Early Christian and Jewish Narrative: The Role of Religion in Shaping Narrative Forms 3161520335, 9783161520334

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Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament Herausgeber / Editor Jörg Frey (Zürich) Mitherausgeber / Associate Editors Markus Bockmuehl (Oxford) · James A. Kelhoffer (Uppsala) Hans-Josef Klauck (Chicago, IL) · Tobias Nicklas (Regensburg) J. Ross Wagner (Durham, NC)

348

Early Christian and Jewish Narrative The Role of Religion in Shaping Narrative Forms

Edited by

Ilaria Ramelli and Judith Perkins

Mohr Siebeck

Ilaria Ramelli, born 1973; two MAs, PhD, Postdoc, two Habilitations to full Professor (History of Philosophy and Ancient Greek); Full Professor of Theology and K. Britt Chair (Graduate School of Theology, SHMS, Angelicum); Onassis Senior Visiting Professor of Greek Thought; Senior Fellow in Religion (Erfurt) and in Ancient Philosophy (Catholic University); Visiting Research Fellow, Oxford University; Director of international research projects. Judith Perkins, born 1944; MA, PhD University of Toronto; Professor Emeritus of Classics and Humanities, University of St. Joseph.

e -ISBN PDF 978-3-16-153618-2 ISBN 978-3-16-152033-4 ISSN 0512-1604 (Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament) Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data is available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de. © 2015  by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen, Germany. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was typeset by Martin Fischer in Tübingen using Minion Pro typeface, printed by ­Gulde-Druck in Tübingen on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Spinner in Otters­ weier. Printed in Germany.

Acknowledgments The Editors would like to thank all the contributors for their collaboration in this engaging project. Special thanks to Jörg Frey and the Series’ Editors for receiving our volume in this distinguished Series, and to Mohr Siebeck for their professional work. We are also gateful to Kathleen Paparchontis for the laborious tastk of preparing the Indices.

Table of Contents Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . V Ilaria Ramelli and Judith Perkins Introduction: The Role of Religion in Shaping Narrative Forms . . . . . . . . . . 1

Part 1: Ancient Jewish Narrative Lawrence M. Wills The Differentiation of History and Novel: Controlling the Past, Playing with the Past . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13 Erich S. Gruen The Twisted Tales of Artapanus: Biblical Rewritings as Novelistic Narrative . 31 David Konstan The Testament of Abraham and Greek Romance . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45

Part 2: Christian Gospels, Acts, Biographies, and Martyrdoms Karen L. King Endings: The Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55 Laura Salah Nasrallah “Out of Love for Paul”: History and Fiction and the Afterlife of the Apostle Paul . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Dennis R. MacDonald Jesus and Dionysian Polymorphism in the Acts of John . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta A Syriac Original for the Acts of Thomas? The Hypothesis of Syriac Priority Revisited . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

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Mark J. Edwards The Deferred Fulfilment of Prophecy in Early Christian Fiction . . . . . . . . . . 135 Vincent Hunink Following Paul: The Acts of Xanthippe, Polyxena, and Rebecca as an Ancient Novel . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147 Richard I. Pervo Dare and Back: The Stories of Xanthippe and Polyxena . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161 Ilaria L. E. Ramelli The Addai-Abgar Narrative: Its Development through Literary Genres and Religious Agendas . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 205 Kathryn Chew “On Fire with Desire” (πυρουμένη πόθῳ): Passion and Conversion in the Ancient Greek Novels and Early Christian Female Virgin Martyr Accounts 247

Part 3: “Pagan” and Christian Narratives: Social Worlds and Philosophical Agendas Judith Perkins Competing Voices in Imperial Fiction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 275 Svetla Slaveva-Griffin Argumentum ex Silentio: Religion in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica . . . . . . . . . . . . . 303 List of Contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 327 Index Locorum . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 329 Name Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 346 Subject Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 355

Introduction: The Role of Religion in Shaping Narrative Forms Ilaria Ramelli and Judith Perkins This volume elucidates in a variety of ways the remarkable role played by religion in the shaping and reshaping of narrative forms in antiquity and late antiquity. This is particularly evident in ancient Jewish and Christian narrative, which is in the focus of most of the contributions here, but also in some “pagan” novels such as that of Heliodorus, which is treated as well in the third part of the volume, both in an illuminating comparison with Christian novels and in an inspiring rethinking of Heliodorus’s relation to Neoplatonism. All of these essays, from different perspectives, illuminate the interplay between narrative and religion, and show how religious concerns and agendas shaped narrative forms in Judaism and early Christianity. A series of compelling and innovative articles, all based on fresh and often groundbreaking research, is divided into three large sections: part 1 deals with ancient Jewish narrative, and part 2 with ancient Christian narrative, in particular gospels, acts, biographies, and martyrdoms, while part 3 offers a comparison with “pagan” narrative, and especially the religious novel of Heliodorus, both in terms of social perspectives and in terms of philosophical and religious agendas. The first essay of the first part, by Larry Wills, dealing with ancient Jewish novellas (Esther, Daniel, Tobit, Judith, and Joseph and Aseneth) and the differentiation between history and novel, provides a broad methodological framework for the whole section. As he notes, there is still a restless fascination with the process by which ancient Jewish novellas arose, and the relation of these provocative texts to Jewish culture. This question can be partly illuminated by a closer consideration of how ancient prose novels, both Greek and Jewish, differentiated from prose history, but it is also helpful to push this entire question back one level: How did written prose history differentiate from poetic genres? Why history? Why prose? The very use of prose to write narrative history was an important milestone whose significance should not be taken for granted. The novelty of it still requires explanation, as does its philosophical import. Prose is the negative space of tradition and poetry; it rejects culturally sanctioned elegance and artfulness and deliberately obscures its own artifice. “The rise of prose,” says Nimis 1994, “implies an attack on the system of oral transmission and performance.” And realism in literature, whether ancient or modern, is not really a transparent

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representation of reality, but a discourse, a construct, an aesthetic of its own. The entire attraction of prose, both nonfiction and fiction, is to create the illusion of the way things “really” are. Erich Gruen focuses on Artapanus’s rewriting of the Bible as novelistic narrative in his fragmentarily preserved treatise On the Jews, in particular in a fragment that deals with Moses, which Gruen compares with the biblical narrative. Like many Hellenistic Jewish texts, Gruen observes, the treatise was ignored or scorned by the rabbis but proved more congenial to Christian churchmen to whom we owe what survives. The question Gruen asks is why a Hellenistic Jew took familiar stories about the patriarchs and Moses and reshaped them, treating the Scriptures cavalierly and producing a form of romance that has his hero enmeshed in Egyptian culture and Greek mythology. The answer, against simplistic solutions such as denying Artapanus’s Jewish identity or deconstructing Judaism or else interpreting Artapanus’s work as an apology for Judaism, lies in the Jewish Hellenistic religious and cultural context in which he wrote. The aim of entertaining readers and the model of novelistic narratives in the Bible itself are proposed as the most plausible factors. David Konstan approaches the Testament of Abraham as a narrative in a so far unattempted and fruitful comparison with “subversive biography” – a category under which, according to him, the biographies of Jesus Christ and his immediate followers also fall – in particular with the Alexander Romance. Whether there was a direct influence of the Romance on the Testament Konstan does not determine, but he does offer that the Testament of Abraham represents something like the spirit and style of the Alexander Romance, transposed into to the key of early Hebraic religion. The second part addresses Christian gospels, acts, biographies, and martyr narratives. The gospel genre, in turn, has been treated as a sub-genre of biography, though the debate on this issue is still open. The collection of Barton 2006 represents well the debate on the literary genre of the gospels: Alexander 2006 here acknowledges similarities with biographies, aretalogies, and martyrologies, while refusing to identify the genre of the gospels with any of them. She rather remarks that they are so difficult to categorise because they emerged in a time of “profound cultural transformation” (30), while Barton 2006a argues that the gospels are the closest literary genre to ancient biography (123). Likewise Hägg 2012 includes the Christian gospels, both canonical and so-called apocryphal, in his monograph on biography in antiquity. Hägg suggests that the authors of the apocryphal gospels tried to fill in the “gaps” in the canonical gospel narratives. Other scholars such as Markus Vinzent and Matthias Klinghardt speak of a gospel genre and even argue that Marcion created it (Vinzent 2014; Klinghardt 2008). Karen King compares the endings of the Gospel of Mark (16:8) and the Gospel of Judas (16:8–9), which both leave the narrative unresolved and unredeemed,

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even though a promise of salvation is to be found in both Mark 13:13 and Judas 33:6–9. Addressing this tension, King remarks, may offer insights into the relation between narrative forms and religious concerns and agendas. She compares strikingly similar literary strategies in both Gospels, especially prophetic foreshadowing and synecdoche, as well as the above-mentioned suspended endings. In the Gospel of Judas, this kind of finale is interpreted – in continuity with the rest of the gospel – as a dissuasive strategy. King persuasively argues further that, by requiring readers to finish the story, the open endings of the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas effectively turn readers into authors and even characters. Both gospels complicate the notion of authorship by impelling the reader to choose: to accept or reject Jesus’s teaching, to walk in the path of justice or the path of their transgressions. If readers take up such an option, King argues, they become not only authors but characters. She also exemplifies possible ways in which these two gospels’ narrative forms relate to their religious concerns and agendas. One way is that readers will see themselves as among the elect. The depiction of the disciples in both these gospels – arguably written in polemic against other Christians of their day – has another potential aim: to correct misunderstandings and “convert” the readers, who may already be believers, to their respective positions on God and salvation, the teachings of Jesus, and the meaning of his death, within the framework of an eschatological tension. For their suspended endings both model and mimic the temporal situation of believing readers: apocalyptically suspended between the revelation of Jesus’s prophecies and their final fulfillment. Laura Nasrallah investigates the phenomenon of people writing as the apostle Paul or inventing histories of Paul after his death, considers the impact of such writings, and notes how these traditions are also marked in the archaeological record. In particular, she discusses the Pastoral Epistles, the Acts of Paul and Thecla, the pseudepigraphical correspondence between Paul and Seneca, and evidence of some Pauline traditions in cities that were significant to Paul’s own life and travels, placing them within a broader cultural context of practices of history as seen in education, games, and literature of the period. Adopting a productive approach, Nasrallah argues that some traditions of Paul-after-Paul should be understood in light of the idea of an author function, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, in light of ancient practices of history and the idea of historiography as articulation of the possible, rather than in light of the binary of truth versus falsehood, or history versus fiction. Dennis MacDonald focuses on the Acts of John. The frequent appearances of outrageous miracles in the so-called Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, he observes, may wrongly suggest that they are void of literary or philosophical sophistication. Over the past two decades, however, MacDonald has become increasingly convinced that the authors of at least two of these works, the Acts of John and the Acts of Andrew, both Christian Platonists writing in Greek around

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the year 200 c.e., expected their more educated readers to detect their philosophical uses of Greek mythology. His short essay here argues that the author of the Acts of John rewrote the Lucan version of the calling of former fishermen to follow Jesus; the author not only recognized Luke’s literary debt to a famous story about Dionysus and the pirates but made the connection more pronounced. Here one sees a fascinating case of the growth of a tradition inside the Synoptic Gospels that finds an interpretation in later apocryphal narratives. Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta challenges the general consensus that the Acts of Thomas was composed in Syriac in third-century Eastern Syria. He remarks that this theory not only places ATh in very discordant position in the context of the Apocryphal Acts of Apostles (AAA), all of which were written in Greek during the second half of the second century, but also relies on rather shaky grounds. The hypothesis of a Syriac original is based, on the one hand, on alleged Syriac echoes in the text of ms U – our best testimony for ATh – and, on the other, on the so-called influences of Thomasine traditions that, in turn, were supposedly influenced by Bardaisan and Mani. An unbiased approach to the textual evidence, however, according to Roig Lanzillotta shows that the hypothesis of a Syriac origin of the ATh is not tenable. His essay provides an overview of the project in progress at the University of Groningen, which, on the basis of a new approach to the testimonies, reevaluates the textual evidence with a view to demonstrating not only that ATh was originally written in Greek, but also that it should be dated, together with the other AAA, to the second rather than to the third century. Mark Julian Edwards investigates the use of the novelistic motif of the deferred fulfilment of prophecy in early Christian fiction. One of the more refined tropes in ancient works of narrative literature was to represent a dream as being fulfilled first in a figurative and then in a literal sense. The most familiar instances belong to the second sophistic era, for instance in Achilles Tatius. But there is classical precedent in the Oedipus Rex, where Jocasta exclaims that men have often slept with their mothers in dreams. Anyone familiar with ancient traditions of oneiromancy would know that such dreams were supposed to symbolize conquest of one’s native soil, which Oedipus had already achieved in the sight of all before he fulfilled it literally and unwittingly by marrying his mother. Christians were familiar from the Bible with other cases of partial, followed by plenary, fulfilment of a prophecy. Sometimes the first fulfilment seems to be metaphorical. In other cases, literal, though imperfect, fulfilment precedes the true consummation, e. g., in the application of Isaiah 53 to Hezekiah. Finally, there are cases where a prophecy appears to have miscarried because the Lord has a higher plan. Other prophecies, like Agabus’ prediction that Paul will die in Rome or Christ’s reference to his ascension in the Gospel of John, are fulfilled in fact but not in the written narrative. As Edwards notes, prophecy, dreaming and prefigurement are employed in early lives of Christian martyrs. A clear parallel to the novel is furnished by the Life of Cyprian, where the promise of death “tomorrow” seems at

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first to be hyperbolic and then assumes its literal force. In the Acts of Ignatius, the author makes use of Romans, in which the saint looks forward to his own death as a victim of beasts in the arena and then refers to the soldiers who guard him as leopards. In the Acts, this figurative use of feral imagery is put into the mouth of Ignatius well before his martyrdom, and passages from Romans are then progressively interlarded with the narrative, until at last the literal encounter with the beasts secures his crown. Other examples come from the Clementine romances, which bear witness to a Christian familiarity with the pagan novel. One cannot, however, speak of simply borrowing, as this corpus, like the early martyrologies, draws on numerous and varied antecedents from the scriptures. Vincent Hunink addresses the early Christian Greek text known as the Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena (AXP), commonly dated to the fourth century, one of the finest examples of what may be considered the early Christian novel. Ever since it first publication, which came as late as 1893, the text remained largely neglected, probably on account of its plain style and its rather limited appeal as a story. Only recently, scholarly attention for the AXP has come up, with special interest in either questions of gender or the theological background of the apocryphal acts. Hunink studies the AXP primarily as a narrative text in its literary context. First, the tale of Xanthippe and Polyxena bears some striking similarities to the earlier Acts of Thecla. As scholars have observed, it may to some extent even be labeled a rewriting of that much more famous text about a woman at the side of Paul. A somewhat more detailed analysis is given, in order to gain a better understanding of the AXP. In addition, the AXP can best be understood in the wider tradition of the ancient novel. Notably the second part of the narrative, centering on the wanderings of Polyxena, profitably may be compared to the popular genre with its roots in non-Christian literature. Various minor themes that are typical for the ancient novel are addressed, such as the notions of love, friendship, virginity and fidelity, travel by sea, robbery, and supernatural elements (notably helpful wild beasts). The AXP, as a meaningful adaptation of popular narrative texts, both Christian and non-Christian, merits serious attention from modern readers. Richard Pervo offers an extremely detailed and articulated analysis of the same Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena. This text is related to various apocryphal Acts and other texts, but, Pervo notes, it is not hagiography or an example of the later apocryphal Acts. It is a Christian novel, the story of three women, among whom the role of the heroine is distributed. It is thus atypical of romantic novels. This essay explores carefully the structure and plot of the story, placing it within a general historical and literary context. Ilaria Ramelli investigates how the superimposition of different religious discourses and agendas over the centuries shaped the complex development of the narrative concerning King Abgar the Black of Edessa and the apostle Addai through different literary genres, such as epistles and epistolary novels, history, hagiography, biography, acts of apostles, and historical novels. Indeed, the

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narratives containing the Addai-Abgar legend examined by Ramelli developed through a number of literary forms, each shaped almost always by the religious, and religious-political, motivations of their authors or redactors. Ramelli offers that the story of Abgar and Addai is rooted in a historical fact (Abgar’s knowledge of the activity and execution of Jesus and his correspondence with the emperor, which took place historically for political reasons). It then became a religious narrative, first to celebrate – and possibly defend – Abgar the Great, when the Abgar-Addai legend crystallized, and then to pursue various religious-political agendas. One of these agendas was that of the newly established Edessan “orthodoxy” in the Doctrina Addai, with its concern for appropriating to “orthodoxy” a legend that was probably first promoted by a milieu, Bardaisan’s, which had meanwhile become suspected of heresy. Another of those agendas was that of the Acts of Mari, in which this narrative was helpful to provide a link between Mari and the apostles, so as to support the authority of the patriarchal see of Seleucia-Ctesiphon. Moses of Chorene, like Eusebius in his own Abgar-Addai narrative and partially perhaps Bardaisan, had as a goal the celebration of the early spread of Christianity in Mesopotamia. His religious-political agenda was that of promoting the origins of Armenian Christianity as apostolic – even boasting about the first Christian state as “Armenian” (Osrhoene) – over against the Chalcedonian church with which the Armenian church was in conflict. Procopius of Caesarea, instead, has no evident religious agenda, but rather links the Abgar narrative to Chosroe’s plans on conquering Edessa. This is why he concentrates on the promise of impregnability for Edessa contained in the Abgar-Jesus letters and therefore leaves the Addai narrative completely aside. Ramelli observes that, if the Addai-Abgar legend is rooted in history but developed in narratives that added many fictional elements, it comes as no surprise that the novels which present it in the fullest form are two historical novels, the Doctrina Addai and the Acts of Mari, and that Eusebius, Moses, and Procopius incorporated this story in their historical works, as Bardaisan of Edessa and Julius Africanus may have already done. In the case of the Addai legend, it is particularly evident how religion, and religious agendas changing over time, shaped narrative forms. Ramelli demonstrates this at every stage of the development of the Abgar-Addai story, from its possible roots in the historical letters exchanged by Abgar and Tiberius for eminently political reasons, through Bardaisan, Eusebius, the Doctrina Addai, some Syriac Transitus Mariae, the Acts of Mari, Procopius, and Moses of Chorene. A different, but in many ways parallel, multi-stage reshaping of a narrative in accord with the religious agendas of subsequent authors can be observed in the case of Paul’s speech at the Areopagus, first historically delivered in Athens – as is probable – then reported by the author of Acts and later reworked in the Acts of Philip, the Doctrina Addai, and the Acta Maris, as has been shown by Ramelli 2012. The modalities of all these instances of reception of the Lucan narrative

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differ not only from one another but also from that of Patristic philosophers, especially Ps. Dionysius the Areopagite and his interpretation of Paul as a “philosopher.” Kathryn Chew explores the motifs of passion and conversion in the stories of the Greek novelistic heroines and early Christian female martyrs. Over the past few years, Chew has been working on thematic comparisons of the stories of novelistic heroines and the early Christian female martyrs, with the idea that since these genres for a certain time co-existed, they might have been mutually influential (as opposed to one-way influence), as Bowersock and Ramelli have argued. After focusing on chastity, violence, and suffering, here Chew examines passion – not in the sense of suffering but of desire and love – and conversion. The issue of passion is necessarily entwined with that of self-control, a leading virtue for both pagans and Christians. Self-conscious heroines exhibit restraint toward their lovers (and aversion to all others) before marriage, even as they desire marriage. Female martyrs, on the other hand, due to the fact that their sole means of marriage to Jesus is through their own deaths over which they have no control, are quite vocal about their desire for their heavenly bridegroom, as the frequent use of marriage vocabulary demonstrates. Martyrs, too, exhibit self-control in resisting the advances of all earthy suitors, which keeps them in parallel with the behavior of the heroines. Chew’s examination of the martyrs’ use of marriage vocabulary also suggests that falling in love with Jesus does not violate self-control but rather celebrates it, in that it takes self-control to prefer the rewards of the next world to the enticements of the present one. Conversion is also an essential element of the stories of both heroines and martyrs, in that the privileged culture (Greco-Roman or Christian) is implicitly or explicitly valued above other cultures. Thus, as martyrs often convert onlookers to their religion, so do the heroines’ experiences show that, in a world full of cultures, it is better to be Greek (or Roman). Furthermore, there is an implicit connection between passion and conversion, in that the depiction of the heroines’/martyrs’ passion for their heroes/Jesus adds to the appeal of their respective cultures. The third part brings in “pagan” narratives, and especially Heliodorus’s novel, in a comparative approach with Christian narratives, with special attention to the social landscapes they disclose and the philosophical and religious agendas that underlie them. Judith Perkins argues that a comparison of the divergent views on linguistic difference informing two chronologically and geographically related prose fictions, Heliodorus’s Aithiopika and the Acts of Thomas, reveals critical social dynamics of the early imperial centuries. The Aithiopika’s concerted attention to language usage, especially barriers to communication, functions to reify social differences and to naturalize the position and privileges of the multiethnic imperial elite administering the empire. In contrast, the almost concurrent production of two versions of the Acts of Thomas (Syriac and Greek), as well as its focus on creating multi-status communities, redirects the social paradigm offered by

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narratives like the Aithiopika. Language was a prime social marker in the early imperial period. The classicizing Attic standard that was being embraced by the Greek-speaking educated elite across the empire, Rome’s partners in empire, was both a mark of distinction and a basis for differentiation from the sub-elite. With its complexities of plot, language, and style, the Aithiopika seems aimed at the pepaideumenoi. And its last scene, showing the Ethiopian leaders switching between Greek and Ethiopian as they negotiate the return, marriage and future coronation of the long-lost daughter of the Ethiopian royal family, exemplifies the mechanics of rule. The members of the Ethiopian-speaking crowd are described as celebrating the events, “although they understood little of what was said” (10.38.3). Their language deficiencies are shown to limit the crowd’s civic understanding and participation. Instead, the appearance of the Acts of Thomas in both Syriac and Greek and its early rendering into multiple languages – Ethiopic (Ge’ez), Coptic, Georgian and Armenian, for example – reflect a more inclusive attitude toward language and community. A detailed comparison with this Christian narrative highlights this difference. Svetla Slaveva-Griffin explores religion and Neoplatonism in Heliodorus’s Aithiopika, helping readers understand better his taciturn approach to Christianity in the novel. Religion underpins all transformative events in the life and character of the main heroine, so much so that she herself could be viewed as an embodiment or an allegory of the changing fate of religion in late antiquity. Building upon Sandy’s conclusion about the shared interest of the late Neoplatonists and Heliodorus in allegory and theurgy, Slaveva-Griffin looks into another, unexplored, area of possible Neoplatonic influence on Heliodorus: Plotinus’s treatment of allegory  – where philosophy and religion are epistemologically fused – and the value of ἀγάλματα. The fusion of philosophy and religion in Neoplatonic allegory, Slaveva-Griffin argues, provides the conceptual foundation for the presence of religion in the storyline, the topography, and the characters of the Aithiopika. In this interpretive framework, Chariclea can be read as an allegory of the divine, a “living ἄγαλμα” herself. Her beauty is a copy of divine presence and beauty, and therefore they both shine through her. Ultimately there is no real physical foundation for her existence; she is an idea in a human form. Like the collected essays in Pinheiro, Perkins, and Pervo 2013, which investigate the core role played by narratives in Christian and Jewish self-fashioning in the Roman Empire, the present volume fruitfully bridges the disciplinary gap between classical studies and ancient Jewish and Christian studies,1 offers new insights, and hopefully opens up new paths of inquiry. 1 “It is only recently that scholars of ancient Greek and Roman literature have begun to lift the quarantine against Christian texts and to treat them as part and parcel of the material that we study. In addition to the idea that ‘pagans’ and Christians (or Jews) belonged to separate worlds, a further impediment to the comparative study of the ancient novel and christian narratives has been the relative disregard of, not to say disdain for, post-classical texts in general and the novels

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Bibliography Alexander, Loveday. 2006. “What Is a Gospel?” Pages 13–33 in Barton 2006. Barton, Stephen, ed. 2006. The Cambridge Companion to the Gospels. New York: Cambridge University Press. Barton, Stephen. 2006a. “The Gospel According to Matthew.” Pages 121–138 in Barton 2006. Hägg, Tomas. 2012. The Art of Biography in Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Klinghardt, Matthias. 2008. “The Marcionite Gospel and the Synoptic Problem: A New Suggestion.” Novum Testamentum 50:1–27. Konstan, David, and Ilaria Ramelli. 2013. “The Novel and Christian Narrative.” Pages 180–97 in The Blackwell Companion to the Ancient Novel. Edited by Shannon Byrne and Edmund Cueva. Oxford: Blackwell. Nimis, Steve. 1994. “The Prosaics of the Ancient Novel.” Arethusa 27: 387–411. Pinheiro, Marília F., Judith Perkins, and Richard Pervo, eds. 2013. The Ancient Novel and Early Christian and Jewish Narrative: Fictional Intersections. Ancient Narrative Supplementum 16. Groningen: Barkhuis. Ramelli, Ilaria. 2012. “Dieu et la philosophie: Le discours de Paul à Athènes dans trois ‘actes apocryphes’ et dans la philosophie patristique.” Gregorianum 93: 75–91. Vinzent, Markus. 2014. Marcion and the Dating of the Synoptic Gospels. Leuven: Peeters.

in particular. Over the past three decades, the novels have been rehabilitated to a great degree as significant literary compositions, and are even included in the syllabi and reading lists of classics departments, but such recognition has yet to be accorded to Christian works (the same can be said of Jewish narratives). The result has been that, even now, and despite some noteworthy contributions, relatively little investigation has been devoted to possible intersections between the novels and Christian literature. We hope here to indicate some important connections, and point the way to fruitful areas of new research” (Konstan and Ramelli 2013, 180). The present collection hopefully represents a remarkable advancement on this line.

Part 1: Ancient Jewish Narrative

The Differentiation of History and Novel: Controlling the Past, Playing with the Past Lawrence M. Wills Episcopal Divinity School There is still a restless fascination with the process by which ancient Jewish novellas arose (Esther, Daniel, Tobit, Judith, and Joseph and Aseneth), and the relation of these provocative texts to Jewish culture. This question can be partly illuminated by a closer consideration of how ancient prose novels, both Greek and Jewish, differentiated from prose history, but it is also helpful to push this entire question back one level: How did written prose history differentiate from poetic genres? Why history? Why prose? The very use of prose to write narrative history was an important milestone whose significance should not be taken for granted. The novelty of it still requires explanation, as does its philosophical import. Prose is the negative space of tradition and poetry; it rejects culturally sanctioned elegance and artfulness and deliberately obscures its own artifice. “The rise of prose,” says Steve Nimis, “implies an attack on the system of oral transmission and performance.”1 And realism in literature, whether ancient or modern, is not really a transparent representation of reality, but a discourse, a construct, an aesthetic of its own. The entire attraction of prose, both non-fiction and fiction, is to create the illusion of the way things “really” are.2 In Greece the first writer of prose was said to have been the sixth-century b.c.e. philosopher Pherecydes of Syros, and as Simon Goldhill has noted, the Athenian Enlightenment followed his example and turned to prose to communicate a new philosophical authority in the areas of politics, laws, science, rhetoric, medicine, theology, philosophy, history, and ironically, aesthetics (the mastery, in prose, of non-prose!). The German term Fachprosa or technical prose has been used by scholars to refer to this kind of writing; it implies a technical mastery of a field 1 Nimis

1994. See also David Carr (not to be confused with David McLain Carr) 1988; Godzich and Kitay 1987. It is also the case that in the West, prose – both history and fiction – had a non-localized, non-polis orientation that spoke to a wider world. Konstan 1994, 230. For this reason, prose would have a special role in colonial identity. 2 Michel de Certeau draws attention to “the ideological repressing of [history’s] own social conditions of production, thus hiding from view the values built into its narrative representation of the past.” The words are from Gerhard van den Heever’s discussion of Certeau. Van den Heever 2005, 62; see also Ward 2000, 37–46.

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of knowledge. Prose narrative was a new, relatively unadorned medium that presumed to depict reality more as it was. Most of the writings in the fields listed above were attributed to known, real, named authors. The named author is in control of Fachprosa: “Prose becomes … the medium for authoritative expression, the expression of power.”3 Unadorned, unstylized prose also arose in Israel at about the same time as it did in Greece. Tamara Cohn Eskenazi describes the age of prose that began in the fifth century b.c.e. in Judah.4 Soon thereafter, in a new, larger, more diverse world, epic-like materials receded as the dominant discourse. Myth found a rebirth in apocalypses, communicating the sense of a true reality hidden behind the false reality, but among those less disenchanted, two genres, novel and a new kind of history, were created – indeed, co-created – over the course of a few centuries. Fiction presented a quotidian redemption for a new generation of colonized citizens,5 but how could anyone be redeemed by the new historical writing? History seems like a suppression of imagination, a drama of life with the gods and the irrational stripped away. History is reduced epic, played out on a time line that we define. The named author of history is the voice who controls the inquiry, the voice that imposes an authorial control over the past: “The voice of the author as a personal, evaluating, reviewing presence is constantly being performed in [Herodotus’s] History.”6 And as in the modern period, the voice that speaks in history writing is a named male author writing in a male-gendered discourse, while novels cross-culturally are often anonymous and female-gendered.7 Herodotus thus inserted his named persona into an epic-sized inquiry that pushed history into the same prosaic, technical context as science, medicine, and philosophy. If Fachprosa is the language of technical mastery, then history is the technical mastery of myth and the past; history is the past under authorial 3 Goldhill

2002, 5.

4 Eskenazi 1988. The earlier biblical prose, even in the history books, is based in epic and oral

traditional forms and is only half-prosaic. It should also be clear that, although it is important for the present essay to note that prose arose at about the same time in Greece and Israel, this is not a cultural contest of “first founders”; prose had arisen in Egypt long before. See Lichtheim 1975–80, 1:10–11. We may ponder at some other time why Goldhill’s Invention of Prose and Eskanazi’s Age of Prose did not mention each other’s subject matter – very similar developments that occurred during the same century, about five hundred miles apart, and which had already been compared creatively by Arnaldo Momigliano and Morton Smith; see below n. 14. 5 See Wills 2011. The fascinating debate over whether the Greek novels reflect a more “colonized” or more “colonizing” viewpoint is treated there, but especially note Perkins 2009, 62–89; Whitmarsh 2001, 17–20; Wills 2000, 113–32. 6 Goldhill 2002, 5, 28. On Fachprosa, see Rydbeck 1967; Alexander 1993; and Gamble 1995, 33–34. Rosalind Thomas (2000) also emphasizes that the generic similarities of Herodotus are not to “history” – which did not yet exist – but to natural philosophy and medicine, also written in Fachprosa. 7 The Harvard modern historian Jill Lepore notes this division of gender construction as well. Lepore 2008, 80–82. See also Wills 2011 In the ancient world, Pamphile of Epidaurus, first century c.e., was a rare example of a named female historian.

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control. If myth or the gods are included in a work of history, they are channeled – not as a transparent account of the gods’ narrative nor as the ancient heroes’ narrative but as our narrative, told by me to us.8 History places before us national redemption on our time line. Yet, depending on when the biblical history books are dated, it may be argued that written prose had arisen in Israel before the time of Pherecydes, and many scholars have asserted that a true historical consciousness is evident in Israel before Herodotus. Indeed, a strong interest in origins is found in Israel which is quantitatively stronger than that found in other ancient literatures. Although some Babylonian chronicles may sustain a rudimentary account of past events, it seems slight compared with that found in Israel. The texts of the great ancient Near Eastern empires have little to say about the founding of their own nations. According to Moshe Weinfeld, they “were not cognizant of a beginning of their national existence.”9 Partial parallels can be found in other cultures, but Peter Machinist rightly argues for a quantitative distinction between Israel and Mesopotamia on this point.10 By contrast, however, the Greek historical tradition, in keeping with Greek Fachprosa in general, is one in which the “I” – the voice of the text – is a real named person, who reflects on the validity of his or her own enterprise and by doing this establishes a speaking authority. In the Greek histories, the analytic or reflective “I” asserts itself as a commentator on or critic of the other authorities, even criticizing Homer or the gods themselves. There is thus a significant break between the historian and the epic poet. To be sure, the author grants the theoretical possibility of his own fallibility, but this disingenuousness only serves to bolster his authority as a truth seeker. Machinist noted the difference between this model and the ancient Near Eastern and biblical models.11 For the ancient Near Eastern texts about the past, the authorities whose voices could be heard were (1) the king, (2) tradition, or (3) the gods. The Hebrew Bible texts express an absolute authority of God and God’s dealings in history, and they try  8 History always carries over into “social memory,” a group’s construction of its constitutive past. The social memory of the community is the primary goal of history writing, the construction of a people’s identity. On identity in Jewish history writing, see Wills 2009, esp. chs. 2 and 4. There is little distinction between history and social memory, contra Halbwachs 1992. As an introduction to social memory, see Kirk 2005, 1–11; see also Mendels 2004; Yerushalmi 1996.  9 Weinfeld 1993, 1. See also Pardes 2000, 4–5, 16. 10 Machinist 1986, 183–202. Any attempt to interpret these differences as indicating a superiority of Israelite writing would be at odds with the direction of this essay, but there did seem to be quantitative differences among the cultural products of the different ancient Near Eastern nations. On the parallels, see Younger 1990. At some point in the post-exilic period, the “epic books” of Genesis–Deuteronomy and the “history books” of Joshua–Kings are understood as one long history of Israel, what David Noel Freedman (1963) dubbed the “Primary History.” In a post-Homeric world, Greek epics of various kinds were also collected and summarized in prose to create an epikos kyklos (“cyclic epic”). The popularity of historical scenes in art from the fourth to third centuries b.c.e. was evidently based on prose summaries, not original epics; see West 2003, 3–4. 11 Machinist 2003, 135. See also Dihle 1982, 71–75, 89.

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to present that as forcefully as possible. A human voice would imply fallibility, and although the characters Moses and Elijah could reflect fallibility, the anonymous narrators of the tradition could not. They are transparent to the absolute authorities of God and the past. By this process, Moses and Elijah had in effect been made infallible, in spite of their storied faults. Greek history, unlike Israelite history, is also characterized by an explicit reflection on method; the word historia did not originally mean history but systematic inquiry, and it is, as Goldhill asserts, a “strikingly contemporary term.”12 Despite an early engagement with prose history writing in Israel, the systematic inquiry of historia is lacking. Discourse about events on a human time line is engaged enthusiastically, but not a method of questioning and evaluating – at least, not on an explicit level. It is possible, however, that the discernment of history is more internalized in Israel, through the use of irony. Irony destabilizes certainty and forces the same awareness of multiple possibilities that Greek historia fosters. Do passages such as the death of Absalom in 2 Sam 18:9–15 or the end of Judges evoke such searching questioning – “What the hell just happened?!” – that they constitute a sort of historia, reasoned inquiry? To the extent that this is true, a major distinction between Greek and Hebrew history, and the reason for excluding the latter from history, is minimized.13 In addition, Israel invested an analogous historia in prophecy. Prophecy arose at the same time as Israelite historical consciousness (they were co-created), and a moral historia of the “recipients” of history – the kings of Israel, Judah, and the nations – was explicit, searching, and constant. Important similarities and differences between Greek historia and Israelite reflection can thus be found, but we turn now to a further development. It is when the stylized prose of the biblical historical books evolves into the Fachprosa of Ezra-Nehemiah that another important similarity to Greek history appears in Judah: named, known, male authors. The “I” of Ezra and the “I” of Nehemiah are as revolutionary as the “I” of Herodotus, and appear at about the same time.14 What Greek historians provided that Israelite and Judean historians did not was an explicit reflection on the criteria of good history, and yet for all the critique by elite authors, Greek history writing continued to develop in two registers: a restrained, rationalistic register, championed by Herodotus, Thucydides, and Polybius, and a less restrained, popular register that utilized rhetorical techniques to manipulate emotion. We may even conclude that the three upper-register

12 Goldhill 2002, 10–12. It was not until Aristotle (Poetics 1450a–51b, 1459a) that historia was understood to mean a genre, “history,” rather than investigation. 13 Cf. Brettler 1995, 47. 14 This statement is true even if parts of Ezra-Nehemiah were added by other authors. On Ezra-Nehemiah and the discovery of the I, see Momigliano 1990, 5–28; Bowersock 1991, 27–36; M. Smith 1972, 122–25.

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historians mentioned here were atypical.15 The texts of the rationalistic register were more likely to recount recent wars, while the rhetorical historiography was more likely to interweave myths, legends, and genealogy to arrive at a universal chronological system of the ancient past. If Herodotus was the father of history in Greece, Hellanicus of Lesbos (fifth century b.c.e.) was the father of second-register history. He merged history and heroic legend with lists of priestesses to create a fuller chronological system. “In order to make the system work,” says John Van Seters, “he had to synchronize numerous mythical strands by duplicating names and events, filling in blank spaces with stories invented on the model of other accounts.”16 Hellanicus was also creative in ensuring that the vision of the whole of history would not be impeded by a lack of data. The gaps could and should be filled, by the spontaneous generation of the truth – what better way to control history? Such endeavors anticipate some of the developments in Jewish history, such as Demetrius the Chronographer (c. 225 b.c.e.) and 2 Maccabees (c. 100 b.c.e.). The broad influence of rhetoric is also felt in this second register of history writing; affecting the audience emotionally became a common goal. The later rhetorician Quintilian can be quoted at some length: We may move our hearers to tears by the picture of a captured town. For the mere statement that “the town was stormed,” while no doubt embracing all that such a calamity involves, has all the curtness of a dispatch, and fails to penetrate to the emotions of the hearer. But if we expand all that the one word “stormed” includes, we shall see the flames pouring from house and temple, and hear the crash of falling roofs and one confused clamor blended of many cries; we shall behold some in doubt where to fly, others clinging to their nearest and dearest in one last embrace, while the wailing of women and children, and the laments of old men, that the cruelty of fate should have spared them to see that day, will strike upon the ears. Then will come the pillage of treasure sacred and profane, the hurrying to and fro of the plunderers as they carry off their booty or return to seek for more, the prisoners driven each before his own inhuman captor, the mother struggling to keep her child, and the victors fighting over the richest spoil. For though, as I have said, the sack of a city includes all these things, it is less effective to tell the whole news at once than to recount it detail by detail.17  Gabba 1981, 50; see also Mendels 1997, 35–37. Schepens (1997, 159–64) argues that a distinction between the historians of recent events and chronographers of the ancient past is a modern distinction only, but Marincola (1999b, 307–308) counters that it is an ancient distinction in that recent histories are more narrative and ancient chronographies more analytical – just like Demetrius. 16 Van Seters 1983, 14, 21–24, 30; Lesky 1966, 330; Wiseman 2004, x. 17 8.3.67–70 (Loeb edition, with minor changes). There was no separate category of “tragic,” “pathetic,” or “rhetorical” history, as formerly believed, but a quantitative distinction. Aristotle’s separation of history and tragedy (Poetics 23.1) was forced and unique. Doran 1981, 86–87; see also Walbank 1960, 216–34. Feldman (1998, 13–14) begins with a distinction between critical history and rhetorical history and then argues that they merge by the Hellenistic period. True, they are often merged in Greek discussions of history, but Mendels (1997, 35–37) rightly maintains a continuing distinction that can sometimes be discerned in the practice of history. 15

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Though Quintilian is specifically speaking of rhetoric, not history, this description will sound like a model for the description of the siege of Jerusalem in 2 Macc 3:18–21; 5:15–16. What are viewed by modern scholars as rhetorical excesses in 2 Maccabees may seem more typical of history writing when viewed by this second-register standard. Further, Quintilian concludes by advocating yet one more technique to improve style: “To secure the vividness we seek, our descriptions need only give the impression of truth, nay, we may even add fictitious incidents of the type that generally occur.” The embellishing and even invention of incidents thus falls within the accepted practices of rhetoric, but though frowned upon in the first (except for the composition of speeches), it was found in second-register history.

History Writing and the Colonial Margins For all the ideological conservatism of ancient historians, the evolution of histories is marked by continuous experimentation. Different styles and different combinations of mythical themes, family and local histories can be found, and finally a stretching of the time line to incorporate myth and history into universal history. It may seem strange to think of “history” as an experimental endeavor, but a rich genre was bound to include many different practitioners of varied levels of intellectual attainment. History was as experimental as fiction. In addition, the new genre of history allowed for the affirmation of the history of one’s own party, one’s family, or even the family of one’s patron, so it should not surprise us when this occurs in 2 Maccabees or Josephus. The changes in history writing, as well as the polemical critiques of them, also reflect the colonized realities of the authors; critique implies a colonial culture war.18 Regardless of where the earliest creators of history writing began, by the time we reach the universal historians of the first century b.c.e., we find that two of the three most famous practitioners, Pompeius Trogus and Strabo, hailed from the provinces (the third was Diodorus Siculus). In postcolonial theory, Partha Chatterjee introduced the term “colonial universalism” to describe the colonial dominance by the colonizer that has the goal of erasing the particularism of the colonized through education. In the work of Homi Bhabha, however, this assumption of unidirectional influence is challenged.19 Colonial universalism also arises from the colonized. It is the mimicry of the colonized, the desire of the colonized to live in the ambivalence of two worlds, and especially the colonized author’s desire to “do universalism right,” to expose the unacknowledged particularism of the colonizer and demonstrate the truer universalism that arises from the colonized. Thus, the universal histories of 18 Clarke

1999. 1986; Bhabha 1994, esp. 85–92.

19 Chatterjee

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the Greeks and Romans, often written by the provincials and universal in both time and space, reflect colonial universalism, and we will encounter this again in some of the Jewish and Christian authors. The tensions of one group of colonized authors – Jewish writers – and their negotiations between Jewish tradition and a Hellenistic world order have been investigated recently by many scholars. Erich Gruen focuses on the ethnic confidence of Jewish writers, and Steven Weitzman suggests that Jews under colonial rule used the “arts of the weak” as strategies: appeasement, symbiosis, flattery, mimicry, diplomacy: “In some cases … what might look like assimilation to a foreign culture can be placed within an alternative narrative of cultural persistence, one in which Jews poach resources from the other for use in sustaining their own culture.”20 Anthony Smith sees the Jewish struggle against the Seleucids as “ethnicism,” the colonized people’s assertion of their own native identity, using the language of the colonizers.21 Contrary to some assessments, then, Jewish authors were not responding directly to a few influential writers in Athens or Alexandria or Rome, but to the common consensus view of all the Hellenistic cultural forces and indigenous ethnic competitors in the oikoumenē. Jews and other ruled ethnic groups developed hybridized colonial histories written mainly in Greek, assimilated to the Greek historical tradition. The Jewish histories of this period should thus be seen as relating to three different bodies of literature: older Israelite history, Greek history (especially of the second register), and the competitive ethnic histories of the other ruled peoples (Manetho, Berossus, and Philo of Byblos). As a result of other developments in postcolonial criticism, it is necessary to rethink the traditional way of describing this interaction. The debate has often been framed as a question of the mixing of a clear Judaism and a clear Hellenism. Is Josephus more Jewish or more Hellenistic? Do the Jewish authors have a core of Jewish values and an outer garment of Hellenism? Are Jewish authors positive about Hellenism or negative? In addition to colonial universalism, two other challenges that derive from postcolonial criticism apply here. First, it should not be assumed that a pristine Judaism or Hellenism existed prior to their interaction; the Judaism before Hellenism was not “pure” but Persianized Judaism (from Ezra and Nehemiah), which struggled internally against Syrianized Israel (the opponents of Ezra and Nehemiah), and Hellenism was also thoroughly syncre20 Weitzman 2005, 9 (using the critical insights of Certeau 1984, esp. 35–39); Gruen 1998, 12–

40; 2002, 219–31. Weitzman’s fine work and my own have addressed the same times and issues from two slightly different emphases; he stresses the more conscious reactions of Jews to more explicit threats from great empires coming against a more public and central aspect of identity, the temple; here and in “Jewish Novellas in a Greek and Roman Age” I stress the more unconscious reactions to more implicit threats against private and marginal sectors of Jewish life. This is not a criticism of his work, but simply a note about the complementary nature of our efforts. 21 A. Smith 1986, 56–57. See the discussion of this in Cohen 1999, 138–39.

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tized.22 Second, it should be remembered that the colonial author operates at the boundary in a state of ambivalence, hybridity, and mimicry. The colonized author exists willy-nilly in both worlds and cannot be said to be either Jewish or Greek without the qualifier of the colonial relation. The same is true of the colonizer, who cannot exist apart from the colonial relation, no matter the city of residence. The former description of the Greek-era Jewish authors in terms of a series of either-ors – Jewish or Greek identity, core or garment, positive or negative toward Hellenism – should be dropped in favor of a recognition of the fundamentally hybridized relation of the colonized and the colonizer. The ambivalent status of the ruled ethnic author destabilizes many of the former dualistic debates. Yet across this colonizer/colonized boundary there is a way to define “history” that recognizes both sides as well as their interaction. Ancient historians, both Greek and Jewish, used writing about the past to construct present identity through two main assumptions: first, the events recounted really occurred, and second, they occurred on the time line that continues to our day. They are the events of our past, our social memory. To emphasize the connection between a historical narrative and the present community, Greek and Roman histories intentionally avoided the clear resolution and closure that other ancient genres displayed; they problematized the endings.23 The closure that an “artistic” work normally presupposes is avoided in the conclusion of a historical work, as it is honestly admitted that a choice was imposed and a neat closure to the narrative is impossible. History has no end. Rather, the author insisted that the text might end but the story and the time line continue into the audience’s present. And at the beginnings of the narratives as well, the authors of histories inscribed themselves into the narrative by presenting a persona and by choosing a point on the continuous time line to establish the work’s archē. Jewish histories as well from the Hellenistic and Roman periods clearly follow this pattern. Open endings are found at the conclusions: With this I conclude my Antiquities. … I shall at some future time compose a running account of the war and of the later events of our history up to the present day. (Josephus, Antiquities) This, then, is how matters turned out with Nicanor, and from that time the city has been in possession of the Hebrews. So I will end my story. If it is well told and to the point, that is what I myself desired; if it is poorly done and mediocre, that was the best I could do … And here will be the end. (2 Maccabees)

At the beginnings of the narratives as well, Jewish histories, like the Greek and Roman ones, presume that they are choosing a point on the continuous time line to establish the work’s archē: 22 Wills

1990; 2008, esp. 53–86. On the general issues, see Bhabha 1994, esp. 38, 59, 85–92, 139–70, 179. 23 Roberts et al. 1997; Marincola 1999a.

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After Alexander, son of Philip the Macedonian, who came from the land of Kittim, had defeated King Darius of the Persians and the Medes, he succeeded him as king. (1 Maccabees)

The time line is therefore a fundamental element of a Foucauldian epistēmē, a prior metaphysical assumption of narratives about gods and figures of the past.24 Novels, however, differ from histories both at the end and at the beginning and are more like poetic genres: they construct a firmly closed ending that may have pointed forward, but not to the present. As Xenophon of Ephesus concluded his novel, “They lived happily ever after, the rest of their life together was one long festival.” The idealized future at the end of the novel does not extend to the reader’s present but is closed off; it has closure. There is a time line within the fictional narratives (the plot), but the time line does not extend to the present. It is unreal time, or time outside of time, or pretend time, or even play time. Likewise, while the author of a history, consistently named and male, began with a preface, inscribing himself into the narrative of history and stating the goals and methods that would guarantee authority and lead the narrative onto the time line, the author of novels began with plot or, in some cases, pretend prefaces and sometimes even a pretend authorial voice. The author of fiction implicitly rejects personal authority concerning the veracity of what follows – or alternatively, mocks it: “I swear that every word I am about to say is true”; compare the mock apocalyptic at the beginning of Greek Esther or the pretend-king at the beginning of Judith. Novels introduce an archē that is counter to reality, a pretend archē. In respect, then, to both the beginning and the ending, history was open to the timeline while the novel was closed off or unreal, and this will be key to our definition of history. The novel presents an artificial problem-in-time, and the problem is resolved. Novel is thus history’s irresponsible twin; it offers quotidian redemption in an invented history.25 Yet novel and history are still alike in another, surprising way: not only do they both employ Fachprosa to compose prose narrative, but the rendering of reality in both history and fiction also involves an assumption about myth – that it has been tamed. History and fiction exercise the same power over myth, time, and the forms of tradition: the writer can choose. We may now complete this reflection on history writing in the Greek period by proffering a broader definition of history. History need not be defined by reasoned investigation (historia) or a theory of causality or any other rationalistic goal, but by whether the narrative is understood by author and audience to have taken place on a time line that continues into the present.26 This is the essence of social memory. History is part of our story, whether it occurred a week ago 24 Foucault

1970. 2011 26 On the definition of history, see Van Seters 1983, 2, 354, 359. He also operates (4–5) with a more general definition of the history genre, which I find quite apt: history is traditional literature that reflects on the meaning of the past and defines the people of the present. Other broader definitions of history can be found in Brettler 1995, 12; and Halpern 1988, 8. 25 Wills

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or a millennium ago. This is the assumption common to all histories, good and bad. History, then, is extended prose narrative of a chosen segment of the time line shared by an author and audience. In addition, the outlines of the events narrated are assumed by the author and audience to have really happened. This definition of history intentionally does not distinguish good history from bad, nor theologically oriented history from rationalistic history, nor moral causality from historical causality. And it does not presume that the nature of history is different for the colonizer and the colonized.

But Will Our Categories Hold? Did ancient authors and audiences “obey” this neat distinction in creating the genres of history and novel? We must pause first to ask what notion of “genre” we are using. I propose three models of genre distinction: Platonic-Aristotelian model Degenerate texts Genre A l l l l l l l l l l l lllllllllllll

Degenerate texts Genre B l l ll l l l l l ll l lllllllllllll

Constellation model Genre A l l l lllllllll l l l l l Continuum model Genre A l ll ll l l l l l l l l l l l l l l l

Genre B l llllllllllll l l

l

l

Genre B l l l l l l l l l l

In the Platonic-Aristotelian model, clear criteria are maintained by the elite author and audience. In the constellation model, success in communication depends upon authors and audience simply tending toward certain expectations of performance, with some outlying, experimental texts; genres are attraction zones. In the continuum model, there is very little recognizable effect of genre distinction; every exemplar is on a spectrum. But to utilize the constellational model accurately, one would have to include also a number of other constellations, such as biography, epic, comedy, and so on; we might see a three-dimensional map of constellations, both high genres and popular genres, separate but mutually related, each positioned close to multiple other constellations. Yet it is this constellational model, projected in three dimensions and replete with multiple constellations, that seems most helpful. The constellation model works very well with the Wittgensteinian notion of genre that has become popular since the publication of Alastair Fowler’s Kinds of Literature.27 Fowler solves the definitional problem by invoking Wittgenstein’s notion of family resemblances: no small 27 Fowler

1982, 40–42.

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set of traits becomes constitutive of the genre; rather a variable selection of the generally shared traits brings to mind in the audience the pull of the genre. For example, five traits may be commonly found across a set of texts, but it is possible that none of the texts exhibits all five, and each text may have a trait that it shares with none of the others but does share with texts outside the genre. Wittgenstein’s theory of categories based on family resemblances If a, b, c, d, and e are common traits in the group, then members may be represented thus: Members Traits Member 1 abcd Member 2 abcde Member 3 abcde Member 4 abcde Member 5 abcde

Granting, then, that even the nature of the separation of genres that we assume can be questioned and negotiated, we still observe that in Greek, Roman, and Jewish literature we find a range of texts that are sometimes grouped with histories, sometimes with novels, sometimes with other texts or that simply stand alone. Study of the Greek and Roman novel now routinely includes an array of quirky and fascinating texts such as Alexander Romance; Secundus; Pseudo-Lucius, The Ass; selections from Lucian and Dio Chrysostom; Life of Aesop; Phlegon of Tralles, Book of Marvels; Antonius Diogenes, The Wonders Beyond Thule; the false histories of the Trojan War by Dictys and Dares; and fragments of others. These texts and their Jewish and Christian counterparts, have been received in various ways in their textual history.28 Whereas Christine Thomas concludes that Jewish novellas, apocryphal acts, and the eastern popular histories are not fictitious in the same sense as the major novels, they still occupy in her mind an imaginative zone different from history. She provides one of the best reflections on the shades of difference between history and novel in regard to Christian novelistic texts.29 Pausing at any point in her discussion would lead first to one conclusion and then the other about the fictionality of the texts, but she finally avers that novel and history exist on a continuum, with many exempla, such as 28 See

Wills 2011; Stephens 1996. 2003, 9–10, 74–79, 93–104. See also Hansen 1998, xx–xxi; Veyne 1988, esp. 21–22, 103–104; Wiseman and Gill 1993; Hägg 1987. Thomas (4) also helpfully presses an important distinction between fictional complicity between author and audience and fiction as simply imaginative elaboration. She includes earlier Jewish novellas in her discussion, but many classicists have been willing to accept Christian apocryphal acts, the Pseudo-Clementine literature, and even martyrs’ tales into the outer canon of fringe novels but not Jewish texts (except for Joseph and Aseneth). I believe that this is precisely because the Jewish texts predate most of the other texts. It is possible to imagine the Christian texts as second-rate copies of the Greek genre, but it is difficult to imagine how a colonized people could begin experimenting with the same sort of narrative pleasure that would, on the other side of the colonial boundary, later give rise to the ideal Greek novel. See also Wills 2011. 29 C. Thomas

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Acts of Peter, at a midpoint. Thomas chooses the hybrid term historical novel for the intermediate specimens that she is studying. Following her lead, we might arrange a series of Greek, Jewish, and Christian texts on a spectrum, from more historical in disposition to more novelistic: History Novel 1 Maccabees 2 Maccabees Acts Acts of Peter Esther Chariton Artapanus Tobit Heliodorus Ahikar Judith Longus Alexander Romance Aesop

Yet is history to novel as on is to off – a theoretically distinct and separate category – or as tall is to short – a usable distinction that assumes a spectrum, a potential for movement, and an ambiguity about context? (Tall in relation to what? Short in relation to what?) We note also that Thomas’s term, historical novel, implies that this middle area – the problem area for most analyses – is a hybrid mix of two “clear” categories, history and novel. (Compare “Hellenized” and “Judaism” above.) Further, the term historical novel might suggest that popular history simply evolved into novel.30 But what if this middle area is the norm – or at least the mathematical mode, the most commonly occurring type – and “history” and “novel” have separated off, have differentiated, and are the bizarre outliers? As a result, I prefer the term popular history or entertaining history for this middle area, because although either of these terms may introduce other problems as well, either is preferable to historical novel, which already strongly suggests that this “middle” group of texts (middle in relation to what?) is simply a point on the continuum between history and novel. Popular histories could conceivably have been read as fiction or as an account of real events, perhaps as both by different audiences, but they may have constituted a genre or subgenre in their own right, a constellation rather than points on a continuum between two other “real” genres. They may have been more numerous and significant on the popular level, perhaps even the dominant category and not a hybrid at all. Corinne Jouanno, for instance, suggests that trickster novels like Alexander Romance and Life of Aesop represent early experiments in the rise of the novel in Greece,31 but why not also the Jewish trickster novels Artapanus or Judith? Thus, the popular history or the 30 As Gerald Sandy (1994, 139), in caricaturing this assumption, says, “Ancient Greek fiction developed from a fusion of gradually diminishing doses of historiography and ever-increasing injections of love until at some measurable point the erotic novel was synthesized.” See my fuller discussion at Wills 1995, 21–22, 232–35. The structuralist perspective of Consuelo Ruiz-Montero (1996, 29–85) is more illuminating: various genres existed, constantly altered in small ways, until at some point they were perceived as inadequate for new themes, such as the domesticated heroic quest. This new life-and-death struggle in a domestic setting required a new structure, and the novella provided for a new performance experience. 31 Jouanno 2009, 42–46. She invokes the insights of Carl Jung: the trickster motif allows primitive instincts to surface, such as lying, cheating, stealing (all that the Ten Commandments forbid!); this is the shadow of the moral self. See also Radin 1972, 202–209.

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trickster novel might be seen as more central, the dominant genre, or the “real” genre in relation to which history or novel would be considered offshoots: History llll ll l

l

l

Popular history l llllllllllllll ll l

l

Novel l llllllI

And novel might just as accurately be considered a mixture of popular history and comedy, or history a mixture of biography and epic. However, Thomas may be correct that we cannot discern exactly how the texts were first understood and which texts were composed and read as fictional. But this is no prohibitive “problem” for a history of literature – not the warning to turn back that some scholars take it to be – but only an accurate realization on Thomas’s part. As I have stated elsewhere, Chaos and hybridity in novels is both “real” and “good.” … All important categories in culture are large, rambling, undefined around the boundaries, and have problematic names, while unimportant categories in culture are small, pristine, neatly defined around the boundaries, and have clear names. Conversely, if a category is large, rambling, undefined around the boundaries, and has a problematic name, this is prima facie evidence that it is important. If a category is small, pristine, neatly defined around the edges, and has a clear name, this is prima facie evidence that it is not important.32

If all important social categories are indistinct at the boundaries, why should popular histories and novels – or histories for that matter – be any different? I propose that the constellation model is the most helpful of the alternatives. Genres are attraction zones, pulling performer and audience alike to certain expected experiences of pleasure. The precise nature of these expectations and pleasure might be easily catalogued if we had access to a thick description of ancient cultural usages, but evidence is limited. We must acknowledge, however, that texts were likely received in a different way in different social contexts and at different periods, perhaps even among different classes.33 Yet each of the constellations here has some integrity and longevity of its own.

Conclusion The broad array of half-novels and novelistic hiccups in the ancient Near East indicates that many authors were gradually turning over the possibilities of narrative, perhaps without a clear sense of fiction and nonfiction, and that experimental history and fiction and “popular history” were being co-created – and differentiating? – in a colonized setting. The fact that these eastern Mediterrane32 Wills

2011, 145. said, “All who wrote about Alexander preferred the marvelous to the true” (2.1.9), but is this simply an elite intellectual’s way of bemoaning the fact that other people with lesser standards thought of them as historical? Cf. also Strabo, Geog. 1.2.35. 33 Strabo

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an experiments have counterparts in Greece – Ctesias, Herodotus, Cyropaedia, Symposium – should not set off a new set of range wars (“The true experiments are in our department, not yours!”).34 Rather, the dynamics of unadorned prose, of trickster novels, of humor and irony, of domesticated settings, is similar and common across these boundaries. And ultimately, the differentiation of history and novel does not result in perfectly neat categories – they are far too important for that – but in attraction zones that can indeed be identified, yet which continued to grow and change over time and were given to splintering and recombining around the edges. “Novel,” both Greek and Jewish, must be understood within the context of “history” (and “prose”), yet the relationship is not linear – neither Greek to Jewish nor history to novel – but exists in a single galaxy within which constellations formed and were multiply interrelated across colonial boundaries.

Bibliography Alexander, Loveday. 1993. The Preface to Luke’s Gospel: Literary Convention and Social Context in Luke 1:1–4. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bhabha, Homi. 1994. Location of Culture. London: Routledge, 1994. Bowersock, G. W. 1991. “Momigliano’s Quest for the Person.” History and Theory 30:27–36. Brettler, Marc Zvi. 1995. The Creation of History in Ancient Israel. London: Routledge. Carr, David. 1988. “Narrative and the Real World: An Argument for Continuity,” History and Theory 25:117–31. Certeau, Michel de. 1984. The Practice of Everyday Life. Berkeley: University of California Press. Chatterjee, Partha. 1986. Nationalist Thought and the Colonial World: A Derivative Discourse? London: Zed / Totowa, NJ: Biblio Distribution Center. Clarke, Katherine. 1999. “Universal Perspectives in Historiography.” Pages 249–79 in Kraus, The Limits of Historiography. Cohen, Shaye J. D. 1999. The Beginnings of Jewishness: Boundaries, Varieties, Uncertainties. Berkeley: University of California Press. Dihle, Albrecht. 1982. The Theory of the Will in Classical Antiquity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Doran, Robert. 1981. Temple Propaganda: The Purpose and Character of 2 Maccabees. Washington, D. C.: Catholic Biblical Association. Eskenazi, Tamara Cohn. 1988. In an Age of Prose: A Literary Approach to Ezra-Nehemiah. Atlanta: Scholars, 1988. Feldman, Louis H. 1998. Josephus’s Interpretation of the Bible. Berkeley: University of California Press. Foucault, Michel. 1970. The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences. New York: Vintage. 34 The

fact that authors in Egypt had introduced novelistic experiments so many centuries earlier should caution us against engaging in a copyright dispute in the second or third century bce.

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Fowler, Alastair. 1982. Kinds of Literature: An Introduction to the Theory of Genres and Modes. Oxford: Clarendon. Freedman, David Noel. 1963. “The Law and the Prophets.” Pages 250–65 in VT Supplement 9: Congress Volume. Leiden: Brill. Gabba, Emilio. 1981. “True History and False History in Classical Antiquity.” JRS 71:50–62. Gamble, Harry Y. 1995. Books and Readers in the Early Church: A History of Early Christian Texts. New Haven: Yale University Press. Godzich, Wlad, and Jeffrey Kitay. 1987. The Emergence of Prose: An Essay in Prosaics. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Goldhill, Simon. 2002. The Invention of Prose. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Gruen, Erich S. 1998. Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition. Berkeley: University of California Press. –. 2002. Diaspora: Jews amidst Greeks and Romans. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Hägg, Tomas. 1987. “Callirhoe and Parthenope: The Beginnings of the Historical Novel.” Classical Antiquity 6:184–204. Halbwachs, Maurice. 1992. On Collective Memory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Halpern, Baruch. 1988. The First Historians: The Hebrew Bible and History. San Francisco: Harper & Row. Hansen, William F. 1998. Anthology of Ancient Greek Popular Literature. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Jouanno, Corinne. 2009. “Novelistic Lives and Historical Biographies: The Life of Aesop and the Alexander Romance as Fringe Novels.” Pages 33–48 in Fiction on the Fringe: Novelistic Writing in the Post-Classical Age. Edited by G. Karla. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Konstan, David. 1994. Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Lepore, Jill. 2008. “Just the Facts, Ma’am,” New Yorker, March 24, pp. 80–82. Lichtheim, Miriam. 1975–80. Ancient Egyptian Literature. 3 vols. Berkeley: University of California Press. Kirk, Alan. 2005. “Social and Cultural Memory.” Pages 1–11 in Memory, Tradition, and Text: Uses of the Past in Early Christianity. Edited by Alan Kirk and Tom Thatcher. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature. Kraus, Christina Shuttleworth, ed. 1999. The Limits of Historiography: Genre and a Narrative in Ancient Historical Texts. Leiden: Brill. Lesky, Albin. 1966. A History of Greek Literature. New York: Crowell. Machinist, Peter. 1986. “On Self-Consciousness in Mesopotamia.” Pages 183–202 in The Origins and Diversity of Axial Age Civilizations. Edited by S. N. Eisenstadt. Albany: State University of New York Press.. –. 2003. “The Voice of the Historian in the Ancient Near East and Mediterranean World.” Interpretation 57:135. Marincola, John. 1999a. “Closing Narratives: How Histories End.” Public lecture, Harvard University, October 14. –. 1999b. “Genre, Convention, and Innovation in Greco-Roman Historiography.” Pages 281–324 in Kraus, Limits of Historiography. Mendels, Doron. 1997. The Rise and Fall of Jewish Nationalism. Grand Rapids, Mich.: Eerdmans. –. 2004. Memory in Jewish, Pagan and Christian Societies of the Graeco-Roman World. London: T&T Clark.

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Momigliano, Arnaldo. 1990. The Classical Foundations of Modern Historiography. Berkeley: University of California Press. Nimis, Steve. 1994. “The Prosaics of the Ancient Novel.” Arethusa 27: 387–411. Pardes, Ilana. 2000. The Biography of Ancient Israel. Berkeley: University of California Press. Perkins, Judith. 2009. Roman Imperial Identities in the Early Christian Era. London: Routledge. Radin, Paul. 1972. The Trickster: A Study in American Indian Mythology. New York: Schocken. Roberts, Deborah H., Francis M. Dunn, and Don Fowler, eds. 1997. Classical Closure: Reading the End in Greek and Latin Literature. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Ruiz-Montero, Consuelo. 1996. “Rise of the Greek Novel.” Pages 29–85 in Schmeling, Novel in the Ancient World. Rydbeck, Lars. 1967. Fachprosa, vermeintliche Volksspruche und Neues Testament: Zur Beurteilung der sprachlichen Niveauunterschiede im nachklassischen Griechisch. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. Sandy, Gerald. 1994. “New Pages of Greek Fiction.” Pages 130–45 in Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context. Edited by J. R. Morgan and Richard Stoneman. London and New York: Routledge. Schepens, Guido. 1997. “Jacoby’s FGrHist: Problems, Methods, Prospects.” Pages 159–64 in Collecting Fragments/Fragmente sammeln. Edited by Glenn W. Most. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Schmeling, Gareth, ed. 1996. The Novel in the Ancient World. Leiden: Brill. Smith, Anthony. 1986. The Ethnic Origins of Nations. Oxford: Blackwell. Smith, Morton. 1972. Parties and Politics That Shaped the Old Testament. New York: Columbia University Press. Stephens, Susan A. 1996. “Fragments of Lost Novels.” Pages 655–82 in Schmeling, Novel in the Ancient World. Thomas, Christine. 2003 The Acts of Peter, Gospel Literature, and the Ancient Novel. Oxford and New York: Oxford University Press. Thomas, Rosalind. 2000. Herodotus in Context: Ethnography, Science, and the Art of Persuasion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. van den Heever, Gerhard. 2005. “‘Loose Fictions and Frivolous Fabrications’: Ancient Fiction and the Mystery Religions of the Early Imperial Era.” Ph.D. diss., University of South Africa. Van Seters, John. 1983. In Search of History: Historiography in the Ancient World and the Origins of Biblical History. New Haven: Yale University Press. Veyne, Paul. 1988. Did the Greeks Believe Their Myths? Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Walbank, F. W. 1960. “History and Tragedy.” Historia 9:216–34. Ward, Graham, ed. 2000. The Certeau Reader. Oxford: Blackwell. Weinfeld, Moshe. 1993. The Promise of the Land: The Inheritance of the Land of Canaan by the Israelites. Berkeley: University of California Press. Weitzman, Steven. 2005. Surviving Sacrilege: Cultural Persistence in Jewish Antiquity. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. West, Martin L. 2003. Greek Epic Fragments from the Seventh to the Fifth Centuries b.c. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

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Whitmarsh, Tim. 2001. Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Wills, Lawrence M. 1990. The Jew in the Court of the Foreign King: Ancient Jewish Court Legends. Minneapolis: Fortress. –. 1995. The Jewish Novel in the Ancient World. Ithaca, N. Y.: Cornell University Press. –. 2000. “The Depiction of Slavery in the Ancient Novel.” Semeia 81:113–32. –. 2008. Not God’s People: Insiders and Outsiders in the Biblical World. Lanham, Md.: Rowman & Littlefield. –. 2011 “Jewish Novellas in a Greek and Roman Age: Fiction and Identity.” JSJ 42:141–65. Wiseman, T. P. 2004. Clio’s Cosmetics: Three Studies in Greco-Roman Literature. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Wiseman, T. P., and Christopher Gill, eds. 1993. Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Yerushalmi, Yosef. 1996. Zakhor: Jewish History and Jewish Memory. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Younger, K. Lawson Jr. 1990. Ancient Conquest Accounts: A Study in Ancient Near Eastern and Biblical History Writing. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic.

The Twisted Tales of Artapanus: Biblical Rewritings as Novelistic Narrative Erich S. Gruen Artapanus defies categories and classification. Efforts to assign a label have won no consensus. The author slips swiftly out of our grasp. And the application of tags may well be beside the point. Artapanus does not readily fit molds and ought not to be squeezed into them. His name suggests Persian origins, he composed in Greek, and his subject matter stems from the Hebrew Bible – though much massaged and manipulated. Arguments over whence he came, when he lived, and why he wrote have been many, with few results. Yet Artapanus continues to stir interest. His idiosyncratic tales, entertaining and amusing, with a mixture of piety and irreverence, verisimilitude and fantasy, naturally lure investigators, even when they lead to bafflement and perplexity. Only three fragments survive from Artapanus’ work, the Περὶ Ἰουδαίων, yet another source of frustration. But the fragments intrigue inquirers and disclose an inventive mind. The first-century b.c.e. Greek polymath, Alexander Polyhistor, quoted them, whence they came to Eusebius whose Praeparatio Evangelica preserved them for posterity.1 Like many Hellenistic Jewish texts, the treatise was ignored or scorned by the rabbis but proved more congenial to Christian churchmen to whom we owe what survives. Two of the fragments, those on Abraham and Joseph, are too brief for extended comment. But the third, on Moses, gives more to chew upon, a substantial chunk that conveys an involved and engaging tale and justifies analysis in the context of creative fiction. A summary of the extant text will facilitate matters. The brief extract concerning Abraham has him move with his entire household to Egypt, stay there for twenty years, teach astrology to the Pharaoh, and then return home, while many in his entourage remained to enjoy the prosperity of the land.2 That is all we have. But even so condensed a citation shows that Artapanus departed freely from the text of Genesis. The latter gives a very different story about Abraham’s visit to Egypt where he deviously represented his wife as his sister in order to save his own neck, makes no allusion to astrology, and says nothing about so long a

the title, see Euseb. PE, 9.23.1; Clem. Alex. Strom. 1.23.154.2. An alternative, ἐν τοῖς Ἰουδαικοῖς, appears in Euseb. PE. 9.18.1 2 Euseb. PE, 9.18.1. 1 For

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stay.3 Further, Artapanus provides the provocative (and unique) notice that the Jews originally carried the designation of “Hermiouth” which translates to “Ioudaioi” in Greek, only later receiving the appellation of “Hebrews” from the time of Abraham. Whatever one makes of that most peculiar observation, it certainly signals the author’s idiosyncrasy. The saga of Joseph reaches us in equally truncated form. Artapanus has his own take on the quarrel between Joseph and his brothers, presenting him as a discerning young man who anticipates his brothers’ (ostensibly unmotivated) plot, enlists neighboring Arabs to help him escape to Egypt, and rapidly becomes finance minister for the Pharaoh’s whole realm. His wisdom and sense of justice brought economic equity to the land, introduced knowledge of measures, and gained him the affection of the Egyptian people, among whom he dwelled, took a bride, and fathered children. He subsequently welcomed his father and brothers who came to settle in Egypt, built temples in two different sites, and multiplied rapidly. Joseph’s tenure as czar of finance made him, in effect, ruler of the nation.4 This abridged version leaves out some of the juicier parts of the Genesis narrative, including Joseph’s time in prison, his interpretation of dreams, and the attempted seduction by Potiphar’s wife. Nor is this merely a feature of selectivity by the excerptor. Artapanus’ picture of Joseph has a decidedly different flavor from that of the biblical account. His Joseph takes the initiative in the dispute with his brothers, no mere victim but an anticipator of events. He swiftly gained the confidence of the Pharaoh, and took over the affairs of the land with resoluteness and success. While Genesis has Joseph serve the king and entrench royal power on the backs of the Egyptian peasantry, Artapanus makes him into an authentic reformer, ending exploitation of the weak by the strong, and acting in the interests of the nation as a whole.5 It is a much rosier depiction than that of the Bible, where Joseph is a more ambiguous and occasionally less admirable character. Artapanus once more goes his own way. The bulk of Artapanus as bequeathed by Eusebius consists of a long fragment that conveys the Moses story. The narrative intersects at various points with the Book of Exodus. But the author gave full rein to his imagination. Moses, in his version, becomes a cultural progenitor of the Egyptians and, to some extent, of all mankind. Although a Hebrew, he was raised by a daughter of the pharaoh and swiftly became the central figure of Egyptian society. The Greeks transformed the name Moses into Musaeus, thus giving him mythological status as teacher of Orpheus. That association granted him wide knowledge and authority, allowing him to accord to humankind numerous benefactions, such as naval vessels, 3 See

Gen. 12:10–13.1. PE, 9.23.1–4. 5 For the biblical account of Joseph and his brothers, see Gen. 37:2–36. For that of his administration in Egypt, see Gen. 47:13–26. 4 Euseb.

