treatise shows that in fact this public debate served to define the position of the theologians themselves, who, amidst the ‘grumbling’

190 To my knowledge, it is still unclear how those referred to as mlīlē/rhetors can be precisely described in socio-historical terms. I suggest that they are teachers, Weltecke: 2015. 191 Bar ʻEbrōyō, CE occ., 511-513 (512-514). 192 Gabriel Rabo, Göttingen, kindly pointed out to me that Barsaum: 1987, 384 (Barsaum: 2000, 143) already provided manuscript evidence for the ordination of a bishop in 1147, among others Ms. Cambridge, Gg. 2. 14, 306b (cf. Wright: 1901, 1008-1009; 1015-1016). However, this manuscript is dated to the 15th to 16th century. 193 The historical work that Iwannis of Kayšūm probably wrote in this period takes up the same problem, at least judging by the preface, in which Iwannis attacks the idea that the situation of the Syrians was extremely difficult at the time. Michael, C 627 (III, 256).

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of the communities, fought vehemently over John’s position.194 For the participants were those restless and highly qualified minds already mentioned, who did not shy away from conflict in other cases either. Both Bishop John bar Andreas and Bishop Iwannis of Kayšūm (Keysun), who also voiced their opinions in writing, were educated in secular philosophy and thoroughly experienced in the art of disputation.195 Little surprise that John of Mardin, more of a pragmatist, could not stand up to them. Michael’s attitude was not completely negative, for he was sympathetic to John’s problem. He carefully distinguished the arguments of both sides, and formulated his criticism accordingly. John contested God’s omnipotence. This was unacceptable because it rendered the spiritual problem more acute instead of resolving it. John’s scriptural proofs, furthermore, were inapplicable; read in context, the texts did not mean what he claimed. John’s opponents, on the other hand, insisting that everything happens according to God’s will, failed to explain how this can be reconciled with God’s goodness and loving care. The fact that Michael resolutely raises the question of God’s goodness, instead of focusing on justice, shows that as always he thinks the matter through to its conclusion. After all, there were many contemporaries who denied love and goodness to the Creator-God and declared the world to be the world of Satan. Therefore goodness must be emphasised as an essential constituent of the divine image, even if Michael did not want to follow John of Mardin. Was John, as Fiey and others postulate, the first rational thinker of the Syriac Orthodox Church, who sought to interpret the course of history without God, and was therefore punished by dogmatic authorities?196 The absence of God was a long-standing part of real experience here, and could apparently expand into a feeling of desperate meaninglessness. Far from explaining historical events, it would be more accurate to say that John provided biblical quotations for his own day, which he used to deal with his own conflict with God — the conflict between his personal benignity and his experiencing absence of goodness in God’s actions. The characterisation of John’s position as ‘rational’ perhaps arises from a misunderstanding. It was not the same debate as the one conducted at almost the same time between Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153) and 194 195 196

Michael, C 631-632 (III, 265-267); 635-636 (III, 272-274). Michael, C 614-616 (III, 235-239) and 626 (III, 256), Baumstark: 1922, 294. Fiey: 1984.

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Peter Abelard (1079-1142) about logical and dialectical thought in faith.197 The Syriac Orthodox world of the 12th century is a mirror image. First, the rhetor Dionysios was the rebel who had to defend himself before the patriarch. Second, it was John, established as metropolitan for more than twenty years, who lost the debate, not the rebel. Third, dialectics had its place in the intellectual tradition of this world, and a rational approach to contradictions was a daily routine. It had evolved in Talmudic and early Christian work on the canon and the biblical text, was further developed in dogmatic debates, and was cultivated in interdenominational and interreligious disputes. Not least, the connection of secular-philosophical knowledge and theology had propelled the two natures debate in the 5th and 6th centuries towards schism.198 A mainly contemplative spirituality had not been able to withstand centuries of challenges from philosophies and thinkers from other religious traditions. Hence in the 12th century it was the Syriac Orthodox theologians with a philosophical education who were sent into the fray whenever Christology came up for debate. Anyone who wanted to defend the faith here had to have a capacity for logical, Aristotelian and dialectical thought. John of Mardin did not have it — he felt. Michael’s historiography seemed irrational because it was not presented independently of the theological explanation, but rather inserted itself into it. The modern concept of rational historiography underlying this verdict is no longer tenable. Yet above all, the secularization of historiography required a paradigm change: a change which depended on the assumption that human behaviour decisively dominates the course of history, and that this behaviour is susceptible to rational explanation. As regards the 12th century, the theologians needed precisely their rational instruments — dispute, treatise, debate — to prevent themselves being catapulted out of their religious world view! As we saw, an ethniclinguistic identity existed in the 12th century. But at its centre was the belief that, because people had observed orthodoxy and kept faith with the Anointed One, all the bitter experiences had not been meaningless.

197 On this conflict, cf. Ehlers: 1974, whose account is extremely interesting in this connection, because at the same time it describes the function of historical writing within rival systems of education. But on reading this account we also realize how little in comparison can currently be said about Syriac Orthodox society of the 12th century and the function of historical writing. Dinzelbacher: 1998, 222-250. 198 On e.g. John Philoponus, cf. Suchla: 1998; Van Roey: 1980; cf. Michael, C 218239 (II, 92-121).

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Only the mind can prove God, feeling rebels against the idea. Take note, Anaxagoras: why do I suffer? That is the rock of atheism. The softest sigh of suffering, even if stirs in just one atom, creates a rift in creation from top to bottom.199

As an atheistic argument, this proposition by Georg Büchner can be expressed within the secular world view without fear of identity loss, unlike in the Syriac Orthodox world of the 12th century. But as regards the rift itself, the theological problem of suffering — perceived, if with different premises, by both Büchner and John of Mardin, and resolved by neither — it offers perhaps a view through the ages and something that may be called understanding. In the Syriac Orthodox debate on Providence one thing is strikingly absent: people argue with God, people argue with themselves — but they do not put all the blame on fanatically combated adversaries. It would be natural enough to turn all others into instruments of Satan, and ones own people into innocently persecuted paragons of virtue, or scourges used by God. But this was not the approach taken by the theologians of the 12th century Syriac Orthodox Church in this situation. Why not? Does their approach exemplify ‘the wisdom of the Syrians’? Or was it, again, something born out of theological necessity? Was the situation so bad that constructing a world of a few pure souls opposed to many instruments of Satan would have swept out faith too? A simple answer to the problem of theodicy can be arrived at on the basis of the deed-consequence connection: the ancient conclusion that suffering is a punishment for one’s own actions was strongly present throughout Syriac Orthodox history, having been used to explain the Muslim conquest and many other problems. For Basil of Edessa too it was the means of explaining the catastrophe of 1146. It led to his terrible moral condemnation of the church of Edessa.200 This harsh self-reproach reflects the depth of the tragedy, which to some degree is extended into the past with the help of a deed-consequence connection. The tragedy is explained by the historical construction, which cannot give comfort, but can at least provide a sense of purpose in the context of present suffering. This idea is present in Michael too. But, in contrast to Anneliese Lüders’ perspective, we can see against our background how far he goes beyond this, turning instead to the free human being’s responsibility for 199 200

Büchner, Dantons Tod, III, i (1835) (translation Anthony Runia). Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II, 130-132 (98-99).