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hauling equipment, weaponry, hydraulic devices – and even philosophy. More immediately, Moses had responsibility for creating the administrative districts called nomes, for assigning the god to be worshipped in each, specified as cats, dogs, and ibises, and for distributing sacred writings, as well as land, to the priests. All this Moses accomplished in order to assure stability for the realm of the pharaoh Chenephres. He earned the favor of the people, received honors equivalent to a god from the priests, and gained the name Hermes because of his skill in interpreting sacred scriptures.6 Very little of this parallels anything to be found in the Book of Exodus. Conspicuous for its omission is any mention of Moses as lawgiver for the Hebrews. Artapanus reinvents Moses as the fount of Egyptian institutions, even of hieroglyphics and animal worship, and as cultural benefactor to all of humankind. The author then reverts to the narrative of an adventure tale – and an altogether novel one. Chenephres the Pharaoh, jealous of Moses’ accomplishments, took a dislike to him, and sent him off to war against the Ethiopians with a makeshift band, expecting to see the last of him. But Moses proved to be as successful a military hero as a bringer of culture. He conducted a ten year war of epic proportions and not only returned victorious but won the hearts of the Ethiopians themselves, even introducing them to the fine art of circumcision.7 That bit of whimsy gives a clue to Artapanus’ mindset: a writer of some mischief. The wicked Chenephres pretended to welcome Moses’ homecoming, even asking his advice on the best breed of oxen to plow the fields, whence came the origin of Apis worship among the Egyptians. But, all the while, he plotted against the hero. He appointed assassins, most of whom declined the task, and the one who agreed was duly overpowered by the swifter and keener Moses. The adventures accumulate. A sojourn in Arabia brought Moses to the attention of an Arab leader whose daughter he married but whose importunings to march on Egypt he declined out of regard for his countrymen. Moses returned to his homeland only when the conniving Chenephres perished of elephantiasis, a fitting end, for he was the initial victim of that disease.8 Now, for the first time, God enters the picture. Hitherto, the story was strictly secular – apart from Egyptian divinities whom Moses himself had introduced. Echoes from Exodus resonate here. Moses seeks assistance from God to rescue his people from oppression in Egypt. And the burning bush duly blazes. The hero, briefly frightened, then receives reassurance from a divine voice that urges him to take up arms against the Egyptians, which he proceeds to do.9 Artapanus’ version here, even while alluding to Exodus, gives it his own twist, and quite a PE, 9.27.1–6. PE. 9.27.7–10. 8 Euseb. PE, 9.27.11–20. 9 Euseb. PE, 9.27.21–22. 6 Euseb. 7 Euseb.

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striking one. God never orders a military expedition in the Bible, only remonstrations with pharaoh. The warrior credentials of Moses take precedence in this retelling. What came of the war disappeared from the record.10 Domestic intrigue, however, supervened. The new pharaoh imprisoned Moses, hoping to silence him. It was a futile resistance to the inevitable. Prison doors miraculously opened, guards proved helpless, some of them asleep, some dead, their weapons broken, and Moses calmly sauntered into the palace. Pharaoh, roused from sleep, demanded that Moses tell him what god had sent him. That was poor miscalculation on his part. Moses whispered the divine name in the king’s ear, thus causing him to collapse in a heap, reviving only when Moses picked him up. An Egyptian priest was not so fortunate. He had a look at the divine name that had been inscribed on a tablet by Moses, treated it mockingly, and immediately suffered a convulsion that terminated his life.11 It need hardly be said that the Bible breathes not a hint of any of this. Artapanus constructed his own tale with Moses as magician and God as mowing down Egyptians. The rest of Artapanus’ narrative does bear a closer resemblance to the account in Exodus, but far from a replica. He plays willfully with the tale of the plagues, including some, omitting others, reshuffling and reordering them, and inserting some noteworthy novelties.12 So, for instance, Moses strikes the Nile with his rod, not to turn the waters into blood but to have the Nile flood its banks. The author proudly announces that this act initiated the regular flooding of the Nile, the very lifeline of the nation, yet another feat of magnitude and magnanimity by the culture-hero Moses.13 Not exactly what Exodus had in mind. Various plagues followed at Moses’ behest, corresponding only occasionally and erratically with those found in the biblical account. The mischievous Artapanus juxtaposes the plague of hail with one of earthquakes (the latter makes no appearance in Exodus) and presents Egyptians as darting about to escape the one, only to be felled by the other.14 Pharaoh remained resolute. For Artapanus, arrogance impelled him. No mention of God hardening his heart.15 And a still more startling omission cannot fail to have been noticed by any knowledgeable reader. Artapanus leaves out the fatal tenth plague: death of the Egyptian first-born. He would tell his own tale, with a surprise at almost every turn. 10 The battle itself does not appear in the text, and there is no follow-up of Moses’ resolve to wage war. That ostensible gap in the narrative may mean that Alexander Polyhistor left it out of his summary. It is noteworthy that Josephus’ rewriting of Exodus has the divine voice enjoin Moses to become commander of the Hebrew hosts but also provides no battle narrative; Ant. 2.268. 11 Euseb. PE, 9.27.23–26. 12 Euseb. PE, 9.27.27–33. 13 Euseb. PE, 9.27.27–28. 14 Euseb. PE, 9.27.33. 15 Euseb. PE, 9.27.31.

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The final portion corresponds loosely with Exodus. Pharaoh at last let the Hebrews go. They gathered some necessities and valuables from the Egyptians and headed for the Red Sea which they reached in three days.16 But Artapanus cannot resist some touches of his own. The Exodus tale blends two distinct versions of the crossing of the sea without acknowledging the difference: the drying up of the waters to enable passage and the separation of the sea into two walls of water through which the Israelites could move safely.17 Atrapanus rightly presents them as two independent explanations. He ascribes them, however, not to the Bible, but to two Egyptian variants, one from the Memphians and one from the Heliopolitans.18 This was hardly an innocent insertion. By offering alternative interpretations (one of which has Moses rationally plan the crossing in advance by waiting for the ebb tide) and assigning each to different Egyptian sources, he casts a cloud on the whole tale. Artapanus subtly signals his irreverence. The account ends in highly condensed fashion. It covers the destruction of the Egyptians, the forty years in the desert, the miraculous sustenance from heaven, and a final description of Moses in a single paragraph.19 That may be the choice of the epitomator rather than the author. But Artapanus does include one last addition of his own. He has the pursuing Egyptians halted not only by the sea but by a burst of flame. Drowning in the waters was not enough. Artapanus has them consumed by both fire and flood.20 Even the end has a twist. How should one understand a work of this kind? Why did a Hellenistic Jew take familiar stories about the patriarchs and Moses and reshape them to his own taste? Why did an intellectual steeped in the Scriptures choose to manipulate them in a fashion that left them recognizable but skewed and perplexing? Why did a man grounded in the faith choose to remodel Moses from a Hebrew lawgiver to an inventor of Egyptian traditions and institutions – including even animal worship? If answers can be found, they may shed light upon the literary and cultural environment in which Jewish thinkers found themselves in the Hellenistic diaspora, the traditions within which they worked, and the expectations that they aroused. The paradox looms large. For some scholars, the idea of a Jew who looked favorably upon animal worship is incomprehensible and quite unthinkable.21 Best 16 Euseb. PE, 9.27.34. Even this departs from the biblical text which has the Israelites “plunder” the Egyptians; Exod. 12:36. Josephus offers still more of a whitewash, alleging that Egyptian willingly bestowed gifts upon the Hebrews; Ant. 2.314. 17 Exod. 14:21–22. 18 Euseb. PE, 9.27.35. 19 Euseb. PE, 9.27.37. 20 Euseb. PE, 9.27.37. 21 The fundamental study of Artapanus by Freudenthal (1874–1875, 147–74) makes a power­ ful case for the writer as a Jew. But Freudenthal was nonetheless quite uncomfortable with the features of the work that seemed starkly at odds with Jewish tradition. Hence he offered the bold hypothesis that Artapanus, though Jewish, adopted a pagan pseudonym as cover for his

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to deny that Artapanus was a Jew at all. If he can present Moses as one who advocates dogs, cats, and ibises as divinities, he must have been a pagan. That would cut the knot nicely.22 But it is too soft a solution. What would stimulate a pagan not simply to repeat biblical stories (that might have some entertainment value) but to remold them liberally, thus enhancing and elevating Hebrew heroes? To be sure, some gentile intellectuals commented favorably (or ambiguously) on the Jews in passing or as part of treatises devoted largely to other matters.23 A sustained fragment appears in Hecataeus of Abdera, but the favorable assessment is tempered by more questionable observations, and the treatment of Jews occurs only within a broader study of Egypt.24 And Alexander Polyhistor, a good pagan whose researches preserved the words of Artapanus that we possess, was interested enough to collect the writings of Hellenistic Jews.25 But none of this bears comparison with the combination of biblical narrative and inventive intrusions that feature the idiosyncratic text of Artapanus. The twists on the tales have little force unless the reader is familiar with the traditional version. This holds for Artapanus’ take on Abraham’s sojourn in Egypt, on Joseph’s character, shrewdness, and rise to authority, and on Moses’ role as military leader, adventure hero, miracle worker, Egyptian benefactor, and bearer of culture to humankind. The whole account depends on extensive acquaintance with the biblical version, so as to render meaningful the deviations, departures, and whimsical expansions to an audience who would appreciate them.26 That would include very few gentiles. Artapanus was plainly part of a Jewish intellectual circle that both knew the tradition and would recognize the massaging it received. What implications arise in acknowledging that a Jew could treat the Scriptures so cavalierly and produce a form of romance that has his hero enmeshed in Egyptian culture and Greek mythology? One might resolve the issue by deconstructing Judaism. If it constituted a multi-layered system permitting a range of accommodations to diverse beliefs and cults, Artapanus would not stand out as a sore thumb. His blending of Moses with Hermes, Thoth, or Musaeus simply represented a form of syncretism that would be inoffensive to a Jewish readership. He could even be characterized as “both a monotheist and a polytheist.”27 un-Jewish conceptualizations; cf. Dalbert 1954, 44. The idea of a Jewish ventriloquist with a pagan persona, however, adds an unnecessary complication to an already tangled issue. What motive would he have had for such a deception? 22 The idea was tendered cautiously by Fraser (1972, I, 706; II, 985) and Feldman (1993, 208). Most recently, Jacobson (2006, 210–21) argued it at greater length. 23 One might note the remarks of Theophrastus, Megasthenes, Clearchus of Soli, and Hermippus of Smyrna. The fragments are conveniently collected by Stern (1974, # IV, VII, VIII, XV). 24 Stern 1974, # V. See the discussion of Gruen 1998, 49–54, with bibliography. See especially Bar-Kochva 1996, 18–43, and now idem 2009, 90–135. 25 Freudenthal 1874–1875, passim. 26 So also Zellentin 2008, 31–32. 27 Barclay 1996, 131–32; cf. Sterling 1992, 167.

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Artapanus, on this view, would be part of a “liberal” wing of Judaism that flourished in the Diaspora, cheek by jowl with gentile communities, and could readily assimilate pagan features to Jewish tradition.28 The idea has some force. Judaism was certainly no monolithic institution, and the diaspora experience naturally engendered borrowing, overlapping, and interconnection. But the whole concept of “liberal” and “orthodox” Jewish communities is anachronistic and unhelpful. Indeed this mode of reasoning tends to judge Artapanus’ work as an expression of his religious outlook and a manifesto of his faith, a particularly unfortunate misperception. This was no didactic treatise, announcing a position somewhere along the extended spectrum of Jewish belief. Artapanus hardly advocated the embrace of animal cults. No Jew was that “liberal.” His work provided a quirky take on biblical tradition, not an articulation of religious doctrine. Others have strained to skirt the problem. For some, Egyptian reverence for animals does not amount to worship, but only to “consecration,” because of their usefulness to society. That would take Moses off the hook in Jewish eyes.29 In a different formulation, Artapanus’ “theology” or “piety” could express itself in a positive evaluation of Egyptian deities so long as they were subordinate to the Jewish god, a gentle nod toward Hellenistic paganism that would not offend Jewish sensibilities.30 Or the matter can be put in less gentle fashion. The author, in some interpretations, sought to show the inferiority of Egyptian religious traditions. Moses had a hand in founding them only because he regarded them as adequate for Egyptians, by contrast with the higher form of belief in Yahweh. The superiority of the god of Israel to pagan deities is underscored by the fact that his agent Moses created them in the first place. On that reckoning Artapanus’ position can be described as “monolatry.”31 But the whole approach misses the main point. Artapanus was not here taking a theological stance that could reconcile biblical pronouncements with pagan practices. Nor did he make a case for the acceptability of animal cults, whether or not on Jewish initiative. One might observe that he has the pharaoh chase the Hebrews all the way to the Red Sea with images of his sacred animals in hand. And all were consumed by fire and the closing of the waters.32 That is hardly an endorsement for the effectiveness of the animal gods. What then prompted this highly irregular rewriting of the Bible in which the author enhances the characters of Abraham and Joseph and blows up Moses’ deeds to the level of world-historical accomplishment? The favorite answer, often repeated and still dominant in the scholarship, reckons Artapanus as an apolo28 Holladay

1983, 193. 1986, 523. Cf. Flusser and Amorai-Stark 1993/4, 227–29. 30 Collins 1985, 893–94; idem 2000, 42–43. 31 Koskenniemi 2002, 24–31; similarly, Flusser and Amorai-Stark 1993/4, 227–31; Kugler 2005, 75–78. For Holladay (1977, 214; 216), Artapanus saw Judaism as in serious competition with Egyptian cults and was motivated to denigrate them. 32 Euseb. PE, 9.27.35–37. 29 Schürer

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gist for his countrymen. He took up the pen in response to gentile authors who vilified Jews, retailing stories of their hostility to pagan cults, their pollution, and their failure to bring anything of intellectual or cultural value to the world of learning. Artapanus thus carried on a noble fight to restore Jewish pride in boasting of the achievements of their ancestors, embellishing and elevating them precisely in retort to the criticisms. Far from animosity to gentile religion in Egypt, their leader was responsible for putting it into place. Far from rejecting animal worship, he inaugurated it. Far from lacking cultural attainments, he introduced them to the Egyptians and made them available for all mankind. Artapanus’ work went well beyond a religious treatise to a trumpeting of Jewish values and exploits. Indeed, in most interpretations, the Περὶ Ἰουδαίων constituted a direct reply to the malicious characterization of Jews by the Egyptian-Hellenistic writer Manetho who portrayed them as enemies of Egyptian religion and as lepers who had to be expelled from the land.33 Artapanus in short engaged in “competitive historiography,” the composition of a counter-attack not only to restore the Exodus story to its proper place but to improve and amplify it, thereby going one better than the distorted accounts by gentile foes.34 But the whole conceptualization is faulty. The alleged rebuttals of Manetho have only indirect and incidental force. Even if readers of Artapanus had a text of Manetho in front of them for comparison – an altogether fanciful idea – they would hardly have found these subtle allusions (if that is what they were) to be refutations of Manetho. Indeed, Manetho’s own work, the Aegyptiaka concerned itself with the chronology, history, and traditions of Egypt. His comments on Jews loom large in modern discussions but constituted only a minor portion of his text – and much of that may not have been composed by Manetho himself.35 Are we really to imagine that the audience for Artapanus’ biblical re-creations would feel relieved or uplifted because they recognized them as contradicting a supposedly malevolent text that few would ever have read or heard of? That imaginary scenario needs at long last to be expunged. The extant fragments of Artapanus’ composition nowhere possess the character of a polemic. He had different objectives in mind. It would be salutary to move out of the realms of patriotism, polemic, and propaganda. The readers of Artapanus need not have been searching for solace in oppressive circumstances or struggling to assert their own cultural superiority 33 The number of scholars who have taken this line is legion. Freudenthal (1875, 160–62), as so often, was the fountainhead. A select but substantial bibliography can be found in Gruen (2002, 332, n. 83). Add also Johnson 2004, 102–106. 34 So, Collins 1985, 891–92; idem 2000, 39–40. Sterling (1992, 182–83) juxtaposes various charges by Manetho against the Jews to items in Artapanus’ text that might be taken as replies. Cf. also Braun 1938, 26–31; Droge 1989, 30–32; Johnson 2004, 102–105. 35 Cf. Gruen 1998, 55–61, with bibliography. On Manetho generally, see Laqueur 1928, 1061–1101; Waddell 1940; Verbrugghe and Wickersham 1996, 95–182; Dillery 1999, 93–116; Moyer 2011, 84–141; idem 2013, 213–234.

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in a situation where they were devalued by the majority culture. The surviving fragments of his work, small but significant, suggest that entertainment value counted for more than the bolstering of self-esteem. Entertainment takes precedence in this work over theology or didacticism. Whether one applies to the Περὶ Ἰουδαίων the label of novel, romance, or similar form of narrative fiction matters little. The ancients had no term for “novel,” and the ascription of a particular work to that category is inevitably artificial. A groping after genre usually leads to frustration. Not that one cannot group works with similar themes, patterns, modes of expression, or objectives for heuristic purposes. But the fitting of a particular item into a constructed category affords limited illumination. A comparison with Greek novels naturally arises in this inquiry. But it is hazardous to infer overlap, influence, or even parallel paths. None of the extant Greek novels is as early as Artapanus’ composition, nor do we have reason to believe that older ones, if there were any, formed an integral part of the literary context in which he wrote. The usual motifs in Hellenic romances, an erotic story line, visits to exotic places, the separation of lovers, their numerous adventures or misadventures, whether kidnapping, shipwrecks, or the amorous designs of third parties, play no part in Artapanus’ text. Other possibilities can be canvassed. It has long been noted that elements in his Moses story echo deeds and exploits in Near Eastern legends, especially those involving the great Assyrian rulers Ninus and Semiramis and the Egyptian conqueror Sesostris.36 One can find intriguing parallels in the traditions on Sesostris in particular. His vast conquests included Ethiopia, whose people practiced circumcision; he divided up the land of Egypt into the nomes; he founded temples, consecrating each to the god of the region; and he brought a variety of benefactions to his countrymen.37 Artapanus ascribes somewhat comparable achievements to Moses. The Babylonian traditions about the accomplished Ninus and his even more celebrated wife and successor Semiramis may also have some resonance. Ninus made himself lord of many lands and founded the city of Nineveh; Semiramis extended Assyrian conquests still further, went as far as India, founded the city of Babylon, constructed numerous buildings and statues of divinities, and subdued Ethiopia.38 Here the parallels are looser. And in neither case need one postulate that Artapanus plucked items from near eastern embellishments of their heroes to impose them on the Moses story. A familiarity by the Jewish author in Egypt with the folk-tales and legends of that land would hardly be surprising. And borrowings, whether consciously or unconsciously, 36 The

classic study is that of Braun (1938, 1–31); see also Tiede 1972, 149–68. the brief account, stemming from near eastern sources, in Herodotus, 2.102–110. The fuller version appears in Diodorus, 1.53–58. 38 The principal surviving narrative of this hero and heroine is found in Diodorus, 2.1–20, drawing primarily on Ctesias; see Diod. 2.2.2, 2.20.3. 37 See

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from the tales associated with Sesostris might well be expected. But the idea of a heroic conqueror, a benefactor to the nation, a framer of institutions, or a founder of cities was widespread in antiquity. Artapanus wrote within a cultural context in which traditions circulated and overlapped not only about Semiramis and Sesostris, but a host of other figures, like Osiris, Isis, Hermes-Thoth, and Nectanebos, who filled similar roles.39 The Egyptian-Jewish intellectual could bring a rich range of legends to bear. A different literary setting, however, offers a better route to understanding. Artapanus may not have been familiar with the Greek novel or heavily engaged with near eastern legends. But he was steeped in biblical tradition. And the Bible or its offshoots had a wealth of novelistic narratives that could provide stimulus.40 One need think only of the narrative of Esther. It possesses all the elements of a captivating novel that one could desire: a fatuous king, a beautiful heroine, a treacherous villain, a wicked plot, the near annihilation of a nation, a stunning turnabout, the taking of revenge, and a happy ending.41 Some of these features turn up in Artapanus’ rewriting of the Exodus material. Moses too clashed with a monarch, defeated his villainous agents, saved his people from destruction, and exacted vengeance upon his enemies. These do not, of course, constitute close parallels or duplicates. But they provide a vital background for the enterprise of Artapanus and the expectations of his readership. The Book of Daniel provides additional illumination. The text took its final form in the 160s b.c.e., a time probably very close to that of Artapanus himself. The first six chapters of the work, familiar and fascinating, provide notable complements. Daniel entered the service of king Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon, gained his favor as interpreter of dreams, and swiftly outstripped the magicians, sorcerers, and exorcists at court. The king himself acknowledged the power and authority of Daniel’s god and promoted Daniel to the highest offices of the land. Of course, jealousy and intrigue followed in the court. Daniel’s rivals denounced his fellow Jews for failing to worship the golden image erected on Nebuchadnezzar’s orders, leading to the episode of the fiery furnace from which the Hebrews emerged unscathed. The intrepid interpreter explained yet another dream that boded ill for the monarch, reduced him to repentance, explained the handwriting on the wall at Belshazzar’s feast, and, after incurring the wrath of another king’s ministers, was hurled into a lion’s den only to escape harm miraculously while his accusers were devoured even before they hit the ground.42 That last item injects a somewhat comic note – a characteristic that takes more conspicuous form in Artapanus. 39 So,

rightly, Holladay 1977, 209–212. the Jewish novellas, quite different from the later Greek novel, see Wills 1994, 223–37; idem 1995, passim. 41 Esther, passim. 42 Dan. 1–6. 40 On

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The Greek version of Daniel in the Septuagint included some additions to the biblical tale. A noteworthy one, the amusing “Bel and the Dragon,” has Daniel foil the hapless ruler Cyrus and his advisers by exposing the folly first of worshipping an idol, then of paying homage to a reptile.43 Another, the famous story of Susanna, recounts the means whereby Daniel outwitted the lecherous voyeurs, brought the villains to justice, rescued the virtuous damsel, and restored her to the good graces of her husband.44 Ingenuity rather than eroticism takes center stage here. The Book of Judith, another Hellenistic text that was incorporated in the Septuagint, invented a figure otherwise unknown to the biblical tradition. Judith, a demure widow, came out of retirement to rebuke and to rally her dispirited fellow Jews, about to capitulate to Nebuchadnezzar’s general Holofernes. Judith’s seduction, then beheading of the general, turned the whole situation around, stimulated the Jews to victory, and permitted her to return to a quiet and chaste retirement.45 None of these texts carries a one-to-one correspondence to episodes, themes, or structure in Artapanus’ work. But they disclose the narrative traditions he would have known and the literary ambience within which he worked. It does not follow that Artapanus looked only to the Bible and to Jewish-Hellenistic writings for inspiration. But the Jewish framework remains the most telling one. And the author’s talent directed itself principally toward capturing an audience with familiar biblical narratives presented in fresh, innovative, diverting, and often surprising ways. The whimsical character of Artapanus’ additions and alterations emerges frequently in this text. A number of instances illustrate Artapanus’ proclivity. His identification of Moses with Musaeus is more than syncretism. He inverts the Hellenic myth that has Orpheus as teacher of Musaeus, thus to make Moses the fountainhead of music and literature. Victory over the Ethiopians turned them from foes to friends and even induced them to take up circumcision. He employs the burning bush episode to energize Moses for a military invasion of Egypt. He has the pharaoh fall in a dead faint upon hearing the name of the Jewish god – only to be revived again by Moses. As if there were not enough plagues, Artapanus adds an earthquake to the hailstorm so as to have Egyptians hopping from calamity to calamity. Moses’ prowess with the rod prompted the envious Egyptians to set up a rod in each of their temples, and his successful advocacy of oxen to plow the land resulted in Egyptian worship of the Apis bull – while pharaoh scrambled to bury the evidence that this came on Moses’ suggestion. Whimsy and mischief are more prominent than polemic, apologetics, or theology. What sort of readership would Artapanus target for such a rewriting of 43 Dan.

14:1–27. See Wills 1990, 131–33; Gruen 1998, 168–72, with bibliography. 13:1–64. 45 Judith, passim. 44 Dan.

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the Bible that upset expectations at every turn? The idea that a work designed to amuse and entertain was a form of “popular culture,” appealing primarily to a level of society below the elite and the cultivated, no longer holds sway. Literacy was not widespread in the ancient world, and, although oral recitation might reach a larger number, it required patience, time, and attention. Nor, on the other hand, should one assume that the educated classes scorned texts that aimed at distraction and enjoyment. Yet it would be simplistic to rule out the attraction of prose fiction to a wider audience than the narrow circle of the intelligentsia.46 Artapanus’ clever, witty, and unanticipated divergences from the standard narrative presumed a readership that would catch them. But his composition works on more than one plane and could appeal to a diverse readership. Knowledge of the Bible, at least in its Greek version, extended to many Jews, who would recognize departures from the tradition – whatever they might have thought of them. A more discerning comprehension, however, would require some familiarity with Hellenic figures like Hermes, Orpheus, and Musaeus, and an ability to detect allusions to Egyptian and even Assyrian legends of Osiris, Sesostris, and Semiramis. Not everyone will have had such a repertoire. But Artapanus’ work indicates reception by an indeterminate number of Jews who could appreciate the leavening of biblical tradition by Greek myth and near eastern folklore. Both the populace and the intellectual classes, moreover, could take pleasure in the narrative charm and mischievous inversions of Artapanus.

Bibliography Barclay, John M. G. 1996. Jews in the Mediterranean Diaspora from Alexander to Trajan (323 BCE –117 CE). Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Bar-Kochva, Bezalel. 1996. Pseudo-Hecataeus,“On the Jews”: Legitimizing the Diaspora. Berkeley: University of California Press. –. 2009. The Image of the Jews in Greek Literature: The Hellenistic Period. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bowie, Ewen 1994. “The Readership of Greek Novels in the Ancient World.” Pages 435–59 in The Search for the Ancient Novel. Edited by J. H. Tatum. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Braun, Martin. 1938. History and Romance in Graeco-Oriental Literature. Oxford: Clarendon. Collins, John J. 1985. “Artapanus.” Pages 2:889–903 in The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha. Edited by J. H. Charlesworth. Garden City, N. Y.: Doubleday. –. 2000. Between Athens and Jerusalem. 2nd ed. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Dalbert, Peter. 1954. Die Theologie der hellenistisch-jüdischen Missions-Literatur unter Ausschluss von Philo und Josephus. Hamburg: Herbert Reich. 46 On

the readership for Greek prose fiction, a topic much discussed in recent years, see the assessments of Stephens 1994, 405–418; Bowie 1994, 435–49; Hägg 1994, 47–81; Ruiz-Montero 1996, 80–85; Hunter 2008, 261–71; Whitmarsh 2008, 72–87.

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Dillery, John. 1999. “The First Egyptian Narrative History: Manetho and Greek Historiography.” ZPE 127: 93–116. Droge, Arthur J. 1989. Homer or Moses? Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Feldman, Louis H. 1993. Jew and Gentile in the Ancient World. Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press. Flusser, David, and S. Amorai-Stark. 1993/4. “The Goddess Thermutis, Moses, and Artapanus.” JSQ 1: 217–33. Fraser, Peter M. 1972. Ptolemaic Alexandria. 3 vols. Oxford: Clarendon. Freudenthal, Jacob. 1874/75. Alexander Polyhistor. Hellenistische Studien 1–2: Breslau: Gass und Barth. Gruen, Erich S. 1998. Heritage and Hellenism: The Reinvention of Jewish Tradition. Berkeley: University of California Press. –. 2002. Diaspora: Jews Amidst Greeks and Romans. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Hägg, Tomas. 1994. “Orality, Literacy and the ‘Readership’ of the Early Greek Novel.” Pages 47–81 in Contexts of Pre-Novel Narrative: The European Tradition. Edited by R. Eriksen. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. Holladay, Carl. 1977. Theios Aner in Hellenistic Judaism. Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press. –. 1983. Fragments from Hellenistic Jewish Authors, vol. I. Chico: Scholars Press. Hunter, Richard. 2008. “Ancient Readers.” Pages 261–71 in The Cambridge Companion to the Greek and Roman Novel. Edited by Tim Whitmarsh. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Jacobson, Howard. 2006. “Artapanus Judaeus.” JJS 57: 210–21. Johnson, Sara R. 2004. Historical Fictions and Hellenistic Jewish Identity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Koskenniemi, Erkki. 2002. “Greeks, Egyptians, and Jews in the Fragments of Artapanus.” JSP 13: 17–31. Kugler, Robert. 2005. “Hearing the Story of Moses in Ptolemaic Egypt: Artapanus Accommodates the Tradition.” Pages 67–80 in The Wisdom of Egypt. Edited by Anton Hilhorst and George H. van Kooten. Leiden: Brill. Laqueur, Richard. 1928. “Manethon.” RE 14: 1060–1101. Moyer, Ian. 2011. Egypt and the Limits of Hellenism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. –. 2013. “Berossos and Manetho.” Pp. 213–234 in The World of Berossos. Edited by Johannes Haubold et alii. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz. Ruiz-Montero, Consuelo. 1996. “The Rise of the Greek Novel.” Pages 29–85 in The Greek Novel in the Ancient World. Edited by G. Schmeling. Leiden: Brill. Schürer, Emil 1986. The History of the Jewish People in the Age of Jesus Christ, vol. III. Edited by G. Vermes, F. Millar, and M. Goodman. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark. Stephens, Susan A. 1994. “Who Read Ancient Novels?” Pages 405–418 in The Search for the Ancient Novel. Edited by J. Tatum. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Sterling, Gregory E. 1992. Historiography and Self-Definition: Josephos, Luke-Acts, and Apologetic Historiography. Leiden: Brill. Stern, Menahem. 1974. Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Sciences and Humanities. Talshir, Zipora. 1999. I Esdras from Origin to Translation. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Literature.

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Tiede, David L. 1972. The Charismatic Figure as Miracle Worker. Missoula, Mont.: Scholars Press. Verbrugghe, Gerald P., and J. M. Wickersham. 1996. Berossos and Manetho, Introduced and Translated. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Waddell, William G. 1940. Manetho. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Whitmarsh, Tim. 2008. “Class.” Pages 72–87 in The Cambridge Companion to the Greek Novel. Edited by T. Whitmarsh. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Wills, Lawrence M. 1990. The Jew in the Court of the Foreign King: Ancient Jewish Court Legends. Minneapolis: Fortress. –. 1994. “The Jewish Novellas.” Pages 223–37 in Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context. Edited by J. R. Morgan and R. Stoneman. London: Routledge. –. 1995. The Jewish Novel in the Ancient World. Ithaca, N. Y.: Cornell University Press. Zellentin, Holger. 2008. “The End of Jewish Egypt: Artapanus and the Second Exodus.” Pages 27–73 in Antiquity in Antiquity: Jewish and Christian Pasts in the Greco-Roman World. Edited by G. Gardner and K. L. Osterloh. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

The Testament of Abraham and Greek Romance David Konstan In his collection of texts in translations entitled Ancient Jewish Novels, Lawrence Wills remarks of the Testament of Abraham: “Despite the outward appearance of a testament …, there is much here that is novelistic” (Wills 2002, 270), and in his introduction to the volume as a whole, he unhesitatingly calls it “a satirical novel” (p. 5). Perhaps because it comes closest to ancient novelistic conventions, Wills places it at the very end of the book, the final, and perhaps most developed, example of the genre in Jewish literature. While Wills situates the Testament of Abraham in the context of such prose fictions as Apuleius’ Golden Ass and Petronius’ Satirica, which are the satirical novels par excellence, others have found resonances with other genres. The most obvious parallel is with the other testaments of the patriarchs, such as those of the Twelve Patriarchs, or the Testament of Job. Yet the Testament of Abraham has the peculiarity, as we shall see, that it contains no testament at all, and in fact highlights, not Abraham’s thought for his descendants at the moment of his death, but rather his refusal to accept that his time has come. It is precisely this feature that led Wills to classify it as satirical.1 One might also connect the work with other writings about Abraham composed in the intertestamental period, such as Philo’s On Abraham or the relevant passages in Josephus’ Antiquities, but the Testament stands out principally for its departures from these narratives.2 Connections to apocalyptic literature are equally inviting, and equally disappointing.3 Jared Ludlow has stressed the comic elements in the Testament of Abraham, which are surely present, and concludes that “the paradoxical characterization within the text stimulates expectations in the reader, only to have them reversed by Abraham’s actual speech and actions” (Ludlow 2005, 212). He thus concludes that the work is best understood as a type of parody: “Rather than falling into the category of ‘Rewritten Bible,’ the Testament of Abraham expands on the biblical account 1973 sees the Testament of Abraham as the concluding phase of the testamental genre, with a close relation particularly to the Testament of Job; see pp. 42–51. Delcor concludes: “Les parentés entre nos deux écrits apocryphes [sc., the Testaments of Abraham and of Job] n’ont d’ailleurs rien d’étonnant si l’on admet qu’ils ont été tous les deux composés en Egypte et très vraisemblablement dans le même milieu” (p. 51). 2 See Harrington 1976, 169: “The results of this investigation of parallels between TAbr and the five examples of ‘rewritten Bible’ are modest.” 3 For a survey of this and other comparisons, see Munoa1998, 22–27. 1 Delcor

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of Abraham by exploiting a gap in Genesis: Abraham is the only patriarch not to leave a final testament or blessing with his posterity. Rather than filling this gap with a testament, the Testament of Abraham exploits the tension and parodies the genre” (p. 213).4 In this essay, I propose to examine a different context for the Testament of Abraham, one that, at first blush, may seem quite foreign to it. I have in mind a type of literature that I, along with Robyn Walsh, have elsewhere labeled “subversive biography,” as opposed to what we called “civic biography.”5 Civic biography, we argued, typically emphasized the character and civic virtues of the subject of the biography, while subversive biography highlighted rather the wit and cleverness of marginal or relatively powerless figures, who subtly criticized or undermined the dominant values of society. We also suggested that civic biography generally presented the actions of the protagonist, which were understood to manifest his or her moral traits; as a result, it was particularly hospitable to arrangement in chronological order, running from birth to death. Subversive biography, on the contrary, lent itself more readily to an episodic structure, reveling in those moments in which the hero exhibited striking repartee or savvy that got him out of trouble; such episodes might be recomposed or rearranged in the narrative, and so resulted in multiple recensions, some longer and some shorter, in accord with narrative, ideological, or historical constraints and preferences. To be sure, the two forms were not entirely independent: the subversive style could mimic the civic type by representing events in the subject’s life in a more strictly temporal sequence, and collections of wise sayings might be incorporated in the biographies of generals and politicians, and more especially in accounts of the lives of poets and philosophers, to which indeed full doxographies might be appended.6 Nevertheless, we maintained that the two strands were identifiable and distinct, and that the distinction is heuristically valuable in tracing the development of ancient biographies. Among other things, we argued that the lives of Jesus Christ and his immediate disciples might be construed as examples of the subversive kind of narrative, with its emphasis on ripostes, wonderworking, and the like, along with the manifold recensions that are characteristic of the type. Later, however, the humble status of the marginalized figure was itself reconceived as a paradigm of the new Christian self, and gave rise to a narrative form that emphasized a new set of specifically Christian virtues. As such, the lives of Christian heroes came to resemble the old civic model of biography, albeit in a new key. Among the texts that we identified as examples of subversive biography was the so-called Alexander Romance, a work that, in taking Alexander the Great as its protagonist or biographical subject, might at first blush seem an odd member 4 See

also Ludlow 2002. Konstan and Walsh forthcoming. 6 Momigliano (1993, 103) observes that biography “served the double purpose of characterizing an individual philosopher, poet, or artist as well as the school to which he belonged.” 5 See

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of the group, which tends to exhibit the verbal astuteness and counter-cultural posture of the powerless rather than the deeds and achievements of great leaders. More typical of the genre are works like the ancient Life of Aesop or the Life of Homer, in which down and out characters  – Aesop is a slave, Homer a vagabond – turn the tables on their superiors thanks to their wits alone, and thus may be seen as representing the underdog in classical society. But in fact, the hero of the Alexander Romance, which itself has come down in a great variety of versions, has much in common with the subversive type. This quality becomes apparent with the Romance is viewed against Plutarch’s Life of Alexander, which is a model of the civic biographical style. Plutarch’s Alexander has the virtues associated with great men of action: courage and strategic brilliance, temperateness, mercy toward enemies, and exceptional generosity. This is not to say that he is without flaws of character: he is highly passionate, has weakness for drink, and is susceptible to flattery and superstition. The civic type of biography is not eulogistic; on the contrary, the importance of the social virtues can be highlighted precisely by contrast with public vices, and some of Plutarch’s Lives, for example that of Marc Antony, are designed to expose the fatal consequences of poor character in a political or military leader. But Alexander, as Plutarch presents him, is primarily a noble figure, who excels not just in battlefield strategy but also in the personal qualities. For example, after the battle of Issus, in which he decisively defeats the Persian army under the command of Darius, he is careful to let Darius’ mother, wife and daughters, who are among his captives, know that Darius has not been killed and he treats them in a manner suited to their rank. His most heinous acts, such as the murder of his friend Cleitus, are motivated by drink, and in the aftermath his grief and remorse are correspondingly excessive. To be sure, Plutarch’s Alexander is not without a capacity for clever observations, but the emphasis throughout is on his sagacity and courage as a leader. The Alexander Romance, by contrast, puts on display not so much Alexander’s conventional virtues and vices as his exceptional canniness, that is, his capacity to use his adversaries’ pretensions to his own advantage by a kind of verbal jiu jitsu. To take an example, according to the Romance, Alexander was the son not of Philip of Macedon but rather of the former king of Egypt, Nectanebo, a practitioner of the magical arts who fled to Pella in Macedon when he realized that the gods were supporting the armies marching against his country. In Macedon, he seduces Philip’s wife, Olympias. When Alexander comes of age he decides to participate in the Olympic games, and Philip takes this opportunity to divorce Olympias and marry Cleopatra. Alexander appears at the wedding banquet and gives his father his victor’s wreath with the words, “when I in turn give my mother, Olympias, to another king, I shall invite you to her wedding.” At this, Lysias, Cleopatra’s brother, casts a slur on Alexander’s paternity, upon which Alexander hurls a cup at Lysias and kills him. Philip draws his sword but trips over the foot of his couch, at which Alexander cries out: “Here is the man eager to take over

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the whole of Asia and subjugate all of Europe, and yet you are incapable of taking a single step!” Mayhem breaks out, but nevertheless, Alexander later succeeds in reconciling his father and mother, bidding them to embrace each other: “there is no shame in your doing so in front of me – I was, after all, born from you.” The Macedonians are impressed by Alexander’s wiliness, and Philip is sufficiently appeased to send his son with a large army to subdue the rebellious city of Methone; “But Alexander, on his arrival at Methone, persuaded them by clever argument to resume their allegiance.” Once again, Alexander achieves his purpose with words rather than actions. In a particularly humorous episode, Alexander, while he is camping outside Persis, the seat of Darius’ empire, has a dream that instructs him to go in person to Darius’ court, dressed as the god Ammon (2.13). In this guise, he is invited in for dinner, and at the table he stuffs all the cups that come his way in his pocket. When Darius asks what on earth he thinks he is doing, Alexander replies: “Greatest King, this is what Alexander does when he gives a dinner for his officers and guards – he makes a present of the cups – and I thought you were like him.” The narrator continues: “So the Persians were astonished and amazed at what Alexander said: for every story, if it carries conviction, always has its audience enthralled.” Alexander the petty thief who outwits the Great King – this is the stuff of subversive biography. There is, however, another side to the Alexander Romance that again differentiates it from classical civic biography, though in another key. The Romance tends to emphasize Alexander’s superhuman nature, his desire to transcend all limits, to see the entire earth and beyond, by flying up to heaven in a basket carried aloft by birds, and indeed to achieve immortality. These elements in the Alexander Romance are arguably later accretions to the original tale, if one can speak of an original version of works such as these, which by their nature, as we have indicated, are readily adapted to various environments and defeat efforts to identify a single archetype, in the manner of ordinary textual criticism. But tendencies toward such cosmic elaborations of Alexander’s biography were undoubtedly evident in what we call the intertestamental period. In the introduction to a recent collection of papers on the Romance, Richard Stoneman provides a handy tour of Alexander’s character as it emerges in the various reworkings of his legend: His military prowess is taken for granted but rarely comes to the fore in the stories that derive from the Alexander Romance. He can win a battle almost without thinking about it, because of his natural cleverness. More attention is paid to his battles with non-human opponents – the giant crabs, monstrous beasts, dragons and giant or pygmy people of the lands beyond the world. In the Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius (first written in Syriac) he encloses the Unclean Nations of Gog and Magog that threaten the world; the tale moves into the later versions of the Greek Romance but also, directly, into the Qur’an. His cleverness is the counterpart of his inquisitiveness, which makes him in some traditions first and foremost an explorer … [E]xploration of the world entails a kind of intellectual conquest

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of the world – not just the darkness of the north but the depths of the sea and the heights of the air. By surrounding himself with philosophers … he becomes in effect a philosopher himself … In Muslim authors the philosopher and sage becomes a devotee of Allah and a prophet of his faith. This aspect is to the fore in Nizami and in the Arabic romances. It occurs in parallel with the adoption of Alexander into Jewish wisdom in the Talmud and earlier; his visit to Jerusalem led to one of the quickest conversions to Judaism in history, and was reflected in the latest versions of the Greek Romance as well as in the Talmud, where besides building talismans to protect the harbour of Alexandria he becomes a lookalike of Solomon in his wisdom and statecraft. The Alexander of legend, then, has little in common with the conquering warrior” (Stoneman 2012, x–xi).

Crossovers between the classical Greek and Roman, Jewish, Christian, Muslim and other traditions (the Alexander Romance had a marked influence as far as Persia and India) are an index of how widely, and rapidly, the tale penetrated the entire culture of the ancient Mediterranean and beyond. It is time, now, to turn to the Testament of Abraham, which, as I shall argue, exhibits some remarkable analogies with the Alexander Romance.7 The Testament begins by announcing that Abraham had reached the allotted term of his life at 995 years, upon which God dispatched the archangel Michael to instruct him to put his affairs in order and prepare for his death – an allusion to the testamentary genre, which will, however, immediately be undercut. Abraham is deceptive and canny from the beginning: he overhears the voice of God emerging from a cypress tree, but keeps the news to himself (3). Back in his house, when Abraham sees Michael weeping tears that are transformed into precious gems, he gathers the gems and tells no one about them, a maneuver reminiscent of Alexander’s pilfering of the golden cups at Darius’ banquet. Observing Abraham’s courtesy and righteousness, Michael is reluctant to communicate God’s order to him, but God bids him to return (he will, by a special dispensation, allow the incorporeal angel to partake of the feast), and to make Michael’s mission easier He sends a dream to Isaac, which Michael interprets as meaning that Abraham is about to leave this world. To this, Abraham replies that he will not accompany Michael. The archangel, in his perplexity at this turn of events, returns to heaven to consult God on the problem. God tells Michael to remind Abraham of all He has done for him. Upon hearing of how favored he has been, Abraham asks Michael to bid God grant him one more wish, that he may see the entire world and all that is in it (9). God grants the request, and orders an angelic chariot to carry Abraham to the highest heaven, where he can behold the whole of creation. Here again, we may recognize a motif shared with the Alexander Romance, where Alexander too, as

7 I should make it clear that I am considering here the long version of the Testament of Abraham; it survives as well in a shorter version, in which much of the humor in the longer is missing. For a sympathetic discussion of the shorter version that looks to elicit its central theme, see Mirguet 2010. For the Greek text, see Schmidt 1986.

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we have seen, wishes to explore the limits of the world; the combination of cleverness, stubbornness, and a boundless desire to know is common to both texts. While on his tour of the world, Abraham spies on thieves and assassins at work, and asks the Lord to open the earth and swallow them up. Other criminals are consumed by fire at his behest, but at this point God intervenes, since Abraham is likely to destroy everyone, whereas God permits sinners to live with the possibility that they will repent (10). Abraham sees the souls of the virtuous entering paradise, and the infinitely more numerous souls of sinners proceeding to eternal punishment, and perceiving the error of his previous harshness he now prays for mercy toward those he had previously condemned. This kind of moral improvement is also woven into the fabric of the Alexander Romance, as that great king, like so many heroes before him (as far back as Gilgamesh), perceives the limits of human nature and learns to moderate his ambition and his rigor. There is, however, a final twist to the narrative in the Testament of Abraham: even after God has acceded to his wish to see the entire world, Abraham refuses to leave with Michael and abandon his life in this world (15). At this, God sends to Abraham Death himself, dressed in splendor and beauty. Again, Abraham refuses to go. At Abraham’s request, Death then sheds his glorious aspect, and appears to Abraham in his horrific aspect. With this, Abraham falls into a listless stupor, but he makes one final petition, that his servants, who have perished as a result of Death’s presence, be restored to life – a sign that he is applying the lesson of mercy that he learned in heaven. He then asks for an explanation of the serpents and fire and other features that mark Death’s dreadful countenance, and as he continues to grow weaker, Death invites him to kiss his hand, with the promise that he will enjoy life and power. But Death was deceiving Abraham, we are told, and his soul stuck to Death’s hand. With this, God receives Abraham into paradise, where there is peace and joy and eternal life. The Testament of Abraham is a rich text, and may be approached from many angles, including its structure, message, and position within pagan and Judeo-Christian literary and theological traditions.8 Its comic elements have been well analyzed, along with its possibly satirical or parodic quality. My purpose here has been to bring to light a hitherto unnoticed dimension of the Testament, by locating it in the context of what we have called subversive biographical narratives. Among the varied forms such narratives might assume, one type centered on a major hero of the tradition – Alexander the Great is our case in point – and in this respect is analogous to the Testament of Abraham, which features the grand patriarch as its protagonist. Texts of this type tended to emphasize wit over heroic deeds, alongside a passionate desire for knowledge and transcendence, and to have intimated a message or lesson concerning the limits 8 For detailed commentary, see Allison 2003; there is no mention of the Alexander Romance in Allison’s extensive index locorum.

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of mortality and the need for human kindness. The Alexander Romance was immensely popular, and was being disseminated to all parts of the Greco-Roman world at just the time when the Testament of Abraham was composed (within the plausible range of dates agreed upon by scholars). Whether there was a direct influence of the Romance on the Testament we are not in a position to say. But I feel secure in affirming that the Testament of Abraham represents something like the spirit and style of the Alexander Romance, transposed into to the key of early Hebraic religion.

Bibliography Allison, Dale C. Jr. 2003. Testament of Abraham. Berlin: de Gruyter. Delcor, Mathias. 1973. Le Testament d’Abraham: Introduction, Traduction du text grec et commentaire de la recension grecque longue. Leiden: Brill. Harrington, Daniel J. 1976. “Abraham Traditions in the Testament of Abraham and in the ‘Rewritten Bible’ of the Intertestamental Period.” Pages 165–71 in Studies on the Testament of Abraham. Edited by George W. E. Nickelsburg Jr. Missoula, Montana: Scholars. Konstan, David and Robyn Walsh. Forthcoming. “Civic and Subversive Biography in Antiquity.” In Writing Biography in Greece and Rome: Narrative Technique and Fictionalization. Edited by Kristoffel Demoen and Koen De Temmerman. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Ludlow, Jared W. 2002. Abraham Meets Death: Narrative Humor in the Testament of Abraham. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic = Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha, Supplement Series 41. Ludlow, Jared. 2005. “Humor and Paradox in the Characterization of Abraham in the Testament of Abraham.” Pages 199–214 in Ancient Fiction: The Matrix of Early Christian and Jewish Narrative. Edited by Jo-Ann A. Brant, Charles W. Hedrick, and Chris Shea. Leiden: Brill. Mirguet, Françoise. 2010. “Attachment to the Body in the Greek Testament of Abraham: A Reappraisal of the Short Recension,” Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha 19: 251–75. Momigliano, Arnaldo. 1993. The Development of Greek Biography. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Munoa, Phillip B., III. 1998. Four Powers in Heaven: The Interpretation of Daniel 7 in the Testament of Abraham. Sheffield: Sheffield Academic Press = Journal for the Study of the Pseudepigrapha, Supplement Series 28. Schmidt, Francis. 1987. Le Testament grec d’Abraham: Introduction, édition critique des deux recensions grecques, traduction. Tübingen: J. C. B. Mohr (Paul Siebeck). Stoneman, Richard. 2012. “Introduction.” In Richard Stoneman, Kyle Erickson, and David Ian Netton, eds., The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East. Groningen: Barkhuis Publishing = Ancient Narrative Supplementary vol. 15. Wills, Lawrence M. ed. and trans. 2002. Ancient Jewish Novels: An Anthology. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Part 2: Christian Gospels, Acts, Biographies, and Martyrdoms

Endings: The Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas Karen L. King “So they (Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome) went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid” (Gospel of Mark 16:8).1 “Then Judas received some copper coins. He handed him (Jesus) over to them” (Gospel of Judas 16:8–9).2

These endings of the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas have both caused a certain baffled consternation. Not only do they leave the action crucially unresolved, even more disturbing for literature titled “good news,”3 the characters in the story are left without any kind of redemption. Throughout the Gospel of Mark, the disciples repeatedly fail to grasp Jesus’s message and understand who he is. Most flee before the crucifixion, but even the women disciples who remained faithful tell no one about what they have seen and heard from the “young man” at the empty tomb. No one witnesses the resurrection or the risen Jesus; no mission to spread the gospel begins. As Juel puts it, “Taken at face value, the concluding verse constitutes a disappointing end: nothing comes of the whole enterprise because the women do not speak” (Juel 2005, 4). In the Gospel of Judas, too, the twelve disciples have consistently misunderstood who Jesus is and what his teaching means.4 The true revelation has been given only to Judas, but he tells no one. His final act in the story is to hand Jesus over to his enemies. At the end of this gospel, too, there is no resurrection account, no mission to teach the revelation given by Jesus. As Jenott puts it, “Many scholars describe the Gospel of Judas as a ‘bad news’ Gospel. They allege that it has no interest in salvation, that its Jesus comes not to save humanity but to condemn it, and that his sacrificial 1 All translations of the Gospel of Mark and other New Testament texts are from the NRSV 1993. 2 Translations of the Gospel of Judas are by King (2007, 109–122), sometimes modified; I also offer translations of the newly published fragments (see n. 7). 3 By calling both works ‘gospels,’ I do not intend any particular position within the current debate about what constitutes the genre, let alone about historical accuracy or canonical authority, but only refer in a general way to the fact that the ancient manuscripts use this nomenclature. 4 The similarities in negative portrayal of the disciples in the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas have been noted by others; see e. g. DeConick, who argues, “The opinion expressed in the Gospel of Judas that the twelve disciples are clueless is not a fabrication of the Sethians who wrote it, but a robust (and literal) interpretation of the cynical storyline framed by Mark” (2007, 106; see 100–108 for her treatment of the relation of the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas).

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death has no redemptive value” (Jenott 2011, 7).5 These gospels end in silence, desertion, or betrayal. And yet scholars have noted as well that in the Gospel of Mark Jesus states that “whoever endures to the end will be saved” (13:13), and the Gospel of Judas begins by declaring that Jesus “performed signs and great wonders for the salvation of humanity” (33:6–9).6 How, then, are we to understand the endings of these gospels in light of the prophecies of salvation contained within them? I want to suggest that addressing this question may offer some insights into the theme of our volume: the relation between narrative forms and religious concerns and agendas. As we will see, both gospels deploy strikingly similar literary strategies, notably prophetic foreshadowing and synecdoche, as well as suspended endings. In both, the characters within the story appear largely nescient and blundering, while readers are provided with the keys to understand the deeper meaning of what is happening. Moreover, important thematic similarities are evident, despite crucial differences in their messages. For example, both gospels devote significant space to prophecy of the end times, the mystery of Jesus’s identity, and the meaning of his teachings and violent death. In both, Jesus is betrayed by disciples close to him, and at the end, it does not appear as though anyone has gained salvation. Might these similarities point toward a connection between the literary form of the “open ending” and these gospels’ particular religious messages and aims? The essay begins by attending to the literary devices of foreshadowing and synecdoche before turning back to consider the work done by the suspended endings and exploring their relationship to these gospels’ apocalyptic messages. Before taking up these issues, however, it may be useful to introduce the Gospel of Judas briefly given its relative unfamiliarity.

5 Examples include Ehrman, who argues that the Gospel of Judas’s docetic Christology means that there can be no resurrection; the ending fits “the entire point of the Gospel: that Jesus was to be saved – as all of us are – not in the flesh but from the flesh” (2006b, 97; 130). Brankaer and Bethge also see no room for passion and Easter scenes given the Gospel of Judas’s polemics against the sacramental theology of the “majority Church,” but they argue further that the main orientation of the gospel is on the figure of Judas, and hence it is entirely fitting to end with his act of betrayal (2007, 372; see also Brankaer 2009). Turner notes the almost complete absence of a soteriological myth comparative to that of other Sethian literature (2009, 95–97). A nuanced and literarily astute essay is offered by Emmel (2008) who compares the ending of Gos. Judas with Tom Stoppard’s play, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern; Emmel reads the final scene as a poignant lesson about needing not to fear death. 6 As Jenott, for example, points out (2011, 7). Schenke Robinson also notes the ambiguity and attributes it to tensions between Christian-Gnostics and orthodox Christians (2009, 93–94).

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The Gospel of Judas The Gospel of Judas is extant in a single manuscript, first published in 2006.7 The open line declares it to contain “the hidden discourse of the pronouncement” given to Judas Iscariot in the days before Jesus’s final Passover celebration. Jesus appeared on earth, readers are told, in order to “perform signs and wonders for the salvation of humanity” (33:6–9). He calls twelve disciples and speaks to them “about the mysteries which are beyond the world and the about the things which will occur at the end” (33:15–18). What follows are a series of revelation dialogues and dream interpretations which Louis Painchaud has demonstrated are organized in a concentrically formed structure.8 The result contrasts the idolatrous worship of the lower god, Saklas by the Twelve, with the properly sacrifice-less worship of Jesus’s true Father. It distinguishes sharply between the mortal race of humans who are destined for destruction along with the false deity they worship and the heavenly race of Adam that will be exalted. The lower world is shown to be a degraded and parodic image of the divine heavenly world above from which Jesus comes. One of the most notable features of the Gospel of Judas is that it portrays the Twelve as misunderstanding who Jesus is. They offer eucharistic praise, not to the true God, but mistakenly to the lower, corrupting deity and his minions who require animal sacrifice and promote immorality (33:22–34:9). Jesus’s condemnation of their actions becomes pointedly clear when he interprets a collective dream the Twelve had in which they witness priests offering sacrifice and humans killing, committing adultery and other sins. To their astonishment, Jesus tells them, “You are the ones whom you saw receiving offerings at the altar. That is the ‘God’ you serve. And you are the twelve men whom you saw. And the domestic animals you saw being brought for sacrifice are the multitude you are leading astray upon that al[t]ar” (39:18–28). Jesus commands them “Cease sacr[ificing]!” (37:21–41:2).9 When they appeal to him, “Lord help us and save us,” he tells them, “Stop struggling against me!” (42:1–7). No further reaction by the Twelve to Jesus’s teaching is given, but the grim prophecies of the fate of mortal humanity bode ill for them. Initially Judas belongs to the group of the Twelve, but because he is the only one able to confess who Jesus is, Jesus sets him apart from the others and it is to him alone that Jesus gives further revelation of the divine realms and the prophecies of the end. Almost all of the remainder of the Gospel of Judas is taken up with 7 The first critical edition was by Kasser and Wurst (2007); but now also see Brankaer and Bethge 2007; Jenott 2011. Significant work continues to be done restoring the manuscript and suggesting alternative readings for the numerous lacunae. Particularly important are newly placed or recovered fragments (see Wurst 2009; Krosney, Meyer, and Wurst 2010). 8 See Painchaud forthcoming 2014. 9 See van Os 2009.

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questions and long discourses in which Jesus reveals to Judas the fate of people at the end time, interprets Judas’s vision of the heavenly realm, and reveals to him the nature of the great invisible Spirit, the origin of the heavenly realms, its structure and inhabitants, as well as the origin of the lower planetary rulers and their creations (42:22–56:18). Jesus also predicts that the other disciples will replace him (35:9–36:4),10 and indeed Judas himself has a prophetic dream in which the other disciples stone him to death (44:23–45:1). Jesus speaks prophetically as well of Judas’ role in the final drama: “Tomorrow they will torture the one who bears me. I say to you (pl.), no hand of a mortal human will sin against me. … As for you, you will surpass them all, for you will sacrifice the human who bears me” (56:6–11; 18–21). He goes on to describe Judas as the one who has raised the horn of wrath. His actions will inaugurate the destruction of the rulers of the lower realm and their creation, even as the fruit of the great race of Adam will be exulted (56:22–57:2111). “And the star that leads the way, that is your star,” Jesus tells him (57:19–20). When Jesus finishes his teaching, he instructs Judas to look up, and Judas sees Jesus entering a luminous cloud (57:21–24; 58:5–6). Meanwhile those on the ground hear a voice speaking of the great r[ace], which apparently disturbs “the Jews” (57:24–58:5; 58:3). The high priests, too, begin murmuring for they have seen Jesus enter into a guest room for prayer. The scribes want to seize him, but they are afraid because the people regard him as a prophet. When they catch sight of Judas, however, they approach him and charge him with being a disciple of Jesus (58:9–22).12 The story then comes to a swift and abrupt conclusion: “He answered them according to their will. Then Judas received some copper coins. He handed him over to them” (58:23–26). The end. Let’s return now to the analysis of the literary devices and strategies of the two gospels.

Foreshadowing Readers of the Gospel of Mark have long felt its supposedly incomplete ending was unsatisfactory, and numerous attempts have been made to “fix” it,13 starting in the early church and continuing unabated into our own time.14 Some modern Acts 1:12–26 and Gos. Judas 35:23–25; 45:1–2. translation follows Jenott’s restoration of “fruit” here (2011, 34). 12 Cp. the scene of Peter’s betrayal of Jesus in a courtyard when he denies the repeated charge that he is one of Jesus’s followers (Mark 14:66–72). 13 Scholars have now established, however, that purposeful suspended endings are not solely modern phenomena. Jodi Magness’ study of the Gospel of Mark, for example, has detailed examples of the use of suspended endings in a wide variety of ancient literature with a range of effects (Magness 2002, 25–85). 14 The problem of the ending of the Gospel of Mark has produced an extensive and sophisticated literature; for overviews on textual history, see Parker 1997, 124–47; Metzger 1994, 102–107; 10 Cp. 11 My

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interpreters, however, have used literary-historical analysis to try to interpret the ending’s tensions and difficulties rather than try to repair them textually, explain them away, or elaborate them toward a “more fitting” conclusion. Much changes, for example, in shifting methodologically to a focus on the potential impact of the suspended ending on the Gospel of Mark’s readers.15 This approach distinguishes between what happens at the level of the story and what happens at the level of the (ideal or real16) readers. Within the narrative, no one is told that Jesus is risen except the three women; they are the only ones who know and they are silent. But at the level of the readers, the situation is entirely different. How does this work? A crucial role is played by literary foreshadowing (Magness 2002, 107–113). In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus has prophesied his death and resurrection multiple times,17 so when the young man at the tomb tells the women, “He has been raised” and points to the tomb’s emptiness (Mark 16:6), the reader should not be surprised. So, too, Jesus’ prophecy of Peter’s triple denial (Mark 14:30) is quickly fulfilled in detail within the narrative, and Peter weeps when he remembers exactly what Jesus had predicted, apparently realizing that despite all his protestations and intent, Jesus’s prophecy has come to pass (Mark 14:66–72). Again at Mark 14:27, Jesus had told his male disciples that they would desert him, citing a reference to the Hebrew prophet Zechariah (Zech 13:7), and they do: “All of them deserted him and fled” (Mark 14:50). That this desertion had been foretold already by Zechariah helps to make it seem plausible to readers that everything that is happening, including Jesus’s arrest, is done to fulfill the Scriptures (Mark 14:49). Juel notes the importance of these prophecies in moving the narrative forward beyond the story’s ending: “Promises that are fulfilled provide a basis for confidence that others will be” (Juel 2005, 7). They function to convince readers that Jesus is a true prophet, and to assure believing readers that the gospel will be preached despite the male apostles’ flight and the women disciples’ silence. The explicit intentionality of this authorial rhetoric is most apparent when the young man at the tomb tells the women, “But go, tell his disciples and Peter that he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him, just as he told you” (Mark Ehrman 1993, 155–59, 232–33; on modern discussions, see Cox 1993; Lincoln 1989, esp. notes; Blount 2005, esp. 18–22; Collins 2007, 796–818. 15 Blount, for example, argues, “The emphasis is on the reader” and suggest that Mark is writing in order “to let would-be disciples know that God is searching for them, to finish it” (2005, 28). See also Juel 2005. 16 As is well established in reader-response theory, not all readers are “ideal” or “true believers.” Actual readers – from the first century up to the present – do not automatically follow the signals given by the inscribed author (or the real author outside the text). My own appeal to “readers” is therefore not a claim about the reaction of any particular reader(s) but a mode in which suggest readerly paths paved by the texts’ structures and thematics. 17 Jesus predicts his death three times, and five times says that he will be raised (Mark 8:31; 9:9; 9:31; 10:33; 14:28).

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16:7, my emphasis). The narrator is directly cueing readers to remember Jesus’s prophecy (Mark 14:28) in order to understand what is happening in the story now and what will happen beyond it.18 The most important effect on the ideal (believing) readers’ perspective, however, concerns the events of the end time. The Jewish Temple will be destroyed, war and natural disasters will occur, disciples will be persecuted, families will betray each other and believers will be hated by all.19 After tribulation and suffering, the Son of Man will come and gather the elect (Mark 13). Jesus’s final admonition to the disciples becomes an address to readers as well: “And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake!” (Mark 13:37, my emphasis). The Gospel of Judas also engages in prophetic foreshadowing and apocalyptic prophecy.20 The text opens21 by declaring that what follows is a “secret apophasis” (Gos. Judas 33:1–2) which will recount the mysteries of the end and reveal the realities “beyond the world” (Gos. Judas 33:14–18). Readers are thus immediately alerted at the beginning of the gospel to expect prophecies of the future and information about the truth concerning cosmic and transcosmic realities. These will be set out especially in teachings given by Jesus to Judas (esp. Gos. Judas 47:1–53:7; 54:8–12). As in the Gospel of Mark, the Gospel of Judas shows Jesus to be a true prophet who knows the hearts of others (Gos. Judas 34.18 ff.). He behaves like a prophet, interpreting dreams (of the twelve apostles at Gos. Judas 37:21–40, and of Judas at Gos. Judas 4:15–46:4),22 predicting the fate of the generations (Gos. Judas 37:1–16; 42:10–22; 43:7–11; 43:14–44:13; 53:17 ff.), and prophesying the coming of the end time (Gos. Judas 54:15–57:14). Even the scribes are said to fear the people since Jesus “was regarded by all as a prophet” (Gos. Judas 58:16–19). In at least two cases, readers may recognize that his prophecies have already been fulfilled. For readers who know of Jesus’s crucifixion and its sacrificial interpretation, Jesus’s prediction that “the one who bears him” will be tortured (Gos. Judas 56:6–8) and sacrificed (Gos. Judas 56:19–20) would work to confirm the reliability of Jesus as a prophet. Jesus also tells Judas that someone will replace (2005, 23) also points out comments meant for the reader at Mark 7:19; 13:14.  It is possible of course that readers would have known or experienced such events already by the time they hear the Gospel of Mark. 20 For a discussion of apocalyptic traditions in Sethian literature, see Attridge 2000, 189–204. 21 Prophecy functions as narrative foreshadowing, but also places the brief episodes into a much larger narrative frame, looking back to creation and forward to the eschaton. As Hooker notes regarding the New Testament gospels: “Beginnings and ends not only belong together but also point forward and backward to the significance of the story that lies in-between” (2003, 4). 22 Judas dreams that he will be persecuted and stoned by the twelve apostles (Gos. Judas 44:24–45:1). Matt 23:3–10 and Acts 1:18 each report the death of Judas, but by suicidal hanging or having his bowels burst, not by stoning; in neither case are the other apostles involved. Gos. Judas would seem, then, to offer a variant explanation for the death of Judas in a field where various traditions were being devised. It seems to be dramatizing the kind of hostility the figure of Judas received from later believers. 18 Blount 19

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him (Gos. Judas 36:1–4), a tradition that may have been well-known (cf. Acts 1:15–26).23 Both these fulfilled predictions would have increased confidence in the reliability of Jesus’s other revelation and his prophecies of future events within the gospel. Some scholars have suggested that the Gospel of Judas did not need to give an account of Jesus’s arrest, death, and resurrection since ancient (presumably Christian) readers would already be familiar with how the story continued. It is, however, not necessary that the actual readers would know that Jesus had been tortured and crucified by the Romans, since the Gospel of Judas foreshadows his death in prophecies told to Judas, as we saw above. More importantly, only Judas and the readers know that the heavenly Jesus has already ascended, leaving only the human who bore him behind (Gos. Judas 57:24; 58:5–6).24 This information clarifies Jesus’s statement to Judas that no mortal can harm “him” – presumably meaning the heavenly Jesus (56:8–11). That would include Judas as well.25 It may be, then, that Judas leads the others only in that his act inaugurates the end time, but even so, he still remains an ambiguous character. As Painchaud argues, however, the story is not at core a judgment of Judas (or the Twelve);26 rather, the text’s whole structure demonstrates that its 23 Indeed the story of Judas’ replacement in Acts, uses language similar to that of the Gospel of Judas: Then they (the eleven apostles) prayed and said, “Lord, you know everyone’s heart. Show us which one of these two you have chosen to take the place in this ministry and apostleship from which Judas turned aside to go to his own place” (Acts 1:24–25, my emphasis). Then Jesus, recognizing that he perceived even more of such exalted matters, said to him, “Separate from them. I will tell you the mysteries of the kingdom. It is possible for you to reach that place, but you will suffer much grief. For another [will] take your place, so that the twelve di[sciples] might again be complete in their ‘God’” (Gos. Judas 35:21–36:4, my emphasis). Both passages replace Judas and represent Judas as headed toward a place different from that of the other apostles. In Acts, the apostles seek to fulfill the will of God by appealing to fulfillment of scripture from the Psalms and prayer to the Lord, while in Gos. Judas, it is Jesus who asks Judas to separate from the other apostles, and says that the replacement of Judas was done by the twelve to fulfill what “their ‘God’” requires. 24 The Gospel of Judas is often interpreted (or assumed) to affirm a docetic Christology (see inter alia, Ehrman 2006a, 106–110), but Jenott has offered a nuanced counterargument that deserves a reconsideration of what is meant by “docetism” (2011, 11–20). 25  See the discussion of Schmid 2012. 26 One of the most hotly debated issues in the interpretation of the Gospel of Judas concerns the character of Judas: Is he a model for salvation (Ehrman 2006a, 97–102; Meyer 2008; 2009) or the ultimate betrayer (Painchaud 2006; Pearson 2009; DeConick 2007)? Part of the issue concerns how to evaluate his handing Jesus over: Was this witting (Schmid 2012) or unwitting (Turner 2009, 131–32)? Does its prophetic necessity relieve Judas of blame – or even make him a tool of salvation in a positive sense – or not? Does the fact that Jesus declares that no mortal can harm him mean that Judas has done nothing against him? Although my initial position was to regard the figure of Judas positively, I am increasingly convinced that the narrative allots him no such definitively pleasant role. At best he is an ambiguous figure. The comparison with the Gospel of Mark, however, where none of Jesus’s disciples are saved by the end of the story, however, shifts me (currently) toward Painchaud’s position that the disciples (including Judas) are being used strategically to make other points; judgment of Judas or the Twelve is not ultimately the

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rhetoric is aimed toward the reader.27 If the focus is on the reader, the fate of Judas becomes less crucial. What is centrally at stake is the meaning of Jesus’s death. For the Gospel of Judas, it is this human sacrifice that ushers in the end times. Thus despite the suspended ending, (ideal) readers would not only know what was going to happen to (the one who bore) Jesus, they have been led to interpret his death as a sacrifice to the powers of the lower world, a human sacrifice that would usher in the end times described in Jesus’s previous revelation to Judas. As in the Gospel of Mark, so too in the Gospel of Judas, readers have been taught that some will be saved, even if none of the disciples within the narrative are. The disciples may err and abandon or even betray Jesus, but in both these gospels at least some readers have a chance. This point is made most clearly in the Gospel of Judas when Jesus teaches that some have been predestined for salvation: Judas said to [him, “Rabb]i, “What fruit does this race possess?” Jesus said, “The souls of every human race will die. But when those (who belong to the holy race) have completed the time of the kingdom and the spirit separates from them, their bodies will die but their souls will be alive and they will be lifted up” (Gos. Judas 43:11–23; cf. also 53:16 ff.).

Readers are taught what they must do: Cease sacrificing, that is, cease serving a false god (Gos. Judas 41:1–2). They must abandon even the notion that Jesus’s sacrificial death, celebrated by his supposed disciples in the eucharist, constitutes piety toward the true God (33:27–34:11). Rather it is sacrificial idolatry that ushers in the final destruction of the astral and planetary rulers along with their mortal creation – even as it simultaneously leads to the exaltation of the immortal holy race. In the Gospel of Mark, too, readers know what they must do: Repent for the end is near (Mark 1:14). There will be a time of mission, persecution, and suffering, but it will be followed by the coming of the Son of Man and the in-gathering of the elect (Mark 13). Both gospels contain apocalyptic revelations of the end times, and in both Jesus’s death is understood to usher in the end times.28 For both, Jesus’s true gospel’s main point (Painchaud 2013). This point is furthered by the fact that the other disciples appeal to Jesus for help, but readers are never told of their response. 27  Painchaud (2013) elaborates: “With regard to the overall interpretation and purpose of the text, our analysis argues that the Gospel of Judas is not at heart intended to praise or blame its titular disciple, nor is it meant to argue for his condemnation or rehabilitation. Rather, the Gospel of Judas seeks to dissuade its readers from a certain mode of behaviour. It urges its readers not to take part in the sacrificial cult of Saklas, the one followed ‘assiduously’ by the disciples and their successors who invoke the name to perpetuate its cult (39.7–11), following the original human sacrifice committed by Judas (56.11–20). Finally, we note that this bipartite structure and the tension that it produces are perfectly coherent with the central argument of the text, which opposes the holy generation with that of mortal humanity, and in which the setting of arguments in antithetical form plays a major role.” I want to thank Prof. Painchaud for an advance copy of his article. 28 For the view that the Gospel of Mark’s understanding of Jesus’s death as a ransom may point to sacrifice, see the discussion of Collins 2007, 499–504.

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identity is a secret  – the so-called “messianic secret” in Mark, and the secret revelation given only to Judas in the Gospel of Judas. This “secret,” however, is revealed and ultimately is known only by readers since within the narrative those who know do not tell.

Synecdoche Another literary device Magness finds evident in the Gospel of Mark is synecdoche, which occurs when “one narrative feature can stand for and suggest a broader, unnarrated conclusion” (2002, 46). In the case of the Markan empty tomb, “the proclamation of the angel, stands in for the events it mentions”; those include the discursive announcement of the resurrection, the initiation of the eschatological preaching mission,29 and Jesus’s appearance to his followers (Magness 2002, 113–17). So, too, let me suggest that the final scene of betrayal in the Gospel of Judas encapsulates its apocalyptic message: Accepting Jesus’s death as a sacrifice desired by God and continuing to worship false gods through mistaken eucharistic practice constitute the true betrayal of Jesus and his message. These are the ultimate acts of idolatry, so horrendous that the betrayal of the one who bears Jesus initiates the final destruction of the lower gods and the world over which the true God set them to rule. As Judas hands Jesus over to his enemies, so are those who betrayed God through idolatrous sacrifice and false eucharists handed over to utter destruction.

Suspended Endings In light of the use of foreshadowing and synecdoche, the potential reactions of readers can be analyzed afresh. These are twofold, as Magness puts it with perceptive concision: “what the reader would have done to the ending and what the ending would have done to the reader” (2002, 123). Regarding what the reader would have done, she concludes, “The suspended ending causes the reader to act on the ending. Our contention has been that readers would have been forced to fill in the suspended ending” (2002, 123), presumably using the foreshadowed predictions and the synecdochical final scenes. With regard to what the ending does to the reader, Magness suggests, “The suspension creates the necessity of choosing among these various options, of providing a resolution to the story in the experience of the reader rather than 29 By

“eschatological,” I mean only that the message of the preaching mission is that declared in Mark 1:14: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God is at hand; repent, and believe in the gospel.”

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in the text.”30 The openness of the ending allows readers a variety of possible choices – they might reject Jesus’s teaching or accept it, react with silence or proclaim it abroad; it might let readers see themselves as “the chosen” or provoke an “existential crisis of following” (Magness 2002, 124–25). But however the story is finished, Magness argues, “the power that is generated from the phenomenon (of the suspended ending) is fairly well focused: when readers supply the ending they participate in it and experience it more fully than if the writer had supplied it to them” (Magness 2002, 47). So, too, Painchaud (2013) suggests that the Gospel of Judas is structured such that it demands choice from the reader. His analysis shows how the author uses deliberative rhetoric “that concentrates on the future and asks the reader to consider the usefulness of some action or mode of conduct.” Jesus’s teaching is placed within a bipartite plan that functions both to elucidate the message and demand a choice: “The Gospel of Judas’ message is clear, and it calls for its readers to take sides. They must pray to Jesus’ Father, and not worship Saklas, the god of the disciples, in sacrificial cultic rites; they must ensure that they are not among the faithful who are led into error by the disciples, but rather that they belong to the holy generation, which is the kingless generation, the generation of Adam that pre-existed the creation of the earth, heavens and angels and that will be raised up in the last days. Readers are, then, called to make a choice between two paths – and this is a choice that was already announced in prologue (33.10–13): ‘Some walk in the path of justice, while others walk in their transgressions.’” (Painchaud 2013, 287)

The primary strategy of the Gospel of Judas’s author, Painchaud argues, is dissuasion, which evokes fear and emphasizes the negative effects for those who sacrifice, while the gospel treats relatively briefly the positive advantages gained by praying to Jesus’s Father.31 Much of the negative tenor of the gospel results from this choice of strategy. Yet readers still have a choice to make, even if the persuasive strategy uses more stick than carrot. For readers, salvation is still a possibility.

Readers Become Authors and Characters Let me suggest further that by requiring readers to finish the story, the open endings of the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas effectively turn readers into authors. Arguably all suspended endings have this potential to turn readers 30 Magness

2002, 125. (forthcoming 2014) writes: “In order to convince his or her readers to make the right choice, the author of the Gospel of Judas chose the strategy of dissuasion, rather than persuasion.” He argues that such a position is coherent with the overall structure of the gospel: “The decision to use a bipartite form and to present the material in antithetical pairs is perfectly coherent with goal of the work, namely to lead the reader to make a choice between two opposed modes of behaviour.” 31 Painchaud

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into authors and even characters. They can, for example, take up the narrative where the literary author left off and compose their own (diverse) endings. Such an ending could be a literary composition, merely extending the narrative by penning a few more lines, such as we see for the longer and shorter endings of the Gospel of Mark. Or authorship might lead to more extensive literary activity, by adding episodes, filling out the fate of characters like Peter and the other apostles, by wholesale rewriting (e. g., the treatment of Mark by the Gospels of Matthew and Luke), or employing or developing other genres (acts, revelation dialogues, and martyr acts).32 And indeed, this potential is of course not limited to stories with suspended or open endings, but belongs in various modes to the “gapped” and dialogical character of all literature, art, and other forms. I like very much the way Holland Carter describes his experience of viewing Matisse’s “Blue Window”: “The more I looked at the picture, the better I liked it. I liked what I saw as its modesty, its tentativeness and its otherworldliness. (Heaven was blue, wasn’t it?) I liked that it was furnished with the idea of things, rather than actual things. I liked its semi-emptiness. I liked that it had stories not yet told. There was room for a writer-to-be in there” (Cotter 2013, A3).

Like Matisse’s window, gospel stories have their own kind of emptiness, gaps, omissions, and fuzzy logics that invite the writer to be. Open endings in particular, however, put pressure upon readers to become a certain kind of author, to continue the story, tie up loose ends, fill in gaps, or create side paths, to reflect on marginal characters and explore alternative possibilities and perspectives. The Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas complicate the notion of authorship, however, by impelling the reader to choose: to accept or reject Jesus’s teaching, to walk in the path of justice or the path of their transgressions. If readers take up such an option (and they need not), they become not only authors but flesh and 32 This point raises the question of the relationship of the Gospel of Judas to the Gospel of Mark. In this essay, I have not addressed this question but only compared them regarding literary devices and themes (see also Sullivan 2009, 183–91). Let me just note briefly, however, that their similarities have led some to argue that the Gospel of Judas may know the Gospel of Mark (among other early Christian literature including Matthew, Luke, Acts, and John) and have used it as a source. There are striking parallels to support this view (for example, Gos. Judas 35:15–16 and Mark 1:24; Gos. Judas 43:26–44:2 and Mark 4:2–20; Gos. Judas 58:11 and Mark 14:14; Gos. Judas 58:19–22 and Mark 14:66–70). It is also possible to read the Gospel of Judas as a kind of corrective rewriting of Mark (or perhaps more plausibly, a corrective of other rewritings of Mark such as Luke). Or it may be that the Gospel of Judas is in some respects a defensible reading of Mark. As DeConnick notes (above n. 4), Gos. Judas seems to take Mark’s portrait of the ignorant disciples quite literally when it refuses them any redemption; these disciples never did understand who Jesus was or what his message was about. Or again, Irenaeus argues that docetists who separate Christ from Jesus do so by interpreting the Gospel of Mark (Adv. Haer. III.11.7); perhaps the Gospel of Judas is among these. From another perspective, Jenott argues that the Gospel of Judas actually offers not a docetic but a “two-natures” Christology that was widespread among early Christians (2011, 11–22).

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blood characters in the story they go on writing – and such writing is no longer necessarily or even primarily literary, it is realized by living it out in the actual world. The framework of the gospel story becomes the plot to be enacted. The story is open-ended not only because so many crucial points within the narrative have not been resolved, but because readers-turned-authors can potentially take the story in wide variety of directions, simultaneously writing and interpreting it in their on-going practice that extends the story beyond its literary ending. As Blount puts it with regard to the Gospel of Mark, “The tragedy of silence does not require decoding; it requires a response. … Endings are not so much conveyers of context as they are motivators to actions” (18, 22).

Conversion and Correction Again many forms of literature teach lessons or offer wisdom and insight that readers put into practice in their lives, and so here, too, some modern readers take away lessons and insights from Jesus’s teachings without accepting the Gospel of Mark’s image of discipleship as suffering, or its expectation that the End is near. But the prophetic, revelatory, and apocalyptic content of these two gospels seems to desire something more from readers than a novel or history. Insofar as the stories they tell are “religious,”33 the impulse for readers to write themselves into the plot and its larger framework might properly be called “conversion,” and the incentive to do so well might be designated “salvation.” Their “orthodoxy” might depend upon the choices they make, measured perhaps against other readers’ endings or other authorial-interpretive activity, thus impacting not only individual identity but social belonging insofar as orthodoxy or orthopraxy are required for group adherence. In this light, it becomes possible to ask whether there is a particular relationship in these two gospels between their narrative forms and their religious concerns and agendas, between open endings and apocalyptic Ends. Let me suggest here just a few possibilities. One is that readers will see themselves as among the elect. Both gospels divide humanity into those who will be saved and those who will not. In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus teaches that only the elect will be gathered from the four winds and saved from the final destruction (13:27); only those who endure to the end will be saved (13:13). In the Gospel of Judas, Jesus clearly distinguishes between the great immortal race of Adam destined for eternal life in the realm above, and mortal human offspring who will perish with the lower world rulers (37:1–8; 42:11–14; 43:14–23; 53:16–25; 57:11–15). As Kahneman’s research has shown, there is a tendency for people to want to read (and write) themselves into a story 33 For

a discussion of the problem of defining “religion,” see King 2011, 231–32.

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in a positive role34 – certainly not as wicked persons destined for destruction or as ignorant and treacherous disciples. In these two gospels, however, few (if any) satisfying models are offered. Moreover, because readers alone are able to understand what is really going on and what it all means, they may very well want to respond to the message positively in order to write themselves into the role of the “chosen.”35 Perhaps when the Gospel of Mark’s readers perceive “the messianic secret” that is never unveiled in the narrative to its characters or when readers of the Gospel of Judas come to understand the “secret apophasis” promised in its opening line, this knowledge may further convince them that they have what is needed to press on to salvation. The depiction of the disciples in both these gospels has another potential aim: to correct misunderstandings and “convert” the readers (who may indeed already be believers) to their respective positions on God and salvation, the teachings of Jesus, and the meaning of his death. In both works, the negative portrayal of the disciples is attached to very particular criticisms of other Christian views,36 that is, the depiction of the disciples and the Twelve in both works can be read in part in terms of intra-Christian controversy. A number of scholars, for example, suggest that the Gospel of Mark is correcting a mistaken view of discipleship. Juel, for example, argues that the Gospel of Mark’s (intended) audience were Christians who were already acquainted with the resurrection of Jesus, but who were all too much like the disciples in the narrative (e. g., Mark 8:27–35; 9:33–35). They, too, perhaps “refuse to accept a Messiah who suffers and is put to death, and they think that discipleship is measured by success and power. They never really get to know who Jesus is or fully grasp Jesus’ definition of discipleship. … What is revealed to the reader about the nature of Messiahship and discipleship is a paradox, a mystery: The Messiah triumphs by being defeated; the disciple is first to the extent that she or he is last” (Juel 1978, 200–201; see also Lee-Pollard 1987). For Juel, the Gospel of Mark’s author desires to correct this misunderstanding, perhaps addressing the troubled times in his own day. Regarding the Gospel of Judas, modern interpreters agree that its portrait of the Twelve is drawn in order to polemicize against certain Christians in its own day (the mid to late second century). Precisely what was at issue, however, is still being debated. Brankaer and Bethge, for example, have argued that its invective against idolatry is aimed at the sacrificial theology of the Eucharist, which the author perceives as an idolatrous continuation of the Jewish temple cult (Bran34 Kahneman,

for example, argues: “Most important, of course, we all care intensely for the narrative of our own life and very much want it to be a good story, with a decent hero” (2011, 387). This point suggests that because readers may want a happy (eternal) ending for themselves and are concerned most about where they will fit and what kind of end they will have, it may be that what happens to Judas, the Twelve, or the vast majority of others is less a focus of concern. 35 See Magness 2007, 124. 36 I use the term “Christian” although I note it is contested for the Gospel of Mark (which some consider Jewish), and for the Gospel of Judas (which some consider Gnostic/Sethian).

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kaer and Bethge 2009, 440–41). Pagels and King have suggested that the polemic may extend to criticism of Christian leaders who advocate martyrdom as sacrifice desired by God (Pagels and King 2007). Jenott sees the primary target as “the question of who can rightfully claim leadership in the church, preside over church meetings, and administer the Eucharist” (2011, 3). These are only a few of the possibilities that have been suggested, but my point is that in both gospels, critical portraits of the disciples seem aimed less at outsiders than at intra-group controversies over central issues of belief and practice. Their purpose is to persuade readers to adopt their respective points of view on contested issues. The open ending exerts pressure on readers to make a choice and to act accordingly. In both gospels, the framework for proper action is eschatological. Readers are instructed forcefully how to prepare. In the Gospel of Mark, Jesus begins his teaching with the exhortation: “The time is fulfilled, and the kingdom of God has come near; repent, and believe in the good news!” (1:15). At a crucial turning point in his ministry, he says that if any wish to be his disciples, “Let them deny themselves, and take up their cross and follow me!” (8:34). The urgency in the mission to preach the gospel, too, is tied to the expectation that the end is soon (13:10–13). Believers need to maintain watch continuously: “Beware, keep alert, for you do not know when the time will come” (13:53). In the Gospel of Judas, Jesus commands them “Stop sacrificing!” and “Stop contending with me!” for those who sacrifice to the false “God” and rulers of this world will be destroyed along with all their creatures. Readers are to look for signs in the heavens that portend these ends. When Judas hands Jesus over, the final chapter of the drama is initiated. For apocalyptic literature, the response of readers is the main focus. In compelling readers to finish the story by declaring the prophecies of Jesus to be true and act accordingly, these open endings seek to fulfill the religious goals of conversion and salvation.

Endings and the End Moreover, suspended endings seem particularly fitting for apocalyptic worldviews in which humanity and events are depicted as living in suspense of the end times.37 This point may become more apparent by comparison with the use of suspended endings in historical narrative. Wills argues, for example, that history 37 The relation between the suspended form of the ending and the apocalyptic message of the

Gospel of Mark has remained relatively unexplored, perhaps because, as Lincoln suggests, the world has not yet ended, the prophecy has not been fulfilled after two millennia: “What happens to the effectiveness of Mark’s ending when that on which it depends – the correspondence between the sense of a real ending in the narrative world and the expectation of a real end in the reader’s world-is undermined or removed? What happens when the issue becomes not how to understand human failure after Christ’s resurrection but how to understand divine failure to complete the vindication of Christ and his followers?” (Lincoln 1989, 299–300).

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can be differentiated from the novel by how temporality is structured with regard to endings. “If, as Hirshfield says, ‘Narrative uses the structure of time to defeat the ephemerality of time  …,’ then historical narrative does this by arbitrarily choosing a starting point on the timeline and a stopping point while being explicitly open to the possibility of further developments, while fictional narrative composes an artificially bounded beginning and a satisfyingly closed ending” (in this volume).

The distinction arises in part because one aim of history, he argues, is identity. “Ancient historians, both Greek and Jewish, used writing about the past to construct present identity through two main assumptions: first, the events recounted really occurred, and second, they occurred on the timeline that continues to our day. They are the events of our past, our social memory. To emphasize the connection between a historical narrative and the present community, Greek and Roman histories intentionally avoided the clear resolution and closure that other ancient genres displayed; they problematized the endings” (Wills in this volume).

In contrast, Wills suggests that “Novel is thus history’s irresponsible twin; it offers quotidian redemption in an invented history” (Wills in this volume). The two gospels we have been examining have different aims from history or the novel: not a stable communal identity or quotidian redemption, but conversion and correction as preparation for eternal salvation. Their suspended endings both model and mimic precisely the temporal situation of believing readers: suspended between the revelation of Jesus’s prophecies and their final fulfillment. The “open endings” of the Gospels of Mark and Judas also signal a different relationship to time than history or novel. Temporality is conceived within a cosmic frame in which historical events are not markers of identity but act as pointers toward the End time, the final collapse of creation and future redemption. This kind of open end is markedly different from history where an open ending signals the ongoing life of a group along an unbroken time line. The open endings of the Gospel of Mark and the Gospel of Judas, however, mark the inauguration of a decisive break with quotidian time. Their ends signal the End.

Conclusions Let’s return now to the initial questions: How might the endings of these gospels be understood in light of the prophecies of salvation contained within them? Might their structural and thematic similarities point toward a connection between the literary form of the “open ending” and these gospels’ particular religious messages and aims? Although no character within the Gospel of Mark or the Gospel of Judas is saved, thwarting the expectations of readers can potentially provoke them to

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author a “better” ending, not only literarily but more existentially by writing themselves into the story and fulfilling in their own lives the prophecies of salvation given by Jesus. To do so, however, they would be compelled to engage the particular religious message of each gospel, to convert to its point of view and accept the “corrections” each so forcefully demands. In the end, the narrative form of the suspended ending seems particularly fitted to apocalyptic messages in which the End suspends quotidian time but leaves open the potential for readers to real-ize an eternal but not-yet, future Ending by themselves becoming authors and characters in the stories they write.

Bibliography Attridge, Harold W. 2000. “Valentinian and Sethian Apocalyptic Traditions.” Journal of Early Christian Studies 8, no. 2: 173–211. Blount, Brian K. 2005. “Is the Joke on Us? Mark’s Irony, Mark’s God, and Mark’s Ending.” Pages 15–33 in The Ending of Mark and the Ends of God: Essays in Memory of Donald Harrisville Juel. Edited by Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Patrick D Miller. Louisville, Kent.: Westminster John Knox. Brankaer, Johanna. 2009. “Whose Savior? Salvation, Damnation and the Race of Adam in the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 387–412 in The Codex Judas Papers. Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden: Brill. Brankaer, Johanna, and Hans-Gebhard Bethge. 2007. Codex Tchacos: Texte und Analysen. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter. Collins, Adela. 2007. Mark: A Commentary. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress. Cotter, Holland. 2013. “Finding Poetry on the Page and, Later, on the Canvas.” New York Times, Aug. 15, A1, A3. Cox, Steven Lynn. 1993. A History and Critique of Scholarship Concerning the Markan Endings. Lewiston, NY: Mellen Biblical Press. DeConick, April D. 2007. The Thirteenth Apostle: What the Gospel of Judas Really Says. London and New York: Continuum. –. 2008. “The Mystery of Betrayal: What Does the Gospel of Judas Really Say?” Pages 241– 64 in The Gospel of Judas in Context: Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Gospel of Judas, Paris, Sorbonne, October 27th–28th, 2006. Edited by Madeleine Scopello. Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 62. Leiden: Brill. Ehrman, Bart D. 1993. The Orthodox Corruption of Scripture: The Effect of Early Christological Controversies on the Text of the New Testament. Oxford: Oxford University Press. –. 2006a. “Christianity Turned on Its Head: The Alternative Vision of the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 77–120 in The Gospel of Judas from the Codex Tchacos. Edited by Rodolphe Kasser, Marvin Meyer, and Gregor Wurst. Washington, DC: National Geographic. –. 2006b. The Lost Gospel of Judas Iscariot: A New Look at Betrayer and Betrayed. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Emmel, Stephen. 2006. “The Presuppositions and the Purpose of the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 33–39 in The Gospel of Judas in Context: Proceedings of the First International Conference

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on the Gospel of Judas, Paris, Sorbonne, October 27th–28th, 2006. Edited by Madeleine Scopello. Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 62. Leiden: Brill. Hooker, Morna. 2003. Endings: Invitations to Discipleship. Peabody, MA: Hendrickson. Jenott, Lance. 2011. The Gospel of Judas. Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum 64. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Juel, Donald. 1978. An Introduction to New Testament Literature. Nashville: Abingdon. –. 2005. “A Disquieting Silence: The Matter of the Ending.” Pages 1–13 in The Ending of Mark and the Ends of God: Essays in Memory of Donald Harrisville Juel. Edited by Beverly Roberts Gaventa and Patrick D Miller. Louisville, Kent.: Westminster John Knox. Kahneman, Daniel. 2011. Thinking, Fast and Slow. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux. Kasser, Rudolph, and Gregor Wurst. 2007. The Gospel of Judas together with the Letter of Peter to Philip, James, and a Book of Allogenes: Critical Edition. Washington, DC: National Geographic. Pages 184–235. King, Karen L. 2007. “The Gospel of Judas.” Pages 105–168 in Reading Judas: The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity. Edited by Elaine Pagels and Karen L. King. New York: Viking. –. 2011. “Factions, Variety, Diversity, Multiplicity: Representing Early Christian Differences for the 21st Century.” Method and Theory in the Study of Religion 23: 217–39. Krosney, Herbert, Marvin Meyer, and Gregor Wurst. 2010. “Preliminary Report on New Fragments of Codex Tchacos.” Early Christianity 1: 282–94. Lee-Pollard, Dorothy A. 1987. “Powerlessness as Power: A Key Emphasis in the Gospel of Mark.” Scottish Journal of Theology 40: 173–88. Lincoln, Andrew. 1989. “The Promise and the Failure: Mark 16.7, 8.” Journal of Biblical Literature 108, no. 2: 283–300. Magness, Jodi Lee. 2002. Marking the End: Sense and Absence in the Gospel of Mark. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock. Mahé, Jean-Pierre. 2008. “Mise en scène et effets dramatiques dans l’Évangile de Judas.” Pages 23–32 in The Gospel of Judas in Context: Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Gospel of Judas, Paris, Sorbonne, October 27th–28th, 2006. Edited by Madeleine Scopello. Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 62. Leiden: Brill. Metzger, Bruce M. 1994. Textual Commentary on the Greek New Testament. 2nd ed. Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft/United Bible Societies. Meyer, Marvin. 2008. “Interpreting Judas: Ten Passages in the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 41–55 in The Gospel of Judas in Context: Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Gospel of Judas, Paris, Sorbonne, October 27th–28th, 2006. Edited by Madeleine Scopello. Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 62. Leiden: Brill. –. 2009. “When the Sethians Were Young: The Gospel of Judas in the Second Century.” Pages 57–73 in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Pagels, Elaine, and Karen L. King. 2007. Reading Judas: The Gospel of Judas and the Shaping of Christianity. New York: Viking. Painchaud, Louis. 2006. “À propos de la (re)découverte de l’Évangile de Judas.” Laval théologique et philosophique 62, no. 3, 553–68. –. 2008. “Polemical Aspects of the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 171–86 in The Gospel of Judas in Context: Proceedings of the First International Conference on the Gospel of Judas, Paris, Sorbonne, October 27th–28th, 2006. Edited by Madeleine Scopello. Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies 62. Leiden: Brill.

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–. 2013. “The dispositio of the Gospel of Judas.” Zeitschrift für antikes Christentum. 17.2: 268–290. Parker, David C. 1997. The Living Text of the Gospels. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pearson, Birger A. 2009. “Judas Iscariot in the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 135–52 in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Schenke Robinson, Gesine. 2009. “The Gospel of Judas: Its Protagonist, Its Composition, and Its Community.” Pages 75–94 in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Schmid, Herbert. 2012. “Eucharistie und Opfer: Das ‘Evangelium Judas’ im Kontext von Eucharistiedeutungen des zweiten Jahrhunderts.” Early Christianity 3: 85–108. Sullivan, Kevin. 2009. “‘You Will Become the Thirteenth’: The Identity of Judas in the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 181–99 in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Turner, John D. 2009. “The Sethian Myth in the Gospel of Judas: Soteriology or Demonology?” Pages 95–133 in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill. van Os, Bas. 2009. “Stop Sacrificing! The Metaphor of Sacrifice in the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 367–86 in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Wills, Lawrence M. “The Differentiation of History and Novel: Controlling the Past, Playing with the Past” in this volume. Wurst, Gregor. 2009. “Addenda et corrigenda to the Critical Edition of the Gospel of Judas.” Pages 503–507 in The Codex Judas Papers: Proceedings of the International Congress on the Tchacos Codex Held at Rice University, Houston, Texas, March 13–16, 2008. Edited by April DeConick. Nag Hammadi and Manichean Studies 71. Leiden and Boston: Brill.

“Out of Love for Paul”: History and Fiction and the Afterlife of the Apostle Paul Laura Salah Nasrallah In his On Baptism, Tertullian, the notoriously cranky North African Christian writer, calumniates against women who teach and baptize: But if they claim certain Acts of Paul, which are falsely designated  – the example of ­Thecla – for allowing women to teach and to baptize, let them know that a presbyter in Asia who compiled that writing, heaping up a narrative as it were from his own materials under Paul’s name, was found out and, although he professed he had done it out of love for Paul, was deposed from his position. For how would it seem a proper fit with faith that he [Paul] should concede the right to teach and baptize to a female, when it was he who resolutely did not permit a woman the right to teach? “Let them keep silence,” he says, “and ask their husbands’ advice at home” (see 1 Cor 14:33b–35).1

Tertullian indicates that those who support women’s leadership draw on the novelistic story of Paul and Thecla. Confessum id se amore Pauli fecisse: he professed that he did it out of love for Paul. The presbyter, according to Tertullian, invented a narrative – a history – and invented it out of love. In this chapter, I investigate the (to us perhaps) curious phenomenon of those writing as Paul or inventing histories of the apostle Paul after his death; certainly many scholars have found this phenomenon troubling. What remains from Paul, a mid-first-century Jew in Christ, is a limited epistolary output: seven genuine letters included within the Christian Testament. Yet Paul’s letters spawned a variegated afterlife of writings and practice, contained within the Christian Testament and without. Of the many possible materials in this afterlife, this chapter will discuss the Pastoral Epistles, the Acts of Paul and Thecla, and the fourth-century Letters of Paul and Seneca, as well as evidence of some Pauline traditions in cities that were significant to Paul’s own life travels, placing them within a broader cultural context of practices of history as seen in education, games, and literature of the period. Many have discussed Pauline pseudepigrapha and have outlined how early Christians used Paul’s writings and discussed Paul himself after his lifetime. They have discussed whether the canonical and apocryphal Acts of the Apostles take part in the genre of the ancient novel, and how such a genre is to be defined. In 1 Trans. Souter 1919; Evans 1964. Note Foucault’s reference to Jerome in discussing the complexity of author function and homonymy (1977, 127).

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doing so, they have participated in a larger, evolving conversation with scholars of Classics and Roman history. In the past, apocryphal or pseudepigraphical texts have been ignored or shunted to the side, in part because of scholarly embarrassment about having been taken in by authorial claims. Then scholars came to see both fiction – ancient novels – and writings attributed to authors who did not in fact produce them as being useful for social history. Yet scholars, whether of early Christianity or Classics, still tend to use terms with moral valences – such as deceit, innocence, lying, and genuine – in their analysis of such stories and writings. Biblical scholars working with Paul’s letters and asking about pseudepigraphy, on the one hand, and scholars of early Christianity working on the traditions of Paul, on the other, have pressed too hard on the questions of what is authentic or inauthentic, what is “real” and what fiction. Many writers of antiquity did express concern over the integrity of their texts – from Revelation to Galen and beyond, as Bart Ehrman carefully investigates.2 But these concerns are grounded in a different ethical system from our own discomfort with pseudepigraphical claims or fictive narratives about significant figures from the origins of Christianity, from our modern-day scholarly and religious interest in and anxiety about the “authenticity” or “inauthenticity” of the Bible and early stories of Christianity. By assuming that modern scholarly concerns are the same as ancient concerns, we miss two things. First, many times ancient concerns about authorship are launched in polemical contexts, against others who claim to be writing history or who pursue different social, political, and theological goals: modern scholars misread this polemic as a description of facts. Second, we miss the opportunity to explore what was at stake for those in antiquity who wrote in others’ names or who invented stories about them. What practices of history led to such writings, and what contexts  – whether of education, status, theology, politics, or even love – drove such practices? Key to my argument is this idea of practices of history. That is, history is not a thing out there, a past to be retrieved objectively, whether in the ancient world or in the present. Moreover, in the ancient world as today, the writing of history was a practice inculcated in various settings and influenced by static and dynamic visual representations of history, whether a column of Trajan or games that reenacted historical events. As I later discuss in more detail, Raffaella Cribiore explains that practices of elite education in the ancient world included not only students’ inventions of narratives based on fables, but suasoriae which involved “imaginary deliberative themes  … which advised a historical figure on some course of action and were mostly based on historical themes”3 both from ancient

2013; Baum 2013; on accuracy in texts see Galen On the Avoidance of Grief 14 in Rothschild and Thompson. 3 Cribiore 2001, 232. 2 Ehrman

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and more recent events. Written and oral performances of historical possibility were a key element of elite education and entertainment. Also key to my argument is Michel Foucault’s idea of the author function: Its [the author’s name’s] presence is functional in that it serves as a means of classification. A name can group together a number of texts and thus differentiate them from others. A name also establishes different forms of relationships among texts. Neither Hermes nor Hippocrates existed in the sense that we can say Balzac existed, but the fact that a number of texts were attached to a single name implies that relationships of homogeneity, filiation, reciprocal explanation, authentification, or of common utilization were established among them. Finally, the author’s name characterizes a particular manner of existence of discourse. … Its status and its manner of reception are regulated by the culture in which it circulates.4

“Paul” functions to “group” and to “differentiate,” in the case of the Letters of Paul and Seneca and other pseudepigraphical writings. This author function, as we shall see, is not limited to Paul or to Christian writers but extends to a larger phenomenon of epistolary narratives written to expand the biography of a person by offering up a correspondence written in part or whole in “his” name. “Paul” as author function should not be subject to modern concerns about discrete author or plagiarism or copyrights. Nor should Paul’s use of the topos that his letters are a substitute for his presence seduce readers into the idea of writing as écriture that Foucault questions in “What is an Author?”: “Is not the conception of writing as absence a transposition into transcendental terms of the religious belief in a fixed and continuous tradition or the aesthetic principle that proclaims the survival of the work as a kind of enigmatic supplement of the author beyond his own death?”5 Of course, precisely this idea of continuous tradition and enigmatic supplement of the author drove ancient writers to produce a Paul after Paul and modern scholars to chafe at such productions, but I would like to focus on this not as a “belief ” (Foucault’s term) but as a practice that takes place among other such historical practices in antiquity. This chapter argues that some traditions of Paul-after-Paul should be understood in light of the idea of an author function, on the one hand, and, on the other, in light of ancient practices of history and the idea of historiography as articulation of the possible – the idea of possible worlds – rather than in light of the binary of truth versus falsehood, or history versus fiction.6 In writing this, I 4 Foucault 1977, 123. I am grateful for discussions with and critiques from Karen King, and conversations with students from her seminar on Writing and Authorship at Harvard University: The Divinity School. 5 Foucault 1977, 120. 6 Or Brief versus Epistel – that is, letter versus epistle, or documentary versus literary, or authentic and freely stated versus rhetorically crafted – a division developed by Adolf Deissmann 1910; see also Hodkinson and Rosenmeyer 2013, 1–2. The titles of novels may signal their generic affinity with or mimicry of ancient histories, although Whitmarsh 2005 argues, “It would be misguided to deny powerful intertextual links with historiography, but the view that novelistic narrative is fundamentally a variant of history … is without merit” (604).

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have been thinking about how history is produced “out of love,” about historical possibility and desire: the desire that ancient peoples had regarding their pasts and future, as well as the desire that modern historians have to fix the truth and authenticity of those ancient writings.

I. The Case of the Letters of Paul and Seneca Christians some time before the end of the fourth century engaged in this historical thought experiment: What if the apostle to the Gentiles, Paul, and the Roman political leader and philosopher, Seneca, had corresponded? There are fourteen Latin letters between Paul and Seneca, twelve of which were likely penned at the same time; some may date as early as the late first to the end of the third century, according to Ilaria Ramelli’s recent analysis.7 Although most scholars today find the letters unimportant or, to use Cornelia Römer’s term, “meager,”8 they are thoughtful and funny and give us insight into the way in which one Christian community produced “epistolary narratives” in order to unfold a historical possibility.9 Jerome in 392 c.e. is the first to mention the Letters of Paul and Seneca: Lucius Annæus Seneca of Cordova, disciple of the Stoic Sotion and uncle of Lucan the Poet, was a man of most continent life, whom I should not place in the category of saints (in catalogo sanctorum) were it not that those Epistles of Paul to Seneca and Seneca to Paul, which are read by many, provoke me. In these, written when he was tutor of Nero and the most powerful man of that time, he says that he would like to hold such a place among his countrymen as Paul held among Christians. He was put to death by Nero two years before Peter and Paul were crowned with martyrdom. (Vir. ill. 12)10

Elsewhere both Jerome and Tertullian before him refer to “our Seneca.” Many aspects of Seneca’s life recommend him for quasi-Christianization or at least a “sainthood” that puts him in the company of Christian holy ones as well as Jews like Philo and Josephus:11 his Stoic-influenced philosophical writings, his role as a political adviser to Nero, and his suicide under political pressure from the emperor Nero, who suspected him of participation in the Pisonian controversy – and was the very emperor said to have tortured Christians.  7 Ramelli

2013, 334 and 2014; for a fourth-century date see James 1924 and Römer 1992. 1992, 46.  9 The Letters of Paul and Seneca likely emerged from a midrashic impulse inspired by another bit of historical possibility. The narrative of Paul in Corinth in Acts 18 has the apostle standing before the judge Gallio, who restores Paul’s freedom to teach the gospel. Gallio was Seneca’s brother. The letters of Paul and Seneca fill in the bits and extend the possibilities of other authoritative texts. If the Acts of the Apostles could have Paul meet Gallio, despite no evidence of the same in Paul’s own letters, why couldn’t Gallio have recommended that Paul go ahead and meet his brother? Why not indeed, since Paul’s letters already displayed flashes of Stoic insight. 10 Trans. NPNF Schaff and Wace 1893. 11 Ramelli 2013, 322–323.  8 Römer

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The Letters of Paul and Seneca draw the reader into the historical possibility of a respectful friendship between the two men with the verisimilitude of epistolary conventions. The first letter, from Seneca to Paul, reads, “Certainly we longed for your presence, and I wish you to know this: after we had read your little book, that is, some letters out of many which you have directed to some city or chief town of a province and which contain wonderful exhortations to the moral life, we were greatly refreshed” (letter 1).12 These few words offer the usual pablum of longing for presence, and in doing so draw on the theme of letters as expressing longing during absence and as offering a kind of presence – even as Paul’s own letters express the tension between presence and absence (e. g., Phlm 21–22; 2 Cor 2:1–9). In letter 2, Paul can’t find a courier immediately. In letter 3, Seneca arranges scrolls of Paul’s writings, presumably his letters, in order that he can read them to the emperor. The topoi of the reasons and mechanics of writing and sending letters give verisimilitude to the Letters of Paul and Seneca, a series of texts that should be understood more as a novel-in-epistles.13 The letters are a historical fiction that confirms authorizing “facts” about Paul to the readers: that he is a Roman citizen; that his letters, while retaining the authenticity of someone who is not highly educated, nonetheless deserve the attention of the Roman cultural and political elite; that the Roman Empire was wrong in its initial treatments of Christians; that Paul and Seneca were worthy of each other and had a relationship of elite male philia or friendship. Seneca writes, “You know yourself to be a Roman citizen” (letter 12), an identity Paul nowhere adopts in his own letters but that emerges in the Acts of the Apostles (16:37; 22:25). Moreover, the Letters of Paul and Seneca try to persuade their audience not only that Paul is a Roman citizen, but also that he rises to the philosophically and politically elite status of someone like Seneca. Seneca says to Paul, “Do you not wish me to rejoice that I am so close to you that I may be thought your second self?” (letter 11; 12 Barstow). The letters assert to a fourth-century audience that had its own history and traditions of Roman imperial treatment of Christians: Paul knew Seneca. Nero read Paul’s letters and thought they weren’t half bad for an uneducated guy. At a later time, another writer improvised an additional letter into the corpus, one that revealed that Seneca thought the Romans should not have persecuted Christians and Jews in the reign of Nero, accusing them of starting a fire in Rome (letter 12; letter 11 Barstow) – a pagan philosophical and political witness to Roman injustice, not only in Seneca’s own life and death, but also in his “letter to Paul.” Most of all, the Letters of Paul and Seneca create an epistolary archive proving an important theological and cultural argument: Christian simplicity trumps or at least competes with Greco-Roman paideia. In letter 7, for example, Annaeus 12 Trans.

Römer 1992 throughout. 2001; Hodkinson and Rosenmeyer 2013 on narrative, fiction, and epistles.

13 Rosenmeyer

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Seneca greets Paul and Theophilus (the writer adds the name of the addressee of Luke-Acts, firming up the historical connection between Paul’s own letters and the Acts of the Apostle’s construction of Paul): “I confess that I was much taken with the reading of your letters which you sent to the Galatians, the Corinthians and the Achaeans. … For the Holy Spirit is in you and above all exalted ones gives expression by your sublime speech to the most venerable thoughts.” He goes on to say, “The emperor was moved by your sentiments. … He could only wonder that a man who had not enjoyed the usual education should be capable of such thoughts. To which I answered that the gods are wont to speak through the mouths of the innocent, not of those who by their education are able to prevaricate” (letter 7). Yet amid its sober assertions of the philosophical significance of Paul and the injustices of the Roman Empire, the Letters of Paul and Seneca joke about the place of Paul and his epistles in history. While clearly honoring Paul’s legacy and allowing Seneca to wax encomiastic about him, the letters also try to treat two problems. First, although Paul was apostle to the Gentiles, wrote a letter to the Romans, and was headed further west in his missions, his letters do not make a significant impact upon Latin culture. The Letters of Paul and Seneca, written in Latin with Graecisms in those letters authored by “Paul,” provide a way for some Christians to offer a possible history of Paul’s contact with Latin language and culture. Seneca accuses Paul of being a poor writer; his Latin could use improvement (letter 13), and Seneca politely sends Paul a copy of his own “On Verbosity” – an elbow nudge if ever a writer has received one (letter 9).14 Second, the letters hint that Paul offends women: “For you must beware,” writes Paul, “lest in loving me you cause offence to the empress. … even if as empress she is not affronted, as a woman she will be offended” (letter 1). Paul’s writings in 1 Corinthians seem to have offended the Corinthian community – including prophetesses – so much that, in later correspondence, Paul mentions a “letter of tears.” Perhaps the Letters of Paul and Seneca refer to this and to the ensuing controversies over Paul’s views on women’s leadership as worked out in the pseudepigraphical 1 Timothy and the Acts of Paul and Thecla, to which we will turn later. Thus the Letters of Paul and Seneca in a sidelong way establish a history of Paul’s inroads (however linguistically imperfect) into Latin culture and acknowledge in a lighthearted way Paul’s “woman problem”  – that his letters’ tensions and contradictions with regard to women were well known. Other Christian attempts to shoulder Christians’ way into extant philosophical discourses predate and are contemporaneous with the writing of the Letters of Paul and Seneca. Christians often expressed themselves proud that despite a community constituted largely by the poor and women, Christianity taught even these to philosophize (the Syrian Tatian Ad gr. 32:1–3; the Carthaginian 14 See Ramelli 2013 for a sophisticated analysis of lexical and syntactic Graecisms, which she sees as limited to Paul’s letters alone.

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Tertullian De an. 3; the Alexandrian Origen Contra Celsum 3.44, 50), and other Christians of the second century declared Socrates to be a sort of Christian before the fact, touched by the Logos (Justin 2 Apol. 8, 10). The Letters of Paul and Seneca, because they are set in the mid first century c.e., purport to affirm Christian superiority a good century earlier than the apologists just mentioned and allow the likes of Seneca to celebrate Christianity through exquisite epistolary politesse. The Letters of Paul and Seneca takes part in a larger context, in which a strident discourse of history writing as truth telling (suggraphein) runs alongside a desire that drives experiments in historical possibility: What if the story had happened differently? What if Paul had met Seneca? Why shouldn’t the apostle to the Gentiles have touched the imperial court in some way? But the drama of the “epistolary fiction” of the Letters of Paul and Seneca also includes a moment when Paul questions the larger rhetorical effect of the very corpus. Paul challenges Seneca, saying he thinks Seneca has erred in bringing to Nero’s notice “what is contrary to his belief and tenets”: “Since he worships the gods of the nations, I do not see what was your purpose in wishing him to know this, unless I am to think that you are doing this out of undue love for me” (non video, nisi nimio amore meo facere te hoc existimo, letter 8; the letter goes on to apply the verb diligō, indicating Seneca’s value, estimation or love of Paul). The Letters of Paul and Seneca use “Paul” as author to “group” and “differentiate” these texts, to use Foucault’s terms, and “to establish forms of relationships among texts,” since the corpus of letters between the two friends both imitates Paul’s known identity as a letter writer and imitates the exchange of letters between elite men on issues of philosophy or politics, as we shall see below. The Letters of Paul and Seneca also write a possible history of Paul in particular, out of “undue love” for Paul. Out of love for Paul again. But how are we to make sense of these letters? This idea that Paul and Seneca might have corresponded – discussing issues of rhetoric, hinting at political violence, admiring each other’s paideia, acknowledging the superiority of Christian philosophy – offers a possible history that honors and elevates Paul to the status of Roman philosopher-political thinker. The letters themselves model a love for Paul both in “Seneca’s” friendship and in the writing of the letters themselves, a love that the reader is called to imitate.

II. Possible Histories Some scholars have expressed a strong desire that the Letters of Paul and Seneca should hint at a historical reality. J. Sevenster notes that Paul and Seneca were after all in the same empire at the same time and wishes that we could know if they had met personally;15 Paul Berry argues that Seneca influenced Paul to 15 Sevenster 1961, 6; on debates over the authenticity of the letters, see also Ramelli 1997, who concludes that the letters need not necessarily be considered apocryphal/pseudepigraphical.

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abandon the complexities of Greek dialects and to turn to the one tongue of the Latin language.16 Earlier scholars had argued that Paul had a favorable conclusion to his trial in Rome due to Seneca’s support.17 This scholarly drive emerges out of a love for Paul, not unlike that of the Asian presbyter as accused by Tertullian. We must understand the Letters of Paul and Seneca instead in light of the “epistolary narratives” or “epistolary fictions” of the so-called Second Sophistic.18 Many such works were penned at the time of the second century as part of a larger antiquarian cultural movement. These letters – Rosenmeyer cites 1,600 as a figure – include the letters of Plato, of Socrates, of Themistocles, and of Hippocrates.19 This work of producing letters was part of an “antiquarian interest in great men,” according to Rosenmeyer, and “the goal of the pseudonymous epistolographer was thus to work the bare bones of a biography into a compelling life story.”20 What is both rich and challenging about epistolary fictions is that the first-person voice of letters invites the reader “to identify with the ego of the letter,” as Rosenmeyer puts it, and to enter his “inner life.”21 If such letters are not understood within the larger context of rhetorical character sketches (ēthopoieia), educational practices, and the various practices of history in antiquity, readers may be seduced by a hope for a psychological understanding of a unitary author and will perpetuate the debate in which classicists continue to spill ink over whether such works demonstrate deceit.22 Further, although biblical scholars fret even more passionately over authorial intention and whether such writings should be labeled forged, authentic, pseudepigraphic, or pseudonymous, among other options,23 Rosenmeyer’s study allows us to see a broader cultural context for such letters and the broader phenomenon of invention of narratives of persons’ lives – in whatever genre and employing whatever subgenres, whether letters or novels or biographies or acta. Epistolary fictions or epistolary narratives were penned in a time when Roman sculptors similarly were engaged in rethinking classical Greek statuary. Art historians have ceased to use the language of copying or imitation for such artisans, understanding their productions instead in light of emulation of ancient statuary, an emulation that fed a rising market in classicizing antiquities both sculptural and literary. Philosopher David Lewis, in treating the particular philosophical problems of counterfactuals in language, launched the controversial idea that possible worlds 16 Berry

1999, xi–xii. in Sevenster 1961, 2. 18 Rosenmeyer 2001, 2006; Ehrman, 2013, 43–45. 19 Holzberg 1996. 20 Rosenmeyer 2001, 198. Rosenmeyer, in fact, particularly links these “pseudo-historical letter collections” to the second sophistic (Rosenmeyer 2006). 21 Rosenmeyer 2001, 197. 22 Loci classici for these debates are Syme 1972; Speyer 1971. 23 Ehrman 2013, 29–67. 17 A. Fleury,

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are not only mental thought experiments: they concretely exist, and ours is one world among them.24 The extreme stance of his version of modal reality usefully reminds us of the links between ideas of historical narrative, necessity, causation, and possibility that were also toyed with in antiquity. We could go back to Aristotle’s famous if offhanded statement of the contrast between the poet and the historian in the Poetics (1451ab) A poet’s object is not to tell what actually happened but what could and would happen either probably or inevitably. The difference between a historian and a poet is not that one writes in prose and the other in verse – indeed the writings of Herodotus could be put into verse and yet would still be a kind of history, whether written in metre or not. The real difference is this, that one tells what happened and the other what might happen (διαφέρει, τῷ τὸν μὲν τὰ γενόμενα λέγειν, τὸν δὲ οἷα ἂν γένοιτο). For this reason poetry is something more philosophical and more weighty than history, because poetry tends to give general truths while history gives particular facts. By a “general truth” I mean the sort of thing that a certain type of man will do or say either probably or necessarily.25

Aristotle’s comment that “one tells what happened and the other what might happen” seems straightforward, but it might be surprising to learn that the poet, with his or her affinity for the possible and the general rather than the particular and the factual, is considered the more philosophical and serious contributor. There is a thin line between the indicative and the optative, between “what happened and … what might happen.” In the case of the Pauline pseudepigrapha, as well as novelistic literature such as the Acts of Paul and Thecla that Tertullian abjures, scholars often employ terms like deception and forgery, wondering about the intention of such writers as they claimed to be someone else.26 Even in the case of texts not considered scripture – the “epistolary fictions” of Plato and others, written long after their lives –, scholars become tetchy about issues of authenticity and intent.27 Yet the example of the Letters of Themistocles shows us that epistolary fictions were working out possible histories with no necessary concern for fixing one historical reality. The Letters of Themistocles contains one epistolary narrative that works through “two possible  Lewis 1979; see also Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy s. v. David Lewis Metaphysics, s. v. David Lewis. 25 Trans. Fyfe 1932, slightly modified. 26 Clarke 2002, 442–45; Ehrman 2013, 30–31 esp. n. 3 on intention: “reasonable assumptions about (past) intention can be made.” 27 Rosenmeyer 2001. Those who argue that letters like those of Paul and Seneca or other epistolary narratives of the second century and beyond fall into the category of forgeries – a discussion often peppered with words like “inauthentic,” “innocent,” “deceit,” and “lies” – have not yet sufficiently recognized the rhetorical nature of claims of forgery and deception in the ancient world as in the modern. Scholars recognize that orthodoxy and heresy are prescriptive rather than descriptive terms; since Walter Bauer and before we recognize the ways in which early Christian writers traced – or, we could say, fabricated and forged – apostolic lineages to demonstrate the purity of their teachings and practices. 24

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responses” of Themistocles to the situation of his exile from Athens.28 “We are introduced to one man’s two distinct personae, but what is unusual here is that we are not asked to reconcile them.”29 In such epistolary narratives, a famous name is used as a device to develop a historical possibility; the influence and authority of a past figure is worked out in the present of the writing of such texts. Ancient writers had flexible notions of authorship, were themselves coauthors (as seen in the majority of Paul’s genuine letters), engaged in practices that led to manuscript changes and textual fluidity, and participated in elite practices of hearing and reading in community as well as alone.30 Viewing ancient texts through a framework of modernist ideas of authorship and authenticity occludes our ability to see the diversity of debate that went on in antiquity as today. Close observation of ancient texts reveals tensions within the cultural conversation at large around history, fiction, truth. From observing these tensions, we can begin to attend carefully to how arguments are launched for rhetorical purposes to various audiences.

III. On History I have just argued that the Letters of Paul and Seneca produce not a fiction or forgery but a possible history of what might have happened if Paul had met Seneca. Explicit debates about history and the possible occurred at a time more proximate to Paul’s letters and the pseudepigraphal writings they spurred. Turning to the first century b.c.e., we find that Cicero, in his now fragmentary On Fate, states, “It is also necessary to expound the meaning and the theory of propositions, called in Greek axiomata; what validity these have when they make a statement about a future event and about something that may happen or may not is a difficult field of inquiry, entitled by philosophers Peri Dynatōn” (Cicero De fato 1.1)31 – Concerning What’s Possible, we might translate it. Speculations about fate are not the same as speculations about historiography. Yet in the same author we find interesting tensions: in his letter to Lucceius and in his De Oratore, we find two articulations of historiography, which could be read as contradictory.32 In the former (ca. 55 b.c.e.), Cicero begs L. Lucceius to write about his own – that is, Cicero’s – situation: “a letter can’t blush,” he says, as he advises him how to write history. Cicero recommends that Lucceius follow a single theme and personality (Cicero’s own), allowing a “greater scope for rich 28 Rosenmeyer

2006, 51; Penwill 1978. 2006, 53. 30 Johnson, 2000; Johnson 2010. 31 Trans. Rackham 1942. 32 Woodman 2011, 242–43. 29 Rosenmeyer

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elaboration [ornatiora]” (2).33 Woodman’s translation and glosses highlight the language of elaboration: So I repeat – elaborate [ornes] my activities even against your better judgement, and in the process disregard the laws of historiography [et in eo leges historiae neglegas]: that prejudice [gratiam], which you discussed quite beautifully in one or other of your prefaces and which, you revealed, could no more influence you than Pleasure could influence Hercules in Xenophon’s book, well, please don’t suppress it if it nudges you strongly in my favour, but simply let your affection [amori] for me take a degree of precedence over the truth [ueritas]. (3)34

In his letter to Lucceius, Cicero offers himself as a source for historiography, a historiography that is rhetorically crafted to affect the readers’ affect: those who have not had troubles of their own “experience pleasure [iucunda] even as they take pity on them [others who have had misfortune]” and can “derive pleasure [delectate] as well as a kind of pity.”35 Cicero here plays with a trope of historiography: that historians’ pedagogy works through the emotions, stoking the reader’s passions and then teaching the reader to put his or her own experience into a broader context.36 And as Tertullian suggested of the presbyter who crafted the Acts of Paul, Cicero here argues for love over truth. Cicero’s characters in De Oratore offer a different viewpoint on history. Antonius talks about historiographical evolution this way: “For history began as a mere compilation of annals (erat enim historia nihil aliud nisi annalium confectio)” in which a high priest would write the events of the year of his office, and post them at his house. “A similar style of writing has been adopted by many who, without any rhetorical ornament, have left behind them bare records of dates, personalities, places and events (qui sine ullis ornamentis monumenta solum temporum, hominum, locorum gestarumque rerum reliquerunt; De Orat. 2.52).”37 He goes on to say:

33 Trans. Woodman 2011, 242. Cicero’s own rhetoric here is frothily self-conscious: “Of course I’m well aware how disgracefully I’m behaving,” he writes, yet he continues, “having first landed you with this considerable responsibility (though you can always plead other engagements and turn me down), I’m now demanding elaborate treatment [ornes]. What if you don’t think my achievements deserve elaboration [ornanda]? Still, once the limits of decency have been passed, one should be well and truly shameless.” 34 Trans. Woodman 2011, 242–43. 35 Trans. Woodman 2011, 243. 36 Cicero here offers a trope also found, for example, in Polybios’s Histories. History is pedagogical: insofar as it shows the functioning of fate in the world, people are able to put into context their own fates: “But all historians, one may say without exception, and in no half-hearted manner, but making this the beginning and end of their labour, have impressed on us that the soundest education and training for a life of active politics is the study of History, and that surest and indeed the only method of learning how to bear bravely the vicissitudes of fortune, is to recall the calamities of others” (Polybios Hist. 1.1.2; trans. Shuckburgh). 37 Trans. Sutton and Rackham 1942.

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Do you not see how great a responsibility that the orator has in historical writing? (Videtisne, quantum munus sit oratoris historia?) I rather think that for fluency and diversity of diction it comes first. Yet nowhere do I find this art supplied with any kind of independent directions from the rhetoricians; indeed its rules lie open to the view. For who does not know history’s first law to be that an author must not dare to tell anything but the truth? And its second that he must make bold to tell the whole truth? That there must be no suggestion of partiality anywhere in his writings? Nor of malice? This groundwork of course is familiar to everyone; the completed structure however rests upon the story and the diction (Haec scilicet fundamenta nota sunt omnibus; ipsa autem exaedificatio posita est in rebus et verbis). De orat. 2.62

Between his letter to Lucceius and his De oratore, Cicero seems to enact the kind of struggle seen in recent historiography – for instance, as the traditions of the Annales school, with their exquisite but potentially dulling details and archives, stand over and against debates over the lines between history, fiction, and storytelling discussed by the likes of Hayden White.38 Cicero, writing to Lucceius, puts it this way, promising that if Lucceius frames history in terms of Cicero himself, the result will be “variety mixed with the kind of pleasure”: “For my experiences will provide you with plenty of variety [uarietatem] when you come to write – variety mixed with the kind of pleasure [uoluptatis] which can hold the attention of your readers. For nothing is more calculated to entertain a reader [delectationem lectoris] than changes of circumstance and the vicissitudes of fortune [temporum uarietates fortunaeque uicissitudines].”39 This may remind us of Cicero’s comment about fate and causality: How is history a practical discipline in the midst of a larger debate that is both philosophical (what is past, time, cause, fate) and rhetorical (what is ornament, smooth and flowing talk, etc.)? Cicero crafts his view of history according to the larger rhetorical context; he plays out the conflicts and debates about historiography within his own corpus. We need not try to puzzle out a systematic view of history within Cicero’s works. Yet scholars do attempt this for Cicero and for other ancient writers. Such approaches are unhelpful insofar as they remain attached to a particular view of what modern historiography is: that is, unbiased, “objective” work. Woodman, for instance, struggles to explain how, if ancient writers like Cicero knew there was a(n honest, authentic) hard core to history, they also argued that inventio was essential to the production of history. The ancients, as Woodman puts it, “had neither the instinct nor the capability to distinguish fictional elements in an account as we can.”40 So too T. P. Wiseman bifurcates the question this way: “The question ‘is it true?’ addresses historia, enquiry, or research, what we regard

38 White

1996; see also Ginzburg 2012. Woodman 2011, 243. 40 Woodman 2011, 272–74. 39 Trans.

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as the historian’s proper business; the question ‘is it worthy telling?’ addresses aphēgēsis, narration, the business of the story-teller.”41 Bowersock, in his Fiction as History, characterizes the Greek world as one where truth, myth, legend are hopelessly intertwined,42 in which “rewriting the past – the intrusion of fiction into what was taken to be history – becomes from this period of Lucillius and Martial an increasingly conspicuous feature of the Graeco-Roman world.”43 Bowersock’s terminology of “hopelessly intertwined” and “intrusion” colors his otherwise important study with a negative moral judgment. We can instead take Bowersock’s insight about the intertwining of history and fiction, and the utility of novels for writing a social history of antiquity, in a new direction. What are the various practices of history in antiquity? Lucian, Naumachiai, and More Cicero with his complex renderings of history partakes in a larger cultural moment. As many have discussed, this complex rendering of history may have emerged from the very educational system of the day.44 Raffaella Cribiore explains these practices: “The first written exercises,” she writes, “were narratives based on fables and myths.”45 But history, too, was involved. Those who practiced declamations in Rome often worked on suasoriae, “imaginative deliberative themes … which advised a historical figure on some course of action and were mostly based on historical themes taken not only from Greek but also from recent Roman history.”46 In Greco-Roman Egypt, declamations or meletai which were historical in theme were more common than fictive ones.47 Cribiore explains that “imitation of literary models” at the “core of a program in rhetoric” extended also to “exercises of impersonation.” The student would have “to expand on the verbal reaction of a certain mythological or literary figure in a given situation,” whether a scene from the Iliad, “Hesiod inspired by the Muses, or even, in the fourth century and in a Christian milieu, Cain and Abel at the moment of the slaying.” Such exercises also extended to the invention of historical speeches.48 As Cribiore explains, “Anachronisms, fabrications, and  Wiseman 2011, 327. 1997, 1. 43 Bowersock 1997, 9, preface; see Hopkins 1993. 44 Ehrman, 2013, 55–61 on invention of speeches in history. 45 Cribiore 2001, 222; see also Rosenmeyer 2006, 97. 46 Cribiore 2001, 56–57. 47 Cribiore 2001. “By the time a student approached historical declamations, he had acquired a knowledge of orators and historians that was constantly fueled through reading,” writes Cribiore. 48 Cribiore 2001, 35; Lucian Quomodo Hist. 71: “If a person has to be introduced to make a speech, above all let his language suit his person and his subject, and next let these also be as clear as possible. It is then, however, that you can play the orator and show your eloquence” (71; trans. Kilburn 1959). 41

42 Bowersock

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incongruities, which were also not uncommon in historical declamations composed outside schools, abound in exercises … Although it started from history, it considered historical reality only as an excuse to weave a fictional pattern.”49 Writing and performing (in oratory) historical possibility was a key element of elite education. The second-century satirist Lucian of Samosata performs this tension in his writings. The majority of his How to Write History (Quomodo historia conscribenda sit) is spent trash-talking about others who claim to be historians. His constructive contribution – that is, his view of what history should be – also becomes clear, and is oddly serious for someone like Lucian: “History cannot admit a lie, even a tiny one,” he writes.50 He hammers his point home: Now some think they can make a satisfactory distinction in history between what gives pleasure and what is useful, and for this reason work eulogy into it as giving pleasure and enjoyment to its readers; but do you see how far they are from the truth? In the first place, the distinction they draw is false: history has one task and one end – what is useful –, and that comes from truth alone. (9)51

We might think, having heard this from Lucian, “Well, it’s as simple as that. This idea of historical possibility or of history being something complex to write, to think through, to live is simply a later invention of an oddball like David Lewis or a convoluted philosophical problem for the likes of Cicero and company.” Yet from Lucian’s pen also proceeded his True Histories – ἀληθῆ διηγήματα – a purported history of travel to the moon and battles in outer space. As commentators Georgiadou and Larmour put it, “Lucian’s main concern in this work is the relationship between truth and lies.”52 In the introduction, he advertises how “enticing” and novel the story is, in part “because I tell all kinds of lies in a plausible and specious way” and “because everything in my story is more or less comical parody of one or another of the poets, historians and philosophers of old, who have written much that smacks of miracles and fables” (1.2).53 The challenge of his work lies in one of his introductory lines: “But my lying is far more honest than theirs, for though I tell the truth in nothing else, I shall at least be truthful in saying that I am a liar. I think I can escape the censure of the world by my own admission that I am not telling a word of truth” (1.4).54 Using the technique of pseudo-documentarism, Lucian playfully challenges the reader to 49 Cribiore

2001, 238. Kilburn 1959, 11. 51 Trans. Kilburn, 1959, 15; see also Arrian, Anabasis of Alexander, 1.preface on assessing sources for historiography. 52 Georgiadou and Larmour 1998, 1. 53 Trans. Harmon 1921, 249, 251. 54 Trans. Harmon 1921, 253. Lucian proudly declares – in contrast to his truth-telling rivals – that autopsia is out of the question: he hasn’t seen anything, and the things which he describes can’t even exist anyway (1.4). 50 Trans.

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rise to the occasion and to employ his or her paideia to notice how Lucian’s work is a “hypertext” of Homer’s Odyssey, a book that self-authenticates by means of (fake) epigraphic evidence and pseudo-documentary evidence, and a project that crafts itself as documentary and fragmentary: after a shipwreck, the author promises more volumes, but True History itself cuts off. As Mheallaigh puts it, Lucian’s game this time is with the ontology of his own text: his apparent ending in mediis rebus suggests that the “other books” of the Verae Historiae are themselves a “lost” text, perhaps awaiting discovery some day, giving the Verae Historiae the even more “authentic” status of a fragmentary pseudo-document. … the ultimate joke of the Verae Historiae is to show how even complete absence or non-existence can, in a way, substantiate an existence for fictive texts.55

“Pseudo-documentarism in its various manifestations,” Mheallaigh writes, “raises the stakes sharply in the game of make-believe, because it asks readers not only to concede the text’s fictional truth but also to enter into the fantasy of historical truthfulness as well: in other words, it fictionalizes the issue of historical truth – an ethically worrying thing to do – and in doing so, it tests the limits of the reader’s grasp of the rules that govern make-believe.”56 If we were to ask, “Did the real Lucian agree with his statement that history is truth, in How to Write History, or his assertion of lies, in True Histories?,” we would miss the point. Lucian’s True Histories challenges the reader: Who’s to say what’s true and what’s a lie? By what criteria does one decide? And what does it mean to enjoy narrative, even if it’s a falsehood? Enjoying the sometimes violent practices of historical possibility extended out of the classroom and off Lucian’s written pages into the realm of Roman spectacle. Kathleen Coleman’s article “Launching into History” puzzles through an account in Dio Cassius (ca. 155–235), who discusses “aquatic displays forming part of Titus’ one hundred days of spectacles to celebrate the inauguration in a.d. 80 of the Flavian Amphitheatre,” better known as the Coliseum, and at the Stagnum Augusti, that is, the lake or pool of Augustus in Rome.57 Dio says: [At the Flavian amphitheater:] He [Titus] also brought in people on ships; they engaged in a naval battle there presenting the Corcyreans versus the Corinthians. … [At the Stagnum Augusti:] On the third day [there was] a naval battle involving three thousand men, followed by an infantry battle: the ‘Athenians’ conquered the ‘Syracusans’ (those being the designations the men fought under), landed on the island, and stormed and captured a wall that had been built around the monument. (Dio 66.25.2–4)58

As Coleman asks, “Why stage a replay of an historical event (in this case the Athenians’ unsuccessful attack on Syracuse in 414 b.c.), only to allow the out55 Mheallaigh

2008, 422. 2008, 404. 57 Coleman 1993, 48. 58 Trans. Coleman 1993, 48. 56 Mheallaigh

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come to contradict the facts of history?”59 It’s not as if such reenactments of historical events, whether under Titus or other emperors, were easy to stage. In the case of Titus, Coleman takes Dio’s account that three thousand participated as “marines,” not including the oarsmen, and attempts to map this participation at the Flavian Amphitheater; she speculates that Julius Caesar and Claudius likely used prisoners of war and criminals condemned on capital charges as their performers, and triremes and biremes – real ships – had to be expended for some of these displays in the Augustan period.60 The difficulty of such spectacles did not end with bringing together the manpower – and expecting some to die – or the ships – and expecting some to be destroyed. In Coleman’s words, “The spectacle of aquatic displays staged on what was apparently terra firma realizes a type of adynaton, all the more miraculous in that sea-battles are fought in the middle of a land-locked city” – that is, the Coliseum is flooded  – and a lake becomes dry land, as planks are laid across part of the Stagnum Augusti.61 Titus may upend expectations on three levels: the lake becomes land and the land lake; history can be overturned; criminals can become heroes. Coleman’s term adynaton, “impossible,” here may remind us of Cicero’s philosophical discussion of fate, in which he said that he would speculate about what the Greeks called Peri Dynatōn – on what things are possible. These naumachiai are a practice of the history of the possible, in which historical battles can end up having a different outcome. Other Historical Possibilities The Letters of Paul and Seneca as an epistolary corpus is a historical possibility born of other historical possibilities set forth earlier. The Letters presents Paul as a philosophical force: this historical possibility of philosophical training or conversation lies in Paul’s correspondence itself. His letters contain intimations of Stoic philosophical ideas – whether reference to enkrateia or self-control in 1 Corinthians (esp. 7:9; also 9:25) or language of the rejection of present suffering in Philippians, or perhaps, as Stanley Stowers has argued, the presentation of a philosophical inner struggle in Romans 7.62 The Letters of Paul and Seneca offers the historical possibility of an apostle Paul who formed himself in relation to Roman power and Roman leaders like Seneca. Again, Paul’s own letters form the ground for such historical possibility, whether in 1 Thessalonians’ image of Christ’s appearance or parousia like a triumphant emperor who leads his people out of the city and out of the surrounding necropoleis in a trumpet-filled pompē

59 Coleman

1993, 49. 1993, 48–74. 61 Coleman 1993, 69. 62 Stowers 1994. 60 Coleman,

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into the heavens, or in Romans 13’s odd (to some) insistence that those in Christ should be subject to the reigning authorities. We can think of the Letters of Paul and Seneca blossoming not only out of Paul himself but also out of the earlier tradition of writing in Paul’s name. The Pastoral Epistles, for instance (1 and 2 Timothy and Titus) were written in Paul’s name in the early second century. They offer up a Paul who, in letters, writes a kind of martyr’s testament, a summation of his own ideas. The writer may work within the tradition of the epistolary fiction that Rosenmeyer discusses as blossoming in the so-called Second Sophistic.63 This historically possible Paul argues for marriage (1 Tim 4:3), even argues that various leadership roles in the ekklēsia must be grounded in proper household management (e. g., 3:4–5), argues for women’s silence and submissiveness, and that “woman will be saved through bearing children” (1 Tim 2:15).64 A contrasting historical possibility was spun out with the Acts of Paul and Thecla, the text that inspired Tertullian’s calumny and was written “out of love for Paul.” The Acts of Paul and Thecla shares data with the Pastorals or similar traditions; it has characters with similar names, and treats similar issues – namely, marriage, childbirth, how to deal with the political powers of the day – but with radically different outcomes. While the Pastorals rail against those “who forbid marriage and enjoin abstinence from foods which God created” (1 Tim 4:3), the Paul of the Acts of Paul and Thecla says, “Blessed are they who have kept the flesh pure, for they shall become a temple of God; … blessed are the continent, for to them will God speak; … blessed are the bodies of virgins.”65 One of those blessed virgins is Thecla, a young woman set to marry a high-status man; listening to Paul, she is transformed and rejects the idea of marriage. Eventually, in the midst of persecution, she baptizes herself – Paul had refused her again and again – and he finally commissions her to go out and to preach the gospel. But this is not the only time we meet Thecla in early Christian history: there were famous shrines associated with her in Seleucia in Asia Minor and in Egypt.66 An early image of Thecla with Paul appears in a small cave (about 15 meters in length, 2.1 meters wide and 2.3 meters high) above the city of Ephesos, about 80 meters above sea level, on the north side of Bülbüldag, on a cliffside overlooking the harbor and the lower part of the city, including the theater.67 The cave was 63 See Dibelius/Conzelmann 1972, 1–8 and Koester 1989; Glaser 2012; but in contrast see Ehrman 2013, 43–45, who could exclude the Pastorals from Rosenmeyer’s category but accept the Letters of Paul and Seneca as standing in the tradition of epistolary fictions. 64 These letters are interlarded with epistolary conventions: “I hope to come to you soon, but I am writing these instructions to you so that, if I am delayed, you may know how one ought to behave in the household of God” (1 Tim 3:14–15a); “when you come, bring the cloak that I left with Carpus at Troas, and also the books, and above all the parchments” (2 Tim 4:13). 65 Trans. Schneemelcher and Kasser 1992. 66 On the latter, see Davis 2008. 67 Ohm Wright 2004, 227–29.

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once fronted by some sort of architectural structure and served as an active site for Christian festivals into the twentieth century, as worshippers from the nearby mountain village of Sirinçe would process there. Over the centuries, it seems that three layers of fresco and a layer of whitewash covered the cave walls over time. At one point – the middle layer of fresco, as Ruth Ohm Wright reports one saw a fresco of at least three characters, labeled Paul/os, The[kla], and Theokli[a] (Thecla’s mother), to one’s right (that is, on its western wall), as one entered (fig. 1).68 This likely fifth-century fresco indicates that possible history is not only practiced in writing but also instantiated in iconography and in spaces of worship. In a city in which Paul was well known to have stayed – he mentions this in his own writings, and the canonical Acts of the Apostles uses Ephesos as the setting for a confrontation between Paul and artisans associated with the city’s goddess, Artemis – the story of Paul and Thecla was also clearly important at some point. So, too, archaeological evidence elsewhere indicates the continued playing out of possible histories for Paul – a possibility even more significant than that of Thecla at Ephesos, because at Philippi it is possible that the Byzantine city came to map Paul’s first-century travels there. Paul had written a letter to the Philippians, and the second-century Acts of the Apostles contains a scene set in the city of Philippi, in which Paul’s Roman citizenship does not prevent him from being jailed, but allows him to terrify the local magistrates once he has been released. (The Letters of Paul and Seneca likely picked up its datum of Paul as Roman citizen from the traditions of the Acts of the Apostles.) In Acts 16, Paul and Silas are stripped and beaten and thrown into prison, having been accused of being Jews who are “disturbing our city. They advocate customs which it is not lawful for us Romans to accept or practice” (Acts 16:20–21). Paul – likely this Paul – continued to be important at Philippi. A large octagonal church complex complete with parecclesiastical buildings – a baptistery, a fountain – adjoined a hostel area and what may have been an episkopeion or, more likely, an area of workshops and food processing. This octagonal church overlaid a basilica which contained a mosaic inscription: “Porphyrius, bishop, made the mosaic of the basilica of Paul in Christ (ΠΟΡΦΥΡΙΟΣ ΕΠΙΣΚΟΠΟΣ ΤΗΝ ΚΕΝΤΗΣΙΝ ΤΗΣ ΒΑΣΙΛΙΚΗΣ ΠΑΥΛΟΥ ΕΠΟΙΗΣΕΝ ΕΝ ΧΡΩ)” (fig. 2).69 The names of Porphyrios, Paul, and Christ are picked out in gold tesserae. There is only “one known Philippian bishop of this name; his signature appears in the Acts of the Council of Serdika (343/344 CE),” giving a very early date to this church and its honoring of Paul.70 By the fifth and sixth centuries, Philippi had a large number of enormous churches in close proximity to each other (fig. 2*). 68 Ohm

Wright 2004; Pillinger 2000. 2005, Rome; fig. 2. 70 Koester, 2005 on Philippi; Bakirtzis and Koester 1998. 69 Koester

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Figure 1. Thecla and Paul from the grotto in Ephesus. Photograph: J. Gregory Given and the Harvard New Testament Archaeology Project.

Figure 2. Mosaic inscription. Early Christian Basilica at the Octagonal Complex, Philippi. Photograph: Helmut Koester and the Harvard New Testament Archaeology Project, courtesy of Harvard Visual Information Access olvsite36675.

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Some have hypothesized that there was a history of Paul having been martyred at Philippi, not Rome.71 Some have hypothesized that the proximity and size of the church structures of Philippi indicates a pilgrimage cycle there, one that probably celebrated various aspects of Paul’s “history” as depicted in Acts, including his beating and his imprisonment.72 These physical manifestations continue the literary practice of working out possible histories of Paul: of his interactions with Thecla, celebrated in a cave in Ephesos; of his possible martyrdom or at least fame in Philippi, marked in what was likely a site of pilgrimage there.