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his right or wrong decisions within the world.201 In reality he therefore breaks down the deed-consequence connection in that he does not relate every event to God, but ponders over human behaviour considered in itself. His historical writing is born in the space which he creates for himself in this way. Thus he observes changes in the political world, recognizes new power formations in the political structure, analyses the Zangid strategy to accelerate Muslim unification against the Latins by showing exceptional piety, describes social change in the relation between Turks and Arabs as a process of assimilation — all this has principally to do, not with the deed-consequence connection or with John’s notion of chance, but with historical analysis within the world.202 It was Denḥō who set fire to the monastery.203 It was the monks in Mōr Bar Ṣawmō who wrongly believed that they could turn Joscelin’s visit to account.204 And it was not accidental that Latin troops were absent in Edessa when Zangi advanced, for Joscelin himself, falsely assuming that as a Latin he could fight with Turks against Turks, had intentionally left the city with his troops.205 The same applies to the past — Michael does not repeat the prophets’ diatribes against Israel and Judah, but enumerates and describes what happened. The loss of the Temple and the Ark of the Covenant is for instance rationalized as the result of international wars of conquest.206 In fact all the historiography described here is characterized by both features at the same time: the deed-consequence connection co-exists in varying mixtures with human agency as an explanatory tool. Both forms of historical interpretation agreed with a Christian conception of historical order. Yet it seems clear that for Michael and the theologians neither represented a sufficient explanation of these catastrophes. In other words, the people in the communities refused to be reassured. Just as Job rejected the soothing words and moral admonition of his friends, persevering in his cries and challenging God, they continued to cry out, to protest their spiritual and human innocence, the innocence of the nuns and the children. 201

Lüders: 1966, 12. Cf. the yūbōlō d-malkē of the 12th century, cf. also Michael, C 695-706 (III, 336355), and on the Turks 566-571 (III, 149-157). 203 Michael, C 726 (III, 391). 204 Michael, C 643 (III, 285). 205 Michael, C 629 (III, 260), but cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 305 (268), where Joscelin marches to Antioch. 206 Michael, C 27-65 (I, 49-104). 202

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Michael knew a lot about Job. Unfortunately his historical treatise on Job has not been preserved, but traces of this preoccupation can still be discovered.207 Job’s grief turns into desperate rage when his friends treat him to arguments from the deed-consequence connection and point to his human responsibility; he feels it as contempt, which increases his suffering.208 The clerics — John of Mardin, Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, Iwannis of Kayšūm, John bar Andreas, Timothy, and the others — seem to have recognised some kind of analogy with Job in the ‘grumbling’ of the people. In the conflict they therefore threw open their world-view to a total revaluation. Hence God himself was now under scrutiny. On this question Michael agreed with the view of Dionysios bar Ṣalībī’s. God is always present, even if he cannot be seen. But the nature of his presence must be analysed. ‘That is why we should understand that in the ways [of God’s presence in history] there is that of the will, that of the commandment and that of the permission.’209 Dionysios had systematically treated this problem and also this solution; Michael refers to his book for further information.210 Here we seem to have reached the centre from which Michael’s historical writing flowed. It possesses a special internal logic, and, indeed, implies a radical consequence. Undoubtedly Michael was looking for a solution to a particular problem. If God was present in history, this had to be empirically demonstrable from the course of history. This was a current theory in the thought of his time. But how to achieve it practically? How to proceed? There was no specialised discipline, no craft that he could study. The sciences of his world did not usually adopt a systematical approach to the past. So he had to ask himself, how was the past represented? and how was it proved that something had happened? For centuries nobody had attempted a historical endeavour of the scope he had in mind; no one before him in his tradition had ever tackled such a huge work. The scale of the task corresponded to that of the problem.

207 Berlin, StB, Sachau 39, 109a, cf. Sachau: 1899, nos. 223, 701-704. Syrian authorities like Jacob of Edessa and Ephrem the Syrian opted for a late genesis of this book. By contrast, Michael in this treatise decided in favour of a Mosaic authorship of the book, i.e. a prophetically inspired origin, which shows very clearly that he attached special importance to it. 208 Cf. Müller: 31995. 209 Michael, C 634 (III, 269). 210 Michael, C 634 (III, 269). The work has not survived.

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It was at this point, it seems, that Jacob of Edessa’s chronicle fell into his hands. ‘And this invigorated me, ignorant as I was.’211 Here was a way the project could be accomplished. Subsequently other works were mined for guidance, including that of the ‘wise Patriarch Dionysios’. Michael collects sources and learns the method — a method which derives from theological practice, and is here transferred to a different object. In this way past events could be identified, proved to be factual, and clearly classified in the canon. Michael’s many methodological remarks about his sources and his texts give an impression of the problems this method brought with it and of the effort it demanded. In fact ‘effort’ is mentioned time and again. The project did indeed involve a huge effort, because the craft had to be learnt at the same time as it was carried out. Naturally the enterprise was therefore beset with all kinds of problems. Yet it also led to pride and enthusiasm about what could evidently be achieved with this method. Michael’s repeated observation that this or that historical work revealed very plainly where, when and how something had taken place makes clear what is actually happening here: Michael is amazed that past events, which are chronologically and ontologically so problematic, can yet be made accurately visible, to use a term he never tires of repeating. Only when it materializes visibly before his eyes along the river of time can Michael consider the ‘why’, can he lead himself to the ‘understanding’ after which he aspired. His laborious practice of concrete historical research brings him to his astonishing positivism and to the historical methodology which we expounded above in our discussion of his source research. Every technique upon which he could call is deployed to examine the thesis of God’s threefold presence in will, commandment and permission. And it worked. Permission covers the changeable human world, whose events can only be explained by itself. ‘Permission’ is explicitly mentioned in relation to the conduct of people before the Flood, who in their raging killed each other in myriads and drenched the earth in blood. In Michael’s view, this did not take place independently of God but without his involvement: therefore it can only be attributed to human responsibility.212 The same can be said about the next stages of warfare and kingdom formation, with their consequences as described by Michael. At the same time he does not try to pass a verdict on all events, be they locust plagues, wars or floods. He does not climb the mountain of understanding like an early modern magician or a postmodern sceptic. 211 212

Michael, C 450 (II, 483). Michael, C 5 (I, 10).

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The account of universal history does not solve the problem of the present, but historically rationalizes it. It becomes clear that the course of history does not exist to produce the Syrians, but is much larger and more complicated. The history of the Syrians forms only a small part of the chronicle; it is so far from being dominant that modern critics have been led to overlook the originality of Michael’s perspective in this area. In this respect Michael’s universal history seems to convey something of God’s answer from the clouds to Job.213 But in its historicity it is specific, since it uses historical means to describe how the Syrians have ended up in their present situation. This history is complicated and differentiated, more differentiated than the elegies for the sufferings of the Orthodox and the theoretical conflicts surrounding God’s omnipotence and goodness, which only deal with the present personal relationship between those who suffer and God. Michael’s historical world is larger, more varied and broader; indeed, in the face of this calmness the subject-matter of the elegies and the controversial treatises suddenly seems a little narrow. Michael points to political change and human failure in kingdom and priesthood, to arrogance and inflated vanity and their consequences, to persecution, to attempts at agreement, to war, death and suffering, to deliverance, to rain, to good harvests and mild winters. He read, described and documented the history of the changeable world, in which the Syrians have a place and in which the Anointed One is always already taking care of those whose humanity he shared. 4. DIONYSIOS BAR ṢALĪBĪ AND MICHAEL:

THE TEACHER’S PLAN

Another outstanding mind of the 12th century had not succeeded in gaining a chronographic grip on events in the world. Had Dionysios bar Ṣalībī created something truly excellent in the field of historiography, Michael would have paid him due honour in his chronicle. Two months later, that is, in the second Tešrīn [November] of the year 1483 [1171], our people suffered exceptionally painful sorrow, owing to the passing away from our Orthodox Church of Dionysios of Amid, that is Jacob, the great scholar and the star of his generation; he deserves to be mentioned as a lover of labour just as much as Jacob of Edessa, for he was very diligent in exerting himself for the doctrine and compiled and wrote very precise books, commentaries on all the prophetic books, that is, on the entire Old Testament, and he also wrote an excellent commentary on the Gospel,

213

Job 38-42.