IV. Conclusions Lucian writes, “That, then, is the sort of man the historian should be: fearless, incorruptible, free, a friend of free expression and the truth, intent, as the comic poet says, on calling a fig a fig …, showing neither pity nor shame nor obsequiousness, an impartial judge, well disposed to all [men] up to the point of not giving one side more than its due, in his books a stranger and a man without a country, independent, subject to no sovereign, not reckoning what this or that man will think, but stating the facts” (Quomodo hist. 41).73 The modern period wasn’t the first to come up with the notion of an objective historian. But, as Lucian knew, it’s not so simple. It’s hard to tell lies from history, and historiography is about the invention and adjudication of possible histories.74 What did early Christians wish they knew about the apostle Paul? Sometimes they answered that question by engaging with historical possibility. They engaged in narratives of what might have been, whether in the form of a novel like the Acts of Paul and Thecla or whether with an epistolary narrative like the Letters of Paul and Seneca. Sometimes they made a city into a site of pilgrimage to a possible history: for example, one of Paul’s martyrdom at Philippi. I began this chapter with a quotation from Tertullian, one that indicates contestation about the story of Thecla. He wrote, “For how would it seem a proper fit with faith (fidei) that he [Paul] should concede the right to teach and baptize to a female, when it was he who resolutely did not permit a woman the right to teach? ‘Let them keep silence,’ he says, ‘and ask their husbands’ advice at home’ (see 1 Cor 14:33b–35).”75 Tertullian uses one historical possibility – Paul’s writ71 Bakirtzis

and Koester 1998. 2005; Bakirtzis and Koester 1998. 73 Trans. Kilburn 1959, 57. 74 As Dipesh Chakrabarty suggests, we should take seriously histories that “[call] attention to the limits of historicizing,” “help[ing] us distance ourselves from the imperious instincts of the discipline – that idea that everything can be historicized or that one should always historicize” (Chakrabarty 2000, 112). 75 Trans. modified from Souter 1919 and Evans 1964. 72 Mentzos

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ings about women’s silence in 1 Corinthians 1476 – to trump another historical possibility – the story of Thecla, a story that was likely supported by other aspects of Paul’s writings: his call against marriage in 1 Corinthians 7 and his acknowledgment of women’s positions of leadership throughout his letters. The afterlives of Paul make sense as early Christian improvisations of history. Early Christians worked out of multiple historical possibilities (some of which may be more or less ethically attractive to us) clustered around this important apostle then saint. This perspective on early Christian production around Paul relieves us of the impossible problem of asking about authorial intention: What was the writer of the Pastorals doing when he took on Paul’s voice, and was he intending to be deceptive? What did the writer of Ephesians intend when he larded the household codes into a Christian writing, recommending that slaves treat their masters “in Christ” and thus giving theological power to social, economic, and power hierarchies? Those who read such texts may wish to evaluate the ethics displayed within a given text; we may wish, for example, that early Christians did not write that slaves should obey their masters and that 1 Timothy did not insist upon women’s subordination. But earliest Christian history is not rendered pure of such injustices by claiming that a text like the Pastorals is mere forgery; Paul as author function must be taken as seriously as Paul. The ethics of interpretation of this “Paul” lie with us. This “Paul” reveals creations and contestations of possible histories in antiquity. Not all of these histories were good histories – good in the sense of supported by adequate data, good in the sense of moving toward a more ethical world. Yet this investigation into ancient historiography encourages us to take seriously the role of the historian while recognizing that map is not territory and that we are weakly sketching imperfect maps, that we need to be humble in our enterprise of writing history not because we work with scripture but because our conclusions will always be provisional. Ancient writings tell us that sometimes truth must be exceeded in the practices of history. Cicero insists upon the “groundwork” of impartiality and truth, but then points to the “completed structure” or exaedifacatio of “the story and the diction” or the events and the words (De orat. 2.62). Students performed the possible speeches of historical figures and so mastered the distant and recent past, embodying it and preparing for speeches in the present. Ships sailed to represent possible other pasts as Greeks battled Persians again in Rome, displaying Rome’s 76 Scholars debate whether this passage on women’s silence is original to the writing of 1 Corinthians or a scribal interpolation. In several manuscripts, verses 34–35 are displaced to after verse 40; in other manuscripts, including the early P46 (third century), these verses appear as following verse 33 (Thiselton, 2000, 1148). Some have hypothesized that because this text “wanders,” it may not have been original, but a scribal gloss (Fee, 1987), but Wire (1990) demonstrates that the “wandering” nature of the passage traces back only to one manuscript, thus strengthening the argument that this is not an interpolation (Thiselton 2000, 1148–9).

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connection to that famous past and its power to transform land to sea and sea to land in practices of history that exceeded the past. And love sometimes compels and exceeds truth in the writing of (a possible) history. Cicero in his letter to Lucceius begs him to “simply let your affection [amori] for me take a degree of precedence over the truth [ueritas]” (3).77 The Asian presbyter wrote acts of Paul out of love for Paul, according to Tertullian. In the Letters of Paul and Seneca we hear Paul accuse Seneca of acting perhaps foolishly out of a love for Paul. These ancient loves are compelling and dangerous forces, helping the historian to think about what she writes out of love, and to whom that love is directed.

Bibliography Bakirtzis, Charambalos, and Helmut Koester. 1998. Philippi at the Time of Paul and after His Death. Harrisburg: Trinity. Baum, Armin. 2013. “Authorship and Pseudepigraphy in Early Christian Literature: A Translation of the Most Important Source Texts and an Annotated Bibliography.” Pages 9–63 in Paul and Pseudepigraphy. Edited by Stanley E. Porter and Gregory P. Fewster. Leiden: Brill. Berry, Paul. 1999. Correspondence between Paul and Seneca, a.d. 61–65. Lewiston, N. Y.: Mellen. Bowersock, G. W. 1997. Fiction as History: Nero to Julian. Berkeley: University of California Press. Chakrabarty, Dipesh. 2000. Provincializing Europe: Postcolonial Thought and Historical Difference. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Clarke, Kent D. 2002. “The Problem of Pseudonymity in Biblical Literature and Its Implication for Canon Formation.” Pages 440–68 in The Canon Debate. Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson. Coleman, Kathleen. 1993. “Launching into History: Aquatic Displays in the Early Empire.” JRS 83: 48–74. Cribiore, Raffaella. 2001. Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt. Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press. Davis, Stephen J. 2008. The Cult of Saint Thecla: A Tradition of Women’s Piety in Late Antiquity. New York: Oxford University Press. Deissmann, Adolf. 1910. Light from the Ancient East. Translated by Lionel Strachan. London: Hodder and Stoughton. Originally published as Licht vom Osten 1908. Dibelius, Martin, and Hans Conzelmann. 1972. The Pastoral Epistles: A Commentary on the Pastoral Epistles. Edited by Helmut Koester. Translated by Philip Buttolph and Adela Yarbro. Hermeneia: A Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible. Minneapolis: Fortress. Ehrman, Bart D. 2013. Forgery and Counterforgery: The Use of Literary Deceit in Early Christian Polemics. New York: Oxford University Press. Evans, Ernest, trans. 1964. Tertullian’s Homily on Baptism: The Text Edited with an Introduction, Translation, and Commentary by Ernest Evans. London: SPCK. 77 Trans.

Woodman 2011, 243.

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Fee, Gordon D. 1987. The First Epistle to the Corinthians. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. Foucault, Michel. 1977. “What Is an Author?” Pages 113–38 in Language, Counter-Memory, Practice: Selected Essays and Interviews. Edited by Donald F. Bouchard. Ithaca, N. Y.: Cornell University Press. Fyfe, W. H., trans. 1932. Aristotle in 23 Volumes. Vol. 23. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press; London: Heinemann. Ginzburg, Carlo. 2012. Threads and Traces: True False Fictive. Berkeley: University of California Press. Glaser, Timo. 2012. “Telling What’s Beyond the Known.” Pages 203–214 in The Ancient Novel and Early Christian and Jewish Narrative: Fictional Intersections. Edited by Marília P. Futre Pinheiro, Judith Perkins, and Richard Pervo. Ancient Narrative Supplementum 16. Groningen: Barkhuis. Harmon, A. M., trans. 1921. Lucian, Volume III. Loeb Classical Library 130. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Hodkinson, Owen, and Patricia A. Rosenmeyer. 2013. “Introduction.” Pages 1–36 in Epistolary Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature. Edited by Owen Hodkinson, Patricia A. Rosenmeyer, et al. Leiden: Brill. Holzberg, Niklas. 1996. “Novel-like Works of Extended Prose Fiction II.” Pages 619–54 in The Novel in the Ancient World. Edited by Gareth Schmeling. Leiden: Brill. Hopkins, Keith. 1993. “Novel Evidence for Roman Slavery.” Past and Present 138, no. 1: 3–27. James, M. R., ed. 1924. The New Testament Apocrypha. Oxford: Clarendon. Johnson, William. 2000. “Toward a Sociology of Reading in Classical Antiquity.” American Journal of Philology 121, no. 4 (Winter): 593–627. –. 2010. Readers and Reading Culture in the High Roman Empire: A Study of Elite Communities. New York: Oxford University Press. Kilburn, K., trans. 1959. Lucian, Volume IV. Loeb Classical Library 430. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Koester, Helmut. ed. 2005. Cities of Paul: Images and Interpretations for the Harvard New Testament Archaeology Project. CD-ROM. Minneapolis: Fortress. Lewis, David. 1979. “Counterfactual Dependence and Time’s Arrow.” Noûs 13: 455–76. Mentzos, Aristoteles. 2005. “Zhth/mata topografi/aj tw/n Xristianikw/n Fili/ppwn.” Egnatia 9: 101–156. Ní Mheallaigh, Karen. 2008. “Pseudo-Documentarism and the Limits of Ancient Fiction.” American Journal of Philology 129, no. 3: 403–431. Ohm Wright, Ruth. 2004. “Rendezvous with Thekla and Paul in Ephesos: Excavating the Evidence.” Pages 227–42 in Distant Voices Drawing Near: Essays in Honor of Antoinette Clark Wire. Edited by Holly E. Hearon. Collegeville, Minn.: Order of Saint Benedict. Penwill, J. L. 1978. “The Letters of Themistokles: An Epistolary Novel?” Antichthon 12: 83–103. Pillinger, Renate. 2000. “Neue Entdeckungen in der sogenannten Paulusgrotte von Ephesos.” Mitteilungen zur Christlichen Archäologie 6: 16–29. Rackham, H., trans. 1942. Cicero: On the Orator, Book 3; On Fate; Stoic Paradoxes; Divisions of Oratory. Loeb Classical Library 349. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Ramelli, Ilaria. 1997. “L’epistolario apocrifo Seneca-san Paolo: alcune osservazioni.” Vetera Christianorum 34: 299–310.

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–. 2013. “The Pseudepigraphical Correspondence between Seneca and Paul: A Reassessment.” Pages 319–36 in Paul and Pseudepigraphy. Edited by Stanley E. Porter and Gregory P. Fewster. Leiden: Brill. –. 2014. “A Pseudepigraphon Inside a Pseudepigraphon? The Seneca-Paul Correspondence and the Letters Added Afterwards.” Journal for the Study of Pseudepigrapha 23.4: 259–289. Römer, Cornelia. 1992. “The Correspondence between Seneca and Paul.” Pages 46–53 in New Testament Apocrypha. Rev. ed. Vol. 2. Edited by W. Schneemelcher and R. M. Wilson. Cambridge: Clarke & Co. Rosenmeyer, Patricia. 2001. Ancient Epistolary Fictions: The Letter in Greek Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. –. 2006. Ancient Greek Literary Letters: Selections in Translation. London: Routledge. Rothschild, Clare K., and Trevor W. Thompson. 2012. “Galen’s On the Avoidance of Grief: The Question of a Library at Antium.” Classical Philology 107, no. 2: 131–45. Schaff, Philip, and Henry Wace, eds. 1893. Nicene and Post-Nicene Fathers: Second Series. Vol. VI, Jerome: Letters and Select Works. New York: Christian Literature. Schneemelcher, Wilhelm, and Rodolphe Kasser. 1992. “The Acts of Paul.” Pages 1:213– 70 in New Testament Apocrypha. Rev. ed. Vol. 1. Edited by W. Schneemelcher and R. M. Wilson. Cambridge: Clarke & Co. Sevenster, J. N. 1961. Paul and Seneca. Leiden: Brill. Souter, Alexander, trans. 1919. Tertullian’s Treatises: Concerning Prayer, Concerning Baptism. London: Macmillan. Speyer, Wolfgang. 1972. Die literarische Fälschung im heidnischen und christlichen Altertum: Ein Versuch ihrer Deutung. Munich: Beck. Stowers, Stanley K. 1994. A Rereading of Romans: Justice, Jews, and Gentiles. New Haven: Yale University Press. Sutton, E. W., and H. Rackham, trans. 1942. Cicero: On the Orator, Books I–II. Loeb Classical Library 348. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Syme, Ronald. 1972. “Fraud and Imposture.” Pages 1–17 in Pseudepigrapha I. Edited by Kurt von Fritz. Geneva: Vandoeuvres. Thistelton, Anthony C. 2000. The First Epistle to the Corinthians (New International Greek Testament Commentary). Grand Rapids: Eerdmans. White, Hayden. 1996. “Storytelling: Historical and Ideological.” Pages 58–78 in Centuries’ Ends, Narrative Means. Edited by Robert Newman. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Whitmarsh, Tim. 2005. “The Greek Novel: Titles and Genre.” AJP 126: 587–611. Wire, A. C. 1990. The Corinthian Women Prophets. Minneapolis: Fortress Press. Wiseman, T. P. 2011. “Lying Historians: Seven Types of Mendacity.” Pages 314–36 in Greek and Roman Historiography. Edited by John Marincola. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Woodman, A. J. 2011. “Cicero and the Writing of History.” Pages 241–90 in Greek and Roman Historiography. Edited by John Marincola. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Jesus and Dionysian Polymorphism in the Acts of John Dennis R. MacDonald The frequent appearances of outrageous miracles in the so-called Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles may wrongly suggest that they are void of literary or philosophical sophistication. Over the past two decades, however, I have become increasingly convinced that the authors of at least two of these works – the Acts of John and the Acts of Andrew, both Christian Platonists writing in Greek around the year 200 c.e. – expected their more educated readers to detect their philosophical uses of Greek mythology.1 This brief study will argue that the author of the Acts of John rewrote the Lukan version of the calling of former fishermen to follow Jesus; the author not only recognized Luke’s literary debt to a famous story about Dionysus and the pirates but also made the connection more explicit. Here one finds a fascinating case of the growth of a tradition inside the Synoptic Gospels that finds a clever development in later apocryphal narratives. Although the Lukan Evangelist knew the Markan (and in my view the Matthean) version of Jesus calling four fishermen to follow him, his narration greatly expands it. The following columns show the similarities between Mark and Luke: Mark 1:16, 18–19; 4:1–2a (rearranged)

And he began to teach beside the sea and a huge crowd gathered around him… . 1:16 As he passed along the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and Andrew, the brother of Simon, casting nets into the sea; they were fishermen. … 18 Immediately they left their nets and followed him. 19 And going on a bit further, he saw James, the son of Zebedee, and his brother John; they were in a boat repairing the nets… . 4:1b so that he embarked on a boat to sit on the sea. The entire crowd was on the ground near the sea, 2 and he was teaching them many things in parables. 4:1

1 See

Luke 5:1–3 It so happened that when the crowd was pressing him and listening to the word of God, he himself was standing by the lake of Gennesaret 2 and saw two boats moored by the lake. The fishermen had left them

and were washing their nets. Embarking on one of the boats, the one belonging to Simon, he asked him to put out a little from land. While sitting on the boat, he was teaching the crowds. 3

especially MacDonald 1994; MacDonald 2006.

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Luke’s subsequent miracle story has no parallel in Mark: 4 When

he stopped speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep and drop your nets for a catch.” 5 Simon responded, “Master, after toiling all night we caught nothing. Even so, at your word I will drop the nets.” 6 When they had done so, they captured a huge number of fish, and their nets were ripping. 7 They made signs to their partners in the other boat to come and make the haul with them. They came, and both boats filled so that they were sinking. 8 When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man.” 9 Astonishment overtook him and all who were with him at the catch of fish they hauled in.

I will argue that that Luke modeled this tale after Homeric Hymn 7, to Dionysus, which begins like this: I will speak of Dionysus, son of radiant Semele, how he appeared by the shore of the barren sea at a jutting headland, looking like a young man sprouting his first beard, and his handsome hair shook about him. Soon men on a well-decked ship, Tyrsenian pirates, quickly arrived over the glistening sea. An evil fate drove them on. And when they saw him, they made signs to each other and jumped out quickly. Grabbing him at once, they put him aboard their ship, rejoicing at heart, for he appeared to be a son of god-nurtured kings. They wanted to tie him up with harsh ropes, but ropes do not restrain him, and the switches fall far from his hands and feet. But he sat there smiling with his onyx eyes. The helmsmen understood, immediately cried out to his comrades, and said, “Madmen, what god have you seized and bound up? He is not like mortal men but like gods who have Olympian homes! So come, let’s release him on the dark shore – immediately! Do not lay your hands on him, lest he become riled and stir up disastrous winds and a great gale!” (1–4, 6–17, 20–24)

The ship’s owner, however, kept to his evil plan and ordered his crew to sail off with their prey. But soon they saw amazing feats. First of all, throughout the swift black ship wine, sweet to drink and aromatic, began to trickle, and there arose an odor ambrosial. Amazement overtook all the sailors when they saw it. (34–37)

The sails sprouted grape vines, and ivy wound its way up the mast. When they saw this, then at last they ordered the helmsman to bring the ship to land. But he became there on the ship, right in front of them, a lion,

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ferocious, on the bow, and roared loudly. And then, amidships, he created a shaggy bear, thereby manifesting signs. (42–46)

The lion pounced on the owner and terrorized the other pirates, who dove into the brine and became dolphins. But the god had mercy on the helmsman, restrained him, made him fortunate, and said to him, “Take courage, good […], you have found favor in my heart. I am loud-crying Dionysus, whom mother Semele, daughter of Cadmus, bore after mingling in love with Zeus.” (53–57)

Only Luke’s account of Jesus’ calling fishermen includes amazing manipulation of nature, as in the hymn to Dionysus: Hom. Hymn 7.33–53

Before long, they saw “amazing feats”: wine filled the boat, vines grew on the mast and sails, Dionysus turned into a lion, and he created a bear.

“Astonishment overtook all the sailors when they saw it [ναύτας δὲ τάϕος λάβε πάντας ἰδόντας].” The pirates dove into the sea and became dolphins.

Luke 5:4–9 When he stopped speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep and drop your nets for a catch.” 5 Simon responded, “Master, after toiling all night we caught nothing. Even so, at your word I will drop the nets.” 6 When they had done so, they captured a huge number of fish, and their nets were ripping. 7 They made signs to their partners [κατένευσαν τοῖς μετόχοις] in the other boat to come and make the haul with them. They came, and both boats filled so that they were sinking. 8  When Simon Peter saw [ἰδών] this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man.” 9 Astonishment overtook him and all who were with him [ϑάμβος γὰρ περιέσχεν αὐτὸν καὶ πάντας τοῦς σὺν αὐτῷ] at the catch of fish they hauled in.

The word for “astonishment” in the Homeric Hymn (τάϕος) is archaic, and a contemporary of Luke (Apollonius Sophista) cited another philologist (Apion) who translated the participle ταφών as ϑαμβήσας, the same root that appears in Luke 5:9! In both passages, a stranger, whom the crew had taken on board before knowing his identity, produces miracles that endanger a ship. In both stories, the divine stranger multiplies products of nature: wine and vines or fish. The helmsman, one of the pirates, regretted the decision to kidnap the stranger, whose apparent powers could inflict harm on a sinner like himself. “When Peter saw” the huge haul of fish, “he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, ‘Depart from me for I am a sinful man’” (5:8). This statement is surprising insofar as Luke had not earlier

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identified him as sinning. It makes more sense if one sees him as an echo of the sinful but repentant pirate. The result of the amazing feats in both cases is awe: “Astonishment overtook all the sailors when they saw it” (Hom. Hymn 7.37); “Astonishment overtook him [Peter] and all who were with him” (Luke 5:9). In Luke, the crew of one boat “made signs to their partners [κατένευσαν τοῖς μετόχοις]” in the other boat to help (5:7); this resembles a line early in the hymn that the pirates “made signs to each other [νεῦσαν ἐς ἀλλήλους]” to help in seizing Dionysus (9). The correlation of the verb (κατα)νεύω in both works is telling. The compounded form κατανεύω appears only here in the NT (and never in the LXX); the uncompounded form νεύω appears in John 13:24 and Acts 24:10 but nowhere else in the NT (or in the LXX). The end of Luke’s story again parallels Mark, this time the calling of the four fishermen to follow him. Even here, Luke echoes the hymn in his statement not to fear: Hom. Hymn 7.54–55

Mark 1:19, 17–18

He saw James, the son of Zebedee, and his brother John… . 17 And Jesus said to them, “Come after me, and I will make you fishermen for people.” 18 Immediately 19

He said, / “Take courage, good […], you have found favor in my heart.” [Cf. 43–44: “At last they ordered the helmsman to bring the ship (νῆ’) / to land (γῇ πελάαν).”]

they left their nets and followed him.

Luke 5:9–11 Astonishment overtook him and all who were with him, … 10 likewise, James and John the sons of Zebedee, who were partners with Simon. And Jesus said to Simon, “Do not fear, from now on you will be catching people.” 11 After they had brought their boats to land [καταγαγόντες τὰ πλοῖα ἐπὶ τὴν γῆν], they left everything and followed him.

Both in the Homeric Hymn and in Luke, the divine stranger who caused the miracle tells a penitent sailor not to fear. In the case of the helmsman, Dionysus had mercy on him; in the case of Peter and the other fishermen, Jesus would call them to follow. Despite the compelling similarities, knowledge of the Homeric Hymns was thin in antiquity. Few of Luke’s readers would have read the text. On the other hand, the myth of Dionysus’s epiphany to the pirates seems to have been popular (see, for example, Ovid Metam. 3.581–691 and Apollodorus Bibl. 3.5.3). If Luke’s readers related the two stories, they should have appreciated the theological differences between them. The disciples were not wicked pirates but obedient fishermen. Jesus did not manifest his power by punishing them but by providing

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them fish. Dionysus, in contrast, manifested his power by slaying the ship’s owner and by turning most of the crew into dolphins. The pirates, who had sought to catch the god, were transformed into fish. In Luke, those who once made a living catching fish became anglers for anthrōpoi. They, like the repentant helmsman, won divine favor. The following columns suggest that the parallels between the two stories are several, sequential, and special: Hom. Hymn 7, to Dionysus

Luke 5:1–11

– Dionysus appeared “by the shore of the sea [παρὰ ϑῖν᾿ ἀλός].” Pirates arrived. – The pirates forced the god in disguise to board their boat. – The pirates saw “amazing feats” having to do with wine, vines, and wild beasts. [Earlier they had “made signs to each other” for their plotting.] – The helmsman recognized these miracles as signs concerning the divine identity of the stranger and repented of his sin. – The god told the helmsman not to fear and turned the sailors into dolphins.

Jesus “was standing by the lake [παρὰ τὴν λίμνην]” when he came upon fishermen. The disciples let Jesus board their boat. The disciples witnessed a miraculous catch of fish, and “made signs to their partners … to come and make the haul with them.” Peter recognized the miracle as a sign of the divine identity of the stranger and asked him to forgive his sins. Jesus told Peter not to fear and turned the sailors into fishermen for people.

This tale clearly was known by the epilogist of the Gospel of John insofar as John 21 clearly recasts the tale appearing at the beginning of Luke 5. For the calling of Peter and Andrew, the author of the Acts of John seems to have relied on the Matthean account (see Matt 4:18), but for the calling of James and John, he likely was aware of Luke 5. We pick up the narrative after a wealthy Egyptian matron named Drusiana describes Jesus’ appearance when he raised her from death: “The Lord appeared to me in the tomb as John and as a youth [νεανίσκος]” (Acts John 87). In chapter 90, however, John is depicted with a beard. The apostle told the crowd not to be perplexed by Jesus’ dimorphism, for he and James saw the same phenomenon when Jesus first called them to follow: “After Jesus chose Peter and Andrew, who were brothers, he came to me and my brother James and said, ‘I need you; come to me’” (88). The subsequent argument between James and John deviates from the canonical Gospels. Here I compare John’s Acta with Luke: Luke 5:4–9

Acts John 88–89

When he stopped speaking, he said to Simon, “Put out into the deep and drop your nets for a catch.” 5 Simon responded, “Master, after toiling all night we caught nothing. Even so, at your word I will drop the nets.” 6 When they had done so, they

“When my brother heard this, he said to me, ‘John, what is the meaning of this little child on the shore calling us?’ I said, ‘What little child?’ Again he spoke to me,

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Luke 5:4–9 captured a huge number of fish, and their nets were ripping. 7 They made signs to their partners [κατένευσαν τοῖς μετόχοις] in the other boat to come and make the haul with them.

They came and both boats filled so that they were sinking.

When Simon Peter saw this, he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man.” 9 Astonishment overtook him and all who were with him at the catch of fish they hauled in. 8

Acts John 88–89 ‘The one making signs [νεῦον] to us.’

I answered, ‘You are not seeing well, my brother James, because of our long sleep-depriving stint at sea. Did you not see the well-built man standing there, handsome and with a happy face?’ He said to me, ‘I did not see this man, brother, but let’s go and see what this means.’ So after we brought the boat to land, we saw him helping us stabilize the boat. 89 When we had gone some distance from the place, we decided to follow him, and again he appeared to me to have a bald head and a thick, flowing beard, but to James he looked like a young man just sprouting his first beard… . We were at a loss when we pondered the feat.”

Although the two accounts differ significantly, they agree in several telling ways. First, both contain dialogues (between Simon and Jesus or between John and James. Also, both refer to the making of hand gestures (sound does not carry well over expanses of water). Third, both place the disciples’ boat or boats far from shore. And finally, both refer to miracles that produce astonishment (the miraculous catch or Jesus’ polymorphism). What makes these parallels most relevant to this collection of essays on ancient fiction are differences between Luke’s account and the Acts of John’s that reflect the latter’s independent imitation of Homeric Hymn 7. Notice again the use of the rather rare verb νεύω, which appears nowhere else in the Acts of John: Hom. Hymn 7.1–4, 8–9, 14–15, 34, 38, 44 Dionysus … / appeared by the shore of the sea … / looking like a young man [νεηνίῃ ἀνδρί] / sprouting his first beard, and his handsome [καλαί] hair shook about him. [Pirates arrived at the shore,] and when they saw him / they made signs [νεῦσαν] to each other. [The pirates quickly seized the

Acts John 88–89 “When my brother heard this, he said to me, ‘John, what is the meaning of this little child on the shore calling us?’ I said, ‘What little child?’ Again he spoke to me, ‘The one making signs [νεῦον] to us.’ I answered, ‘You are not seeing well,

Jesus and Dionysian Polymorphism in the Acts of John

Hom. Hymn 7.1–4, 8–9, 14–15, 34, 38, 44

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my brother James, because of our long sleep-depriving stint at sea. Did you not see the well-built man [ἄνδρα] standing there, handsome [καλόν] and with a happy face?’ He said to me, ‘I did not see this man, brother, but let’s go and see what this means.’ So after we brought the boat to land [εἰς γῆν τὸ πλοῖον ἀγαγόντες], we saw him helping us stabilize the boat. When we had gone some distance from the place, we decided to follow him, and again he appeared to me to have a bald head and a thick, flowing beard, but to James he looked like a young man [νεανίσκος] just sprouting his first beard. … We were at a loss when we pondered the feat. They saw [σφιν ἐϕαίνετο] amazing feats. … / Then I saw [ἐμοί … ἐφαίνετο] something Astonishment overtook all the sailors when even more extraordinary [namely that Jesus’ eyes never blinked or closed]. they saw [wine flowing in the ship]. … / Then at last they ordered the helmsman to bring the ship [νῆ’] / to land [γῇ πελάαν]. But he became there on the ship, right in front of them, a lion. god in disguise, and forced him aboard, thinking he was a son of some king. But Dionysus] sat smiling / with his onyx eyes. … /

The only manuscript witnessing to this section of the Acts of John breaks off just as Jesus is about to explain the meaning of his polymorphism.2 In both passages, a divine character appears as a beautiful, smiling young man and demonstrates his identity to sailors by transforming himself into a lion (Dionysus) or into a youth and an old man (Jesus). Notice the use of the rather rare verb νεύω, “I nod” or “make a sign,” which appears nowhere else in the Acts of John. The hymn describes Dionysus as “a young man / sprouting his first beard [νεηνίῃ ἀνδρὶ … / πρωϑήβῃ],” and James saw Jesus as “a young man just sprouting his first beard [ἀρχιγένειος νεανίσκος].” These striking parallels surely point to mimesis, but one additional aspect of John’s Acts points unmistakably to Dionysus. Ancient artists depicted the god of wine both as a youth and as an old man, often on the same sarcophagus. According to Diodorus Siculus, “he seems to be dimorphic because there are two Dionysoi: the old one bearded because all ancient men sported beards, and the younger one [νεώτερον] beautiful, effeminate, and a young man [νέον]. … A few people say that the god is called δίμορϕος because those who are drunk fall into Junod and Jean-Daniel Kaestli failed to see these parallels with the Homeric Hymn in an otherwise informative treatment of polymorphism in ancient Christianity, Junod and Kaestli 1983, 469–94. 2 Eric

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two conditions: those who are happy and those who are grumpy” (Bibl. 4.5.2).3 Euripides makes a point of Dionysus’s polymorphism repeatedly in the Bacchae (esp. lines 4–5, 22, 42, 53–54, and 478). If one grants that the author of the Acts of John here imitates what we know as Homeric Hymn 7, one might reasonably suspect that the author was inspired to do so because he saw that Luke already had done so in his own version of Jesus calling fishermen. This alternative account of the calling of James and John in the Johannine novel displays an awareness of Luke’s reliance on the story of Dionysus and the pirates but replaces the miraculous catch of fish with one even more remarkable, one to rival Dionysus. In the Homeric Hymn, the god appears first as a young man but changes his shape into a lion that kills the captain; in the Acts of John, Jesus appears both as a young man and as an old man. The Christian author elsewhere explores Jesus’ Dionysian polymorphism (see especially Acts John 90–93). This paper has proposed that the author of the Gospel of Luke found the calling of the four fishermen in Mark 1:16–20 (cf. Matt 4:18–22) somewhat deficient and thus borrowed from Homeric Hymn 7 to provide a motivation for the disciples to follow Jesus. The author of the Acts of John, perhaps recognizing “Luke’s” use of the hymn, replaced the miraculous catch of fish in Luke 5:1–11 with Jesus’ polymorphism, which has its own unmistakable connections with the hymn. This identification is significant for understanding early Christian fiction. At least some of the stories in the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles trade on mythologies deeply rooted in Greek soil and are not merely traditions spun from unenlightened imaginations of hoi polloi Christians. The author of the Acts of John surely expected some of his or her readers to detect the Dionysian echoes in this story.

Bibliography Junod, Eric, and Jean-Daniel Kaestli. 1983. Acts of John (Acta Iohannis). Corpus Christianorum: Series Apocryphorum 1. Turnhout: Brepols. MacDonald, Dennis R. 1994. Christianizing Homer: “The Odyssey,” Plato, and “The Acts of Andrew.” New York: Oxford University Press. –. 2006. “Who Was That Chaste Prostitute? A Socratic Answer to an Enigma in the Acts of John.” Pages 88–97 in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha. Edited by Amy-Jill Levine. London: T&T Clark. Turcan, Robert. 1958. “Dionysus Dimorphos: Une illustration de la théologie de Bacchus dans l’art funéraire.” Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’école français de Rome 70: 243–94. –. 1966. Les Sacrophages romains A: Représentation dionysiaques: Essai de chronologie et d’histoire religieuse. Bibliothèque des Écoles Françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 210. Paris: Boccard. 3 See Turcan 1958; Turcan 1966, 383, 392; see also Orphic Hymn 30, where Dionysus is described as δίμορφος).

A Syriac Original for the Acts of Thomas? The Hypothesis of Syriac Priority Revisited Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta Even if the consensus is not yet complete, the great majority of scholarly literature concerning the Acts today postulates a Syriac original for the Acts of Thomas.1 The current Syriac, however, visibly offers a rather poor version of the Acta Thomae. In addition to its numerous material errors due to textual transmission, the text shows such heavy editorial intervention that it alters both the general tenor and the conceptual peculiarities of the primitive text. Even a preliminary comparison with the Greek version leaves no room for doubt: in spite of its numerous problems, the Greek text is in general greatly superior to the Syriac. While the superiority of the Greek text is nowadays rarely disputed,2 the hypothesis of the Syriac original is repeated again and again. And this, of course, immediately raises serious doubts regarding its objectivity: if the Greek text is clearly superior to the Syriac, if it preserves the general tenor of the primitive text more accurately, if it reflects the different parts of the text in a better way, and if it shows fewer traces of editorial intervention, then on what grounds do scholars actually still claim a Syriac origin for the text? Given that the textual evidence does not support the Syriac hypothesis, some scholars, overwhelmed by orientalist claims, have even attempted to beat it into the form specified by a biased interpretation of the materials: the Greek text, as we have it, allegedly relies on a Syriac original now lost; as for the Syriac version of the Acta Thomae, it purportedly is a translation of the secondary Greek text of the phantom Syriac original.3 This, however, is not the end of it. Certainty concerning the inferiority of the Syriac text has not restrained scholars from theorizing (in addition to considerations of style, character, tenor, and influences) on the place and date of composition of the (allegedly Syriac) primitive text and on its authorship. As for the former, third-century Eastern Syria is one of the favorite places of composition. As to the latter, the name of Bardesanes turns up already in the first speculations, although as time went by, other possibilities were also evaluated. 1 See, for example, Klijn 1962, 5–7; Attridge 2010; see, however, the more nuanced position of Klauck 2008, 142. 2 See Peeters 1922, 225; Windegren 1946, 3, 20 n. 1, 89, 110; Devos 1951, 123–24; Markovich 1988, 157; Drijvers 1992, 290; Klauck 2008, 142; Myers 2010, 27–50. 3 See, for example, Bonnet 1903, xxii; James 1924, 364. See contra Huxley 1983, 71.

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The hypothesis of a Syriac original, however, not only clashes with the textual evidence provided by the ATh’s textual transmission, but also places the ATh in a very strange position in the context of the other four main apocryphal Acts, namely Peter, John, Paul, and Andrew, all of them written in Greek in the second century and somewhere in the ancient Mediterranean world. As is well known, in addition to literary genre, these five Acts of the Apostles share a worldview, intention, tenor, motifs, and vocabulary.4 Given the close similarities of the ATh with the other four Acts in terms of both form and content, it seems odd to assume for it a composition in the third century in – as many have claimed – distant Edessa. Contrary to the preponderance of scholarly consensus, my work in progress intends to argue the hypothesis that the ATh was composed in Greek, in the second century, and in the same cosmopolitan milieu as the four other apocryphal Acts. Due to the enormous amount of scholarly literature written on our Acts, my enterprise is not an easy task, however. To begin with, one needs to disentangle the numerous and diverse arguments accumulated during almost 150 years of research in favor of a third-century Syriac composition. These involve mainly three domains: those of language, textual transmission, and the alleged oriental character of or influence upon the text. The first of these has already been briefly referred to above. Orientalists have claimed Syriac as the original language of the Acts ever since Theodor Nöldeke. They base their claim mainly on three aspects – namely, alleged traces of a metric rhythm in one or more hymns of the ATh (according to some, even perceptible in the Greek), the alleged presence of Syrianisms in the Greek version of the Acts, and the abundance of oriental personal and geographical names. Given that, in their view, these three domains purportedly provide definitive evidence of the Syriac original, we will need to revisit one by one the examples adduced as proof. As far as textual transmission is concerned, it is my contention that we need to reassess the analysis of the ATh’s textual transmission. Scholars seem to assume that the Greek text, as we have it, reflects the primitive text rather faithfully and take for granted that, excluding a couple of mechanical errors due to textual transmission, it accurately transmits the primitive ATh. The fact is, however, that – even if to a lesser extent than in the Syriac – heavy editorial intervention is visible almost everywhere in the Greek text, especially in the speeches by the apostle. The wrong perception regarding the extent of doctrinal revision of the 4 According to Peterson (1949, 154–55), there is no doubt regarding the relationship to the apocryphal Acts of the Apostles. After a detailed analysis of literary parallels, use of the same motifs, and even the numerous linguistic coincidences between the Acts of Paul and the ATh, he concludes, “Wir stehen nun vor der Alternative: entweder sind die Thomas‑ und Paulus-Akten aus demselben Milieu hervorgegangen und von ein‑ und demselben Verfasser geschrieben worden oder aber der Verfasser einer dieser Akten hat den andern kopiert.” See contra Devos 1951, 120–21. Drijvers (1992, 290) also refers to the parallelisms found among Thomas, Paul, and John but explains them otherwise, since in his view, they are not the result of dependence but of a shared background.

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text has, in turn, negatively influenced the evaluation of the parts that were less affected by it, notably the Hymn of the Bride and Hymn of the Pearl. The hypothesis that both of these passages did not belong to the original account and found their way into the text at a later stage has no textual basis whatsoever and is clearly contradicted by both the Greek and Syriac textual evidence. Nevertheless, it is on the basis of this argument that Nöldeke affirmed that the Hymn of the Pearl was originally written in Syriac.5 As far as the alleged oriental character of or influence on the Acts of Thomas is concerned, the issue has in point of fact been clearly overstated in the scholarly literature. In the aftermath of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, an oriental origin was readily used for everything that did not fit into a preconceived idea of what Christianity was or should have been. This, together with orientalists’ claims regarding Syriac as the original language of the Acts, has paved the way for a distorted view. The alleged oriental character of the text provided grounds later on for the attribution of the Acts or certain parts of it to Bardesanes, Bardesanites, Mani, or to the Manicheans.6 And this attribution has in turn influenced the date of composition, which was then moved to the third century. However, there is no need to assume any oriental influence in order to explain any of the conceptual peculiarities of the ATh. As is also the case with the other Apocryphal Acts, the ATh is the product of the religious and philosophical world of late antiquity. My work in progress intends to revisit previous interpretations, with a view to laying the basis for a new and fresh analysis of the evidence that may, in turn, permit a proper understanding of both the textual transmission and the conceptual world of the text. The present paper intends to offer an overview of the work in progress, but given the limited space available, I will focus only on the first aspect – the hypothesis concerning the original language of the ATh – leaving the other two aspects for future studies. The first section will include a critical approach to the Syriac hypothesis that focuses on the problems and irregularities of such a theory; the second will summarize the arguments for reconsidering the hypothesis on the Syriac origin and composition of the ATh. I will bring this article to a close with an outline of the work in progress and its expected results.

The Hypothesis of the Syriac Priority Revisited The Syriac text of the ATh was first edited in the third quarter of the nineteenth century by William Wright.7 It is important to note that the Syriac version of the ATh was the first to be published. Admittedly, both Thilo and Tischendorff had already edited some parts of the Greek version, but the first complete edition 5 Nöldeke

1871, 678. already in Nöldeke 1871, 678. 7 Wright 1871, 1:181–333 (Syriac), 2:146–298 (English). 6 Thus

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was the Syriac one, since Bonnet’s complete Greek version appeared twelve years later.8 Even if the first scholars to deal with the ATh considered the Syriac version to be a translation from the Greek,9 very soon we begin to hear the first voices claiming – on different grounds – a Syriac original.10 The large number of articles endorsing this view that followed in the subsequent century or so, and the accumulation of so-called proofs of a Syriac origin, apparently settled the matter of the original language of the Acts once and for all.11 In what follows, I will revisit the main arguments in order to show that their evidence is never compelling and frequently questionable. I will focus on the three main arguments: the traces of an original Syriac meter, the alleged linguistic Syriac influences on the Greek of the text, and the presence of oriental proper names. Alleged Metric Traces in the Syriac It was Nöldeke, in his review of Wright’s edition of the Syriac text of the Acts of Thomas, who first affirmed that the Hymn of the Pearl included “as a rule” six-syllable verses, and that irregularities were due to the copying process and the numerous liberties characteristic of Syriac meter.12 Karl Macke extended this analysis to the Hymn of the Wedding and also reported traces of a six-syllable rhythmic composition behind them. This was for him definitive proof of the Syriac provenance of the ATh.13 Even if he were to admit a Greek original for the whole ATh, in his view, these metric traces necessarily implied a Syriac original for the hymns, since it would be hard to imagine a translator converting prose into verse, let alone doing so in a skillful way, in order to produce the six-syllable verses the Hymn of the Pearl purportedly includes.14 Even if the heavy catholicizing revision of the Syriac text seems to invalidate both the value of the  8 Thilo (1823) and Tischendorff (1851) first edited the Greek text, even if their edition did not yet include a complete version of the Greek text. This was then done by Bonnet (1883) and later also included Bonnet (1903, 99–291), who included both the Parisian and Vallicellian manuscripts of Acta Thomae.  9 See Wright 1871, 2:xiv. Nöldeke, in his review of Wright’s edition (1871, 671), still agrees with Wright in considering the Acts in general to be a Syriac translation from a Greek original, except for the Hymn of the Pearl, which he considers a Syriac original (677). Later on, however, he seems to have changed his mind (see next note). The Greek original has also been claimed by Hilgenfeld (1904, 235). 10 See Nöldeke in Lipsius 1883, 2.2:423; Burkitt 1899 and Preuschen 1904, 563. 11 Add to the studies mentioned in n. 1 Bornkamm 1964, 2:428; Klijn 1962, 5–7, 13, 17; Plümacher 1978, 34. 12 Nöldeke 1871, 677. 13 Macke 1874, 6–8. He rejected the reigning consensus at that time regarding the Greek original in order to surmise a Syriac original for the Hymn of the Pearl on the basis of so-called traces of a rhythmic composition of the text. 14 In the Middle Ages, however, Latin texts were regularly translated into vernacular languages in verse. See, for example, the case of the Visio Pauli, on which Silverstein and Hilhorst 1997, 210–12.

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so-called rhythmic traces discovered in the text and the argument used to adduce its primitive character, Macke uses it in support of his own hypothesis: the catholicizing intervention is what is responsible for the numerous irregularities found in the allegedly original meter. In his view, a reconstruction of the revised Syriac passages by means of the Greek will no doubt help us recover the original six-syllable meter. The circularity of this reasoning is, I think, obvious. A couple of years later, Anthony Ashley Bevan also attached a great deal of importance to the meter. In addition to the six-syllable verse traces, he discovered sense units including two verses. In fact, his study was the first to introduce the use of distiches in the presentation of the Syriac text and the translation of the Hymn of the Pearl.15 As far as the exact number of syllables in the verses is concerned, he appeared to be more cautious, since he reported numerous irregularities, which he, however, attributed to the poet’s license in introducing or suppressing vowels. In his view, at least “70 per cent of the lines consist of 6 syllables or, at least, may be made to consist of 6 syllables by assuming some ordinary license.”16 His description of the problems faced by this analysis and the ways used to solve them, however, sufficiently shows the artificiality of the hypothesis, in my opinion. Georg Hoffmann went even a step further, however. Probably inspired by Macke’s opinion, just described, and supported by Bevan’s view, his edition of the Hymn of the Pearl17 altered the transmitted text in order for it to fit his preconceived idea about the underlying metrum, relegating the original to the footnotes,18 something that has not always been noticed.19 In fact, it is this Syriac text and translation that Preuschen used in his Zwei gnostische Hymnen, and from which the author derived important conclusions as to the provenance and authorship of the composition: the purported traces of an original Syriac meter support both the Syriac origin of the text and its attribution to Bardesanes.20

15 Bevan

1897, 7. 1897, 8 (my emphasis). 17 ATh 108–113. 18  Hoffmann 1903. See, however, the criticism Duncan Jones (1905, 448) made in his review of Preuschen’s Zwei gnostische Hymnen: “The main characteristic of Hoffmann’s Syriac text is an almost ruthless attempt to reduce or increase each to exactly six syllables.” See also Poirier 1981, 68 n. 134. 19 On which see Beyer 1990. 20 Already Nöldeke (1871, 678) considered the possibility of viewing Bardesanes as the author of the hymn but refrained from doing so himself due to the fact that Bardesanes wrote in five-syllable meter. Only Macke (1874, 37–40), however, pointed out that, this being so, traces of two six-syllable verses quoted by Ephrem showed that he also wrote in six-syllable meter, which would make the attribution to Bardesanes more plausible. Bevan (1897, 6 n. 2), however, disproved this opinion, affirming that the verses transmitted by Ephrem were in fact also five-syllable verses. The argument concerning the six-syllable verses in the quote of Ephrem was, however, repeated by Preuschen (1904, 79). 16 Bevan

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The last epigone of the theory of the Syriac original based on the meter is that of Miroslav Markovich, who claimed that the Wedding Hymn21 reveals traces of twelve-syllable meter.22 In the introduction to his interesting and thorough commentary on the text, he claimed that it was originally written in East Aramaic or in Syriac, since the Semitic Doppeldreier, a distich with three beats in each line, is still perceptible even in the Greek translation of the text. However, he did not present or analyze the Syriac but the Greek text, behind which he claimed to recognize traces of a Syriac rhythmic composition. Most strikingly, even if admitting that the Syriac text had been transformed due to the heavy catholicizing revision, he nevertheless used it as the starting point for his metric reconstruction of the Greek text. It is this Greek text, reconstructed on the basis of a revised Syriac version, which allegedly reflects traces of the Semitic Doppeldreier.23 Paul-Hubert Poirier was much more modest in his claims regarding an alleged underlying meter. To begin with, he did not claim to have in the hymn a poem with a strict metric structure, but a “prose rythmée.”24 In fact, his analysis of the so-called regular meter of the Hymn of the Pearl revealed many more irregularities than previous studies were ready to admit: only 35 percent of the distiches present a six-syllable structure, which, admitting a more flexible twelve-syllable structure (6 + 6 or 5 + 7), might finally reach 44 percent. In his view, one then is forced to admit that in the structure of the hymn, there is no such regular metric structure. At best, one could simply speak of a prosodic structure that is not rigid or absolute.25 Klaus Beyer’s more recent study of the Hymn of the Pearl is even more careful. To begin with, only 30 percent (40 out of 102 Syriac verses) of the text can be said to present regular twelve-syllable verses,26 and this only on condition that non-accentuated short vowels in an open syllable were already fallen in the Syriac language at the time of composition, something that did happen in the first half of the third century. On the assumption that this was actually the case with the original ATh, Beyer established his terminus post quem as being 250 c.e. His terminus ante is the introduction of diacritical marks in Syriac manuscripts (ca. 350), which were in fact not included in the Syriac version of the ATh. Several 21 ATh 6–7. On the Wedding Hymn, see Macke 1874, 7–17; Lipsius 1883, 1:301–11; Bousset 1907, 68–70; Bousset 1917, 10–11, 20–23; see especially Bornkamm 1933, 68–81, 82–89, 103–106; Bornkamm 1964, 302–303 (= 1965, 432–33). 22 Markovich 1988. 23 Markovich 1988, 172 affirms the following: “Starting from the assumption that the extant Greek version of the Wedding Hymn still reflects the meter – the Semitic Doppeldreier – of the lost Syriac original, and using the extant Syriac version wherever it seemed reliable, I was able to offer a reconstruction of the corrupt Greek version of the Hymn.” 24 Poirier 1981, 195. 25 Poirier 1981, 196–97. 26 Beyer 1990, 236 points out that in 40 cases, the structure is 6 + 6; in the other nine, the structure of the 12-syllable verses is 5 + 7.

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copyist errors in the text thus might be explained, in his opinion, as due to a lack of such marks.27 Such chronological precision, however, is striking, since a couple of lines later, one realizes that the numerous irregularities in the Syriac text incline Beyer to think that Syriac was not the original language of the Hymn of the Pearl.28 In fact, the only reason he adduces for the placing of its composition in the East is once again the presumed oriental influence on the text.29 I think the argument of an underlying metric structure, either in the Syriac text itself or in the Greek version, simply in order to defend a Syriac original for the ATh should be disposed of. The studies between 1871 and 1990 that attempted to establish this did it on a rather shaky basis. While Nöldeke affirmed that “as a rule,” verses included the six-syllable pattern, Macke and Bevan had already tempered their opinions. They both detected numerous irregularities in the meter, but instead of taking them seriously as a refutation of their views, they simply proposed corrections to the text in order for it to better fit the hypothesis. Hoffman also does this, substituting a corrected specimen that better suits the expectations of the Syriac hypothesis for the original. In a similar vein, Markovich goes on to “reconstruct” a Greek text that reflects the presumed Syriac original meter by means of the revised text of the Syriac version. Let us now proceed to an analysis of the arguments in favor of a Syriac original based on the linguistic aspects. Alleged Syrianisms As already pointed out, Nöldeke was the first scholar to propose a Syriac origin for the ATh. Both in his review of Wright’s edition and in the second volume of Lipsius’s Die Apokryphen Apostelgeschichten, he defended the hypothesis that the Greek text was a translation of a Syriac source.30 He did so by offering some passages that, in his view, proved that the Greek was secondary. None of them, however, appears to be compelling, and in fact, later scholarship retained only a couple of passages from his long list of examples.31 Francis C. Burkitt in various works also provided linguistic reasons in support of the priority of the Syriac text.32 He thought that, except for the “gnostic” hymns – the Hymn of the Wedding and Hymn of the Pearl – it was very difficult to ascertain whether the Greek or Syriac was the most primitive. Given that, in 27 Beyer

1990, 237.

28 Beyer (1990, 238), such as the accusative particle yat; status abs. of the predicative substan-

tive instead of status emph.; participium instead of perfects for the durative in the main sentence, etc., in addition to many other suspect elements. 29 Beyer 1990, 238. 30 Nöldeke 1871; Lipsius 1887, 2:423–25. 31 Compare the examples in Lipsius (1887, 2:423–25) with those in Burkitt (see nn. 32–43), Klijn (nn. 44–48, 51, 53), and Attridge (nn. 56–58, 62–74). 32 In addition, Burkitt (1899b), who claimed a Syriac original on the basis of alleged Syrianisms in the Greek text; see also Burkitt 1901; 1902; Preuschen 1904, 563; Connolly 1907.

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his view, the arguments based on the style were inconclusive and that biblical quotations did not help either, he intended to find passages in which the Greek translator might have misunderstood the Syriac or where the Greek might be based on Syriac paleographical corruptions.33 He provided two examples of mistranslations (examples 1–2), some with Greek translations allegedly relying on Syriac corruptions (3–7) and a couple of examples of a different sort. This is hardly the place to provide a detailed analysis of all the cases; however, in order to substantiate my argument, I need to refer at least to some of them. Closer scrutiny of the two examples of alleged mistranslations shows, I think, that neither of the cases implies a Syriac original. The first of them concerns ATh 66, which includes two Greek expressions suspected by Burkitt: τὸ τῶν ἐντολῶν φορτίον (“the burden of the commandments”) and τὴν τιμωρίαν τῆς κεφαλῆς ἀποτίσομεν (“we shall be punished,” or literally “we will pay it with our head”). In his view, the background of two Syriac idioms might be responsible for the awkward Greek text that includes these expressions. As far as the former is concerned, however, not only does the text flow quite smoothly, but also the locution “the burden of the commandments” is rather normal, with many hits on a TLG survey.34 In what concerns the second, the expression τὴν τιμωρίαν τῆς κεφαλῆς ἀποτίσομεν is rather normal, appears two more times in the ATh, and is as widely attested as the former formula.35 I frankly cannot understand why one should prefer the Syriac here, since neither of the two Greek phrases is actually problematic; they are both well attested in Greek literature, as a matter of fact. Burkitt’s second example of alleged mistranslations is not compelling either, since it simply repeats the expressions for punishment included in the first case.36 As far as the subsequent five examples of paleographic corruptions purportedly revealing a Syriac original are concerned, the results are similarly discouraging. In the first of them, Burkitt casts suspicion on the expression ἐξουθένισα τὸν ἄνδρα τοῦτον (“I have set at naught this husband”) in ATh 14 (B. 120.8).37 The passage was already referred to by Nöldeke and would be repeated later on by Devos.38 However, I cannot see the problem with the text: the bride is describing her joy at having been able to reject both man and marriage, thanks to her choice of a higher kind of marriage (= Christ). In this sense, the choice of words 33 Burkitt

1899b, 282–83. for example, Basilius Caes., Quaestiones 31.944.41; Joannes Chrysost., De jejunio 62.731.21, 24; Pseudo–Macarius, Epistula magna 267.15. 35 See the references below in n. 69, in my comments on Attridge’s use of the same example. 36 The second example also includes the expression τὴν τιμωρίαν τῆς κεφαλῆς ἀποτίσομεν in reference to punishment. As already said, the expression is normal in Greek and, as such, appears three times in the ATh: 66 (B. 184.10), 76 (B. 191.1), and 101 (B. 214.12). See, for the term and the expressions that include it, Lampe, s. v. κεφαλή, I. C. 37 References to passages follow Bonnet’s edition (B.) of ATh from 1903 and include page and line. 38 Apud Lipsius 1883–1887, 2:424; Devos 1951, 127. 34 See,

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ἐξουθένισα τὸν ἄνδρα τοῦτον is perfectly sound, with the verb meaning “set no value; set at naught; disregard.” I would suspect that it is instead the Syriac “this deed of corruption” that is secondary. To my mind, therefore, there is no need to see this text as a textual corruption. There is no real paleographic problem. In fact, it is only Burkitt’s interpretation of the text that enables him to suppose one, which he then proposes to solve by referring to the Syriac.39 This is also the case with his subsequent (fourth) example, which concerns ATh 32 (B. 149.9).40 It includes the verb καταδῆσας (“bound; ensnare”), which in Burkitt’s opinion is awkward. The metaphor, however, is not only rather common, but also quite expressive in the present context.41 As a matter of fact, a similar expression is also found in Acts of John 69.5: καταδεδεμένη ἐπιθυμίαις (“bound by passions”). There is no reason to suppose a wrong understanding of the Syriac here. The last three examples (5–7) are clear as to the author’s method:42 Burkitt’s approach to the Greek text is visibly determined by his a priori conviction of a Syriac priority. To begin with, the fifth case is the expression ἕως ἄρτι in ATh 48 (B. 164.17), in Burkitt’s words, “intolerably harsh.” However, although ἕως ἄρτι (“up to this moment”) is certainly not a classical Greek expression, it is very normal in the NT.43 The sixth example concerns the sentence διαφυλάσσων ἡμᾶς καὶ ἀναπαύων ἐν σώμασιν ἀλλοτρίοις (“keeping us and making us rest in strange bodies”) in ATh 39 (B. 157.4–5). The Greek text, however, is perfectly sound in the present context, as is also the following sentence, in which Christ is addressed as ὁ σωτὴρ τῶν ἡμετέρων ψυχῶν (“Savior of our souls”). The Syriac text alters the original in an orthodox vein, since the original text seemed to imply that Christ is the Savior of souls only. Coherently with its catholicizing agenda, the Syriac makes of Christ “Savior of souls and bodies.” Something similar can be found in the next (seventh) example, in ATh 67 (B. 184.13), in which Burkitt suspects the following sentence: Κύριε ὁ δεσπόζων πάσης ψυχῆς τῆς ἐν σώματι οὔσης· κύριε πάτερ τῶν ψυχῶν τῶν εἰς σὲ τὰς ἐλπίδας ἐχουσῶν καὶ προσδεχομένων τὰ ἐλέη σου. Lord, Lord of each soul, which is in a body; Lord, Father of the souls who hope in you and wait for your mercy44

However, that Christ is called “Lord of the souls that inhabit in the body” is not strange at all, but rather to be expected in the context of the anthropology of the 39 Burkitt’s

third example (1899, 284–85) 1899, 284–85. 41 See below notes 74 and 75, and accompanying text for my comment on p. 119 on Attridge’s repetition of the same example. 42 Burkitt 1899, 285. 43 See Matt 11:12; John 5:17; 16:24; 1 Cor 4:13; 8:7; 15:6; 1 John 2:9. 44 Translation by Elliott 1993. 40 Burkitt

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text. In fact, it establishes a clear hierarchy between the parts of the human being. The Syriac alters this expression, as in the previous case, because of the heretical implications of an expression that considers Christ as Lord of the soul only. As this survey has shown in the first seven examples adduced by Burkitt as alleged proof of paleographical corruptions, the Greek text is not only perfectly sound and understandable but also superior in all cases to the Syriac, which is secondary and revisionary. It is only on the basis of his analysis of so-called textual corruptions or passages, which to his mind presented interpretative problems, that Burkitt was able to express his opinion as to the priority of the Syriac text. My own analysis of these single cases shows that his arguments are not conclusive and that often his textual emendations are wholly unnecessary. A similar approach can be found in Burkitt’s shorter notes on ATh 148.45 Burkitt suspects the beginning of chapter 148, in which Thomas prays to Jesus in order to protect him while his soul ascends to the divine region. In such a context, Thomas says the following: μὴ αἴσθωνταί μου αἱ δυνάμεις και οἱ ἐξουσιασταί, καὶ μηδὲν περὶ εμοῦ ἐνθυμηθῶσιν (“Let not the powers and authorities perceive me and let them not have any thought concerning me”).46 In his opinion, the Syriac “Let not the powers be stirred against me nor the rulers take counsel against me” is better, since it includes an allusion to Ps 2.1–2 in the Peshitta. The correction and translation according to the Syriac is completely unnecessary, since the Greek text is perfectly understandable in the present context and introduces a prayer by Thomas that he might pass unnoticed by the “authorities and powers,” which in the next line are also described as τελῶναι (“publicans”) and ἀπαιτηταί (“tax collectors”). Both the first and the second sentence in fact refer not to this-worldly figures but to the archons guarding the celestial region, through which Thomas must ascend. Consequently, the Greek text fits thematically and conceptually in the present context, and there is no need to adapt it to the revised catholicizing Syriac text. When we approach Klijn’s study on the ATh, things do not get much better. In fact, he not only repeats the prevailing consensus of that time regarding the Syriac priority47 but also uncritically reproduces all the examples included in Burkitt’s previous study.48 Klijn reproduces Burkitt’s opinion on the expressions for punishment (in ATh 66 [B. 184.10]; 76 [B. 191.1]; 101 [B. 214.12], including the Greek term κεφαλή.49 He also follows Burkitt in his interpretation of ATh 14.50 To begin with, Klijn considers the expression τὸ ἔργον τῆς αἰσχύνης καὶ τῆς αἰδοῦς ἐξ ἐμοῦ μακρὰν ἀπέστη (“since the work of shame and bashfulness 45 Burkitt

1902, 94–95. by Elliott 1993. 47 Klijn 1962, 6, 7, 17. 48 See my comment on Burkitt in n. 36. 49 Klijn 1962, 5 and 166. See my comments above in nn. 34 and 35. 50 Klijn 1962, 5 and 197. 46 Translation

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has been removed far from me”) a Syrianism.51 However, the passage τὸ ἔργον τῆς αἰσχύνης, being perfectly normal in Greek, does not need to be seen as a translation from the Syriac.52 Other times, Klijn goes further than Burkitt. Despite the latter’s reservations, Klijn considers καὶ ὅτι οὐκ ἐκπλήσσομαι, ἐπειδὴ ἡ ἔκπληξις ἐμοὶ οὐ παρέμεινεν (“I am not anymore struck by desire, because this desire is away from me”) inferior to the Syriac reading “repentance.”53 In my view, however, not only is the Syriac clearly secondary, but also, the Greek expression can be perfectly understood in the present context. Finally, Klijn with Burkitt suspects the sentence καὶ ὅτι ἐξουθένισα τὸν ἄνδρα τοῦτον καὶ τοὺς γάμους τούτους τοὺς παρερχομένους ἀπ’ ἔμπροσθεν τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν μου (“And that I have set at naught this husband and this nuptials which have passed away from before my eyes”), and proposes to follow the Syriac. As already shown above, this is not necessary. As was also the case with Burkitt, Klijn is a priori convinced of the Syriac priority and, in the opening of his book, provides an overview of the so-called Syrianisms that purportedly prove that the text was originally composed in Syriac. To Burkitt’s supposed evidence, he adds a couple of examples. Closer scrutiny of these sections, however, shows that none of them needs the Syriac in order to explain or understand the text. I include three examples only. In the first of them Klijn suspects the sentence in ATh 4.7, καὶ νῦν αὐτὴν ἐκδίδωσιν ἀνδρὶ πρὸς γάμον (“and now they give her to a husband in marriage”), which in his view is an obvious Syrianism.54 This is not necessarily so: even if not very common, the expression is well attested to in Greek.55 In the second case, Klijn suspects in ATh 8 the sentence ἦν δὲ καὶ τῇ ἰδέᾳ ὡραῖος ὑπὲρ πάντας τοὺς ἐκεῖσε ὄντας (“and he was beautiful in appearance above all who were there”), which in his view might be influenced by the Syriac.56 There is no need to assume such an influence here; the sentence is rather common and is widely attested.57 Klijn’s third case suspects in ATh 15 the sentence Εὐχαριστῶ σοι κύριε ὁ διὰ τοῦ ξένου ἀνδρὸς κηρυχθεὶς καὶ ἐν ἡμῖν εὑρεθείς (“I thank you, Lord, who was announced by this stranger and 51 Burkitt

1899, 284.  It is attested to already in Sophocles’ Electra 615, and there are numerous examples of it in later literature (Dionysius Halic., De Isocrate 9.49; Eusebius, Comm. in Psalmos 23.1369.42; Basilius Caes., Enarr. in Isaiam 13.266.18; Homiliae super Psalmos 29.225.23; Orig., In Jeremiam 5.8.16, etc.). 53 Burkitt 1900, 284. 54 Klijn 1962, 5 and 165. 55 See Josephus, Ant. 5.155.2; Phlegon, De mirabilibus 7.2. 3; Joan. Chrys., In evangelii dictum et de virginitate 64.39.44; Marcus Diaconus, Vita Porphyrii episcopi Gazensis 101.3. 56 Klijn 1962, 5 and 180. 57 Galen, De rebus boni malique suci 6.756; De locis affectis libri 8.136.5; Diodorus Sic., Bibliotheca historica 5.72.1.2; 24.5.2.2; Lucianus, Revivescentes sive piscator 23.9; De morte Peregrini 34.3; Dionysius Halic., Antiquitates Romanae 6.93.3.6, etc. For the use of ὑπέρ in this sentence, see Hilhorst 1976, 89–94. 52

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are now among us”).58 Rebutting Klijn, this Greek is perfectly understandable, and there is no need to suppose a misunderstood Syriac. We still need to review Attridge’s attempt to postulate the Syriac priority.59 In his study, the author claims to have definitive proof in defense of a Syriac original, which could well seem to imply that to his mind the evidence provided by previous scholarship was not that substantial. In any case, his approach to the textual evidence is more systematic than we were used to in previous scholarship and organizes his material in five categories, to wit, Semitisms, inner-Greek corruptions, omissions, awkward Greek and misunderstood Syriac, and corrupt Syriac. As far as the first category, “Semitisms,” is concerned, this includes what in Attridge’s view are awkward Greek expressions that reveal a background of Syriac idioms.60 Admittedly, the author warns the reader that such features are not “decisive for the original language and could be explained by the character of Greek used in a Semitic environment.” In my view, however, the examples included here correspond either to interpretive difficulties posed by the peculiar Greek of the Acts, to overstatements, or else to the Syriac “glasses” with which the author sometimes reads the Greek. As a matter of fact, none of the expressions reviewed needs the Syriac in order to be illuminated. I will focus on the first three cases only. Attridge firstly refers to the expression τῆς ἐργασίας τῆς γαστρός in chapter 28 (B. 144.3–4) for “gluttony,” which he harshly translates as “cultivation of the stomach.”61 The expression, however, is not that strange: on the one hand, ἐργασία does not only mean “work; cultivation,” but also acquired in late antiquity the meaning “occupation; way of life.” Combined with the term γαστήρ (“stomach”), it can be translated as “that which concerns the stomach,” viz. the “lower appetites,” also referred to in koine Greek (in metaphorical way) by expressions, such as τὰ ὑπὸ γαστέρα, τοῖς τὰ γαστέρα, or τὸ κατὰ γαστρός.62 Admittedly, the expression τῆς ἐργασίας τῆς γαστρός to refer to “gluttony” may not be frequent, but it is not uncommon.63 As already Nöldeke rightly affirms, the Greek reading is to be preferred here.64 Insofar as the second category, “Inner-Greek corruptions,” is concerned, Attridge introduces some examples that in his view may speak in favor of a Syriac original. These cases concern passages in which he thinks the Syriac is superior, even if the Greek inferior text might be due to inner-Greek corruptions. As he also admits, however, “these cases are not absolutely decisive for deciding the 58 Klijn

1962, 5 and 197–98. 1990. 60 Attridge 1990, 242–43. 61 Attridge 1990, 242. 62 τὰ ὑπὸ γαστέρα is attested to in Clem. Al. Paed. 2.10; τοῖς τὰ γαστέρα in Isid. Pel. Epp. 5.28; τὸ κατὰ γαστρός in Clem. Al. Strom. 8.4; see Lampe, s. v. γαστήρ 1. 63 See Michael Psellus, Opuscula 18.60; Theodoretus, Interpretatio in epist. s. Pauli 82.541.8. 64 Apud Lipsius 1897, 2:424. 59 Attridge

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question of the original language.”65 I would go even further, however: none of the examples included in this passage says anything about an alleged Syriac original, since a quick glance at the passages immediately reveals that they all simply concern paleographical corruptions. Let us now take a look at the third category, “Omissions,” which includes a number of passages omitted in the Greek text.66 Such lapses, however, are never decisive, not even in the evaluation of two similar manuscripts, let alone in order to determine the language in which the text included in them was originally written. As the author himself declares, “Of similar (scil. not decisive) value are several cases where the Greek displays a shorter text,” since “in all such cases of inner-Greek error it is theoretically possible that the Syriac was translated from an uncorrupted Greek ms.”67 I would add that in very few cases can we establish with certainty whether a text shortens or amplifies its source. With the fourth category, “Awkward Greek and misunderstood Syriac,” we seem to get closer to the author’s intention of providing definitive evidence.68 Attridge includes a number of cases that should provide such substantiation. As a matter of fact, however, in almost all these cases, we simply face passages that are problematic due to strange expressions, difficult syntax, etc., none of which, in my view, offers compelling proof about the original language of the Acts. Some of them simply repeat cases already dealt with by previous scholarship.69 In other cases, he does provide new examples, but his preference for the Syriac above the Greek introduces, in my view, clear cases of lectio facilior, which should consequently be discarded.70 Again in other cases, we simply face interpretative 65 Attridge

1990, 243. 1990, 243–44. 67  Attridge 1990, 244. 68 Attridge 1990, 244–48. 69 Such is the case with the first two examples in Attridge (1990, 244), which concern the expression for capital punishment in ATh 21 (B. 134.7–8) and 76 (B. 191.1), which in Greek includes the term κεφαλή – namely, τιμωρία κατὰ τῆς κεφαλῆς (see ATh 21, τῇ τιμωρίᾳ κατὰ τῆς κεφαλῆς ἐκείνου τοῦ μάγου. Attridge, as had Burkitt (see above, nn. 34–35 and later on Klijn (1962, 5, 166), considers the expression to be awkward, something that might be explained by the Syriac idiom for expressing “to punish,” namely, “put on the head.” However, such a background is totally unnecessary, since the Greek expression for capital punishment, which is the context for both instances of the expression in ATh, also includes the term κεφαλή. To begin with, the “head” being the most precious part of the body, or that part to which injury may cause death, is normally included in Greek expressions of risk, such as εἰς κίνδυνον τῆς κεφαλῆς, which may be translated as “at the risk of one’s life; in peril of one life.” See Lampe, s. v. κεφαλή, I. C. Moreover, the expression for capital or other punishment also includes it; see Lampe, ibid. Consequently, there is nothing strange in the expression that might require a background of the Syriac idiom to explain its meaning. 70 None of the following cases mentioned by Attridge (1990, 244–45; ATh 40, 63, 66, 81, 85, 88) provides compelling evidence, since they all concern allegedly “awkward” expressions, which in Attridge’s view are more understandable in Syriac and therefore should be preferred to the obscure Greek. In my view, in most of the cases, the rule of the lectio difficilior would suffice to discard the Syriac reading as inferior to the difficult Greek expressions. 66 Attridge

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questions – namely, whether the Greek or the Syriac should be preferred on the basis of being more logical.71 In a couple of cases, finally, the examples concern textual problems, which might be very easily solved either by means of minor intervention in the text or simply by keeping to the transmitted Greek text.72 The last category, “Corrupt Syriac,” includes what Attridge presents as “decisive evidence” – those cases in which errors in the Greek might be due to their being translations of a corrupt Syriac text.73 The passage includes five cases in total and unfortunately does not provide what it promises, since the examples repeat what we already saw in the previous passages: three examples simply reflect the author’s preference for the Syriac reading, since the Greek does not present any problem whatsoever. Let’s take a look at them. 71 Thus, three cases are available as an example of this. (a) Attridge’s interpretation of a passage of chap. 115 (B. 225.22), in which Carisius expresses his despair at the idea of losing Mygdonia. After the rhetorical question “What is left for me?” Carisius refers to the beauties of Mygdonia in the following way: “Your fragrance is in my nostrils and your bright face is set in my eyes.” According to Attridge, Carisius describes Mygdonia’s beauty in an awkward way. However, the expression is perfectly understandable in the present context: Mygdonia and Carisius are presented as opposing characters, the former representing spirituality and the latter bodily drives, inclination toward and dependence on the body. Carisius’s comment on the beauty of Mygdonia, with its explicit references to the senses, makes this even more visible. The Syriac, which Attridge prefers, is clearly secondary, since it edits the expression, simplifying it, in order to adapt it to more normal standards of speech. (b) This is also the case concerning his interpretation of chap. 117 (B. 227.17–18), in which (in the Greek text) Mygdonia prays to the Lord that she might forget her husband and her life with him. There is no need to alter this expression by means of Syriac. The sentence εὔχομαι γὰρ τῷ κυρίῳ ἐπιλαθέσθαι σε, ὥστε μηκέτι μνησθῆναι τῶν προτέρων ἡδονῶν καὶ τῆς συνηθείας τῆς σωματικῆς is in my view perfectly sound in the present context, since Mygdonia declares to have chosen a higher sort of marriage. Her asking the Lord for help to forget her former life is nothing if not normal. (c) This is also the case in his interpretation of Carisius’s statement, in chap. 116 (B. 227.7), “You are wealth and honor to me” (γένος δέ μοι καὶ συγγένεια σὺ εἶ). The Syriac in turn reads, “I have wealth and honor,” which according to Attridge is more probable because Carisius is presuming on his wealth. However, Attridge seems to be missing the point of the text here, since Carisius is actually trying to convince Mygdonia to come back to him. Flattery is a very persuasive weapon; consequently, he presents himself to her in terms of all his wealth. This happens not only in the sentence that Attridge refers to but also in the next one. By means of an anaphoric repetition at the end of the sentence, both sentences intend to emphasize Carisius’s point – namely, that she is his wealth and that she is not to be taken away from him. 72 I will describe the two cases separately. (a) In chap. 130 (B. 238.21), Attridge suspects the sentence καὶ ἐάν μοι πεισθῇς· οἶδα ὃ δεῖ με ποιῆσαι (“If you obey me, I know what I have to do”). The expression is indeed awkward, but the problem might be easily solved by assuming the loss of the negative particle due to haplography. With its restitution in μοι [μή] – as Bonnet, by the way, already proposed in his the apparatus ad loc. – the text is perfectly sound: καὶ ἐάν μοι [μὴ] πεισθῇς· οἶδα ὃ δεῖ με ποιῆσαι (“If you do not obey me, I know what I must do”). There is no need to resort to the elliptical Syriac sentence proposed by Attridge. (b) The case in chapter 136 (B. 243.5) is simpler and does not, in my view, provide any evidence, since both possibilities  – “slaves” (Greek, γινωσκόμενος ἐν τῷ ἀριθμῷ τῶν αὐτοῦ δούλων) and “sheep” (Syriac) – are possible. 73 Attridge 1990, 248–49.

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The first, in chapter 32 (B. 149.9), repeats Burkitt’s concerns regarding the verb καταδήσας.74 The serpent says, ἐγώ εἰμι ὁ τοὺς ἀγγέλους ἄνωθεν κάτω ῥίψας καὶ ἐν ταῖς ἐπιθυμίαις τῶν γυναικῶν αὐτοὺς καταδήσας (“It is I who made the angels fall and bound them with the lusts for women”). The expression is not strange but rather normal and refers to the passion, to wit lust, by means of which in the AAA the devil keeps us attached to the world of matter, imprisoned in the world of the senses. Attridge prefers here the Syriac “corrupted,” but this is clearly secondary. Angels, consequently, are not only said to be “bound,” as Attridge claims, but rather to be “ensnared” by means of their lust for women. As a matter of fact, as already mentioned, the Acts of John presents a very similar example, with a comparable expression in 69.5, in which men are said to “be bound by the passions” (καταδεδεμένη ἐπιθυμίαις).75 In the second example, in ATh 59, this is even clearer. After Thomas heals the sick, the Greek text describes them as καὶ ὑγιαίνοντες καὶ χαίροντες (“healthy and rejoicing”), an expression rather to be expected, one would say. In Attridge’s view, however, the expression is unnatural. The wording is not only normal in the given situation, but also very well attested to as the ready-made expression for such cases.76 In the third case, finally, there is a good example of over-interpretation or circular reasoning, in which the scholar may be trapped. In ATh 146, according to Attridge, the addition of the adjective λαμπρός, η, ον (“brilliant; shining”) to the substantive σπουδή (normally “effort,” but later “prudence”) is “hardly apt.” In fact, given the inveterate and logical connection between the virtues an individual should have or cultivate and the radiance thereof in his society, one might expect this combination to be a rather predictable one. And, indeed, the connection between adjective and substantive is rather normal, as a TLG survey immediately shows. The combination is not only not strange but also very common.77 Finally, in the fourth and fifth examples, the text appears to be corrupt. Both Greek and Syriac present a problematic text, which means that neither offers conclusive evidence.78 74 See

above n. 40 and accompanying text.  See Junod-Kaestli 1983, 260, “enchaîné aux désirs.” 76 Even if they are much later; see, for example, Eustathius Thess., Epistulae 12.7; Maximus Planudes, Epistulae 97.14; Joannes Tzetzes, Epistulae 61.92.8. The combination also appears in Athanasius Theol., Vita Antonii 58.25. 77 See Photius, Fragmenta in epistulam ad Ephesios 621.11; Gregorius Palamas, Homiliae ­xliii–lxiii, Homily 49.8.3. Indeed, examples of this rather normal expression can also be found in Flavius Josephus, Antiquitates Judaicae 10.250.1; Appianus, Bellum civile 4.36.12. 78 The first part of both of them concerns a rather complex passage. ATh 72 affirms that Jesus is “blasphemed διὰ τὴν σὴν ἐπίγνωσιν”: Ἰησοῦ Χριστὲ ὁ βλασφημούμενος διὰ τὴν σὴν ἐπίγνωσιν ἐν τῇ χώρᾳ ταύτῃ. The passage is problematic in Greek and was probably already corrupt in antiquity. Evidence for this comes from the different solution that all the manuscripts, Greek and Syriac, have for this passage: Syriac Berlin ms.: “Jesus, whose knowledge is rejected in this country”; Vaticanus: διὰ τὴν σὴν ἐπίγνωσιν ἐν τῇ χώρᾳ ταύτῃ. As for the second, in chapter 74, 75

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I think this preliminary analysis of the so-called proofs in favor of a Syriac original clearly shows that the hypothesis is hardly tenable at all, or at least not from the evidence provided so far. Admittedly, for the current study, I approached the evidence and analyzed the single cases always from the perspective of the Greek text only. This is not only due to the fact that the Greek text is universally seen as superior to the Syriac, but also due to the approach we find in the scholarly literature itself. In fact, even when claiming a Syriac priority, scholars in general take the Greek as the point of departure in their analysis. Future studies, however, will broaden the perspective, providing an integral analysis of both texts, Greek and Syriac, in order to see whether we need to dispose of the hypothesis of a Syriac priority once and for all.79 Vocabulary: Personal Names and Toponyms of Oriental Origin In his editio princeps of the Syriac text, Wright already pointed out that the Syriac was particularly ancient. With this, he meant that the style and vocabulary of the text allowed for a dating to the fourth century.80 In his review of Wright, Nöldeke agrees with him not only in considering it a translation of a Greek original, but also in his opinion of both the ancient character of the text and its dating to the fourth century.81 However, as already said, this does not concern the hymns, which Nöldeke considered to be originally Syriac works, composed at an earlier date than the rest and only later integrated into the ATh. As proof, Nöldeke refers to the Hymn of the Pearl’s personal and place names of oriental origin, such as the Parthians, Maisan, and Babel.82 Burkitt also referred to the presence of oriental names. In his view, names such as Sandaruk or Mygdonia (for which he proposes the Syriac Magdonia) reveal the Syriac origin of the text. The majority of the names, however, are Old Persian names, such as the name of King Madai (died 328 b.c.). The fact that the reader needs to resort to Justi’s Iranisches Namenbuch,83 instead of to Pape’s, clearly shows, in his view, the Persian origin of the text.84 A shorter note on the name Habban provides further proof – according to Burkitt – of the oriental origin of the text.85 Klijn briefly mentions the names as an argument in favor of a Syriac priority when discussing the Armenian version of the ATh. In his view, Armenian names it indeed has awkward syntax. This passage, however, like the previous one, is problematic both in Greek and in Syriac. This case is therefore inconclusive. 79 See below the third section for an overview of the work in progress. 80 Wright 1871, 2:xiv. 81 Nöldeke 1871, 671. 82 Nöldeke 1871, 676–77. 83 Justi 1895. 84 Burkitt 1899, 288–89 in reference to Pape and Benseler 1905–1911. 85 Burkitt 1901.

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seem sometimes to be translated from Syriac names, other times from Greek names, and only in some cases is the matter ambiguous.86 Nevertheless, he states, one might suppose that they rely on the Syriac original. In his study of the Hymn of the Pearl, Poirier considers both personal and place names, as well as titles, not as the result of simple literary imagination but as an expression of the Sitz im Leben of the author or community of the text. The analysis of the titles allows Poirier, on the one hand, to recognize the social-political background of the beginning of the Sassanid Empire as being the context of the hymn.87 On the other, this origin in his view seems to be confirmed by the toponyms in the text, all of which point to Parthia. From a total of ten toponyms reviewed by the author, however, some of them appear only in the Syriac text (nn. 4, 5, 10),88 while others are too general (1–3, 7, and 9).89 Only two cases (Gazak in number 6 and Beit Qazan in 8), of which the second is also present in the Greek version, may provide some evidence. I think that neither oriental titles nor toponyms should be considered strange in the text but rather as quite normal, since the intention is to provide the hymn with an oriental allure. Toponyms necessarily refer to “real” geographical regions or places. This is how the hymn provides that realistic nuance which supports the literary re-creation of the poem. And in fact Poirier, in spite of considering the toponyms a reflection of the Sitz im Leben, is also forced to admit that their main function is symbolic, since they play an important role in the emphasis of the East-West opposition that underlies the text of the Hymn of the Pearl.90 Consequently, the presence of oriental names in the text does not really provide evidence as to its origin. The names are intended to recreate the context in which the story takes place, providing it with a consistent geographical context. The appearance in the Syriac text of a greater number of names of oriental provenance, the fact that some of them are changed, and the addition of new ones might simply be due to the search for verismo on the part of the translator.

86 Klijn

1962, 9–13. 1981, 211–48. 88 Thus, for example, the names Sarburg and Hyrcania do not appear in Greek. 89 Thus, for example, the well-known name Μεσήνη (see Strabo, Geogr. 2.1.31) or the Greek term for Orient, Ἀνατολή, Babel, India. 90 See also Huxley 1983, who in the same line claims to be able to show, on the basis mainly of toponymic and geographical evidence, that the Acts were written in Syriac. His study, however, shows the same problems referred to in Poirier’s analysis. In addition, his etymologies sometimes are highly speculative while at other times combine evidence proceeding from different sources: sometimes they refer to the Syriac, other times to the Greek text, and still others to a combination of both. 87 Poirier

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Reasons to Reconsider the Syriac Origin of the Text Now that there are no serious textual reasons to support the hypothesis of a Syriac original for the ATh, we need to revisit the hypothesis of an Eastern third-century composition. In fact, there are numerous reasons to do so. Textual Transmission of ATh As already mentioned, ATh’s textual transmission provides enough evidence to revisit the hypothesis of a Syriac original. Due to the complex character of this issue and the need for more space to assess it in detail, I will briefly refer to the most salient aspects and leave the full exposition for upcoming studies. I will first discuss the status and value of the two hymns included in the ATh. The hymns have in my view been wrongly conceived of as later additions to the text.91 I think this aspect in itself is enough to claim the need for a reassessment of the ATh’s textual transmission, since it arises from a mistaken evaluation of the character of the ATh as a whole. The widespread opinion that the ATh is preserved almost completely and that, excluding some minor issues, revision did not affect it not only is wholly unfounded but also has negatively influenced the evaluation of those passages that were less affected by it. The hypothesis that the Hymn of the Bride and Hymn of the Pearl were not originally part of the Acts has no textual basis whatsoever and is simply a rudimentary solution to account for the important conceptual differences between, on the one hand, the rather revised text of the Acts as a whole and, on the other, the more primitive, unaltered tenor of both hymns. Both the Greek and the Syriac transmission of ATh speak against the hypothesis. As far as the Greek transmission is concerned, we can thank a Vallicellian manuscript for the miraculous preservation of both hymns.92 Admittedly, the Hymn of the Bride is well represented in the Greek textual transmission, but the fact that its Greek, Latin,93 Arabic,94 and (partial) Armenian95 textual transmissions are irregular is proof that its status was not wholly undisputed. The fate of the Hymn of the Pearl, however, is not as positive, since with the exception of that single Vallicellian manuscript, it was systematically eliminated from the ATh’s textual transmission. 91 As

far as I know, consensus is complete regarding the extrinsic character of the Hymn of the Pearl. Even if the evaluation of its tenor, language of origin, and dating is still a matter of controversy, everyone seems to agree in considering it to be an earlier composition that found its way into the text. 92 Romanus Vallicell., B 35 (s. XI), U in Bonnet’s nomenclature. 93 Klijn 1962, 8; see also Zelzer 1977, xiii–xxiv. 94 Klijn 1962, 9. 95 Ibid., 10.

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As far as the Syriac textual transmission is concerned, a single manuscript96 also preserves the Hymn of the Pearl, which, however, has been adapted according to more catholic standards. In spite of the clear traces of revision, however, the Syriac manuscript does preserve the hymn, which in my view clearly shows that it belongs to the original version. I think the arguments by Poirier that claim a secondary character for the hymn on the basis of the alleged primitive character of the section immediately following it in the Syriac text are unsound.97 As I will try to show in a future study, it is this prayer that is in fact secondary. The fact that the Hymn of the Pearl has been transmitted not only in two separate manuscripts belonging to two clearly separate branches of the textual transmission but also exactly in the same place and context after Thomas’s imprisonment clearly speaks in favor of the primitive character of the text. That the tenor of the text in the Greek version is completely dissimilar to the rest of the Acts is due to the simple fact that it was affected to a lesser extent by revision. This might easily be explained by the very fairy-tale-like character of the hymn, which obscures its symbolic or allegorical message. The apparently innocent character of the hymn, which could be read at face value, might have caused its heterodox character to pass unnoticed by many. Alleged Oriental Influences on the Text The alleged oriental influences or character of the text also should be given extensive scrutiny. Given the character of the present study, I will only refer to the most obvious problems with this and analyze the particulars in a future study. Oriental elements or influences were already noticed in the first studies of the text. Nöldeke, Bevan, Hoffmann, Preuschen, and Burkitt, among others, refer to the oriental tone of the text in order to claim a Syriac original. This view was reinforced by members of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, such as Richard Reitzenstein, Franz Cumont, and Wilhelm Bousset, who are in my view responsible for the great success of the oriental hypothesis. Reitzenstein devoted much attention to the text; as has been pointed out, the ATh occupies a central place in his work.98 Even if his earlier works attribute the oriental background to Egyptian influences, he later on changed his mind and explained it as due to the influence of the Iranian religion. Cumont, in turn, pointed out the archaic character of the Hymn of the Pearl and, after referring to the importance of the toponyms to conclude an Iranian origin, placed its composition among the magi of Osroene 96 BM

Add 14.645, a. 936. Hymn of the Pearl in folios 30b–32a. 1978. 98 See Reitzenstein 1904–5, 171–78. On Egyptian origin, see Reitzenstein 1906, 103–23; 1916, 33–50; 1921a, 70–74; 1921b. On the influence of Iranian religion and Mandaeism, see Reitzenstein 1917, 16–18; 1922a; 1922b; 1922c; 1922d; 1916, 25ff, 65 ff. On Reitzenstein’s analysis, see Poirier 1981, 83–104. 97 Poirier

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and Assyria.99 As for Bousset, he also dealt with the Acts of Thomas on several occasions,100 and in the wake of Cumont, conceived of the Hymn of the Pearl not only as an Iranian composition but also as the best example of the Himmelsreise der Seele. Based on Turribius of Astorga, Bousset further affirmed that the ATh was transformed by the Manicheans, who introduced passages that included their thought, such as the Hymn of the Wedding and the Hymn of the Pearl. The latter hymn – originally an old tale included in a myth of redemption – was finally transformed into an allegorical hymn to Mani and included in the ATh. Combined with the erroneous and apparently definitive linguistic arguments in favor of a Syriac original provided by the orientalists,101 the opinions of Reitzenstein, Cumont, and Bousset seemed to have provided support for the inevitable conclusion that the Acts and/or the Hymn of the Pearl had an oriental origin. Even if recent years have seen the disproving, correction, and/or nuanced explanation of many of the views of the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule – such as the so-called Redeemer myth and the belief in a pre-Christian Gnosticism102 – the History of Religion School’s influence still remains visible and uncontested in numerous theories and views that arose in its aftermath. The hypothesis of an oriental origin for the ATh is one of these and still needs to be reassessed. Not only is this view wholly unnecessary in order to explain the background of the ATh, but in addition, the evaluation of the tenor and provenance of the text was partially due to the (also erroneous) dating of numerous important texts, such as the Mandaean documents. Conceptual World of the ATh As pointed out above, the conceptual world of the text fits in better, in general, with the second rather than the third century. The philosophical and religious ideas reflect second-century Christianity; the theology, anthropology, cosmology, epistemology, and ethics of the ATh echo numerous issues that play an important role in the philosophical and religious second-century discourse, both within Christianity and in the pagan world. Previous scholarship did perceive the importance of some of these elements in the conceptual background of the text but attributed them to an alleged oriental origin, to the Gnostic tenor of the text, or to a combination of both. As a result, the ATh was attributed to (the authorship or influence of) Bardesanes, Bardesanites, Mani, or the Manicheans.  99 Cumont

1899, 15.

100 See Bousset 1901; 1907, 252ff, 299. On the solar cult present in the Ginza also appearing in

the Hymn of the Pearl, and on Mandaean and Babylonian origin, see Bousset 1917. See Poirier 1981, 110–16. 101 See previous section, passim. 102 See Colpe 1961. For a recent overview of the state of the art regarding the Religionsgeschichtliche Schule, see King 2003, 71–109.

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Our knowledge of the philosophical and religious world of late antiquity has increased so enormously in recent years as to make such assumptions unnecessary. To begin with, in the wake of seminal studies published in the first part of the twentieth century,103 scholars have gradually realized that oriental influence is not always necessary in order to explain phenomena such as negative theology, the confluence between religion and philosophy, the esoteric component, and the mystical tendencies in late antique religiosity, asceticism, etc. In many cases, they can be simply explained as resulting from tendencies present in Plato’s dialogues, which are now highlighted as being due to the religiosity characteristic of the historical period. We also know that Gnostic currents in Christianity did not necessarily originate in the East, as many scholars of the first half of the twentieth century were inclined to think, and that there was no such thing as a pre-Christian Gnosticism. On the one hand, our growing understanding of Middle Platonism and its seminal role, not only as a general philosophical koine but also in the development of important theological,104 cosmological, and anthropological views of the historical period, has made numerous previous assumptions regarding the oriental provenance of certain notions obsolete. On the other hand, our improved knowledge about early Christianity has made it clear that Christians, far from being isolated, were also exposed to the influence of the religious discourse of the time, which was clearly led by Middle Platonic thinkers. As a result of this exposure, there was an understanding of the Christian faith in which numerous Greco-Roman elements were already incorporated.105 Christians living in the fertile cultural world of second-century Alexandria discussed and exchanged opinions on the divine,106 man,107 and the world with their contemporaries, and reached solutions suited to their religious and conceptual needs. The label Christian “Gnosticism” is an umbrella term for a variety of currents, theological discussions, hermeneutic approaches, and/or paraenetic efforts arising in this fertile environment. To a certain extent, this cultural exchange between Christianity and Platonism might be seen as an important precedent or ancestor for a Platonizing trend within Christianity from Clement of Alexandria onward. The conceptual world of the ATh, consequently, can and should be placed in the rich philosophical and religious context of the second-century Mediterranean world. Instead of resorting to oriental influence, thought, or authors, the ATh’s 103 See,

for example, Dodds 1928, 129–42; Witt 1931, 195–204; Armstrong 1940; Merlan Merlan 1963. 104 On Middle Platonic theology, see Roig Lanzillotta 2014b. 105 On the influence of Middle Platonism on early Christian anthropology, see Roig Lanzillotta 2014a. 106 On the Middle Platonic influence on Christian theology, see Roig Lanzillotta 2014c; see also Roig Lanzillotta 2014d. 107 For the influence of the Platonic homoiōsis theō on early Christianity, see Roig Lanzillotta 2013. 21960;

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theology, anthropology, and ethics are perfectly explainable in the same context as the other apocryphal Acts of Apostles. General Worldview of the ATh At a more basic level, the text reflects numerous aspects of second-century life and society. The ATh seems to reflect developments consistent with what Dodds considered symptoms of “an age of anxiety”:108 the search for a divinity closer to humans than the ones inherited from the world of Hellenism; the exercise of new and more reliable ethical patterns for living a life worthy of being called a “good life”; the search for new values based on a revaluation of human life, which is at this point in time approached from a personal perspective; and most importantly, a new view of human beings and their relationship both with God and with the world around them. All these aspects, which the apocryphal Acts share in general with the Greek novel, appear in the ATh as well.109 From a more specifically Christian perspective, it is possible to recognize many of the aspects that characterize second-century Christian communities. The search for a clear basis on which to determine hierarchy within the Christian community is one of them. The authority conferred upon the apostle as an itinerant preacher, who travels among various communities, might reflect the search for an overarching authority, under which the recently developed monarchial authority of local bishops may be placed. Furthermore, the nature of the apostle’s activities, which abound in healings and other marvelous deeds, reflects the needs of second-century communities and the kind of leader they value: far from accommodating to his Greco-Roman environment, the apostle is a clearly disruptive element that claims a new order based on wholly new values. As a result, his appearance alters the normal way of life of the story’s characters, since the introduction of new values necessarily affects the world around them. These values might be summed up by the term renunciation: a renunciation of traditional social and political values, ethical values, standards of love, sex, power relationships, etc. I think, therefore, that we may not yet properly speak of asceticism, since renunciation affects all aspects of life and does not focus on sex and food alone.110 By means of the adventures of the apostle in the changing contexts of his travels, the Acts of the Apostles describe the clash between the Christian way of life and pagan standards. As representative of these values, the apostle gives his life for their successful introduction. As was to be expected, the new values distort the reigning status quo, as a result of which a local authority ends up punishing the apostle for the wrongs committed against his person and the community. 108 Dodds

1965. 1932. 110 Roig Lanzillotta 2007, 162–68. 109 Söder

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Similarities and Parallels with the Other Apocryphal Acts The close similarity of the apocryphal Acts, all of them reflecting the same conceptual world and worldview referred to above,111 also is an important argument for reevaluating the hypothesis of a Syriac original. During the last century, different scholars have mentioned enough points of contact among the apocryphal Acts to claim, in their view, diverse degrees of dependence and/or influences among them.112 Admittedly, there is no consensus regarding the way they should be interpreted, but the importance of their similarities is well established in the scholarly literature.113 This is hardly the place to go into the question of whether the contacts among the texts reflect influence, dependence, or else simply a common background, but it is certainly clear that these issues might be highly relevant in determining origin, composition, date, affiliation, and the relationship among the five major apocryphal Acts, which were all written in the second half of the second century. It is important to underline that the ATh shares not only a worldview but also a literary genre, general setting, motifs, language, and vocabulary with the other Acts. Given this proximity, it seems rather awkward to place the ATh in a chronologically and geographically distant world from the other four apocryphal Acts.

Overview of the Work in Progress at the University of Groningen The work in progress attempts to provide a fresh approach to the Acts of Thomas in particular and to the apocryphal Acts of Apostles in general. By means of the same methodology successfully applied some years ago to the apocryphal Acts of Andrew,114 the present project is reviewing and reassessing the current interpretation of the text. This study is part of a major research project that includes five major phases. Reassessment of the Textual Transmission and Primitive Character of the ATh To begin with, a detailed comparative study of the Syriac and Greek testimonies with special attention to those passages allegedly presenting Syriac echoes on the Greek text will attempt to reassess the interpretation of the text by twentieth-century scholarship. The Vorarbeit presented in this paper was mainly based on the Greek testimony and intended to check the reliability of the opinions claiming 111 See

above n. 4. 1936; Peterson 1949, 154–55. 113 Drijvers (1992, 290) accepts similarities and parallelisms among the texts but explains them otherwise – namely, adducing a similar background. 114 Roig Lanzillotta 2007. 112 Schmidt

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a Syriac original, on the basis of so-called awkward expressions, alleged paleographically defective passages, or purportedly latent Syrianisms in the Greek text of the Acts of Thomas. To be complete, however, such a study requires an integral approach to all the material allegedly implying a Syriac original that takes into account both the Greek and the Syriac texts. Critical Edition and Translation of and Commentary on the ATh A future paper will provide a preliminary discussion of ATh’s textual transmission with a view to showing the need to reconsider the understanding and explanation of the historical development of the text. This will provide a first glance at the previous interpretation of the ATh and prepare the ground for a fuller study. In it, after reviewing the history of scholarship on the text, we will undertake a complete analysis of the ATh’s textual transmission that should allow for the sketching of a tentative, sound stemma codicum (“family tree”) of the textual diversification of the texts transmitting the Acts of Thomas. This step is essential, since it will shed light on the model(s) used by later rewriters of the text when shaping new versions more adapted to the expectations of changing readerships, during the lapse between the text’s composition and the sixteenth century (date of our latest manuscript). An English translation of and a commentary on the restituted text of ATh will allow for a proper understanding of the text. Comparative Analysis of the Greek and Syriac Versions of the Hymn of the Bride and Hymn of the Pearl The investigation also will include a comparative analysis of the Greek and Syriac versions of the Hymn of the Bride and Hymn of the Pearl, trying to establish that both hymns originally belonged to the original account of the ATh. Once the Syriac hypothesis has been carefully deconstructed, the textual transmission thoroughly analyzed, and the Greek text cautiously reconstructed, translated, and commented upon, we will be able to provide a fresh approach to the Hymn of the Bride and Hymn of the Pearl with a view to stressing similarities and parallelisms with the text in which they were transmitted. Once that has been accomplished, both texts will be reintroduced in the primitive account of the ATh. Conceptual Analysis, Theological, and Philosophical Study of the ATh Building on the results achieved in the previous philological steps, a conceptual analysis, theological, and philosophical study of the ATh intends to show that the alleged oriental influence is unnecessary for explaining the ATh’s worldview. In an initial stage, a future preliminary article will provide a thorough analysis of the alleged oriental influences in order to uncover erroneous or aprioristic interpretations of the text. Thanks to the new analysis of the ATh, a new approach to

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its character, thought, and meaning will take place. Taking this reassessment as a starting point, the new conceptual analysis of the ATh will attempt to place the origin and composition of the primitive text in its natural context, which – as in the case of the other four Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles – is the cosmopolitan Mediterranean world of the second century. The literary and theological study will be completed with a systematic approach to the text’s philosophical background, which on the basis of diverse philosophical categories (theology, cosmology, anthropology, ethics, and epistemology) will try to establish links with contemporary philosophical schools. Overarching Synthesis Once all four previous steps have been completed, we will be able to present an integral approach to the ATh and the history of its analysis, with special attention to the influence of the History of Religion School on the interpretation of the text. Once this step has been completed, we will be able to reassess the original meaning and goal of the ATh’s primitive text and will try to analyze the factors playing a role in the biased interpretations thereof by twentieth-century scholarship. Building on the analysis of the text and the context in which it saw the light of day, this reassessment will ponder the implications of the previous studies for the study of apocryphal literature in particular and of history in general. Special attention will be paid not only to the influence of the History of Religion School (which resulted in the wrong interpretation of text and context), but also to the way in which the evidence might be beaten into the shape required by available reconstructions of the past. This will provide a test case for our “construction” and understanding of the past and the way preconceived views regarding it determine our understanding of the evidence.

Bibliography Armstrong, Arthur Hilary. 1940. The Architecture of the Intelligible Universe in the Philosophy of Plotinus: an Analytical and Historical Study. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1940. Attridge, Harold W. 1990. “The Original Language of the Acts of Thomas.” Pages 241–50 in Of Scribes and Scrolls: Studies on the Hebrew Bible, Intertestamental Judaism, and Christian Origins Presented to John Strugnell on the Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday. Edited by H. W. Attridge, J. J. Collins, and T. H. Tobin. Lanham, Md.: University Press of America. –. 2010. The Acts of Thomas. Edited by J. V. Hills. Salem, Ore.: Poleridge. Bevan, Anthony Ashley. 1897. The Hymn of the Soul: Contained in the Syriac Acts of St. Thomas. Edited with an English translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Beyer, K. 1990. “Das syrische Perlenlied: Ein Erlösungsmythos als Märchengedicht.” ZDMG 140: 234–59. Bonnet, Maximilian 1883. Supplementum codicis apocryphi. Leipzig: C. Klincksieck.

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–. 1901. “Acte de Saint Thomas, apôtre: Le poème de l’âme, version grecque remaniée par Nicetas de Thessalonique.” AnBoll 20: 159–64. –. 1903. Acta apostolorum apocrypha 2.2. Leipzig: Mendelsohn. Bornkamm, Günther. 1933. Mythos und Legende in den apokryphen Thomas-Akten. ­FRLANT, N. F. 31. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht. –. 1964. “Thomasakten.” Pages 297–372 in Neutestamentliche Apokryphen, vol. 2. Edited by Edgar Hennecke and Wilhelm Schneemelcher. 3rd ed. Tubingen: Mohr Siebeck. = “The Acts of Thomas.” Pages 425–531 in New Testament Apocrypha, vol. 2. English translation edited by R. M. Wilson. Philadelphia: Westminster. Bousset, Wilhelm. 1901. “Die Himmelsreise der Seele.” AR 4: 136–69, 229–73. –. 1907. Hauptprobleme der Gnosis. Forschungen zur Religion und Literatur des Alten und Neuen Testaments 10. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. –. 1917. “Manichäisches in den Thomasakten.” Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde des Urchristentums 18: 1–39. Burkitt, Francis Crawford. 1899. The Hymn of Bardaisan Rendered into English. London: Edward Arnold, Essex House. –. 1899b. “The Original Language of the Acts of Judas Thomas.” JTS 1: 280–90. –. 1901. “The Name Habban in the Acts of Thomas.” JTS 2: 429. –. 1902. “Another Indication of the Syriac Origin of the Acts of Thomas.” JTS 3: 94–95. –. 1904. Early Eastern Christianity: St. Margaret’s Lectures, 1904, on the Syriac-Speaking Church. London: Murray. –. 1905. “Review of E. Preuschen, Zwei gnostische Hymnen.” Theologisch Tijdschrift 39: 270–82. –. 1914. “The Hymn of the Soul.” The Quest 5: 617–28. –. 1921. Introduction to S. Ephraim’s Prose Refutations of Mani. Marcion and Bardaisan, by C. W. Mitchell. London: Williams and Norgate. –. 1939. “The Christian Church in the East.” Pages 498–99 in The Cambridge Ancient History, vol. 12, The Imperial Crisis and Recovery, a.d. 193–324. Edited by J. B. Bury. Cambridge: University Press. Colpe, C. 1961. Die religionsgeschichtliche Schule: Darstellung und Kritik ihres Bildes vom gnostischen Erlösermythus. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Connolly, R. H. 1907. “The Original Language of the Syriac Acts of Thomas.” JTS 8: 249–61. Culianu, I. 1979. “Erzäh1ung und Mythos im ‘Lied von der Perle.” Kairos 21: 60–71. Cumont, Fr. 1899. Textes et monuments figurés relatifs aux mystères de Mithra. Brussels: Lamertin. Devos, P. 1951. “Actes de Thomas et Actes de Paul.” AnBoll 69: 119–30. Dodds, Eric Robertson. 1928. “The Parmenides of Plato and the Origin of Neoplatonic ‘One.’” CQ 22: 129–42. –. 1965. Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety: Some Aspects of Religious Experience from Marcus Aurelius to Constantine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Drijvers, J. W. 1992. “Thomasakten.” Pages 289–367 in Neutestamentliche Apocryphen in deutscher Übersetzung, vol. 2, Apostolisches Apokalypsen und Verwandtes. Edited by W. Schneemelcher. Tübingen: Mohr. Duncan-Jones, Arthur Stuart. 1905. “Review of Preuschen, Zwei gnostische Hymnen.” JThS 6: 448–51. Ehrhard, Albert. 1937–1952. Überlieferung und Bestand der hagiographischen und homiletischen Literatur der griechischen Kirche von den Anfängen bis zum Ende des 16. Jahrhunderts. Leipzig: Hinrich.

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Elliott, James Keith. 1993. The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation. Oxford: Clarendon. Garitte, Gérard. 1970. “Le martyre géorgien de l’apôtre Thomas.” Le Muséon 83: 497–532. –. 1971. “La passion arménienne de S. Thomas l’apôtre et son modèle grec.” Le Muséon 84: 151–95. Gunther, John J. 1980. “The Meaning and Origin of the Name ‘Judas Thomas.’” Le Museon 93: 113–48. Halkin, François. 1968. Manuscrits grecs de Paris: Inventaire hagiographique. Subsidia hagiographica 44. Brussels: Brepols. Hilgenfeld, Adolf. 1898. “Review of Bevan.” Berliner Philologische Wochenschrift 18: 389–95. –. 1904. “Der Königsohn und die Perle.” ZWT 47: 229–41. Hilhorst, Anthony. 1976. Sémitismes et latinismes dans le Pasteur d’Hermas. Nijmegen: Dekker & Van de Vegt. Hoffmann, Georg. 1903. “Zwei Hymnen der Thomasakten.” Zeitschrift für neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 4: 295–309. Huxley, Georg. 1983. “Geography in the Acts of Thomas.” GRBS 24: 71–80. James, Montague Rhodes. 1924. The Apocryphal New Testament. London: Oxford University Press. Jonas, Hans. 1963. The Gnostic Religion. 2nd ed. Boston: Beacon. –. 1988 [1934]. Gnosis und spätantiker Geist, vol. 1, Die mythologische Gnosis. 4th ed. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Junod, Eric, and Jean-Daniel Kaestli. 1983. Acta Johannis. 2 vols. Turnhout: Brepols. Justi, Ferdinand. 1895. Iranisches Namenbuch. Marburg. King, Karen. 2003. What Is Gnosticism? Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Klauck, Hans-Josef. 2008. The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles: An Introduction. Translated by Brian McNeil. Waco: Baylor University Press. Klijn, A. F. J. 1962. The Acts of Thomas: Introduction, Text, Commentary. 2nd ed. Leiden: Brill. Kruse, Heinz. 1978. “The Return of the Prodigal: Fortunes of a Parable on Its Way to the Far East.” Or 47: 163–214. –. 1985. “Zwei Geist-Epiklesen der syrischen Thomasakten.” OrChr 69: 33–53. LaFargue, Michael. 1985. Language and Gnosis: The Opening Scenes of the Acts of Thomas. Philadelphia: Fortress. Lampe, Geoffrey W. H. 1961. A Patristic Greek Lexicon. Oxford [etc.]: Clarendon, 1961– [1968]. Leloir, Louis. 1992. Écrits apocryphes sur les apôtres: Traduction de l’édition arménienne de Venise, vol. 2, Philippe, Barthélemy, Thomas, Matthieu, Jacques Frère du Seigneur, Thaddée, Simon, Listes d’apôtres. Turnhout: Brepols. Lipsius, Richard Adelbert. 1883–1887. Die apokryphen Apostelgeschichten und Apostellegenden: ein Beitrag zur altchristlichen Literaturgeschichte. 2 vols. Braunschweig: Schwetschke. Macke, Karl. 1874. “Syrische Lieder gnostischen Ursprungs.” Tübinger Theologische Quartalsschrift 56: 1–70. Markovich, Miroslav. 1988. “The Wedding Hymn of Acta Thomae.” Pages 156–73 in Studies in Graeco-Roman Religions and Gnosticism. Leiden: Brill. Martini, Emidio. 1967. Catalogo di manoscritti greci esistenti nelle biblioteche italiane. 2 vols. Rome: Libreria dello Stato.

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Merlan, Philip. 1960. From Platonism to Neoplatonism. 2nd ed. The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff. –. 1963. Monopsychism, Mysticism, Metaconsciousness: Problems of the Soul in the Neo­ aristo­telian and Neoplatonic Tradition. The Hague: Nijhoff. Muccio, Georgio, and Pio Franchi de’ Cavalieri. 1896. Index codicum graecorum Bibliothecae Angelicae. Pages 4:1–184 in Studi italiani di filologia classica. Myers, Susan E. 2006. “Revisiting the Preliminary Issues in the Acts of Thomas.” Apocrypha 17: 95–112. –. 2010. Spirit Epicleses in the Acts of Thomas. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Pape, Wilhelm, and Gustav Eduard Benseler. 1905–1911. Dr. W. Pape‘s Handwörterbuch der griechischen Sprache. 3rd ed. neu bearb. von G. E. Benseler and M. Sengebusch. Braunschweig: Vieweg & Sohn. Peeters, Paul. 1922. “Traductions et traducteurs dans l’hagiographie orientale à l’époque byzantine.” AnBoll 40: 241–98. Peterson, Erik. 1949. “Bemerkungen zum Hamburger Papyrus-Fragment der Acta Pauli.” VC 3: 142–62. Reprinted on pages 183–208 in Frühkirche, Judentum und Gnosis: Studien und Untersuchungen. Rome: Herder, 1959. Piccolomini, Enea. 1898. Index codicum graecorum Bibliothecae Angelicae ad praefationem additamenta. In Studi italiani di filologia classica 6:167–84. Plümacher, Eckhard. 1978. “Apokryphe Apostelakten.” Pages 11–70 in Pauly Wissowa Supplement 15. Poirier, Paul-Hubert. 1978. “L’hymne de la Perle des Actes de Thomas: Étude de la tradition manuscrite.” Pages 19–29 in Symposium Syriacum 1976: Célebré du 13 au 17 septembre 1976 au Centre Culturel “Les Fontaines” de Chantilly (France); Communications. OrChrAn 205. Rome: Pontificium Institutum Orientalium Studiorum. –. 1981. L’Hymne de la Perle des Actes de Thomas: Introduction, texte, traduction, commentaire. Louvain-la-Neuve: Centre d’Histoire des Religions. –. 1984. La version copte de la prédication et du martyre du Thomas. Subsidia hagiographica 67. Brussels: Société des Bollandistes. –. 1997. “The Writings Ascribed to Thomas and the Thomas Tradition.” Pages 295–307 in The Nag Hammadi Library after Fifty Years. Edited by J. Turner and A. McGuire. Leiden: Brill. Preuschen, Erwin. 1904. Zwei gnostische Hymnen. Giessen: J. Ricker’sche Verlagbuchhandlung. Puech, Henry-Charles. 1963. “Gnostic Gospels and Related Documents.” Pages 1:286–87 in New Testament Apocrypha. Edited by E. Hennecke and W. Schneemelcher. English translation edited by R. M. Wilson. Philadelphia: Westminster. Ramelli, Ilaria L. E. 2009. Bardaisan of Edessa: A Reassessment of the Evidence and a New Interpretation. Piscataway, N. J.: Gorgias. Reitzenstein, Richard. 1904–1905. “Zwei hellenistische Hymnen.” AR 8: 167–90. –. 1906. Hellenistische Wundererzählungen. Leipzig: Teubner. –. 1916. Historia Monachorum und Historia Lausiaca. Göttingen. Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. –. 1917. Die Göttin Psyche. Sitzungsberichte der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.-hist. Klasse 10. Abhandl. –. 1921a. Erlösungsmysterium: Religionsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen. Bonn: Marcus & Weber.

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–. 1921b. “Iranischer Erlösungsglaube.” Zeitschrift für neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 20: 1–23. –. 1922a. “Ein Gegenstück zu dem Seelenhymnus der Thomasakten.” Zeitschrift für neutestamentliche Wissenschaft 21: 35–37. –. 1922b. “Gedanken zur Entwicklung des Erlöserglaubens.” Historische Zeitschrift 126: 1–57. –. 1922c. “Hellenistische literarische Texte.” Pages 2:218–22 in Textbuch zur Religionsgeschichte. Edited by Edv Lehmann and H. Haas. Leipzig: Deichert. –. 1922d. “Vorchristliche Erlösungslehren.” Kyrkohistorisk Årsskrift 94–128. Roig Lanzillotta, Lautaro. 2007. Acta Andreae Apocrypha: A New Perspective on the Nature, Intention and Significance of the Primitive Text. Geneva: Patrick Cramer. –. 2013. “A Way of Salvation: Becoming like God in Nag Hammadi.” Numen 60:71–102. –. 2014a. “Anthropological Views in Nag Hammadi: The Bipartite and Tripartite Conceptions of Human Being.” Forthcoming in The Development of a Dualistic Anthropology in Early Judaism and Christianity, and their Umwelts. Edited by J. van Ruiten and G. H. van Kooten. Leiden: Brill. –. 2014b. “Dios como padre y artífice en Moralia de Plutarco.” Pages 139–56 in Filiación. Cultura pagana, religión de Israel, orígenes del cristianismo, vol. 5. Edited by P. de Navascués, M. Crespo, and A. Sáez. Madrid: Trotta. –. 2014c. “The Divine Father in the Gospel of Truth (NHC I,3): God as causa efficiens and causa finalis.” Pages 345–67 in The Divine Father Religious and Philosophical Concepts of Divine Parenthood in Antiquity. Edited by F. Albrecht and R. Feldmeier. Leiden: Brill. –. 2015. “La recepción de Platón, Timeo 28C en Clemente de Alejandría.” Forthcoming in Filiación. Cultura pagana, religión de Israel, orígenes del cristianismo, vol. 6. Edited by P. de Navascués, M. Crespo, and A. Sáez. Madrid: Trotta. Schmidt, C. 1936. Praxeis Paulou. Glückstadt-Hamburg: J. J. Augustin. Silverstein, Theodore, and Anthony Hilhorst. 1997. Apocalypse of Paul: A New Critical Edition of Three Long Latin Versions. Cahiers d’orientalisme 21. Genève: Cramer. Söder, Rosa. 1932. Die apokryphen Apostelgeschichten und die romanhafte Literatur der Antike. Würzburger Studien zur Altertumswissenschaft Heft 3. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer. Thilo, Johann Karl. 1823. Acta S. Thomae apostoli. Leipzig: sumtibus F. C. G. Vogelii. Tischendorff, Constantinus von. 1851. Acta apostolorum apocrypha. Leipzig: Avenarius et Mendelssohn. Turner, John. 1973. “A New Link in the Syrian Judas Thomas Tradition.” Pages 109–119 in Essays on the Nag Hammadi Texts in Honour of Alexander Böhlig. Edited by M. Krause. Leiden: Brill. Windegren, Geo. 1946. Mesopotamian Elements in Manicheism. Uppsala: Lundequistska bokhandeln. –. 1952. “Der iranische Hintergrund der Gnosis.” ZRGG 4: 97–114. –. 1960. Iranisch-semitische Kulturbegegnung in partischer Zeit. Arbeitsgemeinschaft für Forschung des Landes Nordrhein-Westfalen 70. Cologne: Opladen. Witt, Reginald Eldred. 1931. “The Hellenism of Clement of Alexandria.” CQ 25: 195–204. Wright, William. 1871. Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles. 2 vols. London: Williams and Norgate. Ysebaert, Joseph. 1962. Greek Baptismal Terminology: Its Origins and Early Development. Nijmegen: Dekker & Van de Vegt. Zelzer, Klaus. 1977. Die alten lateinischen Thomasakten. Berlin: Akademie-Verlag.

The Deferred Fulfilment of Prophecy in Early Christian Fiction Mark J. Edwards In a notable study of the ancient novel, Shadi Bartsch observes that, while prophetic dreams are a stock device of the genre, they are frequently interpreted in a manner that misleads the prophetic faculties of the reader.1 The latter, that is, on witnessing the symbolic verification of the dream, assumes that nothing remains to be accomplished, and is consequently surprised when, at a later stage, it seems that the thing foretold has literally come to pass. Thus, in the Clitophon and Leucippe of Achilles Tatius, the heroine’s mother, coming upon the pair in the act of making love, exclaims that she has now understood the import of a dream in which she saw her daughter being pierced with a knife (2.24). Accounts with fate have not been settled, however, until Leucippe meets a cruel death at the hands of pirates. The sham penetration is therefore the prelude to a real penetration – or would be so, had not the impalement of Leucippe proved in turn to have been a sham (3.18). The distinction between the literal and the symbolic is not rescinded by this turn of the wheel: the dithyrambic logic of the novel dictates, however, that the literal fulfilment of the omen is illusory, while the symbolic one, though unconsummated, is the act that it appears to be. It is not my aim, in addressing this brief study to the use of similar tropes in Christian fiction, simply to add a handful of new specimens to a catalogue of Christian genuflexions to the norms of pagan culture. I do not deny that pagan models existed for imitation, though all dates remain uncertain and good scholars have opined that pagans could have drawn on Christian antecedents;2 I would insist, however, as I argued twenty years ago in an article on the Clementina,3 that Christians could never be content to echo narratives in which the dramaturgic role is assigned not to God, but to fortune, chance or fate. It was possible for the Clementina, where providence gives the lie to the fatalism of the atheist (Recognitions 9.34), to disparage all forms of divination, including oneiromancy (Homilies 17.14); others, however, remembering that Joseph had seen with closed eyes what was hidden from his brothers, that Christian saints had received advice in visions, and that the spirit of divination had been promised to all by Joel, were 1 Bartsch

(1992). this speculation, see Bowersock 1994, 119. 3 Edwards, (1992). 2 For

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more willing to make use of the dream as a literary motif. Since it is, none the less, a Christian axiom that God does not deceive,4 the deferred vindication of prophecy was never a mere device for making play with the expectations of the reader. It was rather an illustration of the principle, ubiquitously attested in the scriptures, that the promises of God bear fruit in signs before they are harvested in experience, in order that he may reward the true disciples who believe before they have seen.

Pagan and Christian Prophecy The pattern of fulfilment first in shadow then in substance is not peculiar to the novel. Readers of Sophocles’ Oedipus Tyrannus will recall that, as Jocasta is beginning to suspect that she has shared a bed with her son, she exclaims that this is a thing that men do only in dreams (Oedipus Tyrannus 981). There will have been some in the audience of Sophocles who remembered that the tyrant Hippias had had such a dream, and had interpreted it to mean that he would recover possession of Athens (Herodotus, Histories 6.107). His inference, though fallacious, was supported by the principles of dreamlore as these were later expounded by the practitioner Artemidorus.5 The portent to which Jocasta alludes had thus already been fulfilled in the sight of all by Oedipus’ accession to the throne of Thebes, though, because it was not yet known that the throne was his by birth, the full significance of this public fact was not yet apparent. Once his unwitting incest was revealed, it could be seen that he had fulfilled the dream in both the symbolic and literal manner, first by overthrowing the sphinx to secure the kingdom and then by marrying his mother. It is when the hero learns that he is guilty of the crime that was prefigured that he is able to apply the more common, though more cryptic, import of such premonitions. Here there are two sequences, the order of recognition running counter to the order of events. As a rule, pagan oracles overreach the understanding, not by the fusion of two prophecies in one, but by appearing to say one thing when they mean another. The weapons of deception are homonymy, syntactic ambiguity and cryptographic diction. Antigonus shuns Strato’s Tower, only to be killed in another locality of the same name (Josephus, Jewish War 1.3.4–5); Croesus and Pyrrhus go to war, not grasping that the defeat foretold by the oracle is their own;6 the more fortunate Themistocles divines, or perhaps contrives, that the wooden wall which is to save 4 Cf

Numbers 23.19; Romans 3.4; Titus 1.2; Hebrews 6.18. On Dreams 1.79.20ff at p. 228 Giardino. On dreams in tragedy see Devereux (1976), though I am puzzled by his conclusion (pp. 209–210) that the revelation of an incestuous union “disturbs her not at all”. 6 Herodotus, Histories 1.53.3; Ennius, fr. 167 Skutsch, cited by Cicero, On Divination 2.116. 5 Artemidorus,

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Athens is the navy.7 Enigmatic prophecy is not foreign to the Old Testament, and would often lend itself to misconstruction, or to no construction at all, if there were no-one at hand to expound it. Joseph, however, is able to tell his fellow-prisoners that one of their dreams is an augury of restoration, the other of disgrace (Genesis 40.9–19), and to explain that in Pharaoh’s dream the fat and lean cows stand for years of plenty and want (Genesis 45.25–33). Daniel is not perplexed for an instant by the writing on the wall against Belshazzar (Daniel 5.24–28); earlier in the same book, when Belshazzar’s father Nebuchadnezzar dreams of a composite statue, Daniel puts the Babylonian seers to shame as he demonstrates that each of its metals signifies one of four successive kingdoms (Daniel 2.26–45). It is not the dream itself, but the pagan folly of Nebuchadnezzar, that induces him to set up his own colossus for public worship (Daniel 3.1–7); there is, in fact, no concealment of the divine intent in any of these instances, as the purpose of the emblematic prophecy is to quicken the sage’s powers of vaticination. For this reason, the symbolic elucidation is always final, not the prelude to a more literal fulfilment of the dream. There are, for all that, passages of the Old Testament which imply that God said more than he performed, unless his words were intended in some sense other than the literal one. He warned Adam that, in the day when he ate of the fruit from the tree of knowledge, he would die (Genesis 3.17); since, in fact, Adam lived for over nine hundred years (Genesis 5.3–4), the pious exegete must conclude that in the day of his transgression he suffered a spiritual death, less visible but more to be dreaded than the subsequent dissolution of the body.8 The first recorded utterance of God is “let there be light” (Genesis 1.3), and we are told that his command was efficacious, though he waited until the fourth day to create the sun and moon.9 The light of the first day, then, must be that of the angels or the celestial heaven, real indeed, but not yet real to us, and hence not light in the literal sense if we take the word “literal” to mean quotidian. In both these instances the anticipatory fulfilment is the loftier, the more spiritual, hence the more plenitudinous, and the literal epilogue is little more than an accommodation of sublime truth to our temporal understanding. The Jews were aware, after all, that the tabernacle had been but a copy of the archetype shown to Moses (Exodus 26.40; Hebrews 8.5), and that even the temple, of which the tabernacle was an adumbration, had been at most a seat for the name of God (Deuteronomy 12.5). It is not to the scriptures of Israel that we should look for bivalent prophecies, in which the shadow is followed by the substance, but in the Christian appropriation of them which has left its mark in the characterization of these scriptures as an “Old Testament” in contrast to the New. Histories 7.143; see further Parke and Wormell (1956), 170–71. Athanasius, On the Incarnation 3; Augustine, City of God 13.12 etc. 9 Genesis 14–16; cf. Augustine, City of God 11.7 etc. 7 Herodotus, 8 See

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We are all too ready to charge the early Christians with rapacity or caprice in their handling of Old Testament prophecies. Why should anyone suppose that Christ, or a recent episode in the history of the church, was the proper referent of a text that had plainly been intended only for his own times by the seer who had uttered it centuries before? Barnabas, Origen and their posterity would have answered that in many cases what we call allegory (or, in friendlier terms, typology10) was the only means of reconciling the prophet’s words with history, thereby justifying his claim to inspiration. The biblical test of veracity is that the words should be fulfilled as the prophet spoke them; nevertheless, every prophet had at some time spoken of things to come that had not in fact been realised in his own lifetime or in that of any subsequent reader before the Incarnation. Ezekiel had trumpeted the fall of the prince of Tyre before he saw the result of the Babylonian siege (Ezekiel 28.7–10); when the siege failed, it was evident that he had lied, or that God had lied to him, unless the prince of Tyre could be shown to be a cipher for some other malefactor who had not escaped divine judgment. Since he is represented in the prophecy as an outcast from Eden, Origen surmises that the true subject is the devil, whose expulsion from the court of God was as real a fact, to Christians of the third century, as the discomfiture of any earthly magnate (First Principles 1.5.4). Those who denied that the past could be an object of vaticination looked for a counterpart to the prince of Tyre among their own contemporaries. Optatus of Milevis duly found one in Donatus, whose usurpation of the see of Carthage could be prefigured in this manner because that city was the most celebrated colony of Tyre (Against the Donatists 3.3). Good Christians may be guilty of false conjectures, as Augustine says of Optatus (Epistle to Catholics 42); is it possible, on the other hand, that God himself should lie? The author of Jeremiah 20.7 thought so, 11 but to Christians it was an axiom that such divine economies could be practised only for our edification. Just as those who are spiritual will obey Christ’s precepts not less but more literally that others, so it is inconceivable that that which has been foretold by God will prove at last to be less than wholly true. As the author to the Hebrews avers, we may not see all things under man’s feet at present (Psalm 8.6), but in the exaltation of Christ we have an earnest of that victory (Hebrews 2.7–9). The proof of that exaltation is another verse from scripture, the divine apostrophe “thou art my son, this day have I begotten thee” (Psalm 2.7; Hebrews 1.5), which had been applicable only in a figurative sense to those who held the throne of David in trust for Jesus. And if Jesus is the first to whom God could say without obliquity, “thou art a high priest after the order of Melchisedek” (Psalm 110.; Hebrews 6.20), that is because he was in truth what Melchisedek only appeared to be – a man without 10 Chrysostom, in Field (1849, 73) implies that the terms, although synonymous for Paul, are not so for him. At Against Celsus 8.44 Origen substitutes tropologia for Paul’s allêgoroumena at Galatians 4.24. 11 Cf. Origen, Homily on Jeremiah 20, pp. 176–78 Klostermann.

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a human father (Hebrews 7.3) – and because he was able to offer on the Cross that perfect oblation which had merely been foreshadowed by the annual slaughter of beasts (Hebrews 9.11–28). Luke agrees that those who imagine David to be his own subject in the Psalms will be forced to explain how the man who exclaimed, under inspiration, “thou wilt not leave my soul in hell” (Psalm 16.10) can have remained in his grave “to this day” (Acts 2.29–31). Again, the suffering Servant of Isaiah 53 has been interpreted as Hezekiah, Jeremiah, Isaiah or the whole commonwealth of Israel, but of none of these could one say unequivocally, as one could of Christ, that “he shall prolong his days” even after death (Isaiah 53.10). This is a case in which it might be doubted (by a Christian) whether any other exegesis had ever been sanctioned by the Holy Spirit; of God, on the other hand, it could be said without doubt that he gave a sign first to Abraham proleptically and then to the world pleromatically, first in the surrogate lamb and then in the One whom the lamb portended (Genesis 22.13). Isaac was, in a plainer sense than Christ, the seed of Abraham (Genesis 21.12; Galatians 3.16), yet Isaac was spared the literal execution of an ordinance which Christ was to observe to the last jot and tittle of the Law. In the canonical gospels, at least one of Christ’s prophecies is fulfilled first metaphorically, then literally, in accordance with the pattern sketched by Bartsch. In three of the four, there is evidence of his boasting that, when the temple had been destroyed, he would raise it again within three days (Matthew 26.61; 14.58; John 2.20). To palliate the blasphemy, the Fourth Evangelist adds that he was speaking of his own body (John 2.21): thus, even while the edifice of stone remained unfallen, his prophecy had already been vindicated by his own rising from the tomb. The literal fulfilment was to take place some forty years later, and was literally anticipated in the synoptic gospels (Matthew 24.15–51; Mark 13.14–31; Luke 21.21–27). The language seems to prefigure more than the ruin of one city, if no allowance is made for the hyperbolic idiom which Christ inherited from the Hebrew prophets (Matthew 24.29; Mark 13.24; Luke 21.26). Those who were familiar with this idiom might have argued that, if the darkening of the sun and moon at Joel 2.10 presaged nothing more than the fall of Jerusalem to Nebuchadnezzar, the meteorological portents in Christ’s monologue might be equally emblematic: is any language, after all, too extravagant to describe the withdrawal of God’s benediction from Israel? Nevertheless, most churches have opined that when he made this prediction, Christ was looking beyond his death, his resurrection and even the dispersion of the Jews to that inscrutable day which will mark the consummation of all things. The New Testament itself contains some texts which are clearly prognostic, and these have given rise to a copious literature (growing even today), in which authors have looked for signs of an imminent doomsday in their own epoch, or, on the contrary, have set out to refute the latter-day Jeremiah with calculations proving that the end is still remote. Early Christian fiction, being set in the past of the

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author and his readers, sought anticipatory paradigms not in Christ’s predictive sayings but in his precepts for life and conduct, which served the hagiographer as oracles on the same principle that allowed exegetes of the Old Testament to read its prophets and patriarchs as “types of the one to come”. It is frequently the task of the apostle in such narratives to become the embodiment of a prophetic utterance, and in doing so to reveal its prophetic character for the first time.

Enacted Sayings of Jesus When Jesus enjoined his disciples to take up the Cross, the image was already a proverbial one, as Luke acknowledged by adding “every day” (Luke 9.23). While he exacted a higher standard of quotidian virtue than could be found among those who had no Christ to die for them, he did not mean that the kingdom could be inherited only by those who had literally undergone the same death. According to the apocryphal acts, however, both Andrew and Peter embraced a death in which his injunction was fulfilled to the letter.12 Peter, in electing to be crucified head downwards, was modelling his act on another saying, surely figurative in tenor, which we now know only from texts that have failed to achieve canonical status: For the first man, whose image I bear, in falling downward showed a manner of birth which did not formerly exist, for it was dead, having no motion. He, having been drawn down, having cast his origin upon the earth, established the whole of the cosmic system, suspended after the manner of his calling, whereby he showed the right as the left and the left as the right, and changed all signs of nature, to behold the ugly as beautiful and the really evil as good. Concerning which, the Lord says in a mystery, “Unless you make the right as the left and the left as the right and the top as the bottom and the front as the back, you shall not know the kingdom”.13 I explain this information to you, and the manner of my suspension is symbolic of that man who was first made. (Acts of Peter 38 (9), p. 425 Elliott).

Metaphor thus becomes history, though in the Acts of Peter an antistrophic movement precedes, and helps to bring about, the consummation. Fleeing Rome in the hope of evading a literal crucifixion, the renegade meets Christ in a vision, and learns that he has been forced to die again, this time in the capital, to expiate the cowardice of his servants (Acts of Peter 35, p. 424 Elliott). This is a dramatic parable, illustrating the doctrine of Hebrews 10.26, that to fall away is to visit a second death upon the Saviour. Peter is abashed by this symbolic reminder of his first apostasy, which ensures that in his Acts, as in those of most of his fellow-apostles, Christ’s passion will be more faithfully imitated than his life. (1993), 262–67 (Acts of Andrew); 424–26 (Acts of Peter). All quotations are taken from this volume. 13 Elliott cites Acts of Philip 140 and Gospel of Thomas 22. 12 Elliott

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Another of Christ’s pledges to those who follow him runs: “He that believeth on me, as the scripture saith, springs of living water shall flow from his belly” (John 7.38). Wherever Christ or his hagiographer found this dictum, neither could foresee the use to which it would be put in the Acts of Paul: When Paul was teaching the word of God in Myra, there was a man there named Hermocrates who had the dropsy. He stood in the sight of all and said to Paul: “Nothing is impossible with God, but especially with him whom you preach, for he healed many, he whose servant you are. Lo, I and my wife and my children cast ourselves at your feet, that I also may believe just as you believed in the living God.” Paul said to him, “I will give you … without reward, but through the name of Jesus Christ, you shall become whole in the presence of all these. “… and his belly opened, and a great deal of water flowed out of him and he fell as if dead, and some said, “It is better for him to die, that he may not be in pain”. But when Paul had quietened the crowd, he took his hand, raised him up, and asked him, saying “Hermocrates … what you will”. (Acts of Paul 4, p. 374 Eliott)

Here a figure of speech has been transformed into a miracle. The symptoms of recovery counterfeit death, which might be taken for the cure, were it not that the sequel proves the cure to be real and the death illusory. In the Acts of Peter, we meet a hybrid case, the real performance – half symbolic and half literal – of an imperative that could never have been construed – symbolically or literally – as a real command: When Marcellus saw that the blessed Peter had given up the ghost [John 19.30], without communicating with anyone, since it was not allowed, he took him down from the cross with his own hands and bathed him in milk and wine … And Peter came to Marcellus by night and said, Marcellus, did you not hear the Lord say, “Let the dead be buried by their own dead?” [cf. Matthew 8. 22]. When Marcellus said Yes”, Peter said to him, “What you spent on the dead is lost. For though alive you were like a dead man caring for the dead”. (Acts of Peter 40 (11), p. 426 Elliott).

This is a case where performance of the saying belies the intention of the speaker. By contrast, the apostle Judas Thomas can proclaim in the hour of martyrdom that he is the man whose acts his twin and Saviour extolled in parable after parable: I have planted your vine in the earth; it has sent down its root to the depth, and its growth is spread out in the height, and the fruits of it are stretched forth upon the earth, and they who are worthy of you are made glad by them, whom they have also gained.14 The money which you have from me I laid down on the table; this when you require it restore to me with usury, as you have promised. With your one mina I have traded and made ten (Matthew 15.20]; you have added more to me beside that which I had, as you covenanted [Matthew 15.28]. I have forgiven my debtor the mina [Matthew 18.28]; require it not at my hands. I was bidden to the supper and I came; and I refused the land and the yoke of oxen

14 Apparently

a collage of Isaiah 5.1–7, Matthew 21.33 par, John 15.1–8, and Didache 9.

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and the wife, that I might not for their sake be rejected [Luke 14.18–2015]. I was bidden to the wedding, and I put on white raiment, that I might be worthy of it [Matthew 22.12–14] and not be bound hand and foot and cast into the outer darkness. My lamp with its bright light expects the master coming from the marriage [Matthew 25.10], and I may not see it dimmed because the oil is spent. (Acts of Thomas 146, pp. 508–9 Elliott).

Here the conceits remain conceits, though now they represent the virtues of a true servant rather than a fictitious exemplar. The Acts of Thomas, of course, are themselves fictitious; if, on the other hand, the correspondence of Ignatius, Bishop of Antioch, is genuine, it testifies to a calculated dramatization of scriptural metaphors in the career of a living saint. “After the manner of men”, says Paul, “I have fought with beasts at Ephesus” (1 Corinthians 15.32);16 when Ignatius borrows the verb thêriomachein, it expresses his determination to suffer in the arena the death that his apostolic harbinger escaped in a figure of speech .17 The hope that his captivity will be a true foreshadowing of his death is expressed in his allusion to a garrison of “leopards” (the first occurrence of this term in Greek18), which appears to be his metaphor for the soldiers appointed to guard him. In the Roman Acts composed long after his death, he appears before Trajan, who first cajoles him with promises of an earthly kingdom, then threatens him with evanescent terrors if he refuses to sacrifice.19 The saint’s refusal ensures that he himself will be the victim in place of the offering imagined by the Emperor, and that his prize will be a throne compared with which the greatest kingdom on earth is a dunghill. In the Antiochene Acts, he martyr comes to his disciples in a dream20 – a mere simulacrum, we might say, of Christ’s resurrection, were it not in fact an earnest of his bodily reunion with his brethren on the day when all the saints shall rise in Christ.

Cyprian’s Dream21 Prophetic dreams, as we noted above, are recorded without incredulity in the Old Testament; they are also characteristic of ancient novels, and dreams were probably the most frequent source of mantic revelation in Roman society. We have 15 Luke’s parable burlesques the exemptions from military service granted to common Israelites at Deuteronomy 20.4–7. 16 Real lions are supplied at Acts of Paul 7, pp. 377–79 Elliott; cf. Acts of Paul and Thecla 27–28, p. 468 Elliott. 17 Ephesians 1.2; Romans 5.1; Trallians 10; cf. Martyrdom of Polycarp 3.1. 18 Romans 5.1 See further Baldwin 1985. The putative father of Jesus, Panthera, was also a Roman legionary (Origen, Against Celsus 1.32); the name signifies a panther, though the fact it is almost an anagram of parthenos (virgin) may be of greater consequence. 19 Roman Acts of Ignatius 2 and 4, in Lightfoot 1889, 509–513. 20 Antiochene Acts of Ignatius 7, pp. 493–95 Lightfoot. 21 Translations from the edition of Migne, ( 1886), 1541–57.

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also observed that some early Christians treated them with suspicion;22 no-one, however, was likely to doubt the provenance of the dream which prompted the wife of Pilate to write him a letter asseverating the innocence of Christ (Matthew 27.19). In a writing of the third century, which contains at least as much history as fiction, a dream affords the most perfect illustration of the pattern that I have been studying in this paper. The narrative puts the case both for the doubter and for the believer, since it intimates that while the dream may certainly be a medium of divine communication, it will be a perfidious medium for one who fails to examine it with the humility and discernment of a saint. Pontius’ Life of Cyprian, purporting to be the testament of a friend and disciple, strains every artifice in refuting the charge that its protagonist was a coward who succumbed at last to martyrdom only because every avenue of escape was closed to him. A biblical text and a play on words will suffice to vindicate Cyprian’s flight in the Decian persecution: this was prompted indeed by fear, yet not (as his enemies alleged) by fear for his skin but by a salutary fear of the Lord who commanded his own disciples to flee tribulation from city to city.23 No change of heart but a ripening of the same fear at last induced him to await the crown of martyrdom under the second persecution, though this too could easily have been evaded by a man bent on evasion (chapter 6, pp. 1345–46 Migne). When he sought a stay of twenty-four hours in order to set his affairs in order, this was vouchsafed to him in a dream which proved to signify more than it promised. According to the account which Pontius heard from the lips of the saint: I understood the sentence of my future suffering. I began to ask and beg without ceasing that a delay of even one day’s interval would be allowed to me, to give me time to set my affairs in lawful order. And after I had frequently repeated these prayers, he began to make record of I know not what on the tablet. Nevertheless, from the serenity of his countenance, it seemed to me as though the mind of the judge had been moved by the justice of my entreaty. But that young man, who previously had given notice, by gesture rather than speech, of the sentence of suffering, was quick to indicate that the requested delay until the next day had been granted, discreetly nodding his head again and again, with a twist of his fingers on each occasion. (Life of Cyprian 12, p. 1352 Migne). As the author goes on to explain, however, the use of gesture rather than speech implied that the petition would not be fulfilled to the letter, and Cyprian’s day of indulgence was to last exactly a year (Life 13). At the end of this span, he willingly submits to arrest, but providence decrees that he shall remain for a night in custody, while the faithful gather to witness his execution. The narrator concludes: 22 In addition to Clementine Homilies 17.14, see Arnobius, Against the Nations 4.9 and Jerome, Apology against Rufinus 1.30–31. On the general inferiority of spiritual to intellectual vision, see Augustine, On Genesis according to the Letter 12.2.3; 12.9.20; 12.12.25–6. 23 Matthew 23.34; cf. Nicholson 1989.

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Far be it from me to complain of the procrastination or arrogance of the proconsul in matters divinely transacted. Far be it from me to allow this evil though to enter the consciousness of a pious mind, that human caprice might have authority over such a blessed martyr. Rather, it was proper that that morrow which divine condescension predicted a year before should indeed be the morrow (chapter 15).

No interpretation more perspicuous than that which the text itself gives here could be offered.

Epilogue We have spoken above of the Christian appropriation of Hebrew prophecy; something should be said, by way of epilogue, about the appropriation of cultic and mythological symbolism from the pagan world. The first recorded essay in this vein is the solders’ mockery of Christ in the hours before his crucifixion, when he is costumed and reviled like the king for a day in pagan festivals of misrule (Matthew 27.29).24 Whether they are the inventors of this scandal or merely its witnesses, the evangelists clearly wish us to understand that Jesus submitted to this comedy in the knowledge that he would play the same role at the heavenly assize. On earth his glory was veiled by his afflictions; if his prototype in the scriptures was the servant of Isaiah 53, his sufferings also bear comparison with those that are proposed in Plato’s Republic as a test of the self-sufficiency of the just man: The just man who is thought unjust will be scourged, racked, bound – will have his eyes burnt out; and at last, after suffering every kind of evil, he will be impaled (Republic 361e, trans. Benjamin Jowett).

The death of Socrates is plainly anticipated here, but not the manner of it. This passage may have served the author of the Wisdom of Solomon as a model for his sketch of the righteous man, whose enemies whisper: let us therefore lie in wait for the just … let us condemn him to the most shameful death (Wisdom 2.12, 20). Neither text, however, describes the travails of any person known by name to the author or his earliest readers, and to Clement of Alexandria it was obvious that both had anticipated a catastrophe that neither lived to see:25 And how? Is it not similar to scripture when it says, “Let us remove the righteous man from us, because he is troublesome to us? When Plato, all but predicting the economy of salvation, says in the second book as follows: “Thus he who is constituted just shall be scourged, shall be stretched on the rack, have his eyes put out, and at last, having suffered all evils, shall be crucified” (Stromateis 5.14.108). 24 Philo, Against Flaccus 36–40; Dio Chrysostom, Oration 4.66; Wendland 1889; Frazer 1914,

413–14; Girard 1978, 249–52. 25 Trans. W. Wilson, in Donaldson and Roberts 1872, 285.

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Clement, like his predecessor Justin, held that the best thoughts of the pagans were purloined from the Hebrew prophets. Origen, though waiving the invidious charge, exhorted fellow-Christians to imitate the Israelites who had paid themselves the wages of captivity by “spoiling the Egyptians” on the eve of the Exodus (Philokalia 13; Exodus 12.36). Thus a historical act of plunder was figuratively adapted to the interests of the Church; it is, however, this conceit of himself as an Israelite among Egyptians that enables the Christian reader to discern in Plato a figurative presentiment of the act that Christ performed on Calvary. A conversion from the literal to the symbolic is the key to a progression from the symbolic to the literal; a metaphor distilled from sacred history unlocks the embryonic history in the pagan metaphor. The pattern of proleptic vision and literal fulfilment is therefore not a Christian duplication of a pagan trope, but the assertion of a God-given right to a heritage which the pagan fondly imagines to be his own.26

Bibliography Primary Sources Editions of the following can be found in the Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press): Achilles Tatius, Augustine (City of God), Cicero, Dio Chry­ sos­tom, Herodotus, Philo. Arnobius. Adversus Nationes libri 7. Edited by C. Marchesi. Turin, 1934. Artemidorus. Il libro dei sogni. Edited by A. Giardino. Milan: Rizzoli, 2006. Athanasius. De Incarnatione. Edited by R. W. Thomson. Oxford: Clarendon, 1973. Augustine. De Genesi ad Litteram. 2 vols. Turnhout: Brepols, 1972. Ennius. Annals. Edited by O. Skutsch. Oxford: Clarendon, 1985. Ignatius of Antioch. See Lightfoot 1889. Jerome. Apologie contre Rufin. Edited by P. Lardet. Paris: Cerf, 1983. John Chrysostom. Chrysostomi Interpretatio Omnium Epistularum Paulinarum. Edited by J. C. Field. Vol. 4. Oxford: Combe, 1849. Origen. De Principiis. Edited by P. Koetschau. Leipig: Hinrichs, 1913. –. Philocalie. Edited by M. Harl and E. Junod. Paris: Cerf, 1976 and 1983. –. Gegen Celsus, etc. Edited by P. Koetschau. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1889. –. Jeremiah Homilies. In Werke, vol. 3. Edited by E. Klostermann. Leipzig: Hinrichs, 1901. Die Pseudoklementinen. Edited by B. Rehm and G. Strecker. 2 vols. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1992. Scholarly Literature Baldwin, B. 1985. “Leopards, Roman Soldiers and the Historia Augusta.” Illinois Classical Studies 10:281–83. Bartsch, S. 1992. Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. Princeton: Princeton University Press. 26 On Christian charges of pagan plagiarism from the scriptures, see Droge 1989 and Ridings 1995.

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Bowersock, G.. 1994. Fiction as History: Nero to Julian. Berkeley: University of California Press. Devereux, G. 1976. Dreams in Greek Tragedy: An Ethno-Psychoanalytical Study. Berkeley: University of California Press. Donaldson, J., and A. Roberts. 1972. Ante-Nicene Library 2: Clement of Alexandria. Edinburgh: T. and T. Clark. Droge, A. J. 1989. Homer or Moses? Early Christian Interpretations of the History of Culture. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Edwards, M. J. 1992. “The Clementina: A Christian Response to the Pagan Novel.” Classical Quarterly 42: 459–72. Elliot, J. K. 1993. The Apocryphal New Testament. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Frazer, J. G. 1914. The Golden Bough VI: The Scapegoat. London: Macmillan. Girard, R. 1978. Des choses cachées depuis la fondation du monde. Paris: Grasset. Lightfoot, J. B. 1889. Apostolic Fathers 3: Ignatius and Polycarp. London: Macmillan. Migne, J.-P. 1886. Patrologia Latina 3. Paris. Nicholson, O. 1989. “Flight from Persecution as Imitation of Christ.” Journal of Theological Studies 40: 48–65. Parke, H. E., and D. Wormell. 1956. The Delphic Oracle. Oxford: Blackwell. Ramelli, I. 2001; 2012. I romanzi antichi e il Cristianesimo: Contesto e contatti. Madrid: Signifer; Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock. Ridings, D. 1995. The Attic Moses: The Dependency Theme in Some Early Christian Writers. Gothenburg: Acta Universitatis Gothburgensis. Wendland, P. 1889. “Jesus als Saturnalien-König.” Hermes 33: 175–79.

Following Paul: The Acts of Xanthippe, Polyxena, and Rebecca as an Ancient Novel Vincent Hunink In recent years, research into the genre of the ancient novel has been expanded to include early Christian narrative prose, which had been largely neglected in earlier periods. It seems only natural that this new scholarly attention has been mainly directed at major Christian texts, such as the canonical Acts of the Apostles, Greek and Latin martyr acts, and their influential successors: hagiographical accounts. On a somewhat smaller scale, research is also devoted to Christian tales in a stricter sense of what we feel inclined to call “fiction.”1 Perhaps best known in this area is the tale of Thecla, a woman who was attracted to Paul and his teaching, consequently devoted herself to his cause, and after many problems and much suffering managed to participate in Paul’s missionary work, thereby effectively becoming almost a female apostle.2 The popular Greek Acta Theclae seems to have appealed to a wide audience,3 and the text rapidly spread in the eastern Mediterranean during the third and fourth centuries, as did the cult of Saint Thecla. The apparent success of Thecla and her story heavily influenced later texts.4 The present paper focuses on a lesser-known text which partly follows in Thecla’s footsteps: the Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (hence AXPR). This is an anonymous text of some length, 1 The term fiction is, of course, problematic as such and seems particularly difficult to apply to early Christian texts of any kind. One might argue that early Christian readers may have accepted all Christian texts as somehow (re)presenting “truth.” It remains a matter of perspective and definition. For short discussion and an introductory overview of relevant early Christian texts, see Holzberg 2006, 34–38. For the Apocryphal Acts, see also, e. g., Lalleman 1998. 2 The Acts of Paul and Thecla is in fact, a large section of the Acta Pauli, an early apocryphal text, dated at ca. a.d. 200. The most recent text and commentary in English is Barrier 2009. Cf. also Hunink 2013 for a translation in Dutch. 3 Hardly anything is known with certainty about the intended and actual readers of this text, as is the case with nearly all narrative texts in Greek and Roman literature. Meanwhile, it is an attractive hypothesis that the readership of the Acts of Thecla was predominantly female, since Thecla might be seen as an attractive role model for ancient women. 4 There is, e. g., a fifth-century Life and Miracles of Thecla. For a study of this text in the tradition of the ancient novel, cf. Johnson 2006. See particularly 199–203, which focus on five themes that bring the text close to the novel: the playful romance of Paul and Thecla, the use of invented speeches, the use of recapitulation, the theme of education of the lovers, and the foreshadowing of events. On the Thecla tradition, see also, e. g., Aspegren 1990, 109–114.