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the Apostles and the Acts of the Apostles, on the doctrinal books of Gregory the Theologian, the books of Basil, on those of Dionysios (the Areopagite) and those of Gregory of Nyssa, on those of Saint Severus, of Peter of Kallinikos, and the Centuries of the anachorete Evagrius.214 He wrote a polemic against all heresies and denominations that want to tear our Orthodox denomination apart.215 Furthermore, he drew up commentaries on secular dialectics, on Aristotle and other matters. He also formulated a theology, a book on the times, he also wrote a volume of letters and mīmrē and compiled and wrote a great book in which all the hymns of our Church are collected. He thus enriched his Church and his soul by keeping the holy canon,216 he about whose entire way of life,217 endeavours and great successes we have written a mīmrē. Anyone who would like information about him [can read this mīmrō].218 He passed away and his body was laid in the Theotokos Church in Amid, on the southern side near the grave of Patriarchs Bar ‘Abdūn and Bar Šušan.219

Michael concludes by beseeching intercessory prayer for himself. This very extensive tribute is unusual for Michael’s chronicle, as is his reference to loss. Michael’s enumeration of the works of the Church Fathers immediately reveals connections with the knowledge and interests evident in his chronicle. They also convey an impression of what was read in the school of Melitene in the 12th century. It is no surprise that, to our taste, Michael pays too little attention to Dionysios’ secular philosophical studies: philosophizing was not Michael’s passion. There was and is little to say about Dionysios’ (lost) chronicle. But he planned another work of history that was to be monumental in scope. Again it is only Michael who informs about this in two passages: But Dionysios of Amid wrote thus: ‘because in this dark and bleak time220 all ears turn to rumours and stories without hope and without benefit …, 214 Chabot translates ‘les Centuries du moine Evagrius’. Iḥidōyō is better rendered ‘anachorete’. The reference is to Evagrius of Pontus (*around 345-399) and his mystical Kephalaia Gnostica, which only survives in Syriac translations and which despite his condemnation for Origenism achieved widespread dissemination. Fitschen: 1998. 215 Chabot translates ‘qui s’attaquent à notre foi orthodoxe’. 216 Chabot views qaddīšē as the subject of the next sentence and reads ‘ce saint’. 217 Chabot translates ‘toutes les œuvres’. 218 Chabot translates ‘Quiconque le désire peut les apprendre de ce traité.’ 219 Michael, C 699-670 (III, 344-345). 220 This section is hard to read and in part probably corrupt; in connection with Dionysios bar Ṣalībī’s complicated linguistic style these are bad preconditions. Without the help of Numan Güney and Amill Gorgis, Syriac Orthodox Congregation of Antioch in Berlin, no proposal would have been possible here. Any faults are all my own. Chabot also had problems with this passage, and his translation is partly incomprehensible; ‘cette époque dépourvue de charité’ is wrong — here we should not read ḤWB’, but ḤWBY’.

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whose unusualness and exaltedness have put many under their spell, and, certainly not just since recently, demolished the foundation through the fact that fear, the bond of the commandments, was cast off and lawlessness increased, the knowledge that supports beginners and puts its receivers on the right path has been replaced by entertainment. While I observed this, I, poor Dionysios, that is, Jacob the Humble, it came to me, for those who make an effort, to contribute something with the help of the precision of a chronography, while I considered how much the hearing of certain stories which have taken place from time to time and of plagues that have been hurled from above upon the weak people would be useful and help strengthen their conscience, if it is heard by ears that have not yet been tested by such trials, so that it could perhaps, by striking at the root, frighten and terrorize them and they are not seduced by stories without credibility and truth, by words of triviality and futility.221

Šem‘ē u- tūnōyē, the terms which Dionysios uses here, mean something different from the terms otherwise used in Michael for ‘history’ or ‘story’, namely šarbō or taš‘ītō. Šem‘ē u- tūnōyē particularly emphasize the sonantic and oral aspect, and therefore, in this connection, the transitory, entertaining or performative aspect of oral speech, narrative and reception. In this context šarbē or taš‘yōtō are better rendered as ‘reports’ and ‘histories’ (verifiable through sources, tested). Šem‘ē u- tūnōyē are not in themselves negative expressions, but here Dionysios undoubtedly means them in a disparaging sense: ‘chitchat and fairy tales’ roughly indicates the semantic field in which they should probably be understood.222 Dionysios’ strictness is very noticeable in this passage. No doubt it arises from his clerical scrupulousness, which has plainly come into conflict here with the concrete reality of life. Because Dionysios expresses his views so clearly, he also illuminates the environment in which he conceived this plan. Apparently he was thinking of a cheerful society which to his taste took too little notice of clerical admonitions. One is reminded of the laughable stories which Maphrian Bar ʻEbrōyō adapted for Syriac Orthodox society.223 All at once emerges a picture of a secular society which remains invisible in ecclesiastical texts: we no longer possess any secular Syriac Orthodox literature from the 12th century. But it appears here that such a literature — in various ephemeral forms — must once have existed: that 221

Michael, C 627 (III, 257). Cf. Payne Smith: 1879-1901, 416, 4466. On the Old Testament imagery and on his view of himself as prophet and admonisher, cf. also Michael, C 653 (III, 302) etc. 223 Bar ʻEbrōyō, Laughable Stories. 222

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there was a lively urban culture which followed its own cultural paths hardly known to us.224 Dionysios lived as a deacon in Melitene, and he could therefore be referring to Melitene society. Melitene was large and important enough in the first half of the century to accommodate such a society. Dionysios’ outline could therefore date to a time before the conquest of Edessa, the abduction of the Mōr Bar Ṣawmō relic and the ensuing hardships suffered by the Melitene population. This conjecture is supported by the position of the text: in Michael’s chronicle it is ranged under the year 1143 together with the preface to another historical work, that of Bishop Iwannis of Kayšūm.225 Around 1146 Dionysios again talked about his outline in one of his treatises about the catastrophe of Edessa.226 But here he strikes a different, less harsh and — in its own way — more comforting note. He justifies the briefness of his argumentation in the passage concerned by saying that he is about to compile a historical collection of the destructions of cities and their causes. And he proposes to publish these in a chronicle. The reasoning has thus, in a sense, been reversed: the people are already scared to death. As emerges from this treatise, Dionysios wanted to show them that they are never abandoned by God, even when they may only experience his nearness in his punishments and in their suffering.227 Dionysios now found not only a consistent but also an unambiguous answer to the problem, an answer whose radicality brings out the stringency and rigour of his way of thinking. However, despite his announcement, he never realized his historiographical outline, but published it as a preface to the historical work which did actually appear and which by his own account must have been very limited in chronological and material scope. He describes the outline there as follows: And because there had long been this idea and scholars asked me not to rest until I had translated it into action, I wanted to make it out of all the ancestors’ chronicles and chose from them what is appropriate and suitable for 224 Cf. Bar ʻEbrōyō’s description of a physician’s story-telling skills: Bar ʻEbrōyō, CP 457 (392). 225 Unlike on comparable occasions, Michael says nothing about these works being written carefully. And in contrast to all other preface excerpts he does not note that he proposes to quote the historical works in question. Both texts must have been very short and have dealt with contemporary problems — probably the conquest of Edessa. 226 Michael, C 632 (III, 267). 227 Michael, C 631-632 (III, 265-267).

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such a historical account, as we said. And when I filled it and took something from the ecclesiastical histories of the ancestors’ writings that is suited to a fabric of words, I thought and intended to connect and unite, i.e. arrange in a unified order, what has been collected from the various times, and thus gradually approach and reach this restless time in which we are, and convey the destructions and afflictions which have befallen the Christian people, so that the attention of the crowd is gripped by such tales and bitter experiences, and they stay away from what we mentioned above … .228

Again he uses the terms Šem‘ē or here šmū‛ōtō and tūnōyō. This time it is horrifying tales and bitter stories with which he proposes to replace the cheerful prose of his neglectful contemporaries. But what he formally envisaged here is nothing other than a synthesis of church history and world chronography. He says so himself: And we have now abandoned this intended idea of collecting all the chronicles together with the church histories and making from all these together a single irrigation canal for the benefit and irrigation of research … .229

Dionysios bar Ṣalībī’s description of the form of his outline is therefore strikingly similar to the way Michael’s chronicle is actually constructed in terms of graphics and literary history. He must therefore be the connecting link between Michael’s innovative graphics and his sources. Indeed, Dionysios may well have bequeathed his project together with his groundwork to Michael. Traces of Dionysios’ work are suggested by, for instance, the following remark in Michael’s chronicle, which (in connection with another text by Dionysios) talks about ‘my other chronicle’. This phrase cannot possibly derive from Michael.230 Future source and style criticism may be able to shed further light here.231 In view of these statements we should also assume that first Dionysios’ and then Michael’s chronicle project was debated among ecclesiastical scholars. Michael’s solution was therefore produced in a sphere for which historiography seems suddenly to have become very important. Besides Michael, this circle included Dionysios, Iwannis of Kayšūm and Basil of Edessa, men we found, when considering his biography, to have been close to Michael.

228

Michael, C 627 (III, 257), my emphasis. Michael, C 627 (III, 257). 230 Michael, C 377 (II, 355). 231 The proof that Michael inherited Dionysios’ estate may be furnished by Gabriel Rabo in his dissertation. Another interesting project in this connection are the double commentaries of Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, see Ryan: 2004. 229

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But Dionysios bar Ṣalībī’s outline possesses a specific character which fundamentally separates it from Michael’s chronicle, and clearly shows that it cannot be anything more than a stimulus. The bishop had emphasized that he did not design his historical work with an intellectual purpose, but as a theological polemic based on historical arguments. In this he differs from Michael, who repeatedly affirms that he wants to write down what happened — a phrase which is not just a topos but an essential element of his major preoccupation in the work. Like John of Mardin, Dionysios did not set out to understand the course of history. Congregations and individual theologians had raised the problem of theodicy, and he solved it theoretically and theologically — not historically — on the basis of the Scriptures and the Church Fathers. For him, events did not call his understanding of the world into question. He saw them as contingent and trivial; it was pointless to brood over them.232 With his historical collection of catastrophes, intended first to frighten and later to edify, he simply hoped to reach the broad uneducated masses. Dionysios does not shed any light on his motives for finally giving up his project, but we can formulate a hypothesis here: this work would have been highly impractical for his purposes. How would his tūnōyē wa-šmū‛ōtō mrīrōtō have reached the popular masses if they were recorded in this monumental form? And even if they were only meant for the homiletic preparation of scholars, what would be the point of laboriously recording them in chronological order? Passages of time would serve no explanatory purpose, and could not increase the effect of the painful stories: it was precisely a contemporary application at which he aimed. Perhaps he himself realized this in the course of time. People for whom history continually repeats itself, or who can accommodate all events within the same explanation, people who already know why everything has happened and avoid or refuse a confrontation between this knowledge and the historical evidence, or finally people for whom the passage of time does not reveal overarching structures and narratives but only contingent and fleeting clusters of events — these people do not need historiography.

232

Cf. Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, Commentary on Kohelet.

CONCLUSION

We began this study by sketching out the various contexts in which Michael’s chronicle must be situated. These included Eastern Orthodox church history. For Eastern Orthodox Christians, church history meant remembered tradition and lived reality. In the West both this Eastern tradition and its socio-historical reality were lost to historical view. What knowledge did survive, meanwhile, was distorted by Orientalisms. Thus, scholars have tended to see strangeness, backwardness and Orientality where comparisons would show parallelism and similarity. A similar bias has also preponderated among students of Syriac Orthodox universal historiography, even though Western medieval historiography goes back to the same roots. Both draw on sources which were amassed in the very influential chronicle and ecclesiastical history of Eusebius of Caesarea. Another larger context for Michael’s chronicle is therefore Christian universal chronography. Western chronography is not, as modern historiography had initially claimed, the stringing together of all knowledge in chronological order on the basis of an unscientific world-view; the same insight applies to the Syriac example now under discussion. Our findings suggest that schematic antitheses such as rational-irrational, religious-secular, or narration-enumeration, are no less troublesome in respect of Syriac Orthodox chronicles than they are in relation to Western chronography. Though historians cannot substantiate the objectivity of these categories with the instruments of historical writing, they form the basis for a particular, contemporary paradigm which is declared to be the telos of historical writing in general. Such normative assumptions about the nature of historical writing not only obscure past modes of historical thought, but also the presuppositions and connections which render them comparable with others. On the other hand, we did find a useful evaluative category in the demonstrable coherence which existed between conceptions of historical order and the technical historiographical work undertaken by practitioners of the historian’s craft. Another context of Michael’s chronicle is Syriac Orthodox historiography in the narrow sense. In recent years historians have favoured a historiographical explanation of the evolution of Syriac historical writing. Witold Witakowski and others following him observed that Syriac chronography expanded in the 8th and 9th centuries, and that the dry,

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staccato entries characteristic of earlier chronography seem to have grown into monumental narratives. Michael’s chronicle, with some others, is located at the end of this development. Scholars assumed that the shift took place under the influence of narrative secular historiography. One of the research goals of the present inquiry was therefore to identify and analyse the formal components of Michael’s chronicle. But tradition is not the only context of historical writing. At the same time as historiography shapes views of the past, it expresses a particular contemporary culture within which it performs certain positive functions. The next step was therefore to consider contemporary representations of Michael’s world, with two aims in mind: on the one hand to sketch the writer’s own milieu as objectively as possible, and on the other to describe the perspectives of the observing chronicler. We found that Michael was a strikingly thorough researcher. His diligence could be seen as a direct function of the demands of his office in a dynamic and, in his time, volatile world. His thoroughness gave his account a systematic quality and a breadth which can compare with anything in the 12th century. On this basis we focused on Michael’s chronicle as a piece of historical work. Michael’s source material consisted chiefly of chronographies, church histories, smaller local historical accounts and church-historical documents. He supplemented his corpus with as yet unknown texts of Armenian and Arabian provenance. Beyond these modern source-critical matters, however, came above all the question of Michael’s own method in dealing with the sources. Michael did not simply compile sources indiscriminately. He researched and assessed the texts, compared them critically, and tested their statements against his criteria of probability. The content and format of his work was not dictated by whatever supply of sources he chanced to have. Michael consciously addressed specific questions of chronology and content. Following out the methodological statements contained in the works which inspired him, he also formulated diachronic, formal and systematic categories into which he could coherently dispose his material. In particular he distinguished between mathematical-chronographic works, ‘books on the computation of time’, and works containing memories of past events. He also distinguished between direct and indirect witnesses, and by using the latter tried to compensate for the loss of the primary sources. He verified his information in the text with great care, and often indicated whether he used them directly or indirectly. Michael also made historical observations on the lack of sources. Schisms and the separation of the Eastern and Western Roman Empire,