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dating from an uncertain period in late antiquity.5 It was discovered as late as the nineteenth century; its first publication dates from 1893,6 and its first (and still only) English translation from 1897.7 The text tells about not one woman, but several women, who come under the spell of Paul and wish to imitate his way of life. The text is rather more lengthy than the Acta Theclae and accordingly offers more in terms of adventure and spectacle, with many details recalling the tradition of the ancient novel. The AXPR can stand as a concrete example of the kind of popular texts that Christian readers in late antiquity apparently liked to read, in addition to the Bible and other authoritative or apocryphal texts. Since its rediscovery and publication in 1893, fairly little attention has been paid to the AXPR. The few scholars who ventured to write about it have focused either on textual matters or on specific aspects of its content.8 Therefore, it seems worthwhile to reassess the narrative, and briefly study it in terms of the ancient novel.9

The Tale In the absence of an accessible book edition and of modern translations in any of the major languages used in classical studies (English, French, German, Italian, or Spanish), I propose to start with a summary of the text as a whole. The AXPR opens in medias res, that is, without a formal announcement or programmatic paragraph. Instead, it clearly locates the tale within both space and time: 5 Estimates concerning the date vary, ranging from the middle of the third century a.d. (James 1893, 54) to the sixth century a.d. (Szepessy 2004, 318; cf. Junod 1989, 91). Although the former date is probably too early in the light of the various Apocryphal Acts that have influenced the AXPR, such as the Acta Philippi (which can be dated to the fourth or fifth century), the latter seems rather late. For lack of conclusive evidence, the matter may be left aside. 6 Greek text: James 1893, 43–85. James’s text is still the only available version of the Greek text. It is not entirely reliable and contains numerous dubious points or mistakes. Some corrections have been advanced in scholarly literature, e. g., in Bonnet 1894. Cf. also Junod 1989, 84–85. A new, critical edition obviously is a desideratum. 7 English translation: Craigie 1897. Craigie’s version has been reprinted in various editions and now circulates widely on the Internet, sometimes anonymously or referred to with a wrong, later date. For instance, Gormann (2001, 416) gives 1980 as the year of publication. According to Junod (1989, 84), the Greek text “n’a reçu sa première traduction (en anglais) que tout récemment,” (“was given its first translation (in English) only very recently”) while Dannemann (1998, 748) refers to a translation that is difficult of access. As far as I can see, the translation has remained virtually unchanged since 1897 and has always been easily available. 8 From earlier scholarship, e. g., Peterson 1947, who focuses on some sections without presenting a coherent analysis. 9 Surprisingly, the AXPR has not yet been studied in this generic context. For the narrative of AXPR analyzed within the tradition of the Apocryphal Acts, see Szepessy 2004.

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When the blessed Paul was at Rome through the word of the Lord, it happened that a certain servant of a ruler of Spain came to Rome with letters of his masters, and heard the word of God from Paul, the truly golden and beautiful nightingale. This servant being greatly touched, and being unable to remain and be filled with the divine word because he was hastened by the letters, returned into Spain in great grief, and being unable to show his desire to any one, because his master was an idolater, he was always pained at heart and sighing greatly. (c. 1)

Right at the start, we see how Paul is active in Rome. This fixes the narrative date at shortly after the middle of the first century a.d. Paul is introduced in highly complimentary terms and seems to be an inspiring model. Interestingly, no woman is mentioned in the entire opening chapter, which mainly consists of a dialogue between the Spanish servant and his master, after the former’s return to Spain. At the end of this, the master is ready to send his servant back to Rome, in order to have his “illness” cured by the “doctor” he had met there. At this point, the master’s wife, Xanthippe,10 appears to have overheard the dialogue, and she enters into a private conversation with the servant, who tells her everything he knows. Thus, she gets acquainted with the teaching of Paul, and she feels deeply moved. From that day, she starts “wasting herself away with waking and abstinence and other austerities” (c. 2), and she laments and prays intensely (c. 4).11 Her husband, Probus, is, of course, worried about this, if only because he suspects that Xanthippe wants to get divorced, after merely two years of marriage (c. 6). In c. 7, Paul makes his entry into the tale. In one or two lines, he is depicted traveling from Rome to Spain,12 where he enters through “the city gate.”13 Xanthippe’s reaction on seeing him is revealing in more than one sense: When Xanthippe saw the blessed Paul walking quietly and equally, and adorned with all virtue and understanding, she was greatly delighted in him and her heart leaped continually, and as possessed with an unexpected joy she said with herself: “Why does my heart beat vehemently at the sight of this man? Why is his walk quiet and equable, as of one who expects to take in his arms one that is pursued? Why is his countenance kindly, as of one that tends the sick? Why does he look so lovingly hither and thither, as one who desires to assist those who are seeking to flee from the mouths of dragons? Who shall tell me that this is one from the flock of preachers? If it were possible for me, I should wish 10 Most likely, both Xanthippe and Polyxena are entirely fictional characters, not based on any historical models. Even in Byzantine sources, their historical authenticity as saints was doubted; see Szepessy 2004, 322. In ancient literature, the name Xanthippe is, of course, best known because of the (generally detested) wife of Socrates. 11 For laments as a typical feature of the Greek novel, see Birchall 1996. 12 The apostle Paul evidently planned a journey to Spain; see Rom 15:24, 28. Whether he fulfilled this intention is not known. Early Christians believed that he actually had visited Spain. For this tradition, see Meinardus 1978. 13 It is curious to see that no city of Spain is specifically mentioned. Szepessy (2004, 319) refers to “an unnamed town in Hispania.” One is tempted to assume that the author of the text regards “Hispania” as a city rather than a country.

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to touch the hem of his garments, that I may behold his kindness and readiness to receive and sweet odour.” (c. 7).

For an ancient reader who is familiar with ancient novels, Xanthippe’s rapid heartbeat and joy, and perhaps even her self-address, clearly suggest that she has somehow fallen in love with Paul. Love is, of course, one of the most familiar and characteristic motifs of the ancient novel.14 In addition, the passage cleverly manages to convey something of Paul’s countenance without actually giving any detail about his external appearance.15 Finally, this admiration at the appearance of a wondrous human being may also be called an “epiphanic situation,” recalling many notable passages from the Greek novels.16 Probus invites Paul to enter his house, apparently hoping that it will be beneficial to Xanthippe. As Paul enters the house, Xanthippe receives a vision of sorts: “When Xanthippe therefore saw the great Paul, the intellectual eyes of her heart were uncovered, and she read upon his forehead, having as it were golden seals, these words: ‘PAUL THE PREACHER OF GOD.’ Then exulting and rejoicing she threw herself at his feet, and twisting her hair together she wiped his feet, saying: ‘Welcome, O man of God, to us humble ones, that live as shadows among shadows’” (c. 8). Paul does not wish to be considered a messenger of God, and he turns Xanthippe’s attention away from himself to Christ. As many people come to visit Paul, Probus changes his mind and forces Paul to leave. Another representative of the local elite, a man with the telling name Philotheus,17 receives Paul in turn (c. 11). This adds to Xanthippe’s distress, as she still has not received baptism. Being locked in the house by Probus, Xanthippe manages to bribe one of the guards and visits Paul at the house of Philotheus, where she is baptized and receives the Eucharist. On her return home, she is comforted by the vision of “a beautiful youth” (c. 15), who assumes the shape of Paul but clearly is the Lord Jesus, who even addresses her: “The Lord said to her: ‘My servant Paul is richer than all wealth, for whatsoever treasure he acquires here he sends it before him into the kingdom of heaven, that departing thither he may rest in the unending and eternal rest. This is the treasure of Paul, thou and thy like” (c. 15). Next, in what seems a proper cliffhanger,18 Xanthippe faints and falls to the ground, due to her excessive fasting. The focus then shifts to Probus. In a lengthy 14 Cf. Holzberg 2006, 39, where “erotische Motive” are mentioned as the first element in a list of typical features by which the genre can be defined. 15 The canonical New Testament texts hardly provide any concrete detail about Paul’s looks. See, however, the Acta Theclae 2, where he is described as a small, bold man with bandy legs, pronounced eyebrows, and a hooked nose. 16 On epiphany in the novels, see now Cioffi 2014 with further literature. 17 Significant names of protagonists are a minor but typical characteristic of the ancient novel; cf. Keulen 2000 on the motif in Apuleius; and Habermehl 2006, xvi–xix on Petronius, both with further literature. Similar observations may be made with regard to other novels. 18 The cliffhanger may be generally defined as a consciously constructed moment of suspense

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passage, he describes a dream he has had and seeks explanation of it from two wise men, who succeed in bringing him into contact with Paul. Thus, he too comes to accept Paul’s teaching on sexual abstinence and receives baptism and the Eucharist (c. 21).19

Complex Developments The tale then seems to reach a peaceful, happy ending, with a great party being prepared by Probus and Xanthippe to celebrate their new blessedness in Christ. Some unexpected events bring the story into a second phase: the appearance of a demon (c. 21), an evil dream of Xanthippe’s beautiful, younger sister Polyxena,20 who has not yet been baptized (c. 22), and an attempted kidnapping of Polyxena (c. 23). Again, we are in novel territory here; predictive dreams and kidnappings appear as motifs in virtually every ancient novel. Next follows a dazzling sequence of scenes, difficult even to summarize. Polyxena is taken to the coast and put on a ship going in the direction of Babylon (c. 24). Again, these events are common novel motifs. Seafaring and travel, often at great distances, preferably from familiar Greco-Roman territory to the exotic east (Egypt, Babylon), is a dominant motif in ancient novels. On its course, the ship is met by another vessel, which carries the apostle Peter, whom we see praying to Jesus. Polyxena’s ship lands in Greece (c. 25), right at the spot where another apostle, Philip, is preaching. Philip takes care of Polyxena and helps her escape.21 We meet Polyxena again in a lonely scene in the countryside, where she meets a lioness, which on hearing the name of Paul does not harm her (c. 27). As she at the end of a chapter or scene (whether in written text or performed drama), intended to retain the interest of the audience and to make it eager to read or see more. As a literary technique in ancient literature, it is as old as Homer. Nonetheless, it seems particularly typical of the Greek novel. Many instances may be found, e. g., in Chariton’s novel Kalliroe. For example, see 1.4.12, where the heroine appears to have died as the result of a kick in the stomach by her husband. Some changes of scene follow, and it is only several pages later that she appears to be still alive. 19 With the conversion of Probus, the storyline of AXPR clearly departs from what may be observed in various Apocryphal Acts, where an apostle usually manages to convert just the wife or the husband, with further conflicts (or even martyrdom of the apostle) as a consequence; for this recurring narrative pattern, see Konstan 1998. 20 The Greek leaves little doubt that both women are sisters in the biological sense of the word: ἀνακειμένης τῆς ἀδελφῆς αὐτῆς τῆς Πολυξένης ἐπὶ τῆς κλίνης (22). In that context, it is also said that Probus loves her very much, too, which strengthens the idea that she is his relative rather than his wife’s female lover. Gorman (2006, 207 n. 6) misinterprets the text as referring to “Christian sisters,” on the basis of Xanthippe’s address of Polyxena on her return to Spain as γνησία μου ἀδελφὴ Πολυξένη (my true sister; 41). I would argue rather the other way around: Xanthippe can finally address her as a “true sister” in the sense that she is not merely her biological sister but also, at the end, a companion in the Christian faith. 21 The section c. 25 is not clear in every respect, and it brings in some complicated action, including a battle of thirty men against thousands of men.

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pursues her way, she is met by yet another apostle, Andrew, who brings her to a well. There a Jewish prisoner, Rebecca, appears. Andrew baptizes both girls and asks them to stay together “as of one people” (c. 29) and to live an exemplary life. The lioness briefly reenters the stage and miraculously utters a prayer to Andrew in a human voice (c. 30). The last few pages of the narrative introduce yet more secondary figures, such as a Christian ass-driver, with whom Polyxena and Rebecca talk and travel for a while, and who himself briefly meets the apostle Philip (c. 34). Polyxena and Rebecca are separated – the former being taken away by a prefect, the latter by a soldier (c. 35). Separation of protagonists, usually young lovers, is again a common motif in the ancient novel. In a rather nice move, the son of the prefect announces that he wishes to marry Polyxena, but in a chaste, Christian way. For the young man recalls Christian lessons he received: “‘For a certain man of glorious countenance lately in Antioch preached this God, and a certain maid, whose name was Thecla, believing him followed him, and encountered dangers on account of her beauty, of whom I have heard that she was condemned to the wild beasts’” (c. 36). The circle seems almost to have come round again, with the reference to Paul, while the brief but explicit mention of Thecla establishes a link that goes even beyond the present text. As if to recall Thecla’s confrontation with wild beasts, another lioness briefly appears and licks Polyxena’s feet (c. 37).22 The young man persuades his father to let them go and causes him and the whole city to convert to Christ. The young man, Polyxena and Rebecca prepare to go to Spain. Finally, we are in for a surprise, for not all is over and done as yet. The story is rounded out by a man who presents himself as the author of the tale:23 “And as I, Onesimus, was sailing into Spain to Paul, I received from the Lord a revelation saying to me: ‘Onesimus, the vessel in which thou now art will land in the parts of Greece, and thou wilt find on the shore of the harbour two maids and one youth. Assist them and take them to Paul’” (c. 38). Two maids? The detail seems a little awkward, since Rebecca had last appeared in c. 35, locked up with an old woman and clearly separated from Polyxena. But who else but Rebecca could be meant here? The journey to Spain involves some minor adventures (c.  38–39), but after twelve days, Onesimus and his company arrive safely. Immediately, they meet Paul, who regardless of his mission apparently is still there, although by this time 22 The motif of the mild and finally even “human” lion may be connected with Polyxena’s moral progress and transformation to a higher state; see Konstan 2009, 114–16 (with further literature). 23 Little or nothing has been said by scholars on this surprising turn. One may ask, for instance, what effect this introduction of a male narrator has on the whole of AXPR. The point seems particularly valid for some recent interpretations that seem to discern a certain “proto-feminist” layer in the text (see, e. g., nn. 20, 25, and 31).

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several months must have elapsed,24 and Xanthippe, who is happily reunited with her sister: “And she made haste and came to us, and seeing Polyxena, was overcome by an unspeakable joy and fell to the ground; but Polyxena embracing her and caressing her for a long time brought her back to life” (c. 41). Again there is a subtle suggestion of sisterly tenderness verging on the erotic.25 Even then the story is not entirely finished: the two men who seek Polyxena’s hand (her kidnapper and her savior) are both converted, and the whole town turns to celebration (c. 42). Polyxena stays with Paul, and everybody is glad. This is truly a happy ending, as is common in most Greek and Latin novels.26

Unbalanced Book This survey of the novel’s plot easily shows some of its most glaring shortcomings, considered from a traditional classicist perspective. It is, first of all, unbalanced in its overall structure. As James (1893) already observed,27 there is a sharp line of demarcation between sections 1–21 and 22–42. In the first sections, the encounter of Xanthippe and Paul is central, and the tale is told at a rather slow pace. The second part introduces a great number of minor characters, although Polyxena may be said to be the most important one. And as the summary suggests, there is an almost breathtaking sequence of all sorts of exciting events. James also observed a notable difference in the use of sources. The first part shows some traces of the apocryphal Acts that remain somewhat understated, while the second part even contains an outright reference to the Acta Theclae and 24 There are few indications of time throughout the tale. A notable exception is the end of c. 18, where Xanthippe is said to have been fasting for twenty-nine days. In c. 41, Xanthippe will refer to their separation as “not quite forty days.” Craigie (1897, 217) renders the statement as “I … went not forth at all for forty days,” which seems rather strange. I would suggest that the Greek adverbial phrase οὐδ’ ὅλως should not be combined with the verb but with the number of days. The point then is that Xanthippe has not entirely completed a full cycle of forty days of praying. 25 Jill Gorman (2006) makes too much of the scene. On the assumption that Xanthippe and Polyxena are not biological sisters but Christian sisters (and hence can be “lovers” in some sense), she argues that Xanthippe has fasted for forty days to preserve Polyxena’s virginity, a point that prompts Gorman to further theoretical considerations. I have argued previously (n. 20) that both women are probably biological sisters. Moreover, the Greek here does not refer to fasting at all: “Ἐγὼ, γνησία μου ἀδελφὴ Πολυξένη, οὐδ’ ὅλως προῆλθον ἐπὶ τεσσαράκοντα ἡμέρας δεομένη πολλὰ ὑπέρ σου τοῦ φιλανθρώπου θεοῦ ὅπως μὴ κλαπῇ ἡ παρθενία σου.” Whatever the exact sense of προῆλθον here, it certainly cannot be “I fasted.” Only much earlier in the tale, at the end of c. 18, there is a clear reference to Xanthippe’s fasting: “ἰδοὺ γὰρ εἰσὶν ἡμέραι εἴκοσι καὶ θ ἀφ’ οὗ οὐδενὸς ἐγεύσατο.” It is, of course, not excluded that Xanthippe actually fasted and prayed during the (almost) forty days, but it seems wrong to develop a far-reaching argument on the basis of what is at best an implication in the Greek. 26 Even Apuleius’s Metamorphoses, for all its somber and ironical variations of novel elements, seems to end on a happy note, with Lucius (having regained his human shape) joyfully taking up his duties as a priest (Met. 10.30). 27 James 1893, 52–53.

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further references to yet more texts in the genre. In short, James concludes, part one is more homogeneous than part two. As there is no apparent difference of language and style between the two parts, one would presume that the text was written by one author, who has somehow combined a number of tales from various sources. A second shortcoming is the less-than-perfect way in which the tales have been combined. In fact, there are a number of odd elements and loose ends throughout the novel. To the examples already mentioned in the summary, one could add many more. A few examples will illustrate this. The relation of the three female characters from the title remains uncertain at some points. What exactly is the relationship between Xanthippe and Polyxena? If they are biological sisters, why do they almost seem to be in love? And what is the fate of both sisters after they have been reunited?28 Do Probus and Xanthippe keep on living as a couple after Polyxena’s happy return?29 And what further happens to Rebecca?30 It is suggested (though not explicitly said) that she travels with Polyxena to Spain, but the author does not devote a single word to her after the passage of her captivity. Similar questions may be raised about most minor characters – both in Spain, such as the faithful servant (from the opening chapter) and Philotheus, and in Greece, such as the prefect, the ass-driver, and the traveling apostles.31 Characters easily enter the story for a short while and are just as easily written out by the author when he no longer needs them.32 Third, in addition to the overall structure and the treatment of characters, the development of the plot lacks cohesion and balance. As has been argued and shown, the pace of action is often high, with major developments or changes of place being told in just one or two lines.33 In contrast to the rapid action, there 28 Of Polyxena, it was said that she stayed close to Paul (c. 42), but we hear nothing more about Xanthippe; see Dannemann 1998, 751–52, on Polyxena’s “freedom of marriage.” 29 This is cautiously suggested by Dannemann (1998, 750), who adds that a “solution” as in 1 Cor 7:5 may have been adopted – that is, of a couple accepting moderate sexual intercourse within their marriage. On p. 755, by contrast, she suggests that Xanthippe and Probus live on as a missionary couple, a point not confirmed in the Greek text. 30  According to Dannemann (1998, 755), Rebecca may have moved in with Polyxena. For this notion, the Greek text does not provide a clue. 31 Although the apostles and other male characters do not seem to be fully developed, it is surely exaggerated to suggest that they are presented in an unfavorable light, as Dannemann (1998, 754–55) does, underscoring the men’s lack of protection of the female protagonists. She even remarks that the images of Paul, Peter, and Andreas at times seem ironical (755). I fail to see in what sense the apostles in the AXPR could be interpreted in such a sense. 32 As such, the technique of easily disposing of secondary characters seems typical of the ancient novel as well. On reading, e. g., Chariton or Apuleius, to mention just two examples, many examples of such “momentary” figures spring to mind. As far as I know, the motif has never been studied specifically for the ancient novel. 33 Some striking examples: c. 1 (the opening lines, moving the focus from Rome to Spain); c. 7 (Paul’s coming to Spain); c. 24 (the ship’s travel to the East); c. 25 (action on the shore);

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is extensive dialogue and, more importantly, monologue, usually (though not always) in the form of prayers.34 Given the nature of prayer and inner monologue, the “action” comes to a complete standstill for the length of the passages in question. The overall impression is one of quick and somewhat careless leaps forward in time combined with extended pauses. Considered from a literary point of view, this could be labeled as careless writing. However, when seen within the limits and common practices of the ancient novel, the AXPR is not so very different in this respect from other specimens of the genre.35

Unifying Themes The first impressions concerning this novel seem confusing for the modern reader, who probably expects to find a carefully constructed narrative but actually finds one that shows a lack of balance at several levels. However, on closer scrutiny, the book offers some themes, motifs, and general interests that effectively unite not only both parts of the book, but also the story as a whole. A major interest throughout the AXPR is love, which as a motif assumes various shapes. Most importantly, there is the love of Xanthippe for Paul, the bodily signs of which are apparent at the start of the book (as has been observed), but which quickly develops into a spiritual love with transcendent dimensions. That is, the physical and sexual elements of human love, which are so often highlighted with loving detail in ancient novels, are downplayed in favor of religious, Christian tones. Meanwhile, Xanthippe’s strong longing for Paul, particularly when she is separated from him, shines through at various places and recalls the erotic longing felt by novel heroines.36 In addition to Xanthippe’s and Paul’s love,37 there is the love of Probus for his wife: he is worried about her and wishes to help her (c. 5), and the prospect of losing her to Paul’s teaching about sexual renunciation is really worrying to him. c. 34 (the ass-driver meeting Philip); c. 37 (Polyxena being thrown to the wild beasts); c. 38–42 (events involving Onesimus). Cf. also Szepessy 2004, 334: “the anonymous author of the Acta often spins the thread of the story with undue haste.” 34 Xanthippe has by far the most lines of prayer. Her words of prayer are given in long sections in c. 3; 4; 6; 12; 14; 15; and 19 (a song or psalm). In addition, there are prayers in c. 20 (Probus); 24 (Peter); 28 and 30 (Andreas); 35 (Polyxena); and 37 (prefect and city in Greece). Some other longer sections of direct speech are to be found in c. 4 (monologue by Xanthippe); 8–9 (address of Paul by Xanthippe, and vice versa); and 26 (monologue of Polyxena). The prayers and speeches mostly occur in the first part of the tale; cf. also James 1893, 53. 35 In this combination of rapidly told action and lengthy direct speech, the AXPR particularly recalls Chariton’s Kallirhoe. 36 The motif is particularly strong before she has met him; cf. c. 2–6; further, e. g., c. 11–13. 37 Paul may be said to be free from earthly love and from personal affection for Xanthippe. However, he is also pictured as kind and caring for all men (c. 2), and in his encounters with

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His methods to retain her by locking her up, however, resemble the behavior commonly displayed by literary tyrants who, invariably in vain, attempt to force female characters into loving them. But at the end of part 1, even Probus appears susceptible to the Christian faith, and thus may be said to come to a new understanding of Love. In part 2 (c. 22–42), Xanthippe, Paul, and Probus all recede to the background, but love is never far away. There is the love of Xanthippe for her younger sister, Polyxene (c. 22), who as an attractive young woman in distant lands is an obvious target for male desire, as is known from similar romance tales.38 And in this second part, too, some minor loves may be mentioned, such as the kindly care and affection of the prefect’s son for Polyxena (c. 36 and 42), the rather less innocent desire of an anonymous soldier for Rebecca (c. 35), and, for that matter, the suggestion of a close relation between Polyxena and Rebecca.39 Finally, Polyxena follows Xanthippe in remaining very close to Paul “in her fear of temptations” (c. 42), a choice that definitely suggests a feeling for Paul that is at least akin to that of Xanthippe. It is not just love that unites the whole of AXPR; the same may be argued for friendship, loyalty, and fidelity, features of most major and minor characters, and a constant concern for sexual purity, which characterizes both Xanthippe and Polyxena. Even the Jewish woman Rebecca does not form an exception here.40 The motif is, of course, quite familiar in the ancient novel.41 Although most scenes in the novel are rather static, with a considerable part of the text devoted to direct speech and description, there are also flashes of acXanthippe, he appears gentle. In this sense, he is much more “normal” than Paul in the Acta Theclae, who seems even rude at times. 38  Various attempts are made to abduct or seduce Polyxena; e. g., c. 23; 25; 35. However, her virginity seems only vaguely threatened in this tale (e. g., at the beginning of c. 33 in the words of the ass-driver and at the end of c. 36 in the words of the gentle son of the prefect, both suggesting that she should wear male clothes so as to remain inconspicuous), and her sexual vulnerability is not prominently represented, when compared with earlier heroines. 39 Both young women are closely connected in c. 29 by the apostle Andreas, and they remain together until c. 35. Rebecca’s fate remains uncertain (see above). Although there are no overtly sexual overtones in their relation, a reader of the text may be tempted to interpret their relation as something more than casual, e. g., because of the manifest erotic feelings by Xanthippe for Polyxena earlier on (c. 22) and later (c. 41). This aspect is studied in great detail from a modern, academic perspective by Gorman (2001; see also Gorman 2006). The American scholar suggests that it both “constructs female same-sex desire and commitment” and simultaneously condemns this desire (417). This seems a rather heavy theoretical load for just a few lines of Greek, and the danger of reading too much into the text looms large. 40 “And one of the soldiers seized Rebecca, but the maid secretly escaping fled into the house of an old woman” (c. 35). The latter detail recalls the fate of Charite in the central sections of Apuleius’s Metamorphoses (4.28–6.24), where an old female housekeeper tells her the Amor and Psyche tale. 41 In his survey of typical themes in the section, Junod (1989, 96–97; see also 99–101) lists “mariage et continence” as the first item and “traits et procédés romanesques” as the fifth and last one. This seems to underestimate the novel tradition in more than one sense.

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tion, as has been observed earlier. In these, there is constant attention to travel, particularly by sea,42 and to exciting action and adventure.43 Finally, there is, of course, a subtle religious layer in the plot. This unites the book as a whole and characterizes the AXPR as a properly Christian text. It must be said, however, that there is little trace of specific Christian theology. The references to Christianity are, on the whole, rather general and superficial.44

Simple Novel If we consider the whole of the text, with its overall structure, special features, and unifying themes, it seems justified to call the text a Christian novel firmly rooted in the tradition of Greek erotic novels. The plain style of the text, while also connected to biblical and apocryphal examples, may be said to confirm this.45 The Latin novel, in contrast, as represented by Petronius and Apuleius, seems decidedly further away from the AXPR. The irony and complex literary techniques of the Roman writers do not seem to find an echo in the plain narrative of the AXPR. Even the potentially intriguing “gender questions,” relating to male or female identities and social roles, seem to be downplayed rather than underscored. Several such points have been mentioned previously.46 More could be mentioned here, notably the close association of not only Xanthippe but also Polyxena with Paul. In the line of the Acta Theclae, this might have been expanded by the author to present both women as becoming something like “female apostles,” that is, as women with properly male roles. But no such authorial intention can be discerned. The AXPR, then, might be qualified as a plain and interesting but in the end rather innocent narrative, based on the standard pattern of the Greek novel, which has effectively been combined with the biblical and apocryphal traditions. 42 Sea travel occurs in c. 1 (presumably); 24; 25; 38; and 39. Wandering and travel by land appear in c. 26; 27; 28; 31; 33; 34; and 37. 43 Cf., e. g., Xanthippe’s bribing the guard (c. 13) in part 1 and the military interlude in c. 25 or the threefold appearance of a lioness in part 2. 44 The concluding words might be said to be the most outspokenly theological statement, in this case referring to the Trinity: “These things then being thus, all rejoiced in the Lord, glorifying Father, Son and Holy Ghost, one God, to whom is glory and power, now and ever and to all eternity. Amen” (c. 42). According to Szepessy (2004, 328), these words “could close the prayer of a believer well-versed in the Christian liturgy.” In addition, there are some quotations from the Psalms in c. 23; 25; and 26. The numerous prayers scattered through the text hardly contain anything that would presuppose theological debate. This even goes for Xanthippe’s prayer in c. 12, which shows knowledge of some basic Christian teaching but hardly more than that. 45 One is reminded of Greek novels that have been written in a rather easy style, such as Xenophon of Ephesus’s Ephesiaca or Longos’s Daphnis and Chloe. 46 E. g., the erotic undertone in c. 22 (Xanthippe and Polyxena) or the references to women wearing male clothes (c. 33; 36). See further discussion in, e. g., nn. 20, 24, and 29.

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It does not show great aspirations or pretensions, and can hardly be labeled subversive or groundbreaking in any way. To many readers, this may seem disappointing. But perhaps modern expectations of ancient texts in which women occur are simply too high. These simple texts merit our attention, if only because they were used and read, and they do not need to live up to twenty-first-century academic standards. A text such as the AXPR must have been made for daily use and “immediate consumption” by its intended readership, not as a literary monument for eternity or a document promoting late ancient women’s emancipation. If we accept this, its reappearance in the nineteenth century and its modest afterlife may also be considered a small gift of Fortune, allowing us to come a little closer to the apparent concerns and interests of normal readers in late antiquity.

Bibliography Aspegren, Kerstin. 1990. The Male Woman. Uppsala: Universitetet / Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell (distr.). Barrier, Jeremy W. 2009. The Acts of Paul and Thecla, a Critical Introduction and Commentary. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Birchall, John. 1996. “The Lament as a Rhetorical Feature in the Greek Novel.” Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 7:1–17. Bonnet, Max. 1894. “Sur les actes de Xanthippe et Polyxène.” Classical Review 8:336–41. Cioffi, Robert L. 2014. “Seeing Gods: Epiphany and Narrative in the Greek Novels.” Ancient Narrative 11 (forthcoming; preliminary version available at www.ancientnarrative. com). Craigie, W. A. 1897. “Life and Conduct of the Holy Women, Xanthippe, Polyxena, and Rebecca.” Pages 205–217 in Ante-Nicene Christian Library, Additional Volume: Containing Early Christian Works Discovered since the Completion of the Series, and Selections from the Commentaries of Origen. Edited by Alan Menzies. Edinburgh: T&T Clark. Data from www.worldcat.org. Reprinted several times as Ante-Nicene Fathers, either as volume 9 or as volume 10. Available online in the Christian Classics Ethereal Library, www.ccel. org/ccel/schaff/anf09.pdf. All quotes are from the Internet version. Dannemann, Irene. 1998. “Die Akten der Xanthippe, Polyxena und Rebekka, oder: Drei Frauen und zwei Löwinnen.” Pages 748–56 in Kompendium feministische Bibelaus­ legung. Edited by Luise Schottroff and Marie-Theres Wacker. Gütersloh: Kaiser / Gütersloher Verlagshaus. Gorman, Jill. 2001. “Thinking with and about ‘Same-Sex Desire’: Producing and Policing Female Sexuality in the Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 10:416–41. –. 2006. “Sexual Defence by Proxy: Interpreting Women’s Fasting in the Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena.” Pages 206–215 in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha. Edited by Amy-Jill Levine. London: T&T Clark. Habermehl, Peter. 2006. Petronius, Satyrica 79–141, ein philologisch-literarischer Kommentar. Band 1, Sat. 79–110. Berlin: de Gruyter.

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Holzberg, Niklas. 2006. Der antike Roman, eine Einführung. Darmstadt: WBG (3rd impr.). [English edition: Holzberg, Niklas. 2004. The Ancient Novel: An Introduction. London: Routledge.] Hunink, Vincent. 2013. Vrouwen naast Paulus, twee romans uit het vroege christendom. Translated by Vincent Hunink. (Introduction by Fik Meijer). Budel: Damon. [Contains Dutch translation of Acts of Thecla and Acts of Xanthippe, Polyxena, and Rebecca.] James, Montague Rhodes. 1893. Apocrypha Anecdota: A Collection of Thirteen Apocryphal Books and Fragments. Texts and Studies: Contributions to Biblical and Patristic Literature, vol. 2, no. 3. Cambridge: University Press. Johnson, Scott Fitzgerald. 2006. “Late Antique Narrative Fiction: Apocryphal Acta and the Greek Novel in the Fifth-Century Life and Miracles of Thekla.” Pages 189–207 in Greek Literature in Late Antiquity: Dynamism, Didacticism, Classicism. Edited by Scott Fitzgerald Johnson. Aldershot [etc.] : Ashgate Junod, Eric. 1989. “Vie et conduite des saintes femmes Xanthippe, Polyxène et Rébecca (BHG 1877).” Pages 83–106 in Oecumenia et patristica: Festschrift fur Wilhelm Schneemelcher zum 75. Geburtstag. Edited by D. Papandreou et al. Genf: Chambésie. Keulen, Wytse H. 2000. “Significant Names in Apuleius: A ‘Good Contriver’ and His Rival in the Cheese Trade (Met. 1,5).” Mnemosyne 53: 310–21. Konstan, David. 1998. “Acts of Love: A Narrative Pattern in the Apocryphal Acts.” JECS 6:15–36. –. 2009. “Reunion and Regeneration: Narrative Patterns in Ancient Greek Novels and Christian Acts.” Pages 105–120 in Fiction on the Fringe: Novelistic Writing in the Post-Classical Age. Edited by Grammatiki A. Karla. Leiden: Brill. Lalleman, Pieter J. 1998. “The Canonical and the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles.” Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 9: 181–92. Meinardus, Otto F. A. 1978. “Paul’s Missionary Journey to Spain: Tradition and Folklore.” Biblical Archchaeologist 41: 61–63. Peterson, E. 1947. “Die ‘Acta Xanthippae et Polyxenae’ und die Paulus-Akten.” Analecta Bollandiana 65: 57–60. Szespessy, Tibor. 2004. “Narrative Model of the Acta Xanthippae et Polyxenae.” Acta Antiqua Hung. 44: 317–40.

Dare and Back: The Stories of Xanthippe and Polyxena1 Richard I. Pervo In memoriam François Bovon

The work vulgarly known as The Act of Xanthippe and Polyxena2 (hereafter Xan) sets before its readers a multi-course repast.3 Its atypical content centers about three (or two and one-half) women who cannot take two steps in any direction without stumbling upon an apostle. The latter group is about as thin in assistance as thick on the ground. The female characters are sufficiently intertwined to raise questions about same-sex desire (Gorman 2001).4 From a generic perspective, Xan is an ingenious alloy fashioned from blending the categories of apocryphal acts and romantic novel (types that did not exist in isolation). Those alert to the 1 The author is most grateful to members of the Minnesota Association for Patristic Studies, who read this for their 19 March 2013 meeting, and to Clare Rothschild, Midori Hartman, and Virginia Burrus for their advice and assistance. 2  The ms. title, βίος καὶ πολιτεία τῶν ὁσίων γυναικῶν Ξανθίππης Πολυξένης καὶ Ῥεβέκκας (“The Life and Conduct of the Women Saints Xanthippe, Polyxena, and Rebecca”), is typically hagiographical. Eric Junod (1989, 83) proposes, in French, The Life of Xanthippe. Junod states that James apparently chose “Acts” as a title because of intertextual relations with ApocActs. Resemblances with various acts do offer some justification for this title. Junod’s title is misleading; it ignores Polyxena, and the work takes account of but a few months of Xanthippe’s life. A biographical title suggests information about birth and background, upbringing, and demise. 3 Montague Rhodes James (hereafter “James,” with references to his chapter division, followed, where appropriate by a slash with page and line references, e. g., 26/78.9–10) first edited the text in Apocrypha Anecdota: A Collection of Thirteen Apocryphal Books and Fragments, Texts and Studies 2 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1893), 43–85, on the basis of the eleventh-century Cod. Par. Gr. 1458. This ms. treated December saints, the first two of which were Nahum and Habakkuk, necessitating the inclusion of the books of that name, together with commentaries and biographies. James wonders why these saints were lodged in a December text, since “their proper day is Sept. 23” (James 1893, 43). The date is interesting, for 23 September was Thecla’s feast in the West; it was 24 in the East. The developers of the calendar recognized some affinities between these women and Thecla. Subsequently, several additional mss. of the eleventh and fifteenth centuries have been identified. See Junod 1989, 84–85. A translation by W. A. Craigie promptly appeared in A. Menzies, ed., The Ante-Nicene Fathers X (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1978 [repr.], 205–17, also online in a number of formats. In those technologically primitive times, it took less than a year for two articles on this minor apocryphon to be published in the Classical Review (Bennett 1894; Bonnet 1894). In 1897 James edited a second volume of Apocrypha Anecdota (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1897), which included, on pp. 139–40, corrections to his earlier text. These are not reflected in Craigie’s translation. 4 Virginia Burrus has kindly supplied the draft of an essay entitled “Desiring Women: Xanthippe, Polyxena, Rebecca.” Gorman’s interesting thesis suffers from some questionable interpretations, a number of which are discussed in the notes.

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siren song of intertextuality will find in this short book examples of borrowing so sophisticated as to be arch. The implied author is quite clever, but far too impatient to be called a competent narrator. The major sections are here imaginatively labeled “part 1” (chaps. 1–22) and “part 2” (chaps. 23–43).

1. Introductory Questions Date. One should very much like to know when this rather neglected work was written. M. R. James suggested the middle of the third century. Stevan Davies (1980, 8–10) proposes 190–250. Style provides no firm clues. Sources provide useful guidelines, for these include several of the Apocryphal Acts, most of which were composed in the period 150–250. On these grounds, it is probably desirable to place the earliest edition of the work no earlier than the middle decades of the third century.5 This is a reasonable terminus a quo. On theological grounds, one passage seems to represent a Christology rejected by the orthodox tradition from the early third century onward. In chapter 12, Xanthippe offers this prayer for the conversion and baptism of her husband: Eternal and immortal God, who took dust from the ground, and did not value it according to its material nature, but called it the son of immortality, who came from the heart of the father to the heart of the earth for our sake, on whom the cherubim dare not fix their gaze, and who for our sake were hidden in the womb in order to make good the offence of Eve by taking up your abode in a mother [or: through indwelling in the mother];6 You who drank gall and vinegar, and were pierced in the side by a spear, in order that you might heal the wound given to Adam’s side. [For Eve, since she was a “side,”7 dealt a blow to Adam and, through him, to all the world.]8

This prayer, written in a solemn liturgical style, evidently evokes the theology known as monarchianism, also called Sabellianism, for it attributes creation and redemption to the same “person” of the deity.9 Despite the cumbersome nomenclature (which comes from Harnack), modalistic monarchianism was (and is) a 5 Davies, loc. cit., supports an earlier date (c. 190) by denying the use of any Acts other than those of Peter and of Paul. 6 This is uncertain. The original plays upon the words μήτρα, “womb,” and μήτηρ, “mother.” The phrase διὰ τῆς ἐνοικήσεως τῆς μητρὸς is susceptible of different meanings, because of the genitive. I take it to be objective. See Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon, 477. 7 The text plays with πλευρά as “rib” (of Adam, Gen 2:21) and “side” (of Jesus, John 19:34). 8 This translation is a substantial modification of Craigie 1978, 208. The bracketed final clause looks like a gloss. It is certainly inept, since the recipient of the petition did not require exegesis of the imagery, but it may be original, oriented to the reader. 9 The Modalists, Noetus, Praxeas, and Sabellius, taught that one divine being had been revealed as father, son, and spirit, but that these names referred to temporary modes of activity and not to eternal characters within the Godhead. This theology attempted to reconcile worship of Christ with monotheism. Its leading exponents flourished at the end of the second century. See Pelikan 1971, 176–82.

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popular sort of theology well attested in the Apocryphal Acts, and popular theology does not always conform to pristine orthodoxy.10 Moreover, Monarchian theology character did endure longer in some regions, especially in the West and thus in Latin.11 A possible interest is the association of Monarchian theology with Priscillian, and thus with Spain.12 The work’s unabashed asceticism would not have been unacceptable in Priscillianist circles.13 This passage does not establish an early date, for the governing principle is that works must be dated by the latest integral material. In chapter 21, Probus came to visit Paul, who “was baptizing many in the name of the life-giving Trinity” The earliest other instance of ζωαρχική τρίας is Gregory of Nyssa (c. 330–395).14 Nothing suggests that the phrase is an interpolation. Chapter 24 relates a local war in Greece, one of whose proponents raised eight thousand men. At the climax of the conflict (in which the heroines have, of course, become embroiled), Polyxena’s keeper determines to die protecting her. In response to this suicidal resolution, his servants seeing that he heeded them not, took counsel to flee from the enemies, but again after a little, being moved by the foreknowledge of God, they said, It is not right for our master to die. Come, let us go forth to meet them, raising the sign of the cross (τὸ σημεῖον τοῦ σταυροῦ). Then raising the precious cross they went forth, about thirty men, upon the enemy, and slew five thousand, and the rest fled. And they returned with victory to their master, praising God and saying, What God is so great as our God, who has not suffered his servant to be slain by the wicked? And coming upon their lord, still weeping, they said to him, Arise, lord, and weep not, for it befits it to be not as we will, but as the Lord wills.15

The citation expresses something less than that vigorous pacifism characteristic of ante-Nicene Christian thought. Certainly the notion of a private army of this size in Neronian Greece is a complete fantasy. If the defeat of five thousand by thirty evokes and improves upon the story of Gideon (Judges 7, where three hundred routed thousands), conquest under the sign of the cross brings to mind 10 Those of a monarchian bent would find nothing objectionable in the first half of Xanthippe’s psalm of praise, (19/71.25–29): “Praise the Lord ye sinners also, because he accepts your prayers also. Alleluia. Praise the Lord ye that have despaired like me, for many are his mercies. Alleluia. Praise him ye ungodly, because for you he was crucified. Alleluia,” although this is also susceptible to an orthodox interpretation. Trans. Craigie 1978, 211. 11 Cf. the discussions of the evidently fourth-century Latin interpolation into 1 John 5:7–8 (“For there are three that bear record in heaven, the Father, the Word, and the Holy Spirit: and these three are one,” with interpolations in italics.) 12 On the attribution of Monarchian views to Priscillian, see Chadwick 1976, 76–82. On a possible Spanish provenance for Xan, see below. 13 Bennett (1894) associates this passage with the theology of Apollinaris/ius, who has traditionally been treated as a forerunner of the Monophysite Christology. Except for the term father, this passage does not distinguish persons of the Trinity. On the subject, see Grillmeier 1975, 329–40. 14 See Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon, 593. 15 From chap. 25, trans. Craigie 1978, 213.

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the story of Constantine’s victory at the Milvian Bridge in 312 and raises the possibility that Xan did not achieve its present form before the middle of the fourth century. Subsequent argumentation will raise that possibility to the level of probability. M. R. James (1893, 51–52) proposed that the author found inspiration for this particular episode in the Acts of Andrew. Gregory, Bishop of Tours in the last quarter of the sixth century, prepared a sanitized epitome of the AAndr (hereafter GE). Chapter 9 describes a journey by the Apostle and his entourage from Byzantium to Thrace. In the course of that expedition, They came upon a multitude of men a long way off with swords drawn and brandishing spears as if they intended to attack. When the apostle Andrew saw them, he made the sign of the cross [crucis signum = τὸ σημεῖον τοῦ σταυροῦ] against them and said, “I pray, o Lord, that their father who incited them to do this would fall. May they be thrown into disorder.16

His prayer brought the assistance of an angel of the Lord, who caused the attackers to fall to the ground, discard their swords, and venerate Andrew. Both episodes report the rout of an armed force in the general vicinity of Greece and ascribe the victory to the sign of the cross. There are differences. If Xan brings the story of Gideon to mind, the Acts of Andrew deploys Exodus symbolism. Moreover, the attackers in the edited and abbreviated work of Gregory would seem to have been bandits, a rather more probable situation.17 This is far from decisive proof of dependence of Xan upon the Acts of Andrew. If Xan did take its inspiration from the adventure of Andrew, it is arguable that the author has transposed the story from a confrontation with a robber band into a clash between Christian and polytheist armed forces and thus given it a setting suitable to the fourth century or later.18 James has more data to offer. First, Andrew himself makes an appearance in Xan, in Greece, the major locus of his activity in the Acts (28–30). In the cases of Paul, Peter, and possibly Philip, such appearances relate to intertextuality. When Xan names an apostle, it usually refers to an incident from the Acts of that apostle rather than to the NT. James also deduces Xan 24[–25]//GE 24 as parallels. The former relates how the kidnapped Polyxena’s ship, while struggling against an adverse wind en route to “Babylonia,” passes that vessel on which Peter is going to Rome.19 Admonished by a heavenly voice (or dream), Peter offered a prayer for a troubled soul on the other ship. Chapter 25 recounts how, under the providence of God, the passengers disembarked in Greece, where all lay half-dead 16 Trans.

MacDonald 1990, 219. See also below.

17 Xan 39 reports an attack of barbarous bandits, overcome in combat “by the grace of Christ.”

See below for a discussion of this passage. 18 Acts of Andrew (GE) 18a speaks of a proconsul in Greece who sent armed forces (milites cum equitibus) to take Andrew into custody. The number is not specified; readers would understand them as a constabulary force rather than soldiers on campaign. 19 This is an interpolation with the Acts of Peter, on which see below.

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on the beach, to which destination Philip, guided by a vision, had traveled. Now Gregory recounts a mission of Andrew on the Greek seashore, in the course of which a decomposed body washed up on the beach.20 Andrew determines that the corpse should be revived, does so, and learns that the victim of a shipwreck had been in quest of a great teacher, who, it transpires, was none other than Andrew himself. In response to a request, the apostle summons up the former corpse’s fellow travelers, leading to thirty-nine more rotting bodies on the seashore. In due course, all are restored to life. The two accounts share themes and motifs: distressed seafarers delivered by the prayer of an apostle who had been alerted by a heavenly communication, as well as survivors of maritime distress met on the beach by an apostle who was engaged in a teaching mission upon said beach. Interesting as the comparison is, few would wish to ground a hypothesis of intertextual relations upon it. Celestial messages to apostles are about as common in the various Acts as prepositional phrases, but the occurrence of a cluster of items cannot be dismissed without further ado. The third case of proposed dependence may be a bit less tenuous. In GE 2 a blind beggar approached Andrew and asked for money to acquire the necessities of life, rather than for healing. Andrew, perceiving that such a request was of satanic origin, restored the beggar’s sight and arranged for him to receive (no more than minimal) clothing. Xan 32 relates the story of a friendly drover, a former disciple of Philip, who was engaged in the congenial task of distributing in various cities bread and wine purchased from the proceeds of his former property. In the course of his ministrations, he came upon a maimed man, who refused to take something from a Christian. The driver perceived that Satan was the author of these words. Both accounts feature a surprising twist upon the conventional theme of a disabled individual who seeks healing (as in Mark 10:46–52) or material assistance (as in Acts 3:1–9). In each case, the benefactor perceives that the atypical refusal comes from Satan. The appearance of Andrew rightly prompts a search for use of the Acts of Andrew. None of the three cases is compelling in itself. In combination, they add some weight. Jean-Marc Prieur judges that the similarities are neither sufficiently close nor numerous to find dependence more than a possibility. Dennis MacDonald (1990, 29 n. 78; 1994, 298 n. 16) is willing to state that use of the Acts of Andrew in Xan is probable. Prieur (1989, 413–14) dates the Acts of Andrew in the second half of the second century, while MacDonald (1990, 59) regards c. 200 as the latest date. If Xan did utilize the Acts of Andrew, it did so in rather subtle fashion. These “parallels” would not be the sort of literary allusions that would motivate a reader to place Xan within the “known world” of the ApocActs. They would rather be 20 The seashore is one of the fundamental tropes of the novel identified by Margaret Anne Doody (1996, 319–36). Shores mark boundaries and symbolize liminality.

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more distant imitations, exploitations of an intertext for the creation of interesting incidents. In such cases it is fruitless to attempt to discover whether the imitation is “conscious” or deliberate. Whereas other links to various ApocActs, to be discussed below, are overt, leading the knowledgeable reader to say, “Aha! I know that story,” these would occupy a different place. In modern terms, one would say that the author hoped that readers would not say, “I know where he or she got that bit; it was cribbed from the Acts of Andrew.” A second observation is that these alleged borrowings are more “realistic,” as it were – in general less esoteric and bizarre than their prototypes. In place of a beggar who does not wish to receive his sight (and have to work for a living?) there is a beggar who will not receive a handout from someone of unsound theology. Rather than decayed corpses washed ashore by a friendly wave and subsequently revived, there are “half-dead” survivors of a dreadful storm at sea. These changes would be quite congruent with the character of Xan, which is far from the philosophical and allegorically inclined mentality of the Acts of Andrew. In modern jargon, one would say that Xan has demythologized incidents from the Acts of Andrew. James also proposed that Xan shows signs of using the Acts of Philip. Once again, Philip does play a role in this work, directly or indirectly in chapters 25–34, and his labors are assigned to Greece, which is one of the places in which the Acts locate him.21 The most interesting item for comparison is the tunic (ἐπενδύτης) of Philip, which serves as a prospective palladium in Xan 25. Clothing, including his simple tunic, is an important symbol in the Acts of Philip (see Amsler 1999, 306–9). James also suggested a link between the speaking lion of Xan 30 and the talking leopard of Acts of Philip 8, but this theme is too common in the ApocActs to carry much weight.22 There are more speaking animals and objects in these writings than there are uses of the optative mood.23 If use of the Acts of Philip III is granted (Amsler 1999, 438), Xan belongs to the fifth century. This hypothesis gains strength from the number of Acts of which it is evidently or certainly cognizant. Xan may be a witness to the existence of a collection of Apocryphal Acts, and it is certainly an early witness to the liberal use of these works, collected or otherwise, in relatively catholic circles. A rough terminus ad quem is probably provided by translation into Latin, an accomplishment that became increasingly unlikely after the sixth century.24 Provenance. Whatever the provenance of this work, it is not of Spanish origin. Spain is a closed book to the author, who does not name a single locality in the the “apostolic lottery” of APhil 8.1, Philip’s target is “the land of the Hellenes” (whereas that of Andrew is “Achaea”), but his adventures also take place in Palestine, Parthia, and Asia Minor. See the discussion of Amsler 1999, 296–99. 22 James (1893, 52) also adduced a comparison between the glowing inscription on Paul’s brow in Xan 8 and the sight of Philip as a “bright light” in APhil 5.22. These items are not very similar to one another. 23 Amsler (1999, 172) regards influence upon Xan 17–18 as probable. 24 Cf. below under Nachleben. 21 In

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Iberian Peninsula. All of the characters except Probus have Greek names. Xan retains the geographical distance of many Greek novels, but shifts the axis to the West.25 One possible basis for the Spanish locale was the reconquest of part of southern Spain under Justinian in 552. A sixth-century date is not impossible. Greece, the other scene of action, may be a likely place of composition, but the geography of Greece is no less vague than that of Spain. Asia Minor is not unlikely. Constantinople should not be ruled out. Xan is intriguing because it is a relatively late text that is familiar with a number of apocryphal acts and uses them without cavil. Amalgamation or Epitome? The brevity of the narrative, especially in part 2, and the contrasts between the two parts raise the question of whether Xan may be an epitome of a longer text or a crude coupling of two distinct stories. Eric Junod (1989, 102–3) takes up the latter issue. Despite some doubts raised in hagiographic summaries, firm evidence for the existence of separate stories is wanting.26 The question ultimately belongs to the realm of source criticism. Despite the differences in the two sections, the narrative exhibits structural parallelism and cohesion. Xan is an integral work. So brisk and undeveloped is the narrative, especially, as noted, in part 2, that one might well ask whether the story has been shortened for hagiographic purposes, i. e., to be read within a liturgical setting. The most thoughtful study of the phenomenon is Tomas Hägg’s analysis of An Ephesian Tale (2004).27 Epitome is most clearly established by holes in a story due to events eliminated by an abridger. Two possible examples from Xan relate to Polyxena’s view of Paul. They could therefore also be attributed to an excision made when two separate stories were merged, if that understanding is promoted. These statements portray Polyxena as an opponent of Paul or his god. The former is 26/77.4, a soliloquy: ”’Alas for me that was formerly devoted to idols; for this now even the mercy of God has passed me in silence. Whom, then, shall I call upon to help me? The God of Paul whom I have constantly offended?’” (trans. Craigie 1978, 213). A problem is the antecedent of “whom”: God or Paul? The second is at 40/85.5–9: “And Paul seeing us rejoiced greatly, and said, ’Welcome ye that have been troubled.’ And Polyxena, laying hold of his feet, said, ’It may be that this trouble came upon me because I would have blasphemed thee (εἰ μὴ ὅτι προσέκειτό μοι ἡ θλῖψις αὕτη, ἐπεὶ ἐβλασφήμησα ἄν σε), but now I beseech and entreat that I may not again be delivered into such troubles and misfortunes.’” (trans. Craigie 1978, 217). Translation of these words is difficult. They suggest that the intent to revile Paul was the source of her difficulties. If indicators of anomaly, these passages home of the lead characters in Callirhoe is Syracuse, the farthest west. also the following paragraph. 27 See also Opelt 1962. 25 The 26 See

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would argue not for epitome but for alteration of the initial episode of Polyxena’s story, i. e., for amalgamated sources. It is at least as likely that Polyxena is presented as a typical pagan penitent and that the narrator felt no embarrassment at the failure to prepare for this. A relevant parallel is the aforementioned abridgement of the Acts of Andrew (GE).28 Gregory explains in his prologue that the motive for his condensation was the verbosity of his source (AA 6:569). Modern readers might be tempted to agree with the good bishop on occasion, but it should be noted the unorthodox content of the speeches troubled him more than their duration. Prieur’s summary of his techniques includes the elimination of some episodes, transformation of others, reduction or elimination of the excessively wondrous, and drastic reduction of the discourses (AA 5:11–12). Xan, with the possible exception noted above, does not seem to have eliminated episodes and includes a substantial amount of speech material. The text does not show signs of abbreviation. One strand of the textual tradition does abbreviate the form edited by James (1893), but this is not an earlier edition.29 Xan is probably not an epitome of a longer text. Scripture. The single explicit reference to Scripture is the reference to “the prophets” in 22. From 23/74.35–37, it transpires that she was reading Psalms. Chapter 18 refers to “the righteous Noah”30 in a context evocative of Daniel.31 Possible influence of the story of Gideon has been mentioned. Allusions to the NT, e. g., Luke, Acts, and 1 Corinthians 7, are present, but not explicit, as is dramatically apposite. The brevity of references underlines the absence of apostolic preaching in the text. Most of the speaking is done by women. Ecclesiology. Of church organization and structure the work bears scarcely a trace, beyond apostles who baptize and preach. This is important in that it shows that the absence of references to bishops, presbyters, and so forth cannot be used to date a work. Otherwise Xan would be dated early than the canonical text of Philippians (1:1). The relative abundance of those missionary founders derives from an ecclesiology of sorts. Although Xan says nothing about church organization and depicts little that might pass for Christian worship, it envisions “one holy church throughout the world” and places the faithful under their proper leaders. This later picture of a universal church is superimposed upon the ideal of the primitive church, which remained untroubled by false teachers or divisions so long as an 28 The text is relevant because of its genre, subject matter, and date (sixth century). For the text and comment, see Prieur 1989, 6:553–651 (text); 5:8–12 (introductory remarks). 29 Junod (1989, 89–90) observes that the ms. he denotes as M reproduces a text like P in chaps. 1–11, 25–27, 31–42; otherwise it is shorter. The final chapter is more detailed. All three women lived holy lives. Each exemplified certain virtues: Xanthippe the desire for Christ, ascesis, and chastity; Polyxena for constancy, faith, struggle, virginity; and Rebecca for exile, virginity, and hope in god. That editor also records, summarily, the eventual death of each. 30 A common epithet (e. g., Gen 6:9; Wsd 10:4). 31 On this, see below.

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apostle was at hand.32 “From that time forward she [Polyxena] left not at all the blessed Paul in her fear of temptations” is the last narrative sentence of the book (42, trans. Craigie 1978, 217). Paul is a multivalent trope for the orthodox faith, the duly constituted bishop of the local community, and the Scriptures. As part 1 closed, Xanthippe was reading “the prophets.” At the end of part 2, her sister cleaves to Paul. Together they represent the Old and New Testaments of the Christian Bible and the lives of ideal believers.

2. Christian Apocrypha as Historical (and Other) Sources Use of ApocActs as historical sources is not unusual.33 Xan utilizes the Acts of Peter and rather ostentatiously calls attention to this. In 24, two ships pass one another. One, bearing the unwilling Polyxena, was destined for “Babylonia.” On the other vessel, the great apostle of the Lord, Peter, was sailing past in a ship, being urged by a dream to go to Rome, because when Paul departed for Spain there had entered into Rome a certain deceiver and magician [πλάνόν τινα καὶ μάγον], Simon by name, who had broken up the church which Paul had established. (Trans. Craigie 1978, 212, alt.)

This is an indisputable reference to APtr (Verc) 5, which tells of Peter’s voyage from Palestine to Italy in obedience to a vision.34 One consequent observation is that there is no mention of Paul in that vision. Xan takes that datum from the initial chapters of APtr, which relate how Paul left his successful mission at Rome to proceed, in accordance with a vision, to Spain (chaps. 1–3). In the absence of an apostle, Simon was able to make substantial inroads into the community of the faithful (4), motivating God to dispatch Peter to the rescue (5). Contemporary scholars view APtr 1–4 (and certain other chapters) as the work of a later editor who wished to portray the unity of the two great apostles.35 Not only chapter 24 but also chapters 1–6 of Xan, which describe the arrival of Paul in Spain, are dependent upon the revised APtr.36 Xan is the earliest certain witness to the Greek text of this edition, which almost certainly belongs to the second half of the third century, possibly to the early fourth. This is an additional clue that Xan is not earlier than the fourth century.

32 Cf.

chap. 24, which portrays Peter en route to Rome to relive a community plagued by Simon because Paul has departed for Spain. 33 See Eusebius, H. E. 2.25.5 and Nicephorus Callistus 2.25 for examples of the APl. 34 Unless otherwise indicated, references to the APtr are to the Latin ms. from Vercelli. 35 For a full survey of critical issues, see Poupon 1988. 36 One specific verbal hint is the command in APtr 1 that Paul go to Spain as a “physician” (medicus) to the inhabitants. The same term is applied to Paul in Xan 2 (ἱατρός; 59,4). The author of Xan is not interested in concealing the footprints but rather in highlighting them.

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A subsequent observation is literary and historical. The narrator of Xan takes pains to locate chapter 24 in history. The source of that history is the Acts of Peter. The reference is, in general, gratuitous. God could have caused a suitable storm that left the company of Polyxena’s ship in disordered misery on a Greek beach without having prompted Peter to pray for the maiden, who could, after all, have been liberated by considerably more comfortable and secure means, an example of which would been having Peter overtake the ship, rescue the woman, baptize her, and take her to Rome for safe transport to Spain. The arrival of Philip at the beach in chapter 25 would have sufficed for the (apparent) rescue of Polyxena. The real role of Peter in this story is to provide interface between his Acts and Xan. The narrator of the latter is “trading off the power” of the Acts of Peter, a text of undoubted historical accuracy and value. The reference verifies the historicity of Xan. This allusion is one technique from the bag of verisimilitude common to historical novels of every era. From the historical perspective, Xan is “filling in gaps,” in this case a gap in the Acts of Peter, which do not narrate what happened during Paul’s mission in Spain. Such appeals do not exhaust this intertextual reference. The author certainly expects readers to recognize it and take satisfaction therefrom. “Playful” would be too strong a term, but it captures part of the manner in which apostles keep dropping in and out – with particular reference to the latter – of the story. Theologically this shows Peter, Paul, Philip, and Andrew engaged in the same mission in different places. By synecdoche, these four stand for all the apostles. What Paul accomplished for Xanthippe, Peter, Philip, and Andrew could achieve for her far-traveling sister. This leads to the narrative observation that this book is crowded with not particularly effective apostles. Providence, not apostolic charisma, determines the outcome. Acts of various apostles make good reading, but believers must trust in God for their well-being. Xan also implies a sequence for the Acts. First, the canonical Acts, which end with Paul in Rome. Then come the (revised) Acts of Peter, which begin with Paul in Rome. The narrative of Xan is simultaneous with that. The difficulty for the author, as for more recent critics, was where to locate the Acts of Paul (see Pervo 1995). The most logical solution would regard the Acts of Paul as a sequel to Xan: after his mission to Spain, Paul returned to the East, but was eventually arrested once more and sent to Rome for execution. The text subverts this attractive solution. Chapter 36 finds Polyxena the object of unwanted amorous attention from a prefect, who has kidnapped her. After she has staved off one command appearance in his bedroom, his son arrived to assure Polyxena: I know this God whom none ever vanquish, for an individual with a glorious face was proclaiming this God in Antioch37 some time ago (πρὸ χρόνων τινῶν; possibly “some years ago”). A certain virgin came to accept his message and became a follower of his. She 37 According

to APl 3, Thecla was converted in Iconium.

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experienced danger because of her attractiveness. Thecla was her name. I have heard that she had been condemned to the wild beasts.

This is a transparent reference to the Acts of Paul. The young man is familiar with the story of Thecla through 4.2. That he does not know how it came out is a nice touch. The reader would like to bring him up to date and explain how Thecla escaped this trial (and others). This cross-reference functions exactly like that to the APtr in chapter 24. The author is lending credence to the new story of Polyxena by coordinating it with a familiar story of solid historical worth, the adventures of Thecla of Iconium.38 In terms of chronology, this allusion shows that the author of Xan located Paul’s ministry in Asia Minor prior to his voyage to Rome, i. e., that this book does not view the Acts of Paul as a sequel to the canonical work, but rather as a simultaneous account. This will not stand as a reasoned critical conclusion, but it does indicate how one author who was very much committed to harmonizing various accounts understood the relationship between these two Acts. In addition to this overt reference, Xan has many borrowings from and imitations from the Acts of Paul.39 It is most likely that the author knew of a complete edition of the Acts, including the Thecla episodes.40 Some of the borrowings are mere imitations, such as the use of jewelry to bribe porters, by Thecla in 3.18 and Xanthippe in chapter 13.41 Secluded women must bribe their own slaves to leave the house – as would-be lovers must give them a substantial tip to gain entry. Xan complicates this episode by having the porter, whose recent emoluments were worth a mere five hundred gold coins, attempt to betray his mistress, only to have his efforts foiled by a miracle. Such literary competition – if your predecessor reported a disastrous earthquake, you direct a comet to strike Los Angeles – is an element of consumer-oriented literature that would, in the fullness of time, greatly fortify the learned critics of Apocryphal Acts. The Acts of Paul 3.3 contains a description of the apostle that has fascinated readers for many centuries. Xan will try a different approach (see table 1).42 38 The internal narrator errs when he says that Thecla was converted in Antioch. That was the city in which she was condemned to the beasts. (The phrase is shorthand for condemnation to death through the assault of wild animals in the arena. It was reserved for particularly heinous criminals.) 39 The judgment of Léon Vouaux (1913, 131) is that Xan “sometimes copies and always imitates” the APl. Erik Peterson (1947) notes use of APl 9 (not available to James). 40 James proposed that chaps. 1–21 of Xan were quite dependent upon the APl and thus viewed the latter as a sequel to the canonical Acts. At that time, none of the papyrus remains of APl had been recovered, and it was not yet clear that the portions dealing with Thecla were part of the APl. 41 Thecla must also bribe the jailer. Other clear imitations include a speaking lion (APl 1; 7; Xan 26–30), condemnation of a heroine to the beasts (APl 3.27; Xan 37), a friendly lioness in the arena (APl 3.28; 9; Xan 37). Xan, typically, forgoes baptism of the lion. 42 See also table 2.

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Table 1 Acts of Paul 3.3

Xanthippe and Polyxena 7–8a

[Onesiphorus saw] … saw Paul coming, short, bald, bow-legged, healthy-looking, single-browed, a bit long-nosed, and bursting with beneficence.

When Xanthippe saw the blessed Paul walking quietly and equally, and adorned with all virtue and understanding … Why is his countenance kindly, as of one that tends the sick? Why does he look so lovingly hither and thither, as one who desires to assist those who are seeking to flee from the mouths of dragons? Sometimes he looked like a mortal; at other … When Xanthippe therefore saw the great Paul, the intellectual eyes of her times he had the glowing countenance of heart were uncovered, and she read upon an angel. his forehead, having as it were golden seals, these words, Paul the Preacher of God. a

Trans. Craigie 1978, 206–7.

From other references, it is certain that the author of Xan knew of the description in the Acts of Paul. Rather than the report of an omniscient narrator, Xan felicitously elects to write the scene from the viewpoint of Xanthippe (see table 2). Instead of summarizing Paul’s physical features, Xan concentrates upon the emotional impact of his bearing and disposition. This corresponds to Xan in general, in particular to chapters 1–21, which focus upon the convert’s interior life and experiences. The description clearly indicates that, whatever the appearance of Paul suggested, he was not some gorgeous Adonis who would sweep innocent girls like Thecla off their feet by physical attractiveness alone. From Xan, one learns nothing about Paul’s physique and everything about his care for those in need or peril.43 This is a very effective bit of writing. Finally, the confusing reference to Paul’s polymorphism – sometimes looking like a human being, at other times like an angel – gives way to the vision of the seal upon his forehead that was accessible only to the eyes of the heart. Those who believed could see. Table 2: The Appeal of the Apostle Acts of Paul 3.7–9 a

Xanthippe 7b

While Paul was speaking … a certain virgin named Thecla … was sitting at the window close by … she also had an eager desire to be deemed worthy to stand in Paul’s presence … her mother sent to [her

When Xanthippe saw the blessed Paul walking quietly and equally, and adorned with all virtue and understanding, she was greatly delighted in him and her heart leaped continually, and as possessed with

is possible that Xan’s twice-repeated statement about Paul’s even gait (ὁμαλός-ως; James 62.15 and 20) opposes the “bandy-legged” (ἀγκύλον ταῖς κνήμαις) of the APl, but how he walked was one element of the description of a handsome male in Apuleius Metamorphoses 2.2. 43 It

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Acts of Paul 3.7–9

Xanthippe 7

fiancé] Thamyris …[Her mother said: ”… for three days and three nights Thecla does not rise from the window either to eat or to drink; but looking earnestly as if upon some pleasant sight she is devoted to a foreigner teaching deceitful and artful discourses …[She,] clinging to the window like a spider, lays hold of what is said by him with a strange eagerness and fearful emotion (ἐπιθυμίᾳ καινῃ καὶ πάθει δεινῷ)…

an unexpected joy she said with herself, Why does my heart beat vehemently at the sight of this man? Why is his walk quiet and equable, as of one who expects to take in his arms one that is pursued? If it were possible for me, I should wish to touch the hem of his garments, that I may behold his kindness and readiness to receive and sweet odour; for the servant had told her this also, that the hems of his garments had the odor of precious perfumes.

a b

Trans. Elliott 1993, 365–66. Trans. Craigie 1978, 206–7.

Up to this point, Thecla has not even seen Paul, although the reader knows what he looks like (from APl 3.3), and that does not seem to be the answer to a maiden’s prayer. Thecla’s reactions are almost paradoxical, for they are based upon words alone, and those words invite the hearer to a life of chastity. Xanthippe does see Paul and likes what she sees. Her pounding heart, her longing to touch even the hem of his clothes and to imbibe the aroma thereof are not, dear reader, to be confused with eroticism: the odor is that of sanctity, the hem of his robe heals, and her heart is strangely warmed by the advent of grace. These sentiments are, to reiterate, not be confused with eroticism, but they could just as well serve to describe sexual attraction. Thecla responds to a new kind of love; the story of Xanthippe shows that the love of God is at least as emotionally satisfying as the love for a man.44 Granted that this little novel is no feminist tract, it does portray Christian women as mature and strong individuals who can defend themselves and manage in the face of dire adversities (cf. Davies 1980, 68). Salvation does not come through remaining at home, bearing children, and obeying their husbands. If Xanthippe and Polyxena are at some distance from the world of Thecla, they remain even more distant from the world of the Pastoral Epistles. To put it in the words of one who ought to know: “The demon cried out, saying, O violence, from this destroyer (χανότου)45 even women have received power to strike us” (21, trans. Craigie 1978, 212).46

44 Note also Xan 4, toward the conclusion of a soliloquy: “Lord, I cannot find any one that has love for thee, that communing with him I might even a little refresh my soul. Speed therefore, Lord, to yoke me in desire for thee, and keep me under the shadow of thy wings.” Trans. Craigie 1978, 206. 45 The word is otherwise unattested and the meaning is uncertain. It is not flattering. See Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon, 1512. 46 See also below.

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For both Thecla and Xanthippe, baptism is delayed, contributing suspense to the story.47 In the former case, readers are hard pressed to understand why Paul so willfully refuses to administer to Thecla the rite of initiation. In the end, she must baptize herself (4.9, with an appropriate reference to her end). The delay of Xanthippe’s baptism has a pastoral explanation: “All this was done by the Evil one that Xanthippe might receive holy baptism with tribulation, and be faint-hearted concerning the commandments of Christ” (11).48 The author of Xan retains the useful literary contribution of delay – the excitement of suspense – while making it more rational and edifying. APl influenced the structure. Part 1owes much to the story of Thecla, as noted, and offers a triangle of the apostle Paul, man, and wife.49 Part 2 features a character with the qualities of Thecla: young, beautiful, affianced, who finds help from lionesses, is condemned to the beasts and vindicated by them, leading to acceptance by a governor. The story of Polyxena is that of Thecla painted on the canvas of a romantic novel without any hints of leadership or independent evangelism. The Acts of Thomas present a different sort of intertextual problem. Unlike the principal characters of the other Acts considered, Thomas is not a character in Xan. One explanation is that the others appear in their traditional missionary regions. Thomas’s territory, “India,” is off Xan’s map. M. R. James (1893, 52) believed that the major influence of the Acts of Thomas upon Xan was in the realm of style. Critical opinion tends toward the view that Syriac was the original language of the Acts of Thomas, although the Greek edition might have been almost simultaneous with the Syriac (See Drijvers 1992, 2:323; and in particular Attridge 1990).50 The Acts of Thomas 91 and Xan 17 present an attractive case for dependence. In each, a noble husband, somewhat distraught at being repelled from the marital bed, has a dream in which an eagle and a king play important parts.51 If this is a case of borrowing, Xan has once again used no more than the frame, for the dreams are quite different. That in Xan resembles an apocalyptic 47 Note that there is no obstacle to the baptism of Xanthippe’s husband, Probus. Once he has converted, he goes immediately to Paul and immediately receives the sacrament of initiation (21). 48 The view of baptism as a source of fear and delay in receiving the sacrament are also characteristic of the fourth-century, post-Constantinian, era. For many, baptism served as an introduction to the celibate life (Augustine is but the most famous example), as it apparently does for Probus and Xanthippe. 49 Note also the story of Charisius and Mygdonia (AThom 82–133), on which see Bonnet 1894 and the passage cited in table 3, below. As Peterson (1947) observed, the story of Eubula in APl 9 also is relevant. 50 In general, Greek texts are earlier than Syriac (Coptic, Armenian, etc.). In this case, there are two reasons for inverting the normal paradigm: AThom emerged in an area where Syriac was the dominant language, and scholars advance instances where the Greek text is evidently based upon errors in translating Syriac. The Greek edition, however, is often closer to the original form of AThom, since the Syriac was edited to remove less orthodox elements. 51 On this and other avian images in Xan, I call attention to a very interesting paper by Midori Hartman (2012).

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oracle and receives a seriatim interpretation from a “sage.” The shorter dream in AThom involves real rather than allegorical characters. Table 3 takes up one of James’s examples. Table 3: Acts of Thomas and Xan Acts of Thomas 80 (195, 12–15)a

Xanthippe & Polyxena 14/67.17–25)

τίνα ἐνθυμηθῶ περὶ τῆς εὐπρεπείας Ἰησοῦ, τίνα δὲ καὶ περὶ σοῦ ἐξηγήσωμαι οὐκ ἔχω. μᾶλλον δὲ οὐ δύναμαι· οὐ γὰρ χωρῶ ἐξειπεῖν αὐτὰ ὦ Χριστὲ ἀναπεπαυμένε καὶ μόνε σοφέ 15 (121, 11–15) ὁ τὰ ἴδια σπλάγχνα μὴ ἐπισχὼν ἐξ ἐμοῦ τοῦ ἀπολλυμένου, ἀλλὰ ὑποδείξας μοι ζητῆσαι ἐμαυτὸν καὶ γνῶναι τίς ἤμην καὶ τίς καὶ πῶς ὑπάρχω νῦν, ἴνα πάλιν γένωμαι ὅ ἤμην·ὅν ἐγὼ μὲν οὐκ ᾔδειν, αὐτὸς δὲ ἐπεζήτησας ὃν μὴ ἐπιστάμην, αὐτὸς δέ με προσελάβου

τὶ εἰπω περί σου, ἐπιζητητὰ τῶν ἁμαρτωλῶν, ὅς τὸ πλεῖστον μεθ᾿ ἡμῶν ἀναστρέφῃ ἐν ταῖς θλίψεσιν; ποεῖ δὲ ταῦτα ἡ ἀγαθότης σου· ὅτι διὰ τὸν ἄνθρωπον ὃν ἔπλασας, ἕως θανάτου κατῆλθες ὅσόν γάρ σε ἐὰν παροργίσῃ ἄνθρωπος πολυπλασίως, τὰ ἐλέη σου ἐκχεεῖς ἐπ᾿ αὐτόν, δέσποτα. ὦ βάθος οἰκτιρμῶν καὶ πλοῦτος ἐλέους ὦ ἀμετρητὸς ἀγαθότης καὶ ἀνείκαστος φιλανθρωπία ὦ θησαῦρε τῶν ἀγαθῶν καὶ δότηρ ἐλέους καὶ πολυτόδοτα τῶν εἰς σὲ πιστευόντων.

a References are to the page numbers in M. Bonnet’s edition in Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha II.2

(Hildesheim: Georg Olms [reprint of 1903]); and James 1893.

James opined that “a comparison of the speeches …[in Xan] with those on pp. 13, 43, 43, etc of the Acts of Thomas will go further than any amount of detail to show that the latter has served to mould the style of the former” (James 1893, 52). Loath as I am to disagree with that great scholar, I do not find his arguments fully persuasive. It is possible that the speeches and prayers of the Acts of Thomas have inspired the author of Xan, but the rhetoric of both is not unusual for Apocryphal Acts in particular and early Christian writing in general. These parallels do not establish an intertextual relationship, which remains no more than a possibility. Table 4 summarizes the preceding survey of the use of Apocryphal Acts in Xan. Table 4: Apocryphal Acts in Xanthippe and Polyxena Acts of

Explicit/Certain

Andrew

Probable

Possible

×

John

×

Paul

×

Peter

×

Philip Thomas

Improbable

× ×

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The proposal that the author of Xan had access to a collection of Apocryphal Acts appears to be a likely hypothesis. Except for the Acts of John, there is evidence here for the known collection of the “five major Acts” of the second and third centuries, as well as for the Acts of Philip, which it should be noted, have equal status with the “big five” in this text. Xan uses as characters in the story apostles active in the regions covered by the narrative: Rome, Spain, and Greece. Xan knows where these missionaries worked and is careful to respect the boundaries of their spheres. The first certain attestation of a corpus of five Apocryphal Acts appears in Philaster of Brescia, a late-fourth-century opponent of heresy (Drijvers 1992, 323).52 The author of Xan is no heresiologist who handles apocryphal acts with tongs in mask and gown. He or she holds them in high regard, expecting that readers will be familiar with them and that citations from these historical writings will bolster the authority of his or her own work. In a similar fashion, creative imitation of Apocryphal Acts endowed readers with a sense that this was “the real thing,” true history. Whereas Chariton imitated Xenophon in order to make his work look like “real history,” so Xan gains credibility through borrowing from scenes, themes, motifs, and incidents of the various Acts. This is, I believe, a situation without parallel in any writings that dwell within even the outlying suburbs of the catholic mainstream of early Christianity. Works like the Acts of Barnabas and the Acts of Titus utilize the Acts of Paul, while others plunder the Acts of Peter53, but Xan’s resort to at least three different texts is quite unusual. Xan sheds light upon the difficulties faced by bishops who wished to discourage the faithful from reading Christian apocrypha. This is a reasonably safe book, from the theological perspective (with the exception discussed above), and it serves the highly edifying purpose of showing that the several apostles were unified in their teaching and practice, if separated for reasons of missionary strategy, but it also shows the high esteem enjoyed by these narratives of early Christian times.

52 Philaster (d. c. 397) wrote his anti-heretical treatise c. 385. The reference to a collection of five acts is in his De Haer. 88.6. For a thorough discussion, see Schneemelcher and Schäferdiek 1965. 53 Examples include the Vita Abercii, the Acts of Saints Nereus and Achilleus, and the later works that go under the names of Linus and Marcellus. For a detailed analysis of some of this material, see Thomas 1998.

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3. Literary Features Table 5: The Structure of Xanthippe and Polyxena Part 1: 1–22

Part 2: 22–42

Introduction: (1) Rome to Spain. Slave brings knowledge of Paul’s message to household. I. Xanthippe’s Quest for Salvation (2–15) A. The beginnings of the mission (3–9; cf. 38) 1. Two become ill; laments (3–6) 2. Arrival of Paul (7–8) 3. X. asks that husband be converted (9) II. The Crisis of X.’s Conversion (10–16) A. First crisis: Probus regrets popularity of Paul. X. stays with prayer (10) B. Second crisis: (11–13) 1. X. requests baptism, but Paul changes base (11) 2. Probus demands board and bed; secures house (12–13) C. Baptism of X. (13–14) 1. X. bribes way out of house (13) 2. X. attacked by demons, rescued by Paul and puer speciosus (13) 3. X. baptized (14) D. Aftermath: Probus unconverted (15–16) 1. X. enjoys christophany in form of Paul (15) 2. Return to lament: husband unconverted III. The Conversion of Probus A. The dream of Probus (17–20) 1. The dream (17) 2. Its interpretation (18) 3. X. is near death (cf. 25) 4. All visit Paul. Probus despondent, laments (19–20) B. The baptism of Probus (21) IV. Domestic Tranquility (21–22) A. Preparation for Feast (21)

Introduction (22) P., sister of X., unbaptized. Has dream (dragons, cf. 7). Plot pivots, as from slave to X., in 2 I. Spain to Greece (23–24) A. P. kidnapped and placed on ship for Babylonia 1. Magicians, demons, open doors (cf. 13–14) and apprehend fleeing P. 2. Voyage; revelation/dream for Peter; demons, magicians (24; cf. 38) II. Rescue and Flight of P. (25–27) A. Ship diverts to Greece; Philip, directed by vision (cf. 24) takes custody of P. (25) B. Kidnapper returns; P. flees; lament. (C. Interlude: battle between Christians and Polytheists; no effect upon plot) (25) III. Polyxena in danger and deliverance (26–30) A. Lion’s den (cf. 22 and 23); laments (26–27); nature (cf. 6). [Lion frames 26–30.] B. Andrew and Rebecca (28–30) 1. P. Andrew arrives; P. begs baptism (28) (cf. 11) Rebecca arrives. (29) She is the slave of part 2 2. Lion returns; two baptized, exhorted IV. The Drover, helper of P. (& R.) (31–34) A. Meet drover; link with Philip (31) B. Drover tells his story; plan to sail for Spain (32) C. Second kidnapping (33–34) 1. Both women kidnapped 2. Drover tries to defend, in vain; meets Philip; consoled. Purpose of her sufferings revealed (cf. 11) (34) V. Both Women Find Helpers (35–36) A. Old woman cares for Rebecca; P. laments (35) B. P. locked in chamber (cf. 13); delays assault; son of prefect comes to her aid;

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Part 1: 1–22 1. Defeat of demons by X. without help of others (21) 2. X. reads Scripture in peace (22)

Part 2: 22–42 plans for Spain. Reference to Paul shows story returning to beginning (36) VI. Condemnation, Deliverance, Conversions (37) A. Two condemned (betrayal by slave cf. 14) B. Lioness honors P. Acclamation leading to conversion of ruler and city and C. P. promises arrival of missionary; plans for Spain VII. Arrival of Onesimus and voyage (38–39) A. (1st person) Onesimus alerted by vision (cf. 24) B. Voyage delayed by providence. Lucius converts 20,000 C. Adventures on voyage: barbarian attack, attempted suicide, victorious battle (39; cf. 21) VIII. Return and Conclusion A. Reception by Paul in Spain (40) B. Reunion of sisters. X. swoons (cf. 2–3) Her vigil; Paul’s promises fulfilled (41) C. Conversion of kidnapper and suitor (42)

The complexity of this outline of a story that contains but twenty-eight pages in Greek – about 80 percent of the length of the Gospel of Mark or roughly the size of the letter to the Romans – exposes the degree of narrative compression. Although the two parts are not symmetrical halves, there are numerous thematic and other parallels seemingly designed to indicate an underlying similarity between the stories of the two sisters. The faithful encounter problems at home and abroad. Those who adhere to their baptismal vows will endure. What Xanthippe endures within the narrow confines of her neighborhood is no less difficult, when all is said and done, than the harrowing perils of Polyxena. Christian life is to be lived wherever one happens to be. The first part focuses upon the interior realm, the internal quest of Xanthippe and the struggle of Probus. Part 2 looks at external threats – scarcely temptations by our lights – to the faithful. In this regard, it resembles Aseneth. A striking difference between the two parts is that, while Xanthippe is more or less alone in her struggles, Polyxena finds, or develops, helpers whenever she requires them. Other than the apostles, whose assistance is somewhat attenuated, these are a diverse group, including two (female) lions, a Jewish slave, a drover, and the son of a prefect. Compression notwithstanding, the narrative is constructed with some skill. Difficulties in marking narrative divisions are often due

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to the overlapping of segments. Chapter 22, according to the divisions which are evidently the work of James (1893), is, for example, a pivot and bridge, both the end of Xanthippe’s story and the beginning – and foreshadowing – of Polyxena’s adventures. This author knew how to construct a carefully interlocked narrative structure. Finally, although the rapidity of the narrative often masks it, the author knows a bit about retardation. This is most obvious in the frequent and lengthy speeches, but it is present in the delay of baptism for both of the major heroines. Note also the second kidnapping of Polyxena (2.IV.C). After briefly noting this appalling incident in chapter 33, the narrator lets the reader dangle until the close of chapter 35, first by wrapping up the drover’s story and then by recounting the fate of Rebecca. The Story. Unlike the various acts of apostles, Xan focuses upon converts. The apostles are rather incidental, albeit not minor, characters. Although (in a tactic borrowed from the APl) they are usually absent when most needed, apostles are fairly thick on the ground. Wherever the leading characters find themselves, from Spain to Greece, they can expect to encounter an apostle. In this one may discern the hand of Providence. There is also an important structural distinction: Xan is a “there and back” narrative. A number of the Greek romantic novels follow the folkloristic pattern in which hero and/or heroine leave home, experience numerous adventures, and then return to live happily ever after. (This pattern is not uniform. Charcleia, the heroine of An Ethiopian Story, returns to her homeland, which she had left as an infant and of which she knew little; her lover, Theagnes, was Greek. Daphnis and Chloe spend their lives on the island of Lesbos, returning in the end to the status lost when abandoned by their parents. Neither the comic nor the historical novels of antiquity tend to present thereand-back plots.54) The beginning is rather interesting. Rather than open with Xanthippe, the beautiful wife of the magistrate Probus,55 as one might expect in a romance, or with the activity of an apostle, as would be normal in one of the Acts, the narrator begins with a cherished and faithful slave of Probus, who had been sent with dispatches from Spain to Rome, in which city he happened to hear the message of Paul. The result of this is an illness with all of the marks of love-sickness. The 54 Insofar as it is, and contains, the story of the journey of the soul, the Acts of Thomas is a “there and back” story, as indicated in its “hermeneutical key,” the Hymn of the Soul, chaps 108–13. The Pseudo-Clementines conform to the notion more literally, since the climax of the romance is the reunion of the family, separated at the beginning, and the implied return of the hero to Rome, where he will become bishop. The entire Christian story (and that of other religions) is a there-and-back tale, narrated between the once upon a time in Paradise and the happily ever back in Paradise regained. For Xan, return to Spain is the goal; the reunions take place there. In the romantic novels by Xenophon and Chariton, the reunion takes place elsewhere, as David Konstan (2012) pointed out. 55 The reader learns nothing about Xanthippe’s appearance.

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author thus cleverly varies a common theme of romantic novels.56 His master Probus is willing to allow the slave to return to Rome to receive the services of the physician, whom Probus reasonably presumes to be a medical doctor. Having discharged his function, this nameless slave disappears from the story. Their dialogue arouses great curiosity in Xanthippe, who soon finds herself in as wretched a state as the slave. She prays for enlightenment in a number of moving soliloquies, the first of which (chapter 3) is like that of Aseneth 11. Both strive to address a god whom they do not know.57 Through these soliloquies the author expresses the despair of the heroine. Xanthippe’s plight continues in chapter 4, in a series of rhetorical questions that illustrate her paucity of options. Nonetheless, her prayer ends with confidence and praise. Probus soon comes to share this grief, although not the religious quest that motivates it (1–5). This episode represents one leg of the tripod proposed for conversion in antiquity: through the agency of soldiers, merchants, and slaves. 58 All three groups were mobile. The slave Rebecca (Xan 29) has been sold several times and moved from Palestine to Achaea. Although studies properly emphasize the duty of slaves to follow the cults of their owners, they could also, in a polytheist world, have their own religious preferences, and religion could travel up the social ladder as well as down. A famous example of the role of slaves in mission is the story of Naaman, 2 Kings 5. In chapter 6, Xanthippe ventures into her garden. There she sees, for the first time, the creator behind the beauty of the world. This is an effective piece of natural theology within a narrative context. It does not, for all that, relieve her woes. Probus takes this personally, presuming that she wishes a divorce. Unlike the composers of the Apocryphal Acts in general, the author of Xan creates considerable sympathy for the heroine’s husband. Moreover, the mystery and intrigue generated by her strange illness receive a deft treatment. A solution to all this misery is to hand. Paul, for whom Xanthippe has kept a close watch, arrives in town and is seen by our heroine (presumably, like Aseneth and Thecla, from her window). She would receive him as Christ, made explicit by her longing to touch the hem of his garments.59 Overhearing this, Probus rushes out and begs Paul to enter on the hope that he might bring him salvation. 56 Love-sickness: for example, An Ephesian Tale 1.4–6; Apuleius, Metamorphoses 10.2–9; Leucippe 1.9; Apollonius of Tyre 18; and the fragments of Parthenope and Sesonchosis. See Toohey 1992. 57 Ignorance: Aseneth 13:9; 17:3 (Philonenko); Xan 3; 9 (James 1893, 59.34; 63.23). Repentance, however, a leading theme in Aseneth, plays but a minor role in Xan, whose heroine is not portrayed as a sinner so much as a “lost sheep.” 58 This is an example of the diffusion of a cult through the activity of a slave, one of the three groups identified as missionary agents by Nock (1933, 66–67; the others are soldiers and merchants). These categories had earlier been intimated by Franz Cumont. 59 ἤθελον ἅψασθαι τοῦ κρασπέδου τῶν ἱματίων αὐτοῦ (7, James 62.25–26.). Cf. Mark 5:27– 28; 6:56.

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The irony is apparent: the salvation Probus envisions is the restoration of health. Prompted by a gift of supernatural insight, Xanthippe threw herself at the apostle’s feet and wiped them with her hair (cf. Luke 7:38). The “Paulology” (Paul as a savior figure) is explicit. Within a few lines, Xanthippe will be adapting the Magnificat (Luke 1:46–55) to herself, in a speech overflowing with ebullient joy.60 Paul’s message astonishes the uninformed Probus, giving occasion for delaying the baptism for which Xanthippe has begged. (How she has learned about “the seal” the narrator does not reveal.61). In no time, word about Paul had filled city and country, aided by the knowledge of those who had seen Paul in Rome, leading to rather chaotic conditions in the household of Probus, who does not fancy the vocation of innkeeper. Through prayer Paul and Xanthippe are able to stave him off (10).62 That other means of retardation, baptism, remains. The mere mention of it leads to the expulsion of Paul and the confinement of Xanthippe to the premises. Philotheus, an aptly named social peer of Probus, comes to Paul’s rescue.63 Xanthippe learns of his whereabouts, but Probus has the house secured by “cruel and wicked soldiers.” Extracting another page from the carefully studied book of Thecla, she bribes the porter and thus gains access, after deliverance from demons, to the apostle (10–13).64 Baptism and eucharist follow. An attempt by the bribed porter to betray her is, as was noted earlier, foiled by a miracle. Her long soliloquy receives its due reward in a christophany: the savior in the form of Paul.65 Baptism has brought Xanthippe personal peace and security, but it only intensifies the turmoil of her household. By the end of chapter 16, she is in a state of collapse. Meanwhile, the troubled sleep of poor Probus was disturbed by a mysterious dream. Rapidly disposing of his daily business, Probus sought dream interpreters. Chapter 17 reflects imitation of Daniel 2–5. The parallel enhances the status of Probus, who can afford to maintain specialists in oneiromancy on retainer. The dream narrated and interpreted, one of the sages urges that all present themselves to Paul and receive baptism. Probus overturns this proposal with another: they should visit Xanthippe, who, it transpires, has not eaten for twenty-nine days, 60 She describes herself as ταπεινή (8/63.10) and says that from henceforth she will be called blessed by others (ἀπὸ τοῦ νῦν μακαρισθήσομαι ὑφ᾿ ἑτέρων). Cf. Luke 1:48 (ὅτι ἐπέβλεψεν ἐπὶ τὴν ταπείνωσιν τῆς δούλης αὐτοῦ. ἰδοὺ γὰρ ἀπὸ τοῦ νῦν μακαριοῦσιν με πᾶσαι αἱ γενεαί). 61 See, however, the slave’s enigmatic statement in chap. 1: “So many as have been attended by that physician and have gone through the water in his hands, have received healing immediately” (trans. Craigie 1978, 205). 62 The mission of Paul recalls that of Jesus: διέδραμεν ἡ φήμη τῆς παρουσίας αὐτοῦ ἐν ὅλῃ τῇ πόλει καὶ τῇ περιχώρω ἐκείνῃ. Cf. Matt 9:26; Luke 4:14. 63 The name means “lover of God.” Cf. the Theophilos to whom Luke and Acts are dedicated. 64 Jill Gorman (2006, 207–8) interprets the desire (epithymia) in 13.66.24 as sexual. The term refers to her desire for baptism. 65 Christ in the form of Paul: APl 3.21; similarly, with appropriate change of identity, AThom 11. The close of chap. 15 presents a christological hymn in creedal form (“you are …,” like the Te Deum), ending with a citation based upon John 1:18.

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to determine whether she still lives (17–18). They find her singing a hymn. The entire group then head for the house of Philotheus to hear Paul. Probus does not initially listen, distracted by concern for his wife. The apostle’s message is here is far from radical. He urges those who burn to observe lawful marriage.66 That is a sentiment of which the suddenly attentive Probus heartily approves. One question remains: why, given this endorsement of proper matrimony, has Xanthippe withdrawn from the conjugal bed? Paul’s reply is rather cloudy, but it transpires that fleshly desire is not, shall we say, desirable and that post-baptismal failure (evidently) is final. This clarification is no reproof of Xanthippe’s conduct. The unhappy Probus returns home for another restless night, ending with a prayer to the god of Paul.67 The next morning he goes to that representative of God, who, happily enough, is administering baptism. With no delay Probus is initiated and returns to his joyful wife, who proposes a celebratory banquet (21).68 Another brush with a demon follows, for the creature takes the form of a player (μίμος) and encounters her upon the staircase. Angry because she has advised him that his services are no longer required and believing herself to be the victim of sexual discrimination, she smashes the demon in the face with an iron lampstand. The demon flees, having learned something about the power of believing women.69 It is remarkable that the text appears to approve this violence against one presumed to be a human being.70 While the neophyte Probus goes off to hear an example of fine (one hopes) preaching, Xanthippe retires to her bedroom for some inspirational reading. This is a most interesting scene, for the wealthy Xanthippe has, on her own initiative, 66 The

source of the brief speech in 20 is 1 Corinthians 7: ὁ δὲ μέγας Παῦλος ἐδίδασκεν ὅτι οἱ πυρούμενοι τῇ σαρκὶ τὸν ἔννομον γάμον τηρείτωσαν παραιτούμενοι τὰς ἐξαιρέτως τὸ πρὸ ἀλλοτρίαν γυναῖκα καὶ οἱ ζευχθέντες ἀλλήλους φυλασσέτωσαν (“The great Paul was teaching thus, Let those that burn in the flesh observe lawful marriage, avoiding fornication, especially that with another’s wife, and let those that are united keep to one another”; trans. Craigie 1978, 211). 67 The scene is reminiscent of Habrocomes’s submission to Eros, An Ephesian Tale 1.4, where, with even less preparation and development, the hero admits that he has been conquered by the god of love. 68 The baptism of Probus is more fully described than that of Xanthippe. He removes his clothes, leaps into the water, and while held by the apostle, makes this confession: Ἰησοῦ Χριστὴ, υἱὲ τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ θεὲ αιώνιε, πᾶσα μου ἁμαρτία ὑπὸ τοῦ ὕδατος τούτου κατασχεθείη (20, James 1893, 73.11–12). Baptism with the triune formula follows. “Son of God and eternal God” is noteworthy. 69 Gorman (2001, 417) says of 21/73.19–23: “Upon thinking she sees her husband waiting for some conjugal relaxation, Xanthippe protests, ‘Many a time have I said to him that I no longer care for toys, and he despises me as being a woman.’” This is not what the text reports. The context is Xanthippe’s preparation of a banquet to celebrate the baptism of Probus (and his presumed election of a celibate life). What she saw on the stairs was “a demon coming in the likeness of one of the actors. … But she thinking it to be the actor that she ordinarily had” (trans. Craigie 1978, 211). 70 Social status may provide at least a part of the answer. Aristocratic women could employ violence against slaves and inferiors. Cf. the torture of slaves in APtr 17.

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ordered seven hundred gold-pieces’ worth of books from Rome, received the same, and proceeded to read them aloud to her sister in her own chamber. She is one male ideal of an educated woman, for she remains at home and reads an improving book.71 It is here that the reader first learns that Xanthippe has a sister.72 Now Polyxena is the proper sort of heroine for a romance, as she is beautiful and single. Said pretty girl, who may not have been listening too closely just then, had a dream in which she was menaced by a “hideous dragon” but rescued by the appearance of a beautiful young man she believed to be the brother of Paul.73 Xanthippe has the remedy for this ominous message.74 Comparison with the preceding story of Probus leads the reader to suspect that Polyxena will presently be baptized. Had this happened, the story could come to a wholly satisfactory conclusion. Before she can receive this prophylactic sacrament, however, the plot takes a sudden turn. The first half of the book has progressed from domestic tranquility to its disruption by the new faith to its restoration (upon a new and sounder foundation, needless to say). It is a marital “there and back” tale. From now on, the plot will cover a vast canvas. Having issued her prescription, Xanthippe withdrew to hear Paul, leaving Polyxena to her own devices.75 Not for long, however, for a rival to her suitor broke in at midnight, and, with the assistance of magic,76 kidnapped the young woman and dragged her to the seashore, where they hired a ship bound for “Babylonia.” This is about as far from Spain as one could then reasonably go (not to mention the difficulty of arriving at that destination by sea).77 Polyxena is evidently destined for a Babylonian captivity (22–24). At sea, rescue looms in the presence of that ship bearing Peter to Rome (above), but alert demons tip off the magicians, who take evasive action.78 In Greece, however, where they stop, God arranges for the presence of the apostle Philip, directed to the shore by a vision. The episode is the moral equivalent to a shipwreck – a common mode of travel in ancient novels – as the passengers are 71 Cf. Egger 1990, 275 n. 1, who concludes that romantic novels recommend that women should remain inside and, if this becomes too boring, they may read a novel. 72 No grounds exist for regarding her as a fictive, i. e., Christian, sister. See below. 73 ὄναρ refers to a dream experienced while asleep, as opposed to a vision, for example. “Dragon” (δράκων) is a cross-reference. In 7, Xanthippe imagined that Paul would assist those pursued by dragons (James 1893, 62.23; 74.5). 74 Her dream is typical of the enigmatic, foreshadowing type found in ancient novels. See below. 75 Gorman (2001) claims, “Xanthippe, ecstatic about her sister’s newly discovered calling, runs to tell Paul.” The text neither says nor implies anything of the sort. 76 The narrator does not question the potency of magic arts. 77 The critics who have decried Shakespeare’s “seacoast of Bohemia” (A Winter’s Tale) show the same lack of appreciation that will lead readers of Xan to thrust it aside upon reading this sentence. In romance, Bohemia and Babylonia come equipped with seacoasts, if such are required. Babylonia is part of the geography of the Greek novel, as in Callirhoe, where that heroine also is conveyed there as a captive. 78 For the relation of this passage to the APtr, see above.

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prostrate from rough travel.79 Philip has Polyxena taken to his lodgings and arranges for the others to be looked after. In customary apostolic fashion – for this book – Philip leaves the newly rescued maid and “went on his way rejoicing.”80 Her kidnapper attempted to recover his booty, but was rebuffed by the host to whom Philip had entrusted her. That nameless adversary then located a powerful relative – a type with which he is well provided. That gentleman obligingly raised a force of eight thousand. The alert Polyxena fled. Her protector nonetheless determined to resist, deployng the tunic of Philip as a sort of palladium.81 When he learned that the woman had run off, his resolution gave way to lament. He would die there. The slaves decided to head for the hills, but divine inspiration led them to attack under the banner of the cross.82 After the aforementioned clash that left five thousand dead and the rest in precipitate retreat, these good and faithful servants returned to console their distraught master. These adventures occupied chapter 25, which, typically for the second part of Xan, has nearly as many incidents as it contains words. Meanwhile, Polyxena had ambled into an unsettled region, where, after a suitably lengthy lament of the sort made familiar by her sister, she found shelter at the den of a lioness. Readers of Apocryphal Acts and kindred material will immediately realize that this was not nearly so bad an idea as facts might suggest.83 She emitted yet another lamentation (26). Morning brought the resident lioness, who acceded to Polyxena’s contention that the unbaptized make for poor eating. Rather than gobble her down for breakfast, the lion guided her to a roadside (26–27), at which our heroine stood helpless until the apostle Andrew happened by. Clearly the lioness was not flying blind. After staving off what he imagines will be an attempted seduction by an insatiable female, Andrew learns of her connection to Paul, whom Polyxena had met in Spain. Following the inevitable “What’s a nice Spanish girl like you doing in Greece?,” Polyxena enters a plea for baptism. With no further ado, she and Andrew set out in quest of water. In short order, they happen upon a well.84 As Andrew begins to pray, a Jewish slave named Rebecca comes to draw water. They will enact the Christian variation of the patriarchal mating game.85 Sold three times and taken to a foreign land, Rebecca has led a miserable life. The solution is baptism, which will presently be administered. With chapter 30 comes the return of the lioness, who addresses Andrew in a human voice. She provides a character reference for the two 79 Cf. Northrop Frye’s comment: “In Greek romance … the normal means of transportation is by shipwreck” (1976, 4). 80 He learned this technique in Acts (8:39). The author of Xanthippe is fond of the phrase: cf. chs. 31 and 33. 81 The tunic appears to be modeled on that of Elijah: 2 Kings 19:19. 82 On the possible relation of this incident to the AAndr, see above. 83 Both Thecla and Paul benefited from friendly lions; APl 4.9–10; 9.24. 84 Acts 8:26–39 is in the background. 85 See also below.

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women and urges the apostle to instruct them in the faith. After an appropriate expression of astonishment, Andrew finally administers the sacrament, together with an injunction that the two remain together and live as members of one race (ὁμόεθνοι, 29/79, 15).86 The hope of Gal. 3:28 has been realized.87 Xan is all too unusually devoid of anti-Jewish sentiment. Polyxena affirms their willingness to follow him wherever he goes, 88 but he departs, rejoicing on his way (30). His reason for denying their request is that he had received no divine instruction on the matter. Setting aside the objection that such direction had not been made for his other actions, the sentiment is an announcement to the reader that Providence is writing the script. The newly baptized women then discuss their prospects. Rebecca wishes to leave the region to escape her mistress. Polyxena remembers the lioness’s cave. This appeals to Rebecca, who prefers life among wild animals, even when accompanied by death through starvation, to the mire of matrimony.89 On their way to the lair they meet, far from fortuitously, a drover, who, it transpires, has been evangelized by Philip and has dedicated his subsequent life to self-impoverishment and the aid of the poor. Perceiving that they are from out of town, this good fellow sets out a meal for them. Upon hearing that they take no wine, not even for their stomach’s sake, because of their adherence to the “god of Paul,” the driver eagerly inquires whether this god is upon earth. Polyxena responds with an affirmation of divine ubiquity, leading to the discovery that the god of Paul is the god of Philip (31). In chapter 32, Polyxena and Rebecca hear the drover’s story and request that he take them to the seashore, where they may take ship for Spain. This plan, which, setting aside the little matter of raising money for their fare, is excellent, has come out of the blue – as do most ideas in Xan. The notion of dying by starvation in a lion’s lair has vanished without a trace. The good ass-driver welcomed their 86 This adjective neatly reverses the close of Polyxena’s lament at the end of chap. 26: “I am left

solitary, as not being of one race with humankind” (μὴ ὑπάρχουσα ὁμογενὴς ἀνθρώπων; James 1893, 77.29, trans. Craigie 1978, 213 alt.). 87 Gal 3:28: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus.” The third pair will be covered, so to speak, in the advice given Polyxena to dress as a man; chap. 33. The presence of a speaking lion also evokes the restoration of paradise, a frequent baptismal theme in early Christianity. 88 Luke 9:61 is the underlying source, but Thecla is the direct exemplar: APl 3.25. 89 καὶ κρεῖττον ἡμῖν ἐστὶν μετὰ θηρίων οἰκεῖν καὶ ἀποθανεῖν λιμῷ, ἤ ὑπὸ Ἑλλήνων καὶ εἰδωλολατρῶν εἰς βόβορον γάμου ἀνακασθῆναι ἐμπεσεῖν, (31, James 1893, 80.9–10). The author’s slip is showing. There are translation questions: Is the fundamental contrast whether it is better to die than to marry, or whether death is preferable to compulsory marriage to a polytheist? Since the alternative of a good Christian marriage is not even considered, the former may be the more accurate. Second, is “Greeks and idolaters” a hendiadys (= “idolatrous Greeks”), or does it refer to two groups (from Rebecca’s ethnic perspective)? In the fourth century, “Hellene” came to mean “pagan” in Christian writings, although there are some earlier hints of this development. It is barely possible that an earlier text rejecting marriage may have been modified into an expression of rejection of marriage to unbelievers.

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request. He did, however, have a suggestion: if Polyxena were to slip into drag, she would not be so likely a target for kidnappers.90 This evidently unheeded advice proved to be prudent, for the women soon came to the attention of a prefect, who had Polyxena abducted. The drover protested this gross injustice and received a beating for his efforts (33).91 After a profound lament, he set out in quest of Philip, who, when found, offers consolation, noting that another had failed to protect Polyxena and that these apparent misfortunes would result in numerous conversions (34). Meanwhile, the prefect had Polyxena taken to his capital, where she was locked up. The narrator now reveals that a soldier had seized Rebecca. She escaped to the friendly refuge of an old woman, to whom she pours out her grief. Polyxena was doing the same, to God, praying for the protection of her virginity.92 That status appeared to be lost when the official’s minions arrived to escort her to the prefectorial bed, but the young woman was able to shame them into leaving without her. They seem to have been novel readers, for they report to the prefect that Polyxena was afflicted with a serious fever.93 He relented, but matters become much more ominous when his son, presumably young and filled with that lust and ardor for which males of his age are notorious, enters her bedroom. This is a moment of great tension, to which the narrator devotes not a single nanosecond, for the son hastens to reassure Polyxena of his wholly honorable and totally beneficent intentions. Having overheard (by some means not explained) her prayer, he knows of her faith and shares his conviction that the brides of the God of heaven are invincible, citing the recent example of Thecla. Inspired by the message of the preacher whom Thecla heard, the anonymous son of the unnamed prefect has concocted one excuse or another, including feigned illness, to avoid participation in sacrifices. His father, meanwhile, had made the traditional connection between ill health and impiety. Into this unhappy situation Polyxena has come as an angel of grace. It transpires that the preacher of whom the youth has heard bears the name Paul. Polyxena knows his whereabouts. The son immediately contrives a plan: she will

90 Once more, a motif from the legend of Thecla appears in a mollified form. Thecla pledged to cut her hair short (3.25), and she did wear male clothing (3.40). The most evident reason for this would be the avoidance of scandal. In the case of Polyxena, the strategy is recommended as a means of temporary protection. 91 This scene is reminiscent of the “realistic” adventures experienced and witnessed by Lucius in Apuleius’s Metamorphoses 6–10, e. g., 9:39–42 (a Roman soldier). 92 The narrative abandons Rebecca at this point, although she appears to be one of the two πάρθενοι of chap. 38. 93 This is another variation of a standard motif in which the prospective victim wards off a rapist by claiming illness or some other disability. Cf., for example, An Ephesian Tale 5.7. The alteration enhances the power of Polyxena. She does not have to dissemble illness, for she can inspire others to concoct a malaise on her behalf.

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don his clothes and proceed to the seashore.94 He will soon follow with funds, and they will go to Spain (35–36). Evil, alas, intervened before Polyxena could attempt this sartorial experiment. Eavesdropping, which seems to be one of the primary leisure activities in the prefect’s house, can work two ways. Slaves overheard this conversation and reported to their master, who in tyrannical fashion ordered them, evidently including his son, to be condemned to the beasts. One wonders whether he got this idea by some eavesdropping of his own, for the two condemned had just been discussing the fate of Thecla. In the event the lioness assigned to this task ministered to the feet of Polyxena. The story has been used before, but it is none the worse for all that.95 Indeed, it is better, for it led to the conversion of the prefect himself, together with the entire populace. While the official awaits the arrival of an apostle (Paul? Philip? Andrew?), Polyxena readies herself for the long-envisioned return to Spain. The narrator has improved upon the lions of APl in that one character, Polyxena, receives aid from two lions, thus manifesting the power of providence. Eliminating animal baptism, made explicit in chapter 30, where the lioness urges ministration to the women but not for herself, removes a feature many, including Jerome (Vir. Ill. 7), found embarrassing. At chapter 38, a first-person narrator unexpectedly intervenes.96 This is none other than Onesimus, doubtless intended to be the same person as the subject of the letter to Philemon,97 who is now a letter carrier for Paul. Onesimus was advised by revelation to interrupt his voyage in Greece in order to pick up two young women and one young man and convey them to Paul. Although it may be unwise to second-guess heavenly voices, it would seem that the other virgin is Rebecca, whom the narrator had left dangling, albeit in no particular danger, in chapter 35. Rebecca is not named in the subsequent narrative. The group then attempted to sail away, but a providential rough sea forced them to wait, giving one of Paul’s disciples, Lucius (presumably Luke), opportunity for a successful evangelization of the city. As the work draws to a close, the canonical Acts becomes the leading model for imitation. After seven days, twenty thousand converts, and the advent of seasonable weather, they sought to leave, but were detained by the prefect until the last soul had been harvested.98  The drover’s advice reappears. Ancient historians report a number of instances in which defeated leaders used cross-dressing as a means of escape. Leucippe 6.1–5 relates an amusing story of the hero’s attempt to escape dressed as a woman. 95 The incident is an expansion of Thecla’s experience (4.4). The author has made nice use of the work, for his report of Thecla ended with her condemnation. The fate of Polyxena brings her story to the same narrative point of crisis. 96 The text shifts without preparation to a first-person-plural narrator, who remains until the first part of chap. 41. (This is like Acts, where first-person narration returns in 27.) 97 Onesimus also appears in the Deutero-Pauline tradition (Col 4:7). A person with the same name was bishop of Ephesus in the time of Ignatius (Eph. 1.3). 98 The traditional author of Luke and Acts is probably in view. Lucius is said to be δυνατός ἐν λόγῳ, language borrowed from Luke 24:19 etc. (of Jesus and Moses). Chapter 38 has many borrowings from Acts, in particular Acts 16 and 21. 94

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Adventures return in the following chapter, an episode worthy of the Odyssey – better, worthy of a CliffsNotes summary of the epic. After twenty days at sea, the delicate Polyxena was debilitated, so the ship put in at an island. There they are attacked by local thugs (ἄνδρες τινὲς ἄγριοι καὶ πεπωρωμένοι, 39/84.33), whose desire for booty received particular stimulus from the sight of the admirable Polyxena, decrepit as she may have been. Romantic heroines, like movie stars, can remain ravishing despite hardships that would leave an exquisite eighteenyear-old looking like a crone. In the resultant conflict, the forces of good fend off their more capable and numerous adversaries. Polyxena, for her part, to avoid yet another capture, had attempted to drown herself, but was rescued by the pilot. Despite  – rather, because of  – their good looks, romantic heroines frequently attempt suicide, a goal they fail to obtain with precisely the same frequency. Although the stop must have done little in the way of refreshing Polyxena, the voyage resumed. Chapter 39 is purely novelistic adventure, in nuce, indeed in a mustard seed. Twelve days later, they arrive in Spain, where the we-narrator will take leave and Paul receives them joyfully. Polyxena feared that her resistance to Paul may have brought about her difficulties. The apostle explained that such ordeals enhance one’s appreciation of the defender, Jesus Christ. While Paul was engaged in receiving correspondence from other communities, someone came up with the idea of dashing off to tell Xanthippe of Polyxena’s deliverance. Xanthippe raced to meet them and collapsed with joy at the sight of Polyxena. She did revive, albeit not without weighty effort.99 Gospel/Acts and romance meet in this happy reunion, which completes the circle of “there and back,” returning the principals to their point of origin, all safe and sound (the latter with particular reference to virginity). Xanthippe tells of her ardent prayer for the protection of Xanthippe’s maidenhood, while Probus seconds the brief speech of Paul.100 She confesses that, having seen her, she is prepared for death. Of death there will be none.101 In a few lines the narrator tidies up the story, as both kidnapper and suitor of Polyxena receive baptism. How the former returned to Spain is no concern of the narrator. What is important is the “great joy in the whole city of Spain [sic] at the recovery (ἀνεύρεσις, 42/85.31) of Polyxena.” Just as in romantic novels, the entire populace  99 See

below.

100 Gorman 2001, 430: “Though Xanthippe independently performs a fast and vigil to protect

Polyxena, the [text] undermines her independence in the conclusion by reporting Paul’s and Probus’s condescension toward her performance.” This view is not justified by the narrative. 101 For Gorman, Xanthippe’s death is necessary so that Polyxena may turn “herself and the control of her sexuality over to Paul” (2001, 432). The weakness of Gorman’s argument is most clearly exposed here. The difficulty is not that she proposes same-sex relationships between Polyxena and others, nor that her interpretation is sometimes forced. It is that her hypothesis is based upon events that she constructs. Readers will do well to check her assertions.

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celebrates the return of a heroine.102 Rather than close with the life-long intimacy of a couple, the narrative ends with the observation that Polyxena, to be on the safe side, stuck close to Paul. Part 1 ended with the Christian union of Xanthippe and Probus, part 2 with the nostos (return) of Polyxena. There can be no doubt about the felicity of the conclusion (Haight 1945, 78).103 Genre: A Christian Romance.104 As the manuscript title indicates, Xan tells the story of three women: a matron, a virgin of high status, and a slave. They are united in their Christian faith and their aversion to sex. For the natural sisters, the solution is clear: Xanthippe can live in a blissful union with her husband once he has accepted baptism and celibacy, while Polyxena, the bride of God, cleaves to Paul. For the Jewish slave Rebecca, whose story is left incomplete, matters are less neat. The text would seem to imply that such slaves are well within their rights to flee unbelieving masters.105 This concern about the status of Christian slaves of Jewish or polytheist owners would be intelligible in a fourth-century and later environment, in which the church, growing in numbers and power, began to assert the rights of all its members. One of the most atypical features of Xan is this distribution of the role of the heroine among three women: the noble matron, the upper-class virgin, and the enslaved maiden. Edification is the obvious explanation for this partition of suffering. Xanthippe is a figure inspired more by the Apocryphal Acts than by Callirhoe. She is a married woman who works and waits patiently for the conversion of her husband, eschewing overt defiance but not delaying baptism because of his desires. This strategy will succeed because her husband, Probus, is no tyrant. He is but a distant reflection of those hostile spouses who could, and did, threaten their wives with every sort of punishment, including death. Husbands in the world of Xanthippe – which is, I have proposed, not earlier than the fourth century – have become more amenable to the Christian faith. Polyxena and Rebecca share the fate of the romantic heroine, all of whom have adventures like Polyxena’s and most of whom will be enslaved. The role and lifestyle of Polyxena has been described. That of Rebecca is left cloudy. Although part 1 has a setting typical of the apocryphal acts, it has a different viewpoint: Xanthippe is not just a central character in an episode whose conversion adds to the syllabus of apostolic sufferings. She is the central character. Paul is the agent who brings about the fulfillment of her desires. A leading model for this is the story of Thecla (APl 3–4), in which she, rather than Paul, is central. 8.6–8; Ephesian Tale 5.13. is sometimes claimed that the closing martyrdom (or, in AJn, natural death) of the Acts is not a proper “happy ending.” This view would astonish the authors and early readers of the literature. 104 On the genre of Xan, see Junod 1989; Szepessy 2004. 105 Specifically a mistress, in Rebecca’s case (31/80.6–7). This may help explain why Rebecca remains a virgin. 102 Callirhoe 103 It

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Contrasts are also clear. None of the women in Xan become missionaries or teachers to the public. Xanthippe does not directly disobey her husband.106 This book displays a strategy for converting males and substantially tames – I shall not say “emasculates” – the rebelliousness typical of many scenes in the original Apocryphal Acts.107 Nonetheless, the leading characters of this book are women. Almost all of the trials and tribulations are theirs, and men are of remarkably limited help to them in adversity.108 Twenty-five years ago, such observations led to the conclusion that Xan was written for, if not by, women.109 Subsequently, enthusiasm for this view has dissipated. In summary: Xan 1–21 is like Aseneth 1–21; it is a story of conversion within the context of marriage. The focus is upon the heroine’s interior life. Formally, it is indebted to apocryphal acts, although it does not depict lawful wives rebelling against their husbands. The adventures of Polyxena (part 2) resemble nothing so much as a romantic novel. 110 This is certainly the most “romance-like” of writings featuring apostles. Of the Apocryphal Acts in general it may be said that they are, in various ways, part of the world of the romantic novel, examples of its reception and influence. Xan is not a Christian Acts that tries to compete with polytheist fiction. It is a Christian rival to the polytheist novel. In none of the Apocryphal Acts, for example, is an entirely innocent young heroine kidnapped and placed aboard a ship to be sent into slavery. In the romantic novels this fate may be dire, but it is scarcely grounds for surprise. Most of the endangered women of the Apocryphal Acts remain close to home. Even Thecla’s wanderings are relatively circumscribed. Polyxena, on the other hand, is destined for Babylonia and travels as far as Greece. Twice she is kidnapped; twice robber or military bands are raised or roused for the purpose of securing her person. These items are no more than a high-school diploma or a stint of summer waitressing at a resort in the résumé of a qualified romantic heroine, but they do belong in their curricula vitae. Leucippe, in phras-

106 At 13/66.5–6, Probus orders a military guard to secure the doors but does not specifically tell Xanthippe that she may not leave. 107 Byzantine editors freely revised the ApocActs to eliminate rebellion of wives against their lawful husbands. For the case of the Acts of John, see Junod and Kaestli 1983, 1:26–29. 108 The partial exceptions are the drover of chaps. 31–34 and the prefect’s son of 36–37. These two had the most honorable and charitable of intentions, but their efforts were ineffective. 109 An example of this view is Davies 1980. He makes a number of insightful observations about Xan, 64–69. 110 This has been apparent since the modern recovery of the work. “Nothing is plainer than that one purpose of these Acts, and of books resembling them, was to provide a substitute for the pagan novel of the day” (James 1893, 54). “In substance the Acts are a religious novel, similar in form, and to some extent in matter, to the Greek romances by Achilles Tatius, Heliodorus, and others” (Craigie 1978, in the introduction to his translation, 203). Elizabeth Haight, who tried to bring information about ancient fiction to a broader public and to include Christian works in her survey, treated Xan in More Essays on Greek Romances (1945, 66–80). Among recent critics Jill Gorman (2001) has identified a number of specific comparisons and parallels.

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es reminiscent of Polyxena’s favorite apostle, can summarize her qualifications in epistolary form: You know well all that I have suffered for you, yet now I am obliged to refresh your memory. For your sake I left my mother and undertook a life of wandering. For your sake I went through shipwreck and captivity at the hands of pirates. For your sake I have been a sacrificial victim, an expiatory offering, and twice have died. For your sake I have been sold and shackled in iron; I have wielded the hoe, scraped the earth, endured the lash. (Leucippe 5.18.3–4, trans. Winkler 1989, 242)111

Leucippe would recognize Polyxena as a sister of sorts but view Thecla as a brazen slut entirely responsible for her problems. More objectively, Thecla was a rebel against society while Leucippe wished to take her proper place within it. Xanthippe and Polyxena are not rebels. Although Polyxena has a suitor and he has an unprincipled rival, no male authority figures condemn her plan to pursue a life of virginity and religious devotion. The implicit values of Xan are different from, but parallel to, those of the romantic novel. It is now legitimate for a young woman to preserve her virginity for a heavenly spouse rather than for an earthly husband or lover.112 This change of rationale does not alter the process of preservation; the threats, trials, close calls, and rescues need be no different. In these circumstances it becomes possible to write a “Christian romance” that affirms the values of a newly emerging society, just as the “canonical” romantic novels affirmed the traditional values of Greco-Roman society. This factor is what makes an otherwise mediocre piece of writing an interesting subject for the history of literature, the history of religion, and the history of late antiquity. The motto of this type of romance is amor Dei omnia vincit, not “love/Love conquers all,” but “the love of God (objective and subjective genitive) conquers all.” In addition to such staples as kidnapping and attempted rape, condemnation, and the essential features of shipwreck, Xan takes up and transforms other motifs familiar to novel readers. For those who will not take their fiction without at least a whiff of apparent death, there is the reunion of the sisters: 113 “Someone ran and told Xanthippe of the arrival of Polyxena. And she made haste and came to us, and seeing Polyxena, was overcome by an unspeakable joy (ἑξελύθη ἁπὸ τῆς ἀφάτου χαρᾶς) and fell to the ground; but Polyxena embracing her and caressing her for a long time brought her back to life.” (ἡ δὲ Πολυξένη περιπλακεῖσα αὐτὴν καὶ ἐπὶ πολὺ ἀσπαζομένη ἀνεζωεποίησεν.) (Chap. 41/85.15–17, trans. Craigie 1978, 217 alt.)

The narrator adds this smidgen of Scheintod to a recipe whose main ingredients are the reunion of two long-separated lovers and the biblical stories of resusci-

111 Leucippe is a comic novel that is not unwilling to engage in hyperbole. Parody is often a good clue to what was common and popular in literature. 112 So Haight 1945. 113 On this scene, see also below.

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tation and resurrection.114 Reunited lovers can swoon, even if one of them is a conquering general and the circumstances are not amenable to leisure: Before he had finished speaking, Callirhoe recognized his voice and threw the covering from her face. They both cried out at the same time: “Chaereas!” “Callirhoe!” they fell into each other’s arms, swooned, and fell to the ground. At first Polycharmus too could only stand there, struck speechless by this miracle. But after a time he said: “Get up! You have recovered each other; the gods have granted your wishes.” (Callirhoe 8.1.8–9, trans. Reardon 1989, 111)

While the first part is inspired by novels about apostles and the second is indebted to romantic novels, Xan as a whole is a kind of family novel.115 The first part describes the spiritual breakup and reunification of a husband and wife, the second of the separation and reunion of siblings. The latter theme was an element of New Comedy taken up in the Pseudo-Clementine Recognitions. Probus was a husband lost and found, in a spiritual sense, Polyxena a sister lost and found. Characters. The following crude quantitative analysis identifies chapters in which characters are “onstage.” Parentheses ( ) indicate sections where major characters are present but no action or speech is noted.   1)   2)   3)   4)   5)   6)   7)   8)

Servant: 1 Probus: 1–6, 8–13, 17–22 (quoted in 41) 17+ Xanthippe: 2–16, 19, 21–23, 41 20 Paul: 7–11, 13–14, 19–21, 40–41 12 Christ: 15 Barandus and Gnosteas, 17–19. 3 (convert)   3 Polyxena: 22–28, (29) 30–36, 38–41. 17+ “bad guys”: 23 (becomes plural), 24, 25, 39.4

  Assorted men after Polyxena (and Rebecca)   9) Prefect: 33, 35, 37–39. From opponent to friend   5 10) Peter: 24 10) Philip: 25, 34 11) Lioness: 27, 30 11) Lioness: 37 10) Andrew: 28–31   4 12) Rebecca: 29–(32, 33), 35, 38   5+ (*7) 13a) Drover: 31–34   4 13a) Elderly woman: 35 13a) Attendants of prefect: 36 13b) 25 (army) 14) Son of prefect, 36–39   4 10) Onesimus: 38 10) Lucius: 38 13a) Pilot: 39 13b) Crew: 39 114 For 115 On

references to apparent death in Greco-Roman novels, see Pervo 1987, 148 n. 142. the genre, see Szepessy 1985.

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Markers used more than once: (10) denotes “apostolic figures” other than Paul. Andrew is the most active. Philip appears twice, while Peter, Onesimus, and Lucius have cameos. (11) The text posits two lionesses. (13) represents helpers. (13b) marks those who engage in combat.

As even a relatively inattentive reader would expect, Xanthippe and Polyxena dominate the respective parts of the narrative. Xanthippe is present in nearly one-half of the chapters. Polyxena trails with 17(+), the same quantity as Probus (husband of Xanthippe). Paul appears in twelve chapters, ten in the first part. Setting an arbitrary criterion of ten appearances for the status of “major character” (a number that could be lowered to eight), Xanthippe, Probus, Polyxena, and Paul qualify. Rebecca has the largest supporting role, comparable in function to the companions of male romantic heroes, such as Chaireas’s friend, Polycharmus (Callirhoe).116 In 29, she arrives at a well as a slave, evidently fetching water for her mistress, and grasps that Andrew is a holy man.117 The apostle urges both to receive baptism, a course of action supported by the lioness. The rite accomplished, he leaves with advice and joy (30; see above.) A reasonable inference from the text is that Rebecca determined to become a fugitive at the sight of Andrew. In 31, she looks to Polyxena for guidance, delivering her improvement to 1 Cor 7:9: it is better to starve in the company of animals than to marry (80.9–11), a remark not suitable for someone of servile status. Thereafter she is not visible until 35, when she forms an apparent contrast to Polyxena by escaping her captor and finding refuge with a sympathetic old woman, to whom she pours out her woes. Rebecca had thought she had it bad, but her troubles are nothing compared with Polyxena’s. The literary effect of this lament is clear. Her contribution ends with a narrative summary of her words, the climax of which is that Polyxena had brought her to Christ. This claim is difficult to reconcile with 29. The narrator neglects to advise how the two were reunited, but Onesimus learned via revelation that he would find two young women and a young man on the shore. Thereafter the narrator drops her. In a romantic novel, a companion could be married off to the hero’s sister (as in Callirhoe 8.8.12), not an option for one who views marriage as filth, but something could have been done to make a better disposition. Rebecca casts light upon Polyxena; she also serves as a symbol of Gal 3:28 (in part). Nothing is said about her looks. Like her male counterparts, she thinks more of her companion (of scarcely more than a day) than of herself. Whatever affection one had for the other is known only to the narrator. 116 Romantic heroines may have nurses and servant-confidantes, but they do not have girlfriends, making Rebecca a gender-reversing character. (Burrus n.d.) 117 The rabbinic tradition regarded Rebecca as a prophet. Cf. Jubilees 25.14. These references were supplied by Virginia Burrus.

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Xanthippe and Polyxena The first appearance. Polyxena appears as a surprise. She emerges in 22 taking her ease on Xanthippe’s bed while the latter reads the prophets. Readers may ask why she has not been mentioned before. Does she live with the Probus family? If not, her attacker had kept track of her whereabouts. It transpires that “Now Xanthippe was quite fond of Polyxena because she was younger and more attractive than herself.118 Probus was also very fond of her” (22/73.32–34; author’s trans.). The verb rendered “to be fond of ” is the familiar ἀγαπάω, which is seldom used of sexual love.119 If so intended here, it would mean that both Probus and Xanthippe had the hots for the girl.120 (According to 6/62.7–8, the couple had been married less than two years. Xanthippe would have probably been about nineteen, if not a year or two younger. Polyxena would not have been older than sixteen, a good age for a romantic heroine.121) Although “sister” is used of fictive kinship and for spouses, lovers, and fellow believers, grounds are lacking for indicating that it here refers to any other than a natural relationship.122 Polyxena is not baptized and shows no particular interest in the faith. She is not a Christian “sister.” Polyxena reports an alarming dream, which serves as the foreshadowing “introductory oracle” to this section.123 For Xanthippe, this means that God treasures her sister,124 a kind of inclusion with the end of the story. The remedy will be baptism, with special intention for delivery from diabolic wiles, in the morning. For the nonce Xanthippe will make a wooden cross, presumably as a prophylactic, after which she scoops up Polyxena’s nurse and heads for church. 118 According

to Gorman (2001, 419), “The Greek term deployed here in reference to Polyxena’s beauty is ὡραία, which means ‘ripe for the picking.’ This term was commonly used in reference to beautiful and sexually vulnerable girls, and it is invoked here to explain precisely why Xanthippe loves Polyxena.” This adjective is here modified with “in appearance” to give it clarity. Gorman’s definition is not quite right, and she gives no evidence of its common application to “beautiful and sexually vulnerable girls.” The word can mean “beautiful,” but its most common meaning in ancient fiction when used of females is “nubile” (e. g., Xenophon Cyrop. 4.6.9; Xenophon, Eph. 2.3.1; Heliodorus, Eth. 2.22; 10.3.1). Note use in combination with καλή (e. g., Ps.-Lucian, Onos 32.10; Longus Daphnis and Chloe 3.31.3). Absolute use in the sense of “pretty” can be seen in Aseneth 1.6 and 1.8. Does “Sexually vulnerable” mean “seducible”? That understanding would not apply to the man-hating, closely guarded Aseneth, nor to Lycaenion (Longus 3.15.1), a seductress, and it would not suit Manto, a “bad girl” in An Ephesian Tale 2.3.1. 119 LSJ 6a I.1, s. v. 120 Xanthippe is to be commended. More than a few young women have experienced difficulty in developing fervent love for more attractive younger sisters. 121 She is called a pais (“girl,” 22/73.38), which may mean no more than “unmarried.” 122 The exact opposite position is taken by Jill Gorman (2006, 207 n. 6): “Though the text does not specifically state whether there is a biological relationship between these two women, the implicit evidence indicates that there is none.” The evidence she cites is explicit: the use of “genuine” (γνήσιος) in 41, but the term is used of both natural and fictive kin. “Sister” is used of Polyxena by Rebecca in 35/82.8, where the sense is “sister in Christ.” 123 Narratives often begin with an oracle that foreshadows the plot. See Pervo 2009, 43 n. 24. 124 Greek: ἔχει σε ἰδίαν ὁ θεὸς; 74.15.

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This leaves the field (and the doors125) wide open for the bad guys, who snatch Polyxena. Readers of today may incline to view Xanthippe’s subsequent forty-day vigil as motivated by guilt, for she did not take proper care of her sister. The narrative is silent about Polyxena’s religious views at this point. She knows Paul by appearance (22/74.9), but can characterize herself as his enemy (26 and 40). Xanthippe has given limited attention to her sister’s spiritual life. That sister also has a suitor, who has not yet learned the joys of celibacy. Most of the difficulties can be attributed to the needs of the plot – Polyxena must be spirited away – but chapters 21–22 provide no foundation for constructing a passionate attraction between the two women. The return (40–41). A fresh first-person plural appears. When advised of Polyxena’s advent, Xanthippe came on the run and, seeing her, swooned.126 By hugging and kissing her for some time, Polyxena was able to revive her sister. The first verb, περιπλέκω, is used of fraternal embraces elsewhere, e. g., Tryphaena’s embrace of Thecla (APl 4.14) and Ariston’s fervent hug of Theon. Both that verb and ἀσπάζομαι, which can mean “kiss,” appear together in Claudius’s greeting of Paul (APl 13.3). Neither this language nor the terms of endearment127 is particularly erotic. The verb “revive” is central. This word, ἀναζωοποιέω, is found in Christian texts.128 The model is Paul’s revival of Eutychus in Acts 20:7–12 and its prototypes (1 Kgs 17:17–24; 2 Kgs 4:18–37) and sequel in APl 14.2. The ultimate background of such tales is sexual,129 but the author of Xan would have received this information with utter horror. Xanthippe’s apparent death and her swoon align the story with romantic fiction;130 it should also be linked with her final words: “But, as it is, my dear sister, because I have quite unexpectedly seen your face, I can now die happily” (85.24–26; author’s trans.).131 The author is seeking an equivalent to the happy ending other than glorious martyrdom. Narrative exists between two poles: the “once upon a time” and the “happily ever after,” as that prior to the “once” is ir125 Craigie’s translation (1978, 312) of 23/74.22–23 may mislead. The invaders used magic to open the doors. 126 The verb ἐκλύω does not demand unconsciousness. One suggestive usage is for the collapse of an athlete after crossing the finish line. Xanthippe has reached her goal. See Spicq 1994, 1:455–56. On this faint, see above. 127 Γνήσιος (85.18) formally means “genuine” but carries the sense of “dear” in kinship language (Phil 4:3; 1 Tim 1:2; Tit 1:4). See Spicq 1994, 1:296–99. Its meaning is essentially the same as “beloved” (ἀγαπητή) in l.25. Note 2 Tim 1:2. 128 It is not in LSJ. See Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon, 102. 129 The technique is a kind of sympathetic magic in which life is restored through a reenactment of the sexual intercourse that generated it. See Merkelbach 1962, 86. On Acts 20:7–12, see Pervo 2009), 510–14. 130 See above and also Gorman 2001. 131 Gorman (2006, 207) claims that Xanthippe actually expires at this time, a view in conflict with the narrative. This, together with her insistence that the two are not natural sisters, is detrimental to her thesis.

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relevant and that subsequent to “happily” is essentially beyond narration, since it involves no plot, movement, or change. It is not that Xanthippe has nothing to live for; she has all that she desired and will have it every day of her life. The omniscient narrator returns in 42 to tidy things up, as good omniscient narrators quite properly do. Between these points, Xanthippe states that she had engaged in the entirely suitable period of forty days of devotion, praying, not overtly for Polyxena’s return, but for the preservation of her virginity.132 She also shares a comment from each of the male leads. Paul offered two reassuring oracles: Polyxena will return presently with virginity intact, while her husband pointed to the providential value of Polyxena’s trials (as had Paul earlier, 40/85.10–11). Gorman (2006, 210–13) argues that these statements represent a conflict, but that interpretation appears overdetermined. Xanthippe is not stated to have disbelieved their claims, nor is it said that the men encouraged her to abandon her praying. For her part, Polyxena stuck close to Paul thereafter, rather than undergo further adventures.133

Excursus: Names The names of the female characters were not drawn out of a hat. Polyxena has the most resonant name. She herself puns upon it, lamenting her fate as a much-traveled, long-suffering female Odysseus (24/77.20–22134). The Polyxena of epic was a daughter of Priam and Hecuba, sacrificed to Heracles to win for Greeks favorable winds on their voyage back home. She thus forms an inclusio with Iphigenia, sacrificed to gain favorable winds for the outward voyage. She was a modest virgin linked to a nostos (return).135 Polyxena is the “back” character of Xan’s there and back story; within a chapter of her debut Polyxena’s goal will be to return home with her chastity intact. Seneca devoted a substantial portion of his Troades to the exemplary victim Polyxena. More immediately relevant are the prose fiction Trojan War Diary issued under the name of Dictys of Crete136 and “Dares the Phrygian’s” History of the Fall of Troy, as it is known, especially the former, which appeared in Greek between 66 and 200 c.e.137 In these works Polyxena is a fully qualified romantic heroine, with whom Achilles falls in love/lust at first 132 Gorman (2006, 210) says Xanthippe prayed and fasted in seclusion. The text does not mention fasting. 133 Craigie (1978, 217) renders “fear of temptations,” but πειρασμούς more likely refers to the trials she underwent. (The informed reader will note an anomaly: no ancient sources posit a great length to the Spanish mission. In fact, i. e., legend, Polyxena would have enjoyed but a short period of apostolic protection.) 134 The term used, xeniteia, originally referred to sojourning abroad. Cf. also 75.16. 135 For the oldest form of the story, see Euripides, Hecuba 98–608. 568–70 extols her modest demeanor (with a parallel in the Acts of Perpetua 20). (For those keeping score, ll. 560–61 noted that her bared breasts were as beautiful as a statue’s. Modesty demanded concealment of the genitals.) 136 Ephemeris belli Troiani. See Eisenhut 1973. For a survey of these texts, see Merkle 2003. 137 The original title is probably Acta Diurna Belli Troiani indicated by 44. The available edition of Ferdinand Meister (1873) is dated.

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sight (Dictys 2.26, 3.2; Dares 1.27). He promises to end the war if given Polyxena, an obvious quid pro quo (Dictys 3.3). Taking advantage of his ardor, Polyxena is used to entice Achilles to his death (Dictys 4.11; Dares 1.34. She was nonetheless willing to be Achilles’s slave if he returned Hector’s body (Dares 3.24). The Polyxena of “history” was beautiful, loyal, chaste, and martyred.138 Rebecca, a soon-to-be-fugitive Jewish slave, appears in 29, in a riff on the meeting-atthe-well scene, a famous example of which featured her namesake (Gen 24:10–27).139 Of the matriarchs, Rebecca was the most chaste, since, unlike Sarah, she avoided infidelity (Gen 12:13–14, 19 vs. 26:7–11) and maintained a monogamous relationship unsullied by concubines. The reversal of her sons’ status provided Paul with a point in Rom 9:10–12. Her status as a slave may also intend to evoke the allegory of Gal 4:21–31. Rebecca was a most sexually virtuous matriarch. If Polyxena went “there and back,” Xanthippe was always there. Her prototype was the famous wife of Socrates. Although tradition viewed Mme. Socrates as something of a shrew (Xenophon Memorabilia 2.2; Symposium 2.10; Plutarch Moralia 461D; Diogenes Laertius 2.36–37) – a quality for which anyone of today would forgive her – Plato depicts her as a loyal wife – a type he may not have admired (Phaedo 60A–B, 116b). The best association in this context may be to view Xanthippe as the ideal partner of the “New Socrates,” Paul.140

Those designated “apostolic figures” (10) are unduly itinerant. Whether Peter’s prayer for the kidnapped Polyxena was helpful is not clear (24). Divine Providence brought her ship and Philip together. He did arrange for her care, but then went on his way rejoicing, without baptizing her (25).141 This allusion to Acts 8:26–40 (where Philip exits rejoicing after initiating an Ethiopian official) underlines his neglect. Andrew (chaps. 28–31) does administer baptism, but he rebuffs the women’s offer to follow, on the grounds that it had not been revealed to him. Onesimus does deliver the goods (chaps 38–40), having received specific directions. Those who merit apocryphal acts142 are of minimal help. The most interesting of the helping characters (13) is the anonymous drover (chaps. 31–34). Asked to escort the women to the sea, he attempts to do just that. The man had responded to Philip’s passion for the poor by selling all that he had and giving away the proceeds (cf. Mark 10:21). He did this in a most unusual 138 Note the description in Dares 12: “Polyxena was fair, tall, and beautiful. Her neck was slender, her eyes lovely, her hair blond and long, her body well-proportioned, her fingers tapering, her legs straight, and her feet the best. Surpassing all the others in beauty, she remained a completely ingenuous and kind-hearted woman.” Trans. Frazer 1966, 143. Contrast this with the two words devoted to the subject in Xan (above). 139 For others, see Gen 29:1–12; Exod 2:15–21. A symbolic interpretation emerged through the use of water as a symbol for wisdom. Cf. Philo, Post. 132–47 and John 4. 140 A parallel is the Xanthippe of Acts of Peter 34–35, a beautiful woman married to Albinus, a friend of Nero. Like Probus, Albinus loved his wife and regretted her withdrawal from the conjugal bed, leading him to conspire against the apostle. Xanthippe learns of this and advises Peter to leave town, leading to the Quo Vadis episode. It is unlikely that the author simply borrowed this episode from APtr. 141 In his defense, Philip could claim that he had not been directed to baptize Polyxena. 142 Philip the Evangelist is sometimes identified with the apostle.

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and unbenefactorish manner: purchasing bread and wine, he loaded his provender upon a number of (presumably also purchased) donkeys and became an itinerant feeder of the poor (and, at least to some, donor of a silver coin; chaps. 31–32/80.15; 81.11). In the course of this ministry of evangelism by example only, he experienced persecution. This activity involved both risk and degradation. He could have placed the proceeds of his liquidation at Philip’s feet; instead he took up the life of a traveling drover. Ancient drovers did not elect their calling because they found rocket science insufficiently challenging – and not simply because that science did not yet exist. Readers of Apuleius’ Metamorphoses are likely to conclude that the position was given to the least promising individuals, a category not in particularly short supply.143 As stated, the drover undertakes to help the women, offering Polyxena sound advice to disguise her appearance – advice that, to her considerable disadvantage, she evidently does not take.144 Love in Xan. Although marital sex is more or less permissible, it is not preferable. For Rebecca (who had evidently emancipated herself), marriage was a fate worse than death. Xan envisions two ideals: (previously) married couples who live in celibacy, and celibate virgins, women in particular. The prudent banish all fleshly desire (20/72.20–24), including, one must presume, desire for those of the same sex. Love is not limited to sex. Who loves whom? Probus loves his wife dearly and is quite fond of his sister-in-law. Xanthippe loves Probus, Paul, and Polyxena. The one for whom the language is closest to the erotic is Paul, although that is a convention derived from the story of Thecla. Xanthippe loves everyone. Polyxena loves no one. She has a suitor, a sister, a brother-in-law, a companion, several rescuers, not one of whom she is said to love in any way. She sticks close to Paul for protection. Rebecca laments deeply for Polyxena’s prospective loss of virginity. This could be taken as particular affection, but it is not explicit. Xan is remarkable for its use of women characters, resourceful despite the propensity to “woe is me” orations. Probus is an official but Xanthippe is a “stronger” character. Polyxena is like the heroine of a romantic novel, yet she has no lover with whom to reunite, but rather a sister, and like male heroes, she has, albeit briefly, a buddy, Rebecca. Had the narrator wished to suggest erotic attractions among these women, it would not have been difficult to make Polyxena the daughter of Polytheus, develop the relationship between her and Xanthippe, omitted a reference to Probus’s admiration for her, and the like. “Would have” arguments are weak. These indicate how strongly the narrative runs against the grain of erotic attraction between women. These characters hang around with Apuleius, Met. 7.17–24. the text does not record a denial, it does state that the prefect saw the young women and had Polyxena abducted (chap. 33). 143 E. g.,

144 Although

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other women because men want to have sex with them, not because of sexual desire for other women. Among Christians, the sexes are equal, especially when sex is renounced.

4. Nachleben M. R. James began his discussion with an examination of Xan’s reception (1893, 43–47; cf. also Junod 1989, 85–86). The women are literary saints, i. e., data about feasts, shrines, or churches dedicated to any of them are lacking. Otherwise stated, these characters were not regarded as historical.145 James views the tenth-century Basilian Menology as the earliest witness. He summarizes the opening as follows: “Xanthippe lived in the time of Claudius Caesar, and was the wife of Probos, ruler of Spain. She had a maiden sister, Polyxena. When Paul came to Spain, Xanthippe was baptized and Polyxena converted.” Assignment to 41–54 c.e. and the promotion of Probus probably come from the menologist. The conversion of Polyxena is not described in our text. A translation of the residue: After Paul’s146 departure, Polyxena, having learned that the great apostle Andrew was preaching the true faith in Patras of Achaea, visited him. After she had learned more fully the matters pertaining to Christ, she was baptized. She returned to her own country to find her sister Xanthippe resplendent in every virtue. She welcomed Polyxena joyfully. After the two had instructed many147 in the faith, they died.

James notes that this paragraph was associated with a painting showing the two women standing in front of a building. One should like to know what the menologist was reading (or smoking). Polyxena pursued Andrew and his instruction, followed by initiation on her own initiative, after which she returned and became, along with her sister, a Christian teacher. In effect, the sisters become non-miracle-working Theclas.148 Rebecca has vanished. What James describes as “the present Menaea” (i. e., in liturgical use) reads: The two women were from the country of the Spanish, while Claudius was emperor. Xanthippe was the wife of Probus, who exercised rule over the country. She was instructed by the apostle Paul while he was visiting the country, as were others, including her husband. As for Polyxena, she was kidnapped by a vile creature, but due to God’s grace, she remained inviolate, and was baptized by the apostle Andrew. After many had come to believe through her, she joined the apostle Onesimus and set out for her homeland of 145 In contrast, Thecla had a substantial and enduring cult, although evidence for her existence was not sufficient to prevent suppression of her cult by the Roman Catholic Church. 146 Italics in this and the following translations represent the substitution of proper nouns for pronouns. 147 The word is the “inclusive” pollous, rather than “many women,” pollas. 148 Note also the reference to death.

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Spain, accompanied by Rebecca, with whom she had been baptized. Following that long voyage and boundless escapes she got back to her sister Xanthippe. They spent the rest of their lives nobly, worked many miracles, and departed to be with the Lord.