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for example, are suggested as reasons why there was little interest in and reporting on the Orthodox patriarchates and the Western empires. This habit of reflexivity can justly be termed a historical methodology. The method focused on the processes demanded by the attempt to co-ordinate past events, despite limited data, with the continuous flow of time. Michael had his own metaphor to describe this process of historical intertwining. To him, historical writing was like weaving a fabric, stretching the warp threads with the various, simultaneously passing successions, genealogies and periods of time, and then interlacing memories. If we consider Michael’s historiographical practice alongside the way he argues, quotes and verifies, we will find it hard to maintain that his chronicle represents a clumsy, ill-assorted narrative. His style was rather a function of his specific way of writing history, of his historical methodology. Having reached this conclusion, we turned to the formal arrangement of the chronicle. Hitherto, critical assessments of the chronicle have been based on the arrangement of Jean-Baptiste Chabot’s copy, which was the only version available in the Western world. But this arrangement, which is an artistically incompetent copy of a twice-repeated copying process, cannot be equated with Michael’s original intention. Nevertheless, Chabot’s copy and the Aleppo manuscript on which it was based, and which is available to scholars as a facsimile today, do contain remnants of the original conception, as well as copyist’s notes which shed some light on Michael’s formal intentions. For Michael as a practised calligrapher, graphics and writing were related modes. His chronicle was not halfway on the road towards a narrative historical text. Rather his historical account was a carefully constructed synthesis of narrative and non-narrative devices. The expansion of the text into graphics was the material precondition for the complex and systematic scope of his diachronic and synchronic account. The limitations of the linear text in representing the simultaneity of synchrony and diachrony, which Michael thus sought to evade, were also felt to be a hindrance in Western Europe. There too, as Gert Melville’s studies have shown, they led to graphic solutions. Michael’s graphics represented the practical translation of the ‘weaving’ that the text constantly talks about. The formal elements of his graphical system correspond to his textual sources: the chronography determined the chronological canon. Michael knew the canon from his study of Jacob of Edessa’s chronicle, which was written at the turn of the 8th century and which he admired for its graphic clarity. To the canon Michael attached

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an ecclesiastical history. From the ecclesiastical history he took, among other things, the idea of marking historical phases by means of book and chapter divisions. These divisions structure the entire work and infuse the chronological order of events with historical analysis. From the material of both universal-historical genres, by ‘ordering, separating and adding’, as he put it, Michael finally developed the systematic synchronoptic arrangement in three columns and a canon. In between, in order to bridge the gap between a summarizing chronography and an extensive ecclesiastical history that quotes documents verbatim, he inserts lengthy texts in a single column across the entire width of the page. This formal outcome was his invention. Today the structures he established are blurred. The resulting ‘chronographics’ originally allowed Michael and the reader to compare, contextualize and make causal connections. On the other side, the process of observing and writing gave the author insights which are evident in the accuracy both of his comments and of his diachronic structuring. Having established these characteristics of Michael’s work, we moved on to explore them further in a comparative analysis. Our objects of comparison were three other Syriac Orthodox works of history. The first, by Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, was very highly regarded by Michael. The second, by Bar ʻEbrōyō, developed Michael’s work further. The third, by Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, was never written, but was known in outline to Michael as a student. The comparison allowed us to elucidate more nearly Michael’s specific intentions, since the close conceptual relationship between these works throws their formal differences into relief. These modifications cannot be explained by contingent factors such as the availability of sources, or the alleged arbitrariness of a dully compiling writer. The strikingly new type of chronicle written by Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē in the 9th century was not an imitation of secular historiography. There was no obvious social place for the latter in Syriac Orthodox society, either in this or the following period. The narrative component of historical writing, while a common feature, is not decisive here, since the narrative genre of ecclesiastical history is the more obvious candidate as a moving influence. So much is strongly suggested by Dionysios’ explicitly avowed intention to continue the ecclesiastical history by Cyrus of Batnae. Dionysios’ chronicle is therefore rather a divided ecclesiastical history, by means of which he translates a new historiographical concept into a new form. Traditional ecclesiastical history was no longer adequate to a salvation-historical interpretation of Islam’s durability. From

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the 7th century it was therefore no longer used. But the new juxtaposition of apostolic succession and worldly succession as an encounter of patriarchate and caliphate once again allowed a historically coherent understanding of reality. Dionysios’ new historical concept can also be seen as a narrative representation of his own productive encounters with the caliphs. Ultimately the function fulfilled by 9th century literature in dealing with the conflict between Christian messianism and the reality of the Islam in recent times becomes increasingly clear. 300 years later Michael took up this juxtaposition of church history and world history. Unlike Dionysios, he aimed at a chronological universality which re-organized all the material from the Creation to the author’s present day in both content and form. The author of the Chronicle of Zuqnīn had first carried out this new organization of the entire material. There is no direct relation between the two works. But the fusion of mathematical and synchronizing world chronography with narrative and historical-analytic church history seems to have taken place elsewhere too — as, indeed, it did in Europe. The fusion appears in Michael as the symbol of a specific ecclesiological idea. The high priesthood is continuously established by God from the Creation onwards and stands opposite to the world of the ‘kings of the earth’. Ultimately the legitimate successors of the Jewish high priesthood are the miaphysitic patriarchates, and by consequence Michael himself. At the same time this opposition brings about a historical localization of his denomination as a particular social construct. This conception did not express an Augustinian, dualistic model of world history, as for instance in Otto von Freising. Rather Michael systematically expounded the internal causes of the historical development of the high priesthood, characterized by denominational diversification and related developments and conflicts. Michael therefore accepted the reality of ecclesial plurality, just as he did not shy away from trans-denominational encounters in the political world of the 12th century. Bar ʻEbrōyō took the same view and developed it further. In general, it seems that there was a significant impulse within the Eastern-Orthodox world of the 12th and 13th centuries to combine with a rootedness in one’s own tradition and identity a tolerant attitude towards the multi-denominational reality. Michael’s view of the worldly empires becomes clearer in the abridgements of his chronicle made by the maphrian a hundred years later. Like Michael, Bar ʻEbrōyō did not give a metaphysical interpretation of the sequence of world empires. This distinguishes the great Syriac Orthodox

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chronicles from world-historical works in the contemporary West. A society which lived as a matter of course in the widely visible remains of ancient Near Eastern, Hellenistic-Roman and early Christian Antiquity had no reason to construct a translatio. The idea of translatio underlines a specific claim to legitimacy by new powers, and it is an element of a victors’ history. There are other reasons why Bar ʻEbrōyō reduced Michael’s complicated history of the empires to a linear succession. The simplified succession was the outcome of a conscious turn to the history of a region. Michael, on the other hand, had achieved a chronological analysis of the empires. Instead of levelling them, he clearly brought out the plurality and simultaneity of the empires as well as their different beginnings and ends. From this he developed human psychological and historical explanations for the reality of destructive war, of irreversible change and of the transitoriness of secular dominion. Perhaps, therefore, modern research could overlook Michael’s historical thought because it was in fact consistently historical. However, his mistrust of the traditional concepts was not the result of his historical studies but rather of his theological perspective. Any attempt to limit the scope of future possibilities contradicted Michael’s concept of the omnipotent God and was therefore rejected. In this way he differed from Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē on the one hand, and from Otto of Freising, for example, for whom the future was already part of describable history, on the other. Our examination of this chronicle has therefore shown that a convincing historical concept need not necessarily lead to a linear theory of history. A theology of history in which God is conceived of as omnipotent and man as free results here in a historical approach which seeks to accommodate the endless variety of human motivation and action in a mutable world. The search for a personal motive for this kind of enterprise, which was undertaken but rarely in Michael’s world and never again on this scale, took us back to the contemporary context. To talk of the past as a salvation-historical, divinely guided process was to use a conventional language in which the events of the time could be understood and categorized. It came naturally to the followers of the monotheistic religions. The chronographer was not the guardian of the past, because he was always confronted with an already existing, finely meshed system of discursive patterns. On our analysis, then, the question is no longer whether medieval chronography is capable of historical analysis, but in what special features its historical method consists. In Michael’s case we

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are exposed to a specific and rare genre of interpretation in the context of conflicting and rival models of the past. We characterised the competition between different interpretations as a ‘querelle d’histoire’. Among many different centres of conflict we focused on two examples which must have been particularly subversive of the historical identity of Syriac Orthodox Christians in the 12th century, and which have pivotal importance in Michael’s chronicle. Disparaging talk about the Syrians who never produced kingdoms, that is, contemptuous reference to a lack of political power and historical importance, had been a problem for the Syrians since the early Middle Ages. In Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē we can already see the countermeasures it produced. His arguments were taken up and reshaped by Michael: using historical and linguistic arguments, he concluded that the ancient high cultures of the Near East ‘of our language and script’, the Assyrian, Chaldean, Babylonian and Aramean kingdoms, preceded the Persian and Greek-Hellenistic empires. After accepting Christianity those Arameans who are called Syrians followed the Christian emperor. But later they turned away from the Greek Empire when it left the path of orthodoxy. It was the Syrians’ loyalty to the orthodox faith which ultimately resulted in the situation obtaining in Michael’s time, when the Syrians no longer possessed either a clear affiliation of loyalty or the direct exercise of rule. He explains the competing historical interpretations regarding this schism between Greeks and Syrians. But then he resolves the conflict in the acceptance of his own reality, in the self-awareness of one who wants to keep faith with the Anointed One and who no longer worships anyone else. Michael throws his theory back in the teeth of the adversary, the Greeks, and there is some irony in this. In Appendix II, which has received very little scholarly attention, it is precisely the Greeks who have preserved the memory of the ancient Near Eastern kingdoms ‘in their books’. According to Michael, after being Christianized the Syrians themselves had banished this memory so completely that they no longer possessed any written testimonies with which they could have defended themselves. In the 12th century this enlarged Syrian self-understanding in terms of Christian autarchy clashed with other ideas. Profoundly impressed by war, catastrophes and an apocalyptic mood, desperate contemporaries as well as astrologers questioned God’s omnipotence and his effectiveness in history. In the mid-12th century the conquest of Edessa provoked a theological debate on the deed-consequence connection, which left its

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mark on Michael’s historical thought. Dionysios bar Ṣalībī’s theological solution that God is present in events according to his will, his commandment and in the permission of human action offered a resolution of the conflict between faith in God’s goodness and omnipotence and the experience of suffering. This concept simultaneously allowed for a satisfying analysis of historical events, and, insofar as the argument required an evidential basis, demanded it. This was the apologetic context in which Dionysios bar Ṣalībī had outlined a synchronoptic universal chronicle. His description of the project likewise identifies chronography and church history as its principal components. Together with his groundwork it served as starting point for Michael’s work. One day we may be able to decide whether and how Michael took part in this project during his teacher’s lifetime. Michael’s version, however, moved beyond the contemporary apologetic framework; and this would appear to have been the decisive precondition under which the monumental project could now successfully be realised. The great Syriac Orthodox chronicles were not written by contemplative and reclusive ascetics. Rather their authors were open to the great and small realities of life. And this is the key. Up till now reflection on Michael’s work has been dominated by the assumption that he wanted to lead his public to faith. As far as he is not quoting from apologetic writings by Dionysios bar Ṣalībī, we do occasionally see him tearing out his hair in anger at the unbelief in the world. But what readership did Michael actually envisage for his book? During the 12th century it was still a work in progress. And it firmly addressed scholars, more precisely, scholarly clerics. Michael’s audience already had a theological education, and was now in search of historical knowledge. In the end these were the readers for whose own historiographical initiatives he held out hopes and for whom he wrote, ‘so that those who mind about it can build on this foundation in the same way, each in his own time, until the end of this transitory and changeable world.’1 Dionysios’ bar Ṣalībī’s sermons on the catastrophes, or short historical texts, like Basil of Edessa’s chronicle, sufficed for the purposes of edification or admonition. They were in fact much more suitable, since Dionysios’ treatises could be disseminated and read out, unlike Michael’s chronicle. It could not and cannot be used in this way because of its unwieldiness and the impossibility of reading out its text. And given the 1

Michael, C 541 (III, 112).

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sparseness of universal historical writing in Michael’s world, it is highly improbable that this literary genre in particular would have been used for edification. Moreover, Michael’s administrative and pastoral means of communication were his pastoral letters and his travels. After all, he supplied his readers with material that has nothing to do with spirituality. Book 12 of his chronicle contains, for instance, a story about a ‘large fish’ which, washed ashore in Cilicia, caused amazement and provided many people with meat and oil for cooking pots and lamps. Whoever subjoined the caption ‘End of this small story resembling a short, pleasant tale’2 clearly thought it enjoyable. This does not make Michael’s chronicle into a kind of entertainment, a monastic substitute for literature, as has been proposed for Byzantine chronicles. Its linguistic form, involving research, discussion and argumentation, makes it extremely unsuitable for diversion. And generally Michael was far too serious an author to cherish so trivial an ambition, much more serious than Bar ʻEbrōyō in his chronicle, who constantly introduced ironic and humorous anecdotes. In what remains, should we want to narrow it down, we see what characterizes Michael’s historical writing and thinking: Michael wanted to know. While he collected, researched and wove, he gradually saw developing before his eyes his ‘images of every era’. Did he share this perspective with many of the living? He had only three years left to examine the entire work. Neither the material which he used for his chronicle nor his ideas about the world were incorporated in the fabric without undergoing change. ‘Before’ and ‘after’ were as different as his age and his experiences of life and reading. He honed his work and drew up summaries.   

2 Michael, C 508 (III, 55-56). This comment is lacking in Ms. London BM or. 4402, Chabot’s commentary on Michael, C III, 56, no. 2. The story comes from Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, cf. Chronicle to the year 1234, CP II, 19-20 (13-14).

LIST OF QUOTED MANUSCRIPTS

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ABBREVIATIONS C CE CP CSCO HE MGH MGH SS MGH SS rer. Germ. MGH SS rer. Merov. occ. or. PG PL RHC SS

Chronicon/Chronica Chronicon ecclesiasticum Chronicon profanum Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium Historia ecclesiastica Monumenta Germaniae Historica Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum separatim editi Monumenta Germaniae Historica. Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum occidentalium orientalium Patrologiae cursus completus/Series Graeca Patrologiae cursus completus/Series Latina Recueil des historiens des croisades Scriptores Syri

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INDEX

Aaron, 195. Abdallah, 140-141. Abgar, called the Black (Ukkōmō), 218-219. Abḥay, Mōr, 109. Abḥay, Mōr, monastery, 142, 144. Abiu, 129. Abraham, 115, 159, 201-202, 210. Abraham ibn Daud, 33. Abraham of Habur, 96. Abū Ġālib, monastary, 80. Abū Ġālib, monk, 220. Abū Naṣr Mhallā, 113. Abū Sa‛d, deacon, 216. Abū Sa‛d Manṣūr b. al-Ḥusayn al-Ābī, 193. Adam, 41, 115, 118, 126, 148, 167-168, 182, 197-198, 200-201. Adday, 195. Adıyaman, s. Ḥisn Manṣūr, 64. Agapius, 44. Aggay, 195. Aimery, 83, 86-87, 89, 104, 204, 214, 217. Akko, 87, 113. Aksum, 25. Alberic of Ostia, 72. Aleppo, 8, 19, 93-94, 113, 141. Alexander, 117, 190, 198, 211. Alexander Polyhistor, 208. Alexandria, 22-24, 33, 94, 106, 115-116, 127, 163, 202. Alexios I Komnenos, 127. Alexios II Komnenos, 116. Almeric, 85, 116. Al-Quṣayr, s. Quṣayr. Amid, Amida, 20, 56, 62, 64, 74, 80-82, 86, 94, 99-100, 113, 116, 119, 165, 229-230. Amphilochius of Sidon, 126. Anaxagoras, 225. Anazarbus, 103. Andronicus, 124, 129, 130, 182. Ani, 58. Anna Komnena, 45. Annianus, 125, 182.

Antakya, s. Antioch, 3, 58. Antimus of Trebizond, 126, 162. Antioch, 3, 20, 22-26, 40, 54-58, 62-63, 71-74, 82-84, 86-89, 97, 101, 103, 106, 116, 121, 125, 131, 163, 185, 195-196, 202-204, 218. Antiochus, 211. Aram, 206-207, 210. Aristotle, 35, 230. Arkadios, 115, 117. ‛Arqō, 66. Arūd/Arwād the Canaaite, 124. Arzūn, 99. Asaph, 124. Atabeg Zangi, s. Zangi. Athanasios I, 77. Athanasios VI, 56-57, 59, 62-63, 65, 106, 120. Athanasios VII, 64-65, 67, 74, 78, 80, 96, 106. Athanasios, Patriarch of Antioch, 83. Athanasios of Edessa, 93. Athanasios, brother of Michael, 100-101, 103. Augustine, 177. Augustus, 211. Ayn ad-Dawla, s. Dawla. Babylon, 201, 207-210. Baghdad, 24, 25, 91, 99, 111, 131, 196, 205. Baldwin II, 57, 59. Baldwin IV, 87. Bar ‛Ebrōyō, 7, 11, 42, 44, 48-49, 61, 67, 72, 74, 77, 82-85, 94, 109, 112, 133, 139, 147-148, 165-167, 185, 190-200, 202-203, 214-215, 221-222, 231, 238-240, 243. Bar Ṣawmō, Maphrian, 193, 196. Bar Ṣawmō, Mōr, 66, 67, 70-71, 73, 81-82, 97, 105, 109, 218. Bar Ṣawmō, Mōr, monastary, 62, 65, 67-69, 71-72, 75, 79-81, 88, 98-102, 110-111, 119, 133, 166-167, 203, 217-219, 221, 226, 232.

306

INDEX

Basil Abū Ġālib of Edessa, 56-57, 62-63, 95. Basil bar Šūmōnō of Edessa, 64-66, 71, 82, 124, 218, 221, 225, 233, 242. Basil of Caesarea, 230. Basil of Edessa, witness, 50. Basil of Gargar, 50. Basil of Kallinikos, 97. Basilius, coptic bishop of Jerusalem, 89. Bede the Venerable, 39, 132, 134, 164. Bernard of Clairvaux, 223. Bernard of Valence, 57, 106. Beroea, s. Aleppo. Bohemond III, 82, 83. Caesar, 211. Caesarea, 34. Caiaphas, 188. Cairo, 99. Ceyhan, s. Gīḥōn. Christophoros, 84, 85. Claudia, 65. Clement, 216. Constantine the Great, 115, 117, 122, 125, 130, 167, 177, 182, 202. Constantine Monomachos, 116. Constantine V, 115. Constantinople, 23-24, 26, 54, 68, 84-85, 89, 91, 99, 108, 115, 122, 163, 204, 216217. Constance, 71, 72. Cyriacus, 202. Cyril of Alexandria, 22-23. Cyrus, 208, 211. Cyrus of Batnae, 41-42, 124, 128, 145, 147, 182, 184, 238. Damascus, 93, 95, 102-103, 113, 209. Damian, 128. Daniel bar Mushe, 182-183. Daniel, prophet, 208. Darius I, 115, 117, 198, 211. David of Homs, 96. David, King, 188, 201. Dawlā, 66, 68-69, 221. Deborah, 129. Deir es-Za‛faran, s. Ḥananyō, Mōr. Denḥō, 203, 226. Dionysios (Jacob) bar Ṣalībī, 24, 62, 63, 67, 74, 79-81, 85, 106, 109, 119, 124,

130, 137, 152, 193, 218, 221-222, 224, 227, 229-234, 238, 242. Dionysios of Tel-Maḥrē, 12, 42, 44, 45, 76, 77, 116, 118, 121, 124-125, 128, 130, 132133, 147, 166, 181, 182-187, 189, 194-195, 200, 202, 205-209, 228, 238-241. Dioscurus of Alexandria, 21. Diyarbakr, s. Amid. Dovair, 63. Edessa, 3, 25, 54, 56-58, 61-65, 69-70, 72, 82, 90-91, 93-96, 106, 113, 116, 140-142, 165, 187, 195-196, 206, 218-22, 225-226, 232, 241. Ehnesh, 47. Eliya of Nisibis, 13, 172, 174-178. Eliya, Patriarch of Antioch, 121. Enoch, 125, 196, 198, 215. Ephesus, 147, 163. Ephraim the Great, s. Ephrem. Ephraim the Syrian, s. Ephrem. Ephraim, Patriarch of Antioch, 20. Ephrem, 108, 110, 221, 227. Epiphanius, 124, 130. Eraclius, 100-101, 104, 106, 214. Etheria, 219. Eupraxius, 125. Eusebius of Caesarea, 13, 33-35, 37-40, 43, 117, 121, 122-127, 129, 130, 132, 136, 155, 161, 165, 169, 176-178, 182, 184, 187, 191, 194, 202, 213, 235. Evagrus of Pontus, 230. Eve, 126, 200. Flavius Josephus, s. Josephus. Fulk, 107. Gabriel, 59-60. Gaius, s. Caesar Gargar, 80, 142. Ġāzi, 60, 66, 218. George Synkellos, 182. Gervase of Canterbury, 28, 122. Gīḥōn, 95. Gomorrah, 93. Gregorius Bar ‛Ebrōyō, s. Bar ‛Ebrōyō. Gregory I Jacob, 102, 112-113. Gregory II, 98. Gregory III, 83. Gregory IV, Tłay, 100, 103-105, 112, 203. Gregory the Theologian, 110, 213, 230.

INDEX

Gregory of Nyssa, 230. Gregory of Tours, 118, 192. Ḥanōnyō, Mōr, monastary, 81, 82, 102, 110, 111, 142. Hannan, 188. Ḥarrān, 70, 96, 113, 185. Harry, 72. Heber, 210, 211. Heraclios 24, 115. Heraclius, s. Heraclios. Hermes Trismegistus, 196. Herod, 188. Ḥiṣn Manṣūr, 64. Ḥiṣn-Ziyad (Harput), 99. Homs, 93, 95, 111. Honorius, 117. Hromkla, 85, 89, 99, 104. Hugh Aetherianus, 89, 204. Hugh of St. Victor, 177. Ignatius III David, 50, 109, 166. Ignatius of Jerusalem, 100. Ignatius of Melitene, chronicler, 22, 107, 121-122, 124-127, 130, 190. Ignatius of Melitene, witness, 60. Ignatius of Tella-d’Arsanas, 50. Ignatius Aphrem I Barṣawm, 109, 111, 143. Ikonion, 60, 99. Innocentius II, 72. Isaac, 210. Išō‛, 51, 109, 168. Iwannis III, 78. Iwannis of Kayšūm, 85, 88, 89, 124, 222223, 227, 232-233. Iwannis of Kallinikos, 96. Iwannis of Ra‛ban, 50. Izabel, 72. Jacob Baradaeus, 40, 128. Jacob of Edessa, 12, 39, 41, 108, 121, 123124, 127-130, 132, 138, 147, 161, 167169, 172-173, 176-179, 181-182, 185, 209, 213, 222, 227-229, 237. Jacob of Serugh, 110. Jacob of Vitry, 26, 75. Jacob, Patriarch of the Israelites, 210, 211. Jacob, s. Gregory I. James, 188. Jerome, 34.

307

Jerusalem, 23-26, 54, 55, 57, 59, 71, 72, 82, 83, 86, 87, 89, 90, 99-103, 107, 116, 120, 131, 165, 185, 187, 188, 199, 218. Jesus Christ, 84, 111, 114-115, 117-118, 135, 159, 188, 189, 201-202, 212-213, 216-219. Job, 108, 226, 227, 229. John II Komnenos, 116. John II of Alexandria, 22. John V, 88, 102. John VII bar ‛Abdūn, 77, 230. John VIII bar Šušan, 108, 230. John X bar Maudyōnō, 63. John bar Andreas, 64, 85, 223, 227. John bar Samuel, 182. John Chrysostom, 204. John David, 113. John Malalas, 124, 182. John Philoponus, 126, 127. John Rufus, 124. John of Asia, s. John of Ephesus. John of Dara, 77, 154, 188, 189. John of Ephesus, 12, 41, 121, 125, 127, 128, 134, 137, 147, 150, 182, 194. John of Homs, 95. John of Kallinikos, 97. John of Litarba, 41, 124-126, 129, 130, 182. John of Mardin, 73-74, 82, 95, 96, 109, 120-127, 234. John of Melitene, Sa‛īd bar Ṣabūni, 60. John of Ṣemḥa, 50. Joscelin I, 62-63, 65, 82. Joscelin II, 63-66, 68-72, 82, 91, 218-219, 226. Josephus, 13, 37, 125, 127, 130, 207, 208. Joshua Septōnō, 100, 112. Joshua the Stylite, 17, 122, 183. Joshua, s. Athanasius VII. Julian of Halicarnassus, 23, 88. Julius Africanus, 13, 34, 129, 182. Justin II, 115. Justinian I, 115. Juvenal, 187. Kallinikos, 95-96, 103, 165. Karīm bar Masīḥ, 102. Kayšum, 64. Kamāl ad-Dīn, 98, 107. Khabur, 96.

308

INDEX

Kirakos of Gandzag, 75, 112. Krak des Chevaliers, 19. Lambert of Hersfeld, 118. Lazarus of Sergisyē, 124. Lazarus, 67, 106. Leon I, 115, 126. Leon II, 79, 112, 116, 203. Leon IV, 116. Leontius, 216. Lessing, Gotthold Ephraim, 36. Liutprand of Cremona, 192. al-Mahdi, 116. Maimonides, 214. Malatya, s. Melitene, 3, 67, 116. Manazkert, 23. Manuel I Komnenos, 83-85, 88, 90, 98, 116, 216. Marāġā, 194. Marcianus, 115, 204. Mardin, 73-74, 81-82, 86, 94, 96-98, 102, 111, 113, 142-143, 165. Mari, 195. Mark III, 87-88. Martin of Troppau, 154. Mary Magdalene, monastary, 82, 101, 103. Masius, Andreas, 144. Mattai, Mōr, monastary, 113. Matthew of Edessa, 50. Maudyōnō, s. John X. Meander the Magician, 124. Melisende, 59. Melitene, 3, 56, 57-62, 66, 67, 69, 80, 81, 97, 98, 112, 122, 133, 163, 164, 197, 212, 217, 218, 221, 230, 232. Michael bar Barṣaumō, 141-144, 148, 152, 161, 162, 165-167, 178. Michael III, 116. Mleh, 104. Morphia, 59. Moses of Mardin, 143-144, 146-148, 150151, 161-162, 166. Moses of Khoren, 124. Moses, prophet, 129, 197, 201-202. Mossul, 24, 102, 113, 165, 196. Muḥyi ad-Dīn, 102. Muğāhid ad-Dīn, 106. al-Mu‛taṣim, 116.

Nabk, 80. Nağm ad-Dīn, 81. Narcissus, 78. Nebuchadnezzar II, 198, 208. Nerses Shnorhali, 85, 88, 89, 93, 94, 100. Nerses of Lampron, 89, 112. Niniveh, 207, 208. Nisibis, 94, 96. Noah, 148, 201. Nur ad-Dīn, 65, 90, 93, 94, 104, 116. Origen, 34. Otto of Freising, 177, 187-190, 200, 201, 239, 240. Panodoros, 34. Pawlos of Bet-Ukkāmē, 40. Peraš, 67. Pesqīn, monastary, 119. Peter Abelard, 224. Peter of Kallinikos, 230. Peter of Poitiers, 33. Philaretus, 92. Philoxenus Nemrud, 197. Philoxenus of Mabbug, witness, 50. Pseudo-Dionysius Areopagita, 188, 230. Pseudo-Ephraem, 20. Pseudo-Zacharias, 40-41, 125, 185, 187, s. Zacharias Rhetor. Qal‘ō Rūmaytō, s. Hromkla. Qanqrat, 80. Qilij-Arslān I, 60. Qilij-Arslān II, 97, 98, 100, 106, 107, 113, 116, 131, 203. Qohelet, 38. Qūmabarus the Assyrian, 124. Quṣayr, 83. Reynald of Châtillon, 71. Roger of Antioch, 57. Rome, 13, 23, 54, 86, 104, 163. Rumkale, s. Hromkla. Sa‛īd bar Sabūni, s. Johannes of Melitene. Saladin, 98, 102, 103, 113, 116, 214. Samosata, 58. Sayf ad-Dīn, 93, 96, 97, 203, 214. Seleucia-Ktesiphon, 22, 165, 196. Seleucus, 211. Segestan, 63. Sennacherib, 207, 208.

INDEX

Serugh, 58, 96. Severus of Antioch, 22, 23, 57, 110, 116, 126, 162, 166, 230. Severus, deacon, 110. Shapur, 117. Shem, 198, 209. Siḇaḇerek, 99. Sigebert of Gembloux, 29, 176, 178. Silvester, 202. Siverek, s. Sibaberek. Socrates, 121, 125, 182. Sodom, 93. Sōhdō, 103. Sozomen, 38, 39, 41, 121, 182. Symeon the Stylite, 221. Tagrit, 102, 116, 165, 196. Tarsus, 86, 103. Tartus, s. Tortosa. Tel Bšīr, 66, 70. Tellō-d-Sebartō, 63. Theodora, 21, 116. Theodoret, 38, 39, 41, 126, 169, 182. Theodoros bar Wahbūn, 63, 79, 84, 85, 99-105, 108, 109, 203, 214. Theodosios I, emperor, 115. Theodosius I, Patriarch of Alexandria, 162. Theodosius of Edessa, 167, 182. Theophanes, 13, 44.

309

Theophilos, 116, 130, 183. Theophilos of Edessa, 13, 45, 182, 183. Theorianus, 85. Thomas of Harkel, 108. Thomas, apostle, 195. Thomas, Raban, 219. Thucydides, 29, 37. Timothy of Gargar, 220, 227. Toghril Bek, 116. Tʻoros, 71. Tortosa, 19. Tripoli, 25. ‛Urbiš, 142. Urfa, s. Edessa. Vardan Arewelcʻi, 51, 90. Venerable Bede, s. Bede. al-Wātiq, 116. William of Tyre, 88, 92. Yab-Allāhā III, 196. Yezdegerd, 117, 120, 199. Zabar, 66, 69. Zacharias Rhetor, 40, 41, 121, 124-127, 147, 182, 194. Zamardus the Magician, 124. Zangī, 58, 63, 65, 220, 226. Zoe, 116. Zūbaṭrō, 66.

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