This text reflects Xan as known today (James 1893, 44),149 with the addition of miracles proper to genuine saints. The next item is a two-volume companion life of Peter and Paul, lodged in the material for 29 June (their martyrdom; see James 1893, 44). Book II, p. 422/385 describes, after a summary of Paul’s release by Nero and his work during a decade in Spain, Gaul, and Italy: Now, while he was in Spain at that time the following events are reported. A certain woman who belonged to the prominent in lineage, the size of her wealth and in skillful handling of words and ideas, and who had for some time accepted the apostolic report, longed to see with her eyes the herald of truth and to be swayed with her ears by the doctrines of authentic existence. When she got the idea, by a divine impulse, while peering into the public square at the time [when Paul was entering the city], grasping from his voice alone that the beloved Paul was passing by. It is reported that when she saw him walking meekly, as he was filled with grace in every way, including his very walk. She was moved by inspiration to persuade her husband, Probus, the leading citizen, to invite the stranger into their house. After he had agreed and drew close to them, the following remarkable thing happened to the woman: the eyes of her mind were opened to see, on the forehead of their guest, golden letters proclaiming “Paul the herald of Christ.” At this unhoped for sight fear and awe overtook her. With gushing tears she fell at the apostle’s feet, was instructed by him and received baptism first. Her name was Xanthippe. Subsequently her husband Probus, an acquaintance of Nero, then Philotheos, an official,150 followed in due course by all the inhabitants of that country.

This labored account is clearly based upon our text, but modifies the end to turn the story into a typical missionary triumph by Paul.151 The author has borrowed the close from chapter 38. Polyxena and Rebecca were evidently eliminated because this is a biography of Paul. In sum, the story of Xanthippe was evidently well disseminated by 900. Our Xan was the most likely basis for the inclusion of Onesimus among the evangelists of Spain. James cites a martyrology which reports that, following manumission by Philemon (a deduction, evidently based upon the view that Paul’s wish was a command), Onesimus went to Colossae (Col 4:9), then to Patras, where he met and transported Polyxena and “Sarah” to Spain (James 1893, 45). The author thus inserts the story into the Pauline narrative, presumably from a context that attributed all of the imprisonment epistles to Rome and assumed a 149 Note

the designation of Onesimus as an apostle.

150 The word hyparchos can mean “proconsul” or “prefect.” In Xan,

he belongs to the prefects, i. e., a former holder of that office (12/65.22). 151 For the Greek text, see James 1893, 44–45. The author seeks to write elegant, periodic, Greek but produces more obscurity than elegance. Xanthippe, whose name is withheld until the end, is introduced as γύναιόν τι. The diminutive is at best patronizing (“the little woman”), at worst derogatory.

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release, followed by the mission to Spain. Like the Basilian menology, this notice, derived from the opposite end of the Mediterranean world, designates Patrae/as as the city where Polyxena and Rebecca were found. Although associated with Andrew (Acts of Andrew), he has not been present for some time. This raises the intriguing possibility that the two shared a lost source. This need not have been a more detailed edition of Xan. Substitution of Sarah for Rebecca does not inspire confidence. (The same error is found in a pseudonymous Chronicon [James 1893, 46; see p. 47 and n. 1].) Two Spanish authorities, regarded as earlier by James, published, probably under pseudonyms, a Chronicon with an error that belongs in the hall of fame of Freudian slips, for the year 108: “Xanthippe and Polyxena her wife,152 a virgin of the uttermost purity, along with her colleague Rebecca, also a virgin, and Saint Onesimus, a disciple of St. Paul” often traveled from Laminum to Toledo to enjoy refreshing visits with St. Eugenius. Two chapters later, it reports their death (James 1893, 45–46). Xan was generally limited to the world of hagiography. These data indicate that the story of Xanthippe and family had been translated into Latin, probably before knowledge of Greek became rare in the West.

5. Conclusion Xan, although of relatively late date (fourth to sixth century) is of interest to students of early Christianity and of ancient literature. Historically, it is a witness to a substantial collection or library of apocryphal acts, including the Acts of Peter in the revised form extant only in Latin. Apocryphal acts provided not only material for cribbing and signs of verisimilitude but also sophisticated bids to readers’ familiarity with those texts. Socially it commends, without absolutely condemning conjugal intercourse, married couples who renounce sex and unmarried virgins devoted to lives of chastity. This is a book that could (had it been available) have been well received both by Melania the Younger en famille and by Egeria and her sisters in religion. Xan exhibits no interest in church organization and worship; its focus is upon the internal and external spiritual journeys of its women characters. The little book is quite rewarding; literarily, it represents an important generic experiment based upon but not simply incorporating romantic novels and apocryphal acts. The work fuses, as it were, two stories to show conversion from both its internal (and familial) perspectives as well as a series of trials and attacks. Xanthippe must battle demons within her house and neighborhood; Polyxena

152 The author does not mention Probus and evidently deleted a reference to him and his conversion or accidentally omitted a line.

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does so across most of the Mediterranean. One might call this little novel a romance of faith.

Bibliography Amsler, Frédéric. 1999. Acta Philippi: Commentarius. CCSA 12. Turnhout: Brepols. Attridge, Harold W. 1990. “The Original Language of the Acts of Thomas.” Pages 241–50 in Of Scribes and Scrolls: Studies on the Hebrew Bible, Intertestamental Judaism, and Christian Origins Presented to John Strugnell on the Occasion of His Sixtieth Birthday. Edited by idem, John J. Collins, and Thomas Tobin. Lanham, Md.: University Press of America. Bennett, E. N. 1894. “James’ (1893) Apocrypha Anecdota.” CR 8: 101–3. Bonnet, Maximilian, 1894. “Sur les Actes de Xanthippe et Polyxène,” CR 8: 336–41. Burrus, Virginia. n.d. “Desiring Women: Xanthippe, Polyxena, Rebecca.” Unpublished manuscript. Chadwick, Henry. 1976. Priscillian of Avila: The Occult and the Charismatic in the Early Church. Oxford: Clarendon. Craigie, William A. 1978. “The Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena.” Pages 205–217 in The Ante–Nicene Fathers X. Edited by Allan Menzies. Grand Rapids: Eerdmans [reprint]. Davies, Stevan L. 1980. The Revolt of the Widows: The Social World of the Apocryphal Acts. Carbondale: Southern Illinois University Press. Doody, Margaret Anne. 1996. The True Story of the Novel. New Brunswick, N. J.: Rutgers University Press, 1996. Drijvers, Han J. W. 1992. “The Acts of Thomas.” Pages 2:323–411 in Schneemelcher 1991– 1992. Egger, Brigitte M. 1990. “Women in the Greek Novel: Constructing the Feminine.” Diss., University of California, Irvine. Eisenhut, Werner. 1973. Dictys Cretensis. 2nd ed. Leipzig: Teubner. Elliott, James Keith. 1993. The Apocryphal New Testament. Oxford: Clarendon. Frazer, R. M., Jr. 1966. The Trojan War: The Chronicles of Dictys of Crete and Dares the Phrygian. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Frye, Northrop. 1976. The Secular Scripture: A Study of the Structure of Romance. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Gorman, Jill. 2001. “Thinking with and about ’Same-Sex Desire’: Producing and Policing Female Sexuality in the Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena.” Journal of the History of Sexuality 10, no. 3/4: 416–41. –. 2006. “Sexual Defence by Proxy: Interpreting Women’s Fasting in the Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena.” Pages 206–15 in A Feminist Companion to the New Testament Apocrypha. Edited by Amy–Jill Levine. London: T & T Clark. Grillmeier, Alois, 1975. Christ in Christian Tradition, vol. 1. 2nd ed. Translated by John Bowden. Atlanta: John Knox. Hägg, Tomas. 2004. “The Ephesiaca of Xenophon Ephesius – Original or Epitome?” Pages 159–98 in Parthenope: Selected Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction (1969–2004). Edited by Lars B. Mortensen and Tormod Eide. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Haight, Elizabeth. 1945. More Essays on Greek Romances. New York: Longmans. Hartman, Midori. 2012. “Avian Imagery and Divinanimality in the Acts of Xanthippe.” SBL Annual Meeting, San Francisco, 18 November 2012.

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James, Montague Rhodes. 1893. Apocrypha Anecdota: A Collection of Thirteen Apocryphal Books and Fragments. Texts and Studies 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. –. 1897. Apocrypha Anecdota. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Junod, Eric. 1989. “Vie et conduite des saintes femmes Xanthippe, Polyxène, et Rébecca (BHG 1877).” Pages 83–106 in Oecumenica et patristica: Festschrift für Wilhelm Schneemelcher zum 75. Geburtstag. Edited by Damaskinos Papandreou, Wolfgang ­A. Bienert, and Knut Schäferdiek. Stuttgart: Kohlammer. Junod, Eric, and Jean-Daniel Kaestli. 1983. Acta Iohannis. Corpus Christianorum: Series Apocryphorum. 2 vols. Turnhout: Brepols. Konstan, David. 2012. “Teaching Eros through the Greek Novel.” Paper presented at the SBL Annual Meeting, 20 November. MacDonald, Dennis R. 1990. The Acts of Andrew and the Acts of Andrew and Matthias in the City of the Cannibals. SBLTT 33. Atlanta: Scholars. –. 1994. Christianizing Homer: The Odyssey, Plato, and the Acts of Andrew. New York: Oxford University Press. Meister, Ferdinand. 1873. Daretis Phrygii De Excidio Troiae Historia. Leipzig: Teubner. Merkelbach, Reinhold. 1962. Roman und Mysterium. Berlin: de Gruyter. Merkle, Stefan. 2003. “The Truth and Nothing but the Truth: Dictys and Dares.” Pages 563– 80 in The Novel in the Ancient World. Rev. ed. Edited by Gareth Schmeling. Leiden: Brill. Nock, Arthur Darby. 1933. Conversion: The Old and the New in Religion from Alexander the Great to Augustine of Hippo. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Opelt, Ilona. 1962. “Epitome.” RAC 5: 944–73. Pelikan, Jaroslav. 1971. The Emergence of the Catholic Tradition (100–600). Vol. 1 of The Christian Tradition: A History of the Development of Doctrine. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Pervo, Richard I. 1987. Profit with Delight: The Literary Genre of the Acts of the Apostles. Philadelphia: Fortress. –. 1995. “A Hard Act to Follow: The Acts of Paul and the Canonical Acts.” Journal of Higher Criticism 2, no. 2: 3–32. –. 2009. Acts: A Commentary. Edited by H. W. Attridge. Hermeneia. Minneapolis: Fortress. Peterson, Erik. 1947. “Die Acta Xanthippe et Polxenae und die Paulusakten.” AnBoll 65: 57–60. Poupon. Gérard. 1988. “Les ’Actes de Pierre’ et leur remaniement.” Pages 4363–83 in ANRW II.25.6. Edited by W. Haase. Berlin: de Gruyter. Prieur, Jean Marc, ed. 1989. Acta Andreae. CCSA 5. Turnhout: Brepols. Ramelli, Ilaria. 2001; 2012. I romanzi antichi e il Cristianesimo: Contesto e contatti. Preface by Brian Reardon. Madrid: Signifer Libros; Eugene, Ore.: Wipf & Stock. Reardon, B. P., trans. 1989. Chaereas and Callirhoe. Pages 17–124 in Collected Ancient Greek Novels. Edited by B. P. Reardon. Berkeley: University of California Press. Schneemelcher, Wilhelm, ed. 1991–1992. New Testament Apocrypha. 2 vols. Rev. ed. Translated and edited by Robert McL. Wilson. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox. Schneemelcher, Wilhelm, and Kurt Schäferdiek. 1965. “Second and Third Century Acts of the Apostles.” Pages 178–88 in E. Hennecke and W. Schneemelcher, New Testament Apocrypha, translated and edited by R. McL. Wilson. Philadelphia: Westminster. Spicq, Ceslas. 1994. Theological Lexicon of the New Testament. 3 vols. Translated and edited by J. D. Ernest. Peabody, Mass.: Hendrickson. Szepessy, Tibor. 1985. “The Ancient Family Novel (a Typological Proposal).” Acta Antiqua Acadamiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 31: 357–65.

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–. 2004. “Narrative Model of the Acta Xanthippae et Polyxenae.” Acta Antiqua Academiae Scientiarum Hungaricae 44: 317–40. Thomas, Christine M. 1998. “Revivifying Resurrection Accounts: Techniques of Composition and Rewriting in the Acts of Peter cc. 25–28.” Pages 65–83 in The Apocryphal Acts of Peter: Magic, Miracles and Gnosticism. Edited by Jan N. Bremmer. Leuven: Peeters. Toohey, Peter. 1992. “Love, Lovesickness, and Melancholia.” Illinois Classical Studies 17: 265–86. Vouaux, Léon. 1913. Les actes de Paul et ses lettres apocryphes. Paris: Letouzey. Winkler, John J., trans. 1989. “Leucippe and Clitophon.” Pages 170–284 in Collected Ancient Greek Novels. Edited by B. P. Reardon. Berkeley: University of California Press.

The Addai-Abgar Narrative Its Development through Literary Genres and Religious Agendas1 Ilaria L. E. Ramelli 1. How Religious Agendas Shaped the Stages of the Abgar-Addai Narrative. Its Historical Origins I set out to investigate how the superimposition of different religious discourses and agendas over the centuries shaped the complex development of the narrative concerning King Abgar Ukkama (“the Black”) of Edessa2 and the apostle Addai (Thaddaeus) through different literary genres, such as epistles and epistolary novels, history, hagiography, biography, acts of apostles, and historical novels. Indeed, the narratives containing the Addai-Abgar legend that I am going to examine developed through a number of literary forms, as will be clear, each shaped by the almost always religious, and religious-political, motivations of their authors or redactors. The point of departure of this developing narrative, which grew over the centuries through different religious interests and strategies, is likely to have been that of historical letters exchanged in the thirties of the first century c.e. for purely political reasons between Abgar Ukkama and the Roman emperor Tiberius. These letters, which originally had arguably little or nothing to do with a “conversion” of Abgar to the nascent Jesus movement,3 were later incorporated and reworked into the Syriac apostolic novel Doctrina Addai – where they form a nugget isolated from the rest, at sections 74–76 (Desreumaux 1993) – as well as the Armenian version of the Abgar-Addai legend found in the historian Moses of Chorene, and even in some Syriac Transitus Mariae.4 Instead, the first extant account of 1 Most of this essay has been prepared during a senior research fellowship at Durham University and its aftermath; I am very grateful for the continued support of colleagues, staff, and librarians. Many thanks also to the library and staff of the Catholic University in Milan, as ever, and to those of the Graduate School of Theology, SHMS, Angelicum. 2 He is a fully historical king, besides being also the protagonist of the Addai legend. Wide-ranging analysis of the historical sources on him, including Tacitus, in Ramelli 1999. For his chronology, see below, n. 6. 3 On whose historical circumstances at the time of Abgar Ukkama, see Ramelli 2013b and 2014a. 4 On traditions of Transitus Mariae, see Mimouni 2011. Desreumaux (1983, 185) observed that in the Transitus contained in ms. Syr. sin. 30, the section concerning the Abgar-Tiberius

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the Abgar-Addai legend, that of Eusebius in the early fourth century, reports the entirely fictional Abgar-Jesus correspondence5 but not the Abgar-Tiberius letters. This suggests that the source of the Abgar-Tiberius letters is different from that of the pseudepigraphical Abgar-Jesus letters and is surely very ancient, since the Abgar-Tiberius letters include historical details that perfectly fit in the political panorama of the mid-thirties, when the emperor was manoeuvring against the Parthians, very few years after Jesus’ death and Abgar Ukkama’s reestablishment in 31 c.e. from a usurpation by Abgar Hewara (26–30 c.e.).6 At that time, in the early to mid-thirties, Abgar Ukkama needed the emperor’s support against his opponents, and the latter needed the faithfulness of vassal kings close to the Parthian border,7 among whom was Abgar himself. The Abgar-Tiberius letters perfectly reflect this historical situation, and it is for these political reasons that, historically, Abgar probably wrote to Tiberius about Jesus’ condemnation to death by Pilate and Caiaphas’ party, and not as a consequence of a “conversion to Christianity” (a legend that, as I will argue, is likely to have emerged in the Severan age, almost two centuries later). Abgar wanted to take advantage of the Jesus incident and those responsible for it to put himself in a good light before the emperor and the Roman Empire. So, in his letter to Tiberius, he attached to a faction of Jews – to whom Tiberius adds Pilate – the responsibility for Jesus’ execution, adding that, since he could not act directly against those responsible, he wrote to Tiberius, whom he, as a vassal king, calls his “lord.” Abgar reported in his letter Jesus’ death and the darkness and earthquake that accompanied it (which were in fact recorded by a non-Christian historian as well, Phlegon, in the first century c.e., in book 13 or 14 of his Chronicle, fr. 16d Jacoby 2b.257.F). Abgar was aware that Tiberius had already been informed, probably through a report by Pilate concerning Jesus, his condemnation  – and those responsible for it – and his followers, namely the first Jesus movement, which proclaimed the resurrection of that man and occasioned tensions within Judaism. Justin and Tertullian knew such a report, which is also similar to what is found in the letters is integrated within the rest of the narrative with a “laborieuse soudure.” Both here and in the Doctrina, indeed, these letters constitute an independent nugget. 5  On which, see Marek 2004. 6 See Ramelli 2004. According to the chronology first established by Gutschmid (1887), based on a list of kings of Edessa included in the Syriac Chronicle of Zuqnin or chronicle of Ps. Dionysius of Tell-Mahre, composed in 776 c.e., Abgar Ukkama was king of Edessa from 4 b.c.e. to 7 c.e.; then, after an interruption by the usurper Ma‘nu IV, he ruled Edessa again 13 to 50 c.e. But according to Luther (1999), based on the list of the kings of Edessa included in the Chronicle of Elijah of Nisibis, it is more probable that Abgar’s reign dates to 22–25 c.e., three years and a month, and subsequently, after Abgar ewara’s usurpation, again 31/2–65/6 c.e. (on this hypothesis, the Abgar who was king of Edessa in the last years b.c.e. was a predecessor of Ukkama). Now, Abgar Ukkama’s exchange of letters with Tiberius purportedly took place around the mid-thirties of the first century c.e., some time after Jesus’ death, that is, shortly after the reestablishment of Ukkama as the king of Edessa. 7 Tacitus Ann. 6.31–37; 41–46.

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Testimonium Flavianum on Jesus. Tiberius, at the time of his correspondence with Abgar, is supposed to have already received a report, since he knows of the condemnation of Jesus and has individuated those responsible for it, namely, Pilate and Caiaphas. While the same Palestinian facts were made known to the emperor, they were also known to the king of Edessa, who probably thought of exploiting these facts for his own political defence and promotion. In his reply, Tiberius manifests satisfaction at the loyalty of his vassal king, which was for him in turn crucial in those years, in his delicate operations against the Parthians: “I received the letter of your faithfulness to me, and it was read before me.” He confirms that Pilate informed his plenipotentiary Albinus8 and he has just deposed Pilate for having allowed the execution of a man who was worthy of veneration. This is historically accurate: Lucius Vitellius, Tiberius’ legatus and plenipotentiary in the Near East in 35–37 c.e. (Tac. Ann. 6.32.3 ff.), deposed Pilate by order of Tiberius (Jos. AI 18.89–90, 122). Tiberius also promises to Abgar to “take legal steps against those who acted against the law” and indeed, through Vitellius, Tiberius also deposed Caiaphas (Jos. AI 18.4.3). Tiberius adds in his letter to Abgar that he would take those legal steps only after settling “the war with the ‘children of Spain,’” and expresses again satisfaction at Abgar’s “loyalty to me, and the covenant of faithfulness, yours and of your forefathers.” The loyalty theme is a prominent feature in this correspondence. The Abgar-Tiberius letters were later incorporated in the Doctrina Addai, in the late fourth or early fifth century. The author of the Doctrina picked up three elements from the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence and interspersed them into his wider narrative: (A) the loyalty motif, (B) the “children of Spain,” and (C) the punishment of those responsible for the death of Jesus. So (A) in the Doctrina, during the first dialogue between Abgar and the apostle Addai  – who in the early thirties is supposed to have healed and converted the king to Christianity – Abgar professes his loyalty and that of his predecessors to the Roman emperor, which echoes Abgar’s declaration in his letter to Tiberius. The continuation of the document, after the insertion of the Abgar-Tiberius letters, narrates that (B) Tiberius indeed settled the war that involved the “children of Spain” and (C) punished “some Jewish leaders in Palestine,” as he had promised in his letter. These three elements are instead absent from Eusebius’ Abgar-Addai narrative, arguably because he didn’t incorporate the Abgar-Tiberius letters either, but only 8 Lucius Vitellius may have been named Lucius Vitellius Albinus; alternatively, “Albinus” is a reminiscence of procurator Lucceius Albinus, who governed indeed Palestine and whose name is associated to Vitellius by Tacitus. According to Josephus, AI 20.9.1, Lucceius Albinus, at the beginning of his procuratorship, deposed Ananus, the High Priest, who in 62 c.e. had James, the head of the Christian community in Jerusalem, stoned to death for law transgression. This may easily have given rise to the confusion with the predecessor of Albinus who deposed Caiaphas, the predecessor of Ananus, all the more in that both Caiaphas and Ananus were responsible for the illegal execution of, respectively, Jesus and his “brother” James. Albinus is also mentioned with Vitellius (the emperor, son of Lucius Vitellius) by Tacitus, Hist. 2.58–59.

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the pseudepigraphic Abgar-Jesus letters and the Addai story that was attached to them. This further supports my argument that the Abgar-Tiberius letters were not included in the Edessan document that contained the Abgar-Jesus pseudepigraphic correspondence (on which see below) and have a different source, which is likely to be very ancient and to preserve historical elements. The historical Abgar Ukkama around the mid-thirties indeed needed to display loyalty to Tiberius, both due to the aforementioned usurpation, and his consequent need for Roman support, and because he had just participated in the war between Aretas IV of Nabatea and Herod Antipas, as an ally of Aretas (Moses of Chorene PH 2.29.103), between 29 c.e. and 35/36 c.e., the time of the correspondence (ibid. 2.34). The war continued until at least 34 c.e. (Jos. AI 18.109–150) and ended during Vitellius’ mission in the Near East in 35–37 c.e. (AI 18.106): Vitellius gave up a punitive expedition against Aretas only upon Tiberius’ death in 37 c.e. (ibid. 18.120–124). The war had potentially negative consequences for Abgar as an ally of Aretas and occurred just before Abgar’s letters with Tiberius. According to Moses, Abgar’s display of faithfulness was not believed by the Romans at first, since Herod (meaning Antipas), Philip the Tetrarch, and Pilate were hostile to Abgar. Hence Abgar’s appeal to Tiberius with emphasis on his own loyalty and an attempt to put Pilate, Caiaphas his ally, and indirectly also Herod Antipas in a bad light before the emperor as perpetrators of an unjust execution. This is the eminently political reason behind the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence, and not Abgar’s purported “conversion” to the early Jesus movement. Abgar also states that, if he had marched against Palestine with his army, the Romans would have impeded him: this statement makes even more sense in the light of Abgar’s participation in Aretas’ war against Herod. After tensions due to the Herod-Aretas war, Abgar’s good relationship with Tiberius was probably favoured by the prefect of Egypt, Flaccus, an intimate friend of both. He was prefect in 32–38 c.e. during Vitellius’ mission in the Near East and the Abgar-Tiberius epistolary exchange (35–37 c.e.).9 A figure of a Roman plenipotentiary whose name is Latin, whose powers correspond to those of Vitellius, and who is mentioned in connection with the contacts between Abgar and Tiberius, is present in the Doctrina Addai (“Albinus” in the Abgar-Tiberius letters and “Sabinus” elsewhere), Moses of Chorene (“Mari9 The good relationship between Abgar and Tiberius, after tensions attested by Moses and due to the conflict between Herod and Aretas, was facilitated by A. Avillius Flaccus (PIR2 A 1414), an intimate friend of both Abgar and Tiberius. Flaccus’ close relationship to Abgar is attested by the Narratio de imagine Edessena ascribed to Constantine Porphyrogenitus, of the tenth century. This work seems to preserve very ancient material, such as this information on the friendship between Abgar, correctly called toparch of Edessa, and the prefect of Egypt (5: ὁ τῆς  Ἐδέσης τὸ τηνικαῦτα τοπάρχης Αὔγαρος τῷ τῆς Αἰγύπτου ἐξηγουμένῳ φίλος καὶ γνώριμος ἦν), who in that period was Flaccus. He is well known thanks to Philo, In Flaccum, 1–3; 25; 40; 116; 158. He was one of the most intimate friends of Tiberius; he was born and grew up in Rome together with Augustus’ nieces, and obtained the government of Egypt, a direct possession of the emperor.

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nus”),10 and one Transitus Mariae (“Sabinus”), all documents that incorporate or echo the Abgar-Tiberius letters. But this figure is significantly absent from Eusebius’ report, which also omits the Abgar-Tiberius letters. This means that this figure was part, not of the Abgar-Jesus story, which focusses on Abgar’s alleged conversion and includes the Abgar-Jesus forged letters, but of the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence, which reflects the political issues of the Near East in the years of Vitellius’ mandate (Tac. Ann. 6.32.3 ff.). Indeed, Tiberius’ legatus Syriae Lucius Vitellius (Albinus?), who had vast power in the Near East, was certainly involved in the relationship between Abgar and Tiberius. The legatus Syriae’s control over Palestine, as reflected in the Doctrina and Moses, corresponds to the historical reality of the age of Tiberius, since Palestine was under the legatus Syriae and plenipotentiaries such as Germanicus in 19 c.e. and Vitellius around 35 c.e. only before 70 c.e. This confirms that a very ancient and well documented source is at the basis of the Abgar-Tiberius material, and that the origin of the Abgar-Addai story lies in political events and an official correspondence, rather than in a religious “conversion” coming from a miraculous healing, which in the Abgar-Tiberius letters is in fact not mentioned. That the source of the Abgar-Tiberius letters was very well informed about Tiberius’ Eastern politics around 35–37 c.e. and is therefore likely to be very ancient is confirmed by the mention of the “children of Spain [’spny’]” in Tiberius’ letter. This is usually deemed an anachronism because it is interpreted as a reference to the Iberians of the Iberian Peninsula. For example, Sidney Griffith observed that, after the Spanish wars under Augustus, there was no imperial fighting in Spain until the Goths, Suevi, and Vandals invaded the Iberian Peninsula in 409 c.e., and therefore suggested that the author of the Doctrina was here echoing Constantius’ military operations against the Visigoths in Spain in 414–416 c.e.11 But in fact, the “children of Spain” in our letters, just as in Bardaisan and Moses of Chorene,12 are the Caucasian Iberians (Georgians). In authors of the first to second century c.e., from which the source of the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence seems to stem, Ἰβηρία also means the Caucasian  According to both Moses and the Doctrina, the legatus Syriae was based at Eleutheropolis, i. e. Baethogabra, in Palestine, near Jerusalem. 11 Griffith 2003, § 24. 12 In the Liber legum regionum, from the school of Bardaisan, 595 Nau, the Syriac ’spny’, i. e., the very same word used in Tiberius’ letter in the Doctrina, does not refer to Spain, but to the Caucasian Iberia, being mentioned between Sarmatia and Pontus and the Alans and Albans, Caucasian peoples. See Ramelli 2015. This similarity would be the more remarkable if not only the Liber, but perhaps also the original nucleus of the Abgar-Addai legend were related to Bardaisan and his school, as I will suggest in the next section. Likewise, in the parallel report of the Abgar-Tiberius letters in Moses of Chorene (PH 2.32), derived from that found in the Doctrina (with an amplification) or from a common source, the mention of the (Spaniac woc , in its declined form within the context), that is, of the Iberians, is to be taken as a reference to the Caucasian Iberians. 10

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Iberia, and Ἴβηρες the inhabitants of this region,13 as well as, later, Ἱσπανία and Ἱσπανοί do.14 Now, the Caucasian Iberians were used by Tiberius against the Parthians in 35–37 CE (Tacitus Ann. 6.32–36), in the very years of our letters. Vitellius manoeuvred in Mesopotamia against the Parthian king Artabanus II, who also supported Arsaces, from whom Tiberius wanted to liberate Armenia (ibid. 6.31). Izates, the king of Adiabene who converted to a form of Judaism without circumcision (Josephus AI 20.2.4–5), was a vassal of Artabanus and an ally of Abgar Ukkama (Tacitus Ann. 12.12–14). With this alliance within the Romano-Parthian conflict, and with his entanglement in the Aretas war, Abgar appears deeply involved in the Eastern political framework that preoccupied Tiberius. The latter chose at first Phraates, then Tiridates as rivals of Artabanus and used the Caucasian Iberian Mithridates to conquer Armenia, reconciling him with his brother Pharasmanes, king of the Caucasian Iberians (ibid. 6.32). Mithridates then compelled his brother to support his own plans of conquest dolo et vi (ibid. 6.33), and the consequent treacherous murder of Arsaces made it possible for the Iberians to invade Armenia (ibid.). Their mention in Tiberius’ letter, in the context of the war, reflects these events and reveals an ancient source for the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence. The Syriac redactor of the Doctrina could not read Tacitus; therefore, these historical details were already found in his source, ultimately, in all probability, the original (Greek) letters exchanged by Abgar and Tiberius.15 What Tiberius exactly says concerning these Iberians in his letter to Abgar is, in the Syriac version, d-mrdw ‘ly, with reference to the Iberians, “who have rebelled against me; who have offered resistance, have raised disorders / difficulties against me; who are obstinate against me,” or even “who have rebelled by means of me,” meaning “who have been stirred up by me.” This would perfectly fit the historical situation as well, since the Iberians were not immediately manageable, and were used by 13 Strabo

1.2.39; 11.1.5; 11.2.15; 11.2.18, in which Edessa is located in Iberia; 11.3.4; 11.4.8 etc.; Plutarch Lyc. 4.6; Pomp. 24; Ps. Scymnus Ad Nicomedem 927: “the Iberians moved from Iberia to Armenia”; Ptolemaeus Geogr. 5.C.11; 5.9.7, 11, 14; 5.10.4; 5.11.1; 5.12.1 and 3; 5.13.1; 8.18.2; 8.19.1 and 5; 8.29.19; then Epiphanius Pan. 3.126.7 and the anonymous Geographiae expositio compendiaria 20: “Albania is close to the Caspian sea, and Iberia lies in the middle”; 21: “Armenia is located to the South of Iberia and of a part of Albania.” 14 Ε.g., Herodianus De prosodia catholica 3/1.267.11 refers to the Caucasian Iberia, cited as it is among Scythia, Bithynia, Persia, the Euphrates, and Macedonia, just as Hephaistion Apotelesm. 152.1 and Sozomen HE 9.13.4. 15 In Tiberius’ letter, there was probably Ἴβηρες οr Ἱσπανοί (less probably Hiberi or Hispani). Both the Greek and the Latin term already had a double meaning, in reference either to the Western Iberians or to the Caucasian Iberians, and the Syriac translator rendered “children of ’spny’,” with the typical Semitic expression “child/children of ” denoting a category. In Syriac, “children of ’spny’” in turn means both the Iberians of Spain and those of the Caucasian region. Modern scholars have regularly misunderstood this expression in Tiberius’ letter in the Doctrina as a reference to the Iberians of Spain, whereas it referred to the Caucasian Iberians. Greek and Latin were the two languages of the Roman Empire (see Rochette 1997, 49); it is probable that the correspondence with Abgar, and other Eastern kings, was in Greek.

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Tiberius against the Parthians. This correspondence to the historical situation of 35–37 CE also is striking. Two other precise historical facts that are reflected in the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence are the aforementioned depositions of Pilate and Caiaphas (Josephus AI 18.90–95). Seen in this light, the reference to the Iberians in Tiberius’ letter, far from being an anachronism, is a precise historical detail; therefore, the Abgar-Tiberius letters prove to be based on an ancient and reliable historical source. It is even probable that Abgar and Tiberius really exchanged letters concerning the situation in Palestine. In the Abgar-Tiberius letters, those responsible for the execution of Jesus are identified with some Jews – not “the Jews” in general – and Pilate, whose deposition by Tiberius is mentioned in these letters and their immediate context. Abgar, addressing Tiberius, remarks that “some Jews who are under your power and live in the land of Palestine have conspired and had their Messiah crucified.” A plot implies a restricted number of people, such as Caiaphas’ party. Abgar invites the emperor to take steps “against that group or lobby [‘m’] of Jews who have done these things.” Tiberius replies that he is ready to legally proceed against “those Jews who have not acted according to the law,” i. e., those who plotted against Jesus, again Caiaphas’ party. Tiberius does not state that he intends to destroy all Jews in general, but that he wants to proceed legally and put on trial those responsible for acting illegally. Tiberius expresses this intention immediately after confirming that he had Pilate deposed, alluding to the deposition of Caiaphas and some of his party too. Soon after the quotation of Tiberius’ letter, the Doctrina informs that, indeed, after the war that involved the Iberians, Tiberius “sent [Vitellius/Albinus] and put to death some of the leaders of the Jews who were in Palestine.” Far from taking any action against the whole people, the emperor, through an agent, singled out those responsible for illegal deeds. This is what Vitellius actually did by order of Tiberius. The narrative of the Doctrina speaks of execution rather than deposition: this is due to narrative emphasis, but this wrong detail is absent from Tiberius’ letter, which speaks of taking legal steps against those who acted illegally. This is what happened historically with the deposition of Caiaphas. Once more, the Abgar-Tiberius letters prove to come from a very ancient and reliable historical source, independent of the rest of the narrative. In the letters, the responsibility for the execution of Jesus is with Pilate and some Jewish leaders of Caiaphas’ lobby, while in the rest of the Doctrina, those responsible are “the Jews” as a whole, and only these, and not Pilate.16 The attitude of the Abgar-Ti16 The same anti-Judaism is found in a fictional adaptation of the Abgar-Tiberius letters, an adaptation in which gross anti-Semitism parallels that of the rest of the Doctrina Addai: a Transitus Mariae containing an echo of the Abgar-Tiberius letters, from ms. Brit. Mus. Add. 14484, Mary’s Getting Out of the World and Jesus’s Birth and Childhood, 110–112 Cureton 1864 (2004). Here there are substantial fictional adaptations: there is only Abgar’s letter (and not Tiberius’ reply), and this is much shorter than that preserved in the Doctrina. In the section that precedes

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berius letters is similar, not to that of the fifth-century Doctrina, but to other first-century documents, which all mention Jesus: the letter of the Stoicising Mara Bar Serapion from Samosata to his son, the Testimonium Flavianum, and the canonical Acts of the Apostles.17 This further confirms that the Abgar-Tiberius letters have a source of their own, and very ancient, given the exact historical details they contain. The author of the much later Doctrina cannot simply have invented them, but he, or his source, found them already composed. In the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence, nothing indicates a religious “conversion” of Abgar, but everything shows that he knew something about Jesus’ ministry and crucifixion, what was also known to Mara in Samosata and to Josephus, and what Pilate communicated to Tiberius in the first half of the thirties. In Abgar’s letter, there is no trace of Christianity, no identification of Jesus as the Son of God or God, but only as the reported Messiah, as in the Testimonium Flavianum. The same indignation as Abgar’s at the killing of the wise benefactor Jesus is shown by Mara, who, like Abgar, was neither a member of the Jesus movement nor a Jew. Thus, it is not due to his conversion to Christianity that Abgar wrote to Tiberius about Jesus. The Abgar-Tiberius letters were rather exchanged for political reasons: Abgar, who needed Tiberius’ support and benevolence both due to the aforementioned usurpation and because he had compromised himself with the Aretas war, had good political reasons to put Caiaphas, Pilate, and Herod Antipas in a bad light before the emperor, so he denounced them to Tiberius as those responsible for Jesus’ death. As mentioned, Abgar fought against Antipas as an ally of Aretas, and both Pilate and Herod were hostile to Abgar and tried to discredit him before the Romans (Moses PH 2.39). Caiaphas was an ally of Pilate and Antipas; Pilate and Caiaphas were deposed together in 36 c.e. by Tiberius through Vitellius. It is precisely after Jesus’ trial that Pilate and Antipas became friends (Luke 23:12), when Pilate sent Jesus to Antipas and Antipas sent him back to Pilate. Therefore, for Abgar, the unjust execution of Jesus was a chance to denounce Pilate, Antipas, and their ally Caiaphas. Then, from the historical letters exchanged for purely political reasons between Abgar and Tiberius, it is likely that later the legend of Abgar’s “conversion to Christianity” arose, just as the legend of Seneca’s “conversion to Christianity” probably stems from a letter added later to the Seneca-Paul correspondence: it, Abgar is said to have actually gone as far as the Euphrates with his army to destroy Jerusalem, after he knew that Jesus had been crucified, but he stopped there because he thought that, by crossing the river, he would have raised enmity between him and Tiberius. Thus, he wrote to the emperor. Jesus’ miracles are not described in the letter, but Jesus is only called a “wise physician.” There is no reply by Tiberius, no reference to the Parthian war or the Iberi, to the deposition of Pilate or a trial against those responsible for Jesus’ death (all elements that are instead prominent in the Abgar-Tiberius letters reported in the Doctrina), but it is only said that Tiberius, upon the reception of Abgar’s letter, was incensed and wanted to “slay all the Jews”: a reaction very different from that which is reflected in Tibrius’ reply to Abgar recorded in the Doctrina. 17 See Ramelli 2013. On the authenticity of the Testimonium Flavianum, see Victor 2010.

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whereas in the original letters there is no trace of any “conversion” of Seneca, this late letter intimates Seneca’s “conversion,” and from there came the legend of Seneca’s Christianity, which began only in the proto-humanistic age (Ramelli 2014).

2. The First Shaping of the Narrative in the Severan Age: Bardaisan’s Possible Role? The legend of Abgar Ukkama’s Christianity, instead, arose much earlier, around 200 c.e., when Christianity began in fact to appear in the city of Abgar. A Christian church is attested at that time in Edessa by the Chronicon Edessenum, 1 pp. 1–3 Guidi,18 which records that it was flooded during Abgar the Great’s reign (177/9–212/4). Other sources as well indicate that Christianity had spread in Osrhoene by that time,19 and the education of Abgar the Great’s son, Ma‘nu, was handed to Christian intellectuals such as Julius Africanus and Bardaisan. The letters in which Abgar Ukkama denounced the unjust killing of Jesus favoured the birth of the legend of his and his kingdom’s conversion, a legend that seems to have taken shape precisely during the reign of Abgar the Great, who probably became a Christian himself, as both the Liber legum regionum and Julius Africanus indicate.20 This legend was likely meant to exalt Abgar the Great by celebrating Abgar Ukkama.21 Bardaisan of Edessa, the Syriac Christian Middle Platonist, philosopher, theologian, historian, and polymath (Ramelli 2009e; 2015), who was close to the royal court of Osrhoene and friends with king Abgar the Great, could use the royal archive and read the letters of the Edessan kings. Thus, he or some other courtier or official may have read the correspondence of Abgar Ukkama with Tiberius concerning Jesus and the situation in Palestine in the thirties of the first century, creating from there the legend of Ukkama’s conversion to Christianity. Thus, I suspect that Bardaisan may have included a first representation of Addai in his history. Indeed, this history probably comprehended an account of the evangelisation of Edessa, Bardaisan’s and Abgar the Great’s own city. Bardaisan must have seen the incorporation of the Addai story in his own history 18 See Ramelli 1999; 2015. Τhe Syriac designation for this Christian cultic building in the Chronicon is , the same word used for Bishop Qune’s church in Edessa in the age of Constantine in the same Chronicon 12, p. 4 Guidi. 19 See Ramelli 1999; 2000a; 2003; 2006. 20 See Ramelli 1999. The Liber, written by a Christian, overtly states that Abgar the Great became a “believer,” that is, a Christian. Africanus, another Christian, in Chronographiae fr. 53 calls Abgar the Great ἱερὸν ἄνδρα, “holy man,” an expression that he could hardly use to refer to a “pagan.” 21 This is also why it has been supposed that the representation of Abgar Ukkama (first century c.e.) in this legend was inspired by that of Abgar the Great (between the second and the third centuries), Bardaisan’s friend and king. See Mirkovic 2004, 61 and passim; Ramelli 2009.

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as a celebration of the early Christianisation of Edessa and in homage to Abgar the Great through his homonymous predecessor. From Bardaisan’s historical work, then, or whatever other Edessan historical work representing Eusebius’ first source (as I will argue in a moment, this was a local celebratory source that must be distinguished from that of the Abgar-Jesus fictional correspondence), this legend passed on to Eusebius’ Church History, where it is found enriched with the forged Abgar-Jesus letters that will appear again in the Doctrina, Moses, and other documents. So, the first layer of the Addai-Abgar legend, transmitted for the first time perhaps by Bardaisan in the early third century and incorporated by Eusebius in his history in the early fourth, included the “conversion” of Abgar to Christianity thanks to the miracles of an apostle, Addai, who is totally absent from the Abgar-Tiberius letters. Embedded in Eusebius’ Church History22 is the first extant account of the Addai-Abgar legend, but probably not the first to be composed. Indeed, Eusebius’ narrative consists of three layers, two of which come from more ancient written sources, the earliest of which might be Bardaisan’ historical work. This possibility is made more probable by the fact that Eusebius knew Bardaisan’s works well and in Praeparatio Evangelica preserves two excerpts from his work against Fate; he also provides information about his historical figure and literary production. This shows that he had at his disposal a good and direct documentation on Bardaisan and read his works, which were likely already translated into Greek.23 And that Bardaisan wrote a history of the Near East where the Abgar-Addai story was found – and which could well be available to Eusebius – is attested by Moses of Chorene, a favourable and informed source on Bardaisan. Moses, who in the fifth century used materials from the Edessan archives and offers information unavailable from other sources on the kings of Edessa and the relationship between the Roman Empire and the Parthians,24 was also acquainted with the historical work of a friend of Origen’s, Julius Africanus, who was in Edessa together with Bardaisan. Moses read Bardaisan’s history of the Near East and used it for his own historical work. Moses presents Bardaisan as a reliable historian (PH 2.66), who composed a history using archival materials found in “Armenia” and recording what happened in his own day. Moses overtly declares that he based himself on Bardaisan’s history for what happened in the period to which Abgar Ukkama belongs: These events [down to the Alans’ incursions into the Near East in the first century, the war of Domitian against Ardashes, Bar Kochba’s revolt under Hadrian in Palestine, Tigranes I, 121–142 CE, and Tigranes III, 142–178 CE] have been handed down to us by Bardaisan 22 See

Brock 1992. know from Eusebius HE 4.30 that his Syriac works were translated into Greek by his own disciples. Moreover, Epiphanius Pan. 56 attests that Bardaisan knew Greek as well as Syriac. 24 Ramelli 1999; 2000; 2001. 23 We

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of Edessa, who flourished as a historian in the day of the last Antoninus. He had been a follower of the Valentinian heresy, but then he rejected and refuted it … After his detachment from Valentinianism, he founded a school of his own. He did not distort history.25 He was persuasive and his speech was brilliant and strong. He even dared address a discourse to Antoninus, and disputed extensively against the heresy of the Marcionites, against Fate, and against the worship of idols that was practiced in our land. Bardaisan came here to try and convert someone among these rough pagans. Since, however, he was not well received, he entered the fortress of Ani, read the History of the Temples, where the deeds of the kings were also reported, and he added to all this the facts from his own time, translating everything into Syriac. Later on his work was in turn translated into Greek. On the basis of the History of the Temples, Bardaisan relates that the last Tigranes … From his historical work I have drawn my own account and have reproduced it for you, from the reign of Artavasdes down to the annals of Chosroes. (PH 2.66)

Bardaisan’s Syriac history of the Near East, which Moses used from Artavasdes (56–36 b.c.e.) until Chosroes (198–232 c.e.: he was still reigning when Bardaisan died in 222 c.e.), was soon translated into Greek, according to Moses: it is therefore all the more probable that Bardaisan’s history was the source of the first section of Eusebius’ account. Barhebraeus (Chron. Eccl. 1.47)26 in particular states that Moses used Bardaisan’s history as a source on Addai: he knew that Bardaisan’s historical work included a section devoted to Addai. Barhebraeus’s statement should be taken into consideration, especially since other information of his on Bardaisan is valuable and confirmed by Ephrem.27 Moreover, what Barhebraeus says about the question here at stake is confirmed by Moses, who read the historical works of both Bardaisan and Africanus. In turn, Africanus was acquainted with Bardaisan, dealt with Abgar Ukkama in his own history-chronography, and likely knew the story concerning him and Addai. If Bardaisan included a treatment of Addai and Abgar Ukkama in his history, as is very probable, this explains why Africanus is the first Christian historian who, long before Eusebius, mentioned Abgar Ukkama, remarking that Abgar the Great was the namesake of Abgar Ukkama, “the earlier Abgar”: Ἀφρικανὸς Ἄβγαρον φησὶν ἱερὸν ἄνδρα, τοῦ πρώην Ἀβγάρου ὁμώνυμον, βασιλεύειν  Ἐδέσσης κατὰ τούτους τοὺς χρόνους (Chron. fr. 53 ap. Eusebius Chron. 214 ap. Syncellus Ecl. chron. 439.21). Africanus, who lived in Edessa at the court of Abgar the Great with Bardaisan, almost certainly knew the Abgar legend, which originated in that context, and refers to Abgar Ukkama in a way that makes it clear that he had mentioned him earlier in his chronicle. The parallel drawn by Africanus between the Great and Ukkama is the same probably drawn by Bardaisan, who extolled Ukkama to exalt the Great. It is natural that Bardaisan, being from Edessa, living in Edessa, and being friends with King Abgar, should mention past Edessan kings in his historical work on the Near East. 25 On

Moses’ appraisal of Bardaisan, see Ramelli 2009e, 269–303. which, see Conrad 1994, 319–78. 27 Ramelli 2009e, 359–63. 26 On

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Within the story of Addai in Eusebius, HE 1.13.1–22,28 the most recent layer is Eusebius’ own summary, at the end of the whole account. Another layer, the middle one, derives from a document kept in the archives of Edessa and contains the letters purportedly exchanged between Jesus and Abgar Ukkama, plus a narrative section that accompanied them. The most ancient of Eusebius’ layers (HE 1.13.1–4) is diegetic; it includes neither letters nor speeches nor dialogues, and is historical in tone; it narrates the key events of what became the story of Abgar Ukkama and the apostle Addai. This intriguing section reveals an exaggeratedly encomiastic tone and thereby the manifest intention to extol the king of Edessa; this is why I suspect that this section must go back to an Edessan source, which may be Bardaisan’s historical work. Right at the beginning, Abgar Ukkama is described in quite unexpected terms. For he was the toparch, or local ruler, of Osrhoene, a tiny buffer state between the Roman Empire and the Parthians, but in Eusebius’ report here he is depicted as a great sovereign, who reigned over whole peoples with magnificent splendour: Βασιλεὺς Ἄβγαρος τῶν ὑπὲρ Εὐφράτην ἐθνῶν ἐπισημότατα δυναστεύων. These expressions are clearly taken from an author whose intention was to glorify Abgar Ukkama. The same intention is manifest soon after in the detail that Jesus “deemed Abgar worthy of a letter of his,” a special privilege, which a highly encomiastic source wanted to emphasise. This cannot have been Eusebius’ own intention, since he was not an Edessan himself; moreover, he wrote almost one century after the Abgarid monarchy had come to an end in Edessa – and in general, the sovereign that Eusebius wants to extol is Constantine. But that encomiastic intention would be perfectly understandable in Bardaisan, who, through the exaltation of Abgar Ukkama, wanted to celebrate his own friend and king the Great, who moreover may have been a Christian. Indeed, Eusebius himself does not describe Abgar Ukkama in such a laudatory manner, but on the contrary says he was a small local ruler, as I shall show in the next section. Also, the Edessan source used by Eusebius remarks that Abgar Ukkama, who had a severe illness, instantly filled with joy and hope “as soon as he heard both Jesus’ powerful name and his miracles unanimously testified to by all.” Now, the Edessan king could fill with joy and hope just in hearing Jesus’ name only because its Aramaic meaning referred to salvation and health. But this meaning was evident, not to Greek speakers, such as Eusebius’ readers, but to Syriac speakers, such as Bardaisan and his public. This further points to a Syriac, probably Edessan, source for this section. In the same section the Edessan source recounts that, after Abgar supplicated Jesus in a letter to liberate him from his illness, Jesus promised him to send a disciple later on, in order to provide bodily health to him and spiritual salvation/ health to both him and all his people.29 This twofold sense, bodily and spiritual, of 28 See 29 Ἐπὶ

Ramelli 2010. θεραπείᾳ τῆς νόσου ὁμοῦ τε αὐτοῦ σωτηρίᾳ καὶ τῶν προσηκόντων ἁπάντων.

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health and sickness, and of life and death, is emphasised only in this section and perfectly corresponds to Bardaisan’s twofold notion of health and illness and of life and death, both physical and spiritual. Besides, Eusebius, on the basis of his Edessan source, recounts that Thomas, one of the Twelve, after Jesus’ ascension sent Thaddaeus (Addai), one of the Seventy, to Edessa, in order for him “to proclaim the teaching of Christ.” But Eusebius does not report a word of Thaddaeus’ teaching, on which the later Doctrina Addai will, on the contrary, expand a great deal. However, the idea of Christ as a teacher and of Christianity as doctrine and philosophy is one of the most characteristic traits of Bardaisan’s thought.30 A fragment of his preserved by Ephrem31 attests that Bardaisan thought that what Christ mainly did on earth is that “he taught the truth and ascended.”32 This is also why he considered salvation to depend on knowledge and restoration (apokatastasis) to be made possible by instruction.33 What is more, in the same initial section of Eusebius’ narrative, Thaddaeus is closely related to Thomas, the apostle of India. The latter was revered in Edessa, where Thomas’ relics were translated from India in the day of Bardaisan’s immediate disciples (around 230 c.e., according to the Passio Thomae, eight years after Bardaisan’s death). Also, an important part of Bardaisan’s argument as recorded in the Syriac Liber legum regionum is quoted in the Acts of Thomas, whose Syriac recension probably stems from Edessa,34 and which narrates how Thomas, departing from Edessa, brought the Christian Gospel as far as India. The redactor knew the Liber and appreciated Bardaisan’s arguments on the Christian moral law therein so much as to attribute them to his own hero, Thomas. Since Ephrem attests that the disciples of Bardaisan composed apocryphal Acts of Apostles, I even suspect that the Acts of Thomas may have originated at Bardaisan’s school, or in an Edessan milieu in which his thought was held in high esteem.35 Since, furthermore, Bardaisan devoted a treatise to India, the land of Thomas’ mission,36 and was interested in the history and customs of exotic peoples (as is attested by 30 At the outset of his argument in the Liber, Bardaisan has knowledge and philosophy itself depend on faith; the quest for truth is impossible without the foundation of faith. Bardaisan, like Clement and Origen, saw Christianity as the true philosophy, and defined Christ as a teacher. 31 Prose Refutations 2.143–69. 32  See Ramelli 2009e, 229 and passim. 33 See Ramelli 2009a. 34 Both a Syriac and a Greek recension of the Acts of Thomas are extant. Scholars generally consider the Syriac to be the original and the Greek to be a translation-adaptation, but see Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta’s chapter in this volume for the priority of the Greek recension. 35 See Ramelli 2009c. 36 Bardaisan’s work on India, based on accounts of Indian ambassadors who came to Edessa in the day of Elagabalus, is contemporary with his history of the Near East, which Moses used, and, like this history, reflected Bardaisan’s interests not only in the geographical, anthropological, and philosophical fields (also because of the Indian Gymnosophists and Brahmans) but also in the origin of Christianity in India, related to Thomas. This is connected with the celebration, reflected in the Liber, of the birth of Christianity in many different peoples, including the inhabitants of Edessa, all the more in that, according to the Syriac tradition that was consolidating

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the Liber) besides the history of Edessa and the spread of Christianity (as demonstrated by the Liber and his history of the Near East), we can hypothesize with a fair degree of probability that he comprised in his history the legend of Addai and of the spread of Christianity in Edessa, also as a way of glorifying his friend Abgar the Great through his homonymous predecessor, and, if so, he very likely drew a connection between the stories of Addai and of Thomas. This first section of Eusebius’ account (HE 1.13.1–4), which might derive from Bardaisan’s history, consists in a short and linear narrative, entirely diegetic, without quotations of speeches, letters, and the like. It focuses on Abgar Ukkama, his celebration as a great monarch, his illness, his learning of Jesus’ miracles, and the latter’s promise to heal him, which also resulted in Abgar’s spiritual salvation and the Edessans’ conversion to Christianity, thanks to the apostle Addai. This may have been the first outline of the Addai legend in Bardaisan, possibly a development from the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence about Jesus and the situation in Palestine and the Near East in 35–37 c.e. The sentence that introduces this narrative (τῆς δὲ περὶ τὸν Θαδδαῖον ἱστορίας τοιοῦτος γέγονεν ὁ τρόπος) indicates that Eusebius is using a source. Bardaisan, to extol Abgar the Great, very probably narrated how Abgar Ukkama came to know Christ and his message in his historical work, as a part of the history of Edessa and of the earliest spread of Christianity. Bardaisan’s account, or at any rate the celebratory Edessan source, flowed into Eusebius’ first four paragraphs. The following paragraphs, which come after a sharp break, derive from a different source, and I will analyse them in the next section. The Abgar-Addai story was perfectly apt both to celebrate Abgar the Great and to create a precedent for his benevolent attitude toward Christianity, or even his conversion to Christianity, which probably put him in a difficult and partially unpopular situation. For, according to the historian Dio, a Roman senator who was a contemporary of Bardaisan and intentionally avoided mentioning Christianity, Abgar introduced the prohibition of a long-standing “pagan” religious practice, a ritual mutilation, under the pretext of the Romanisation of Osrhoene, and the Liber legum regionum details that he decided this prohibition after his conversion to Christianity.37 The necessity of defending his new law under the pretext of Romanisation reveals that Abgar’s prohibition of the ritual mutilation was not at all popular (indeed, it was successful only because the transgressors were threatened with the amputation of their hands), and that for this reason, Abgar experienced hostility from his “pagan” subjects, i. e., arguably still the vast majority of his subjects. In this light, Bardaisan’s probable inclusion of the story of Abgar Ukkama’s “conversion to Christianity” in his own historical work can precisely in Bardaisan’s day, the evangelisation of India started precisely from Edessa (as the Edessan connection of the Thomas legend and cult indicates). 37 See Ramelli 1999.

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be read not only as a celebration, but also as a defence of Bardaisan’s friend Abgar the Great; for this first-century story provided a precedent for Abgar the Great’s conversion and demonstrated that in fact he was not the first Christian king of Edessa. Thus, Christianity was not an innovation to be rejected in Osrhoene. Indeed, the Addai legend, from its very beginning in the day of Bardaisan, aimed at demonstrating that Osrhoene was the first Christian kingdom ever. Thus, Edessa was presented as Christian by right, and Abgar as not usurping anything, nor even innovating anything, with his Christian legislation. Since, however, the predecessors of Abgar the Great were clearly not Christians – and Abgar the Great himself, if he became a Christian, did so after a conversion – the Addai legend was enriched with the story of the return of Abgar Ukkama’s successors to paganism, a story received both in the Doctrina Addai and in Moses of Chorene. Bardaisan’s history of the Near East very likely also spoke of the early spread of Christianity in a wide Syriac-speaking Mesopotamian area. This in fact corresponds to the core argument used by him in his work Against Fate and in the Liber legum regionum, which seems to be based on that work: many peoples, with different practices and in different regions, have passed from a variety of laws to the one law of Christ.38 In the final part of the Liber and in the correspondent fragment from Bardaisan’s Against Fate, a victorious and grateful tone can be perceived for the conversion of many peoples to Christianity. Bardaisan, in his work Against Fate, in the Liber, p. 607 Nau, and arguably in his history as well, expressed all his delight that Christianity was flourishing in Edessa, was welcome at court, and was also spreading everywhere in the East, and in the West as well. An interesting parallel with regard to the satisfaction at the diffusion of Christianity everywhere is to be found in Bardaisan’s semi-contemporary, Origen, in Comm. in Cant. 2.1.55: ecclesiae innumerae tamen sunt quae per orbem terrae diffusae sunt, atque immensae congregationes ac multitudines populorum (“there are innumerable Christian churches spread throughout the earth, congregations beyond number and multitudes of Christian peoples”). The same satisfaction and gratefulness can be observed in the praise of Addai and Abgar Ukkama for the introduction of Christianity in Edessa and the salvation of King Abgar Ukkama and all the people in Eusebius’ first source, probably Bardaisan’s history. This story was likely meant from the beginning to prefigure that of Abgar the Great, whose conversion is presented in the Liber as a part of the anti-fatalistic argument grounded in the spread of Christianity and its new law in the most diverse regions. If Bardaisan included the Addai story in his history, he intended to celebrate both Abgar the Great, at whose court he was honoured, and the introduction of Christianity in various peoples and especially in his own, the Edessan people. This celebration was magnificent, since Abgar Ukkama was 38 See

Ramelli 2001a.

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described not only, hyperbolically, as a great dynast who reigned over whole peoples, but also and above all as the first Christian king; this was clearly meant to be a unique distinction, long before Constantine. Of course, when Eusebius wrote, Constantine was a reality that could dwarf Abgar, but this was not yet the case when Bardaisan wrote. From Bardaisan’s point of view, Abgar Ukkama was the precedent, not for Constantine, but for Abgar the Great.39 Another argument from later religious agendas supports the hypothesis that Bardaisan or someone from his circle elaborated the first version of the Addai-Abgar narrative: in the fourth century, long after Bardaisan’s lifetime, “orthodoxy” established itself at the expense of those which were labelled heresies: in Edessa Manichaeism, besides the more ancient “Gnosticism” and Marcionism. Bardaisan in the third and fourth centuries was accused of supporting these heresies, even if in fact he refuted Gnosticism (Valentinian determinism) and Marcionism and lived before the spread of Manichaeism, whose doctrine of two equal but opposite principles he did not at all share.40 However, he was represented as a Gnostic, a Manichaean, and even a Marcionite. At the same time, the figure of the apostle Addai was appropriated by Syrian “orthodoxy,” whose expression was the Doctrina Addai, whose final redaction seems to stem from the early fifth century.41 As I will demonstrate in section 4, Addai’s theological speeches and doctrinal teachings are amply developed here, and serve the purpose of ascribing a perfectly orthodox thought to him. Now, this insistence on the orthodoxy of the apostle of Edessa would be perfectly understandable if the Addai legend had been first fixed and spread by an author who had meanwhile come to be regarded as a heretic, such as Bardaisan. Eusebius, on the contrary, did not consider Bardaisan to be a heretic – he even quoted his arguments against Fate as authoritative along with those of Origen, his hero42 – and indeed was not concerned in the least about Addai’s orthodoxy either. It is meaningful that Rabbula of Edessa, who according to Han J. W. Drijvers was responsible for the final redaction of the Doctrina,43 and promoted the replacement of the Diatessaron – a work of a “heretic,” Tatian – with the Peshitta,44 according to his biography45 destroyed, in a literal or a metaphorical sense, the meeting place of the followers 39 The conversion of the latter to Christianity is mentioned by Julius Africanus and Bardaisan, both contemporaries of Abgar the Great, but not by Eusebius, who seems to have simply dropped this information from Bardaisan’s Against Fate, perhaps because he didn’t want to obfuscate Constantine’s glory as the first Christian emperor who issued a Christian legislation. Philip the Arab, whom he regarded as a Christian, did not issue any Christian legislation. 40 See Ramelli 2009e. 41 Cf. Mirkovic 2004; Griffith2003; Illert 2007, with my review in RBL 2009, available at http:// www.bookreviews.org/BookDetail.asp?TitleId=6797. 42 See Ramelli 2009e, 131–38. 43 J. W. Drijvers 1997; H. J. W. Drijvers 1998, 15–16; 1999. 44 Cf. Brock 2006, 34 and passim; Romeny 2006. 45 See Ramelli 2009e, 292–97.

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of Bardaisan, and used its materials to build the “orthodox” church. If this is a metaphor, this means that Rabbula converted the Bardaisanites to “orthodoxy.” In either case, it would be very interesting that the author, or promoter, of the Doctrina was so averse to Bardaisan and his followers, and for this reason insisted so much on the “orthodoxy” of Addai, knowing that the Addai legend was first spread by “heretics” such as Bardaisan and his entourage.

3. The Layer of the Fictional Letters between Abgar and Jesus: From Edessa to Eusebius After the very first stages delineated so far, i. e., the Abgar-Tiberius historical letters and Bardaisan’s first development of the Addai-Abgar narrative, the subsequent layer is the Edessan lore revolving around the letters purportedly exchanged by Abgar and Jesus, which represents a common source of both Eusebius’ Greek account of the Abgar story in his Church History and the Syriac apostolic novel Doctrina Addai. Indeed, Eusebius’ historical work at the beginning of the fourth century offers the first entirely preserved account of the Abgar-Addai story, which incorporates Edessan fictional material such as the Abgar-Jesus letters and, as I have argued, also (probably) Bardaisan’s report in the “first layer” of the narrative. The Abgar-Jesus letters can be regarded as a veritable epistolary novel, in the case of Eusebius embedded in a formal historical frame.46 In the case of the Doctrina Addai, instead, they will be enshrined in an apostolic novel, as we shall see. Bardaisan’s account, if it is Bardaisan’s, lies behind Eusebius’ first four paragraphs; the following paragraphs, which come after a sharp break in Eusebius’ narrative, derive from a different source. They quote the pseudepigraphic epistolary exchange between Abgar Ukkama and Jesus and narrate the subsequent story of Addai’s healing of Abgar. The insertion of the letters corresponds to a constant practice in Eusebius, who included many original documents, or those he believed to be original, in his history.47 Eusebius himself reveals his source for this second section (whereas he does not do so for the first section, presumably from Bardaisan): an official document preserved in the archives in Edessa, which he or his collaborators translated into Greek. It is probable that those letters were fabricated during the third century, between Bardaisan’s and Eusebius’ time, in order to consolidate the Addai legend, which was taking shape there. That the section containing the letters comes from a different source than 46 On epistolary novels and narratives, see Hodkinson–Rosenmeyer–Bracke 2013, esp. chs. 10–13 for epistolary narratives embedded in larger narratives, such as Odysseus’ Letter to Calypso in Lucian’s Verae Historiae, letters in Achilles Tatius and in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius of Tyana, but also in Phlegon of Tralles, a historian like Eusebius. 47 See Grafton–Williams 2006, 178–232.

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the first Eusebian section is indicated by the very different denominations and descriptions of Abgar they provide. In the pseudepigraphic letters, he is named “Abgar Ukkama,” while in the initial section, he is simply “Abgar.” (If this section goes back to Bardaisan, one may suppose that, in his celebratory intention, he wanted to superimpose Abgar Ukkama as closely as possible to Abgar the Great; for this reason, he may have chosen to call the first-century king simply “Abgar” to strengthen his closeness to Abgar the Great: he wanted to highlight the similarities, and not the differences.) What is more, in the Abgar-Jesus letters, Abgar, far from being described as a splendid dynast who ruled over whole peoples beyond the Euphrates – as in the initial section certainly stemming from a local celebratory source – is designated thrice simply as a toparch, i. e., a local governor (as ruler of a vassal state of Rome), and his city, Edessa, is said to be “exceedingly small” (μικροτάτη). Such descriptions certainly do not stem from a source that intended to extol the power of the Edessan kings. Indeed, Abgar is depicted again as a mere toparch in the narrative that comes soon after the letters, which, as Eusebius himself declares, was found attached to the letters in the Edessan (fictional) document. The same line will be kept by the historian Procopius of Caesarea, who depends on Eusebius besides adding materials of his own on Abgar; not only does he call Abgar a toparch, but he has Abgar himself say that he possesses a “small kingdom” (Bell. Pers. 2.12.16; see below, section 7). Also, that the source of the section containing the Abgar-Jesus letters in Eusebius is different from that of his first section is revealed by quite distinct attitudes toward the Jews in these two sections. For the Abgar-Jesus letters show definitive hostility,48 which will only increase in the Doctrina Addai, but no trace of an anti-Jewish attitude is found in the first section stemming from the Edessan celebratory source that might be Bardaisan’s history. Now, it is meaningful that there is no sign of anti-Judaism in Bardaisan’s extant work, fragments, and testimonies; on the contrary, he displays knowledge of the Hebrew Bible and of Rabbinic exegesis, and even admiration for the Jews in his argument both in the Liber legum regionum49 and in Eusebius’ parallel excerpt from his work on Fate in PE 6.10. Thus, Bardaisan’s own attitude toward the Jews converges with the lack of anti-Judaism in Eusebius’ first source, which indeed could be Bardaisan or a follower of his. That the Eusebian section with the pseudepigraphic letters has a different source than the initial section that might stem from Bardaisan is also suggested 48 Abgar invites Jesus to join him in Edessa in order to escape the Jews’ plot against him: “the Jews are plotting against you and want to damage you.” 49 Liber legum regionum 604–607 Nau (on which, see now Ramelli 2015): the Jews are not opposed to the Christians, of whom Bardaisan speaks soon after, but are treated as a very positive parallel to them. For Bardaisan’s knowledge of the Hebrew Bible and Rabbinic exegesis, see Ramelli 2009e.

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by the different presentation, not only of Abgar and of the Jews, but of the apostle Thomas and Thaddaeus-Addai as well. In the first section Thomas is simply called “Thomas,” but in the narrative that immediately follows the forged letters, he is presented as “Judas, also called Thomas.” The latter is also his presentation in the Doctrina Addai, which does not come as a surprise, given that the Doctrina depends on the same Edessan fictional documents as Eusebius’ second section does. Likewise, Thaddaeus is described differently in these two sections. In the narrative that follows the Abgar-Jesus letters, the Twelve, who include Thomas, are distinguished from the Seventy, who include Thaddaeus. But in the first section, which possibly comes from Bardaisan, this separation is not maintained: “Thomas, one of the twelve apostles, by divine inspiration sent Thaddaeus, who also is counted among the seventy disciples of Christ.” This confusion between the two groups, possibly due to the inclusion of the Twelve in the Seventy,50 is the more evident in the narrative that follows the fictional letters: Thaddaeus here is not described as a “disciple,” but as an “apostle” and at the same time “one of the Seventy,” so that the Seventy here are described as apostles. Again, it does not come as a surprise that the Doctrina Addai, too, which is based on the same document as this section of Eusebius, calls Thaddaeus an “apostle.” In Greek, Matt 10:1–2 calls the Twelve both “disciples” and “apostles”: “He called the twelve disciples to himself … the names of the twelve apostles are…” But the most ancient layer of the Vetus Syra, as preserved in Codex Sinaiticus,51 instead of “the names of the twelve apostles” has “the names of his twelve disciples.” This is the first Syriac translation of the NT, whose origin goes back to Bardaisan’s lifetime. Tatian’s Diatessaron, too, which is even earlier and seems to have been a Gospel harmony, in the passage that corresponded to the synoptic list of the Twelve, called the twelve apostles “disciples”: “He summoned his disciples and picked out twelve, and these are those whom he called apostles: Simon, whom he named Cephas … Jesus descended with them and stopped in the valley, he and the group of the disciples, and a great many people. And he chose these twelve to stay with him, in order to send them to preach, and so that they might heal the ill and chase the demons” (from the Arabic version, 18.19). Later on, the Peshitta and the Harklean version, on the contrary, turned closer to the Greek and rendered: “the names of the twelve apostles.” If the sentence included in Eusebius’ first section that identifies apostles and disciples (“Thomas, one of the twelve apostles, by divine inspiration sent Thaddaeus, he too counted among the disciples”) derives from Bardaisan, this would explain perfectly well Eusebius’ strange expression: it would come from a very ancient Syriac version, quoted or echoed in Bardaisan’s history – that is, one of the earliest strata of the Vetus 50 For the possibility that the Twelve and the Seventy were in fact pairs of apostles, each pair composed by a man and a woman, see Taylor 2014. 51 In this passage, the attestation of Codex Curetonianus is lacking and Codex Sinaiticus is the only witness to the Vetus Syra.

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Syra or Tatian’s Diatessaron –which Bardaisan and his school used. Indeed, the Doctrina Addai describes the liturgy of the first Christians in Edessa as based on the reading of Tatian’s Diatessaron.52 Two other linguistic details demonstrate that the section of Eusebius’ account that includes the Abgar-Jesus letters and the following narrative comes from a Syriac Vorlage (confirming what Eusebius himself declares, that he is using Syriac documents from the Edessan archives). One such detail is the continual, obsessive repetition of καί in this section of Eusebius (Abgar-Jesus letters and subsequent narrative), which contrasts with Eusebius’ own syntax. This is because Eusebius here is providing a translation from Syriac, a language that, unlike Greek, employed the coordinative conjunction “and” (w) extremely frequently, especially in narratives. The second linguistic clue is that in the title of Abgar’s pseudepigraphic letter Ananias, who is supposed to have carried it to Jesus, is described as a “courier” (ταχύδρομος), whereas in the Doctrina he is called an “archivist.” The common source on which both Eusebius in this section and the Doctrina depend must have been Syriac, since only a non-vocalized blr’ could have caused a mix-up between “courier” (the Syriac transliteration of tabellarius) and “archivist” (the transliteration of tabularius). Also, at the end of the section coming from the Edessan archival document, Eusebius remarks that the facts he has just recounted happened “in the year 340” of the Seleucian era, i. e. 29/30 CE. This is different from the date indicated by the Doctrina: 32/33 CE. Eusebius, as a consequence, is unlikely to have found the year 340 in his archival source, which was also used by the Doctrina. He may have calculated the date himself, from the chronology he laid out in his Chronicle, or else he may have found that date indicated in his other source, possibly Bardaisan’s history, as the year of the beginning of the facts narrated, corresponding to the moment in which Abgar learnt Jesus’ name and deeds. Jesus was killed and rose shortly after, in the spring of 30 CE; soon after his ascension, according to the story, Addai was sent to Osrhoene. In the third and last section of his account (HE 2.1.6–8), which differs from the first two, Eusebius sums up the story of Addai. Here he does not seem to directly draw on a source, but to be speaking on his own. Indeed, he borrows phrases from his sources, Bardaisan (?) and the archival fictional material, but he also adds expressions of his own that differ from the wording or tone of his sources. For instance, in the third section, he says Thaddaeus healed Abgar “with the word / logos of Christ.” The second section, just after the Abgar-Jesus letters, recounts the healing of Abgar by Thaddaeus, but does not ascribe it to Christ’s logos, but to Abgar’s faith and to the imposition of Thaddaeus’ hand upon him in Jesus’ name. Also, Eusebius in his third section calls Abgar Ukkama “the king of the is also why I am not entirely convinced that the Doctrina is due to Rabbula: given his aversion to the Diatessaron, he would have hardly mentioned it as a foundational text of Edessan Christianity. 52 This

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Osrhoenes” (HE 1.2.6), which differs from the hyperbolically eulogistic description of Abgar as a glorious dynast ruling over whole peoples in the first section stemming from the Edessan eulogistic source, but also from the much more modest designation of Abgar as a “toparch” of “a tiny city” in the second section. In some interesting respects, Eusebius’ third part is manifestly closer to the first (from Bardaisan’s history?) than to the second (from the archival fictional document). For example, in his third section, he describes Thaddaeus’ activity in Edessa as a teaching of Christianity, thus resuming the wording of his first source: the sentence concerning Addai’s mission (“Thus Thomas by a divine inspiration sent Thaddaeus to Edessa as an announcer and evangelist of Christ’s teaching [διδασκαλία]”) is identical in the initial passage, perhaps stemming from Bardaisan, and in Eusebius’ own résumé at the beginning of book 2. As I have remarked, this “educational” conception of Jesus’ mission and of Christianity itself coincides with that of Bardaisan, who identified Jesus’ work on earth with the teaching of the truth. Eusebius returns to this notion of Christianity as teaching in his final summary: Thaddaeus transformed the Edessan people into “disciples of the salvific teaching” or “of the Saviour’s teaching” (τῆς σωτηρίου διδασκαλίας). Eusebius resumes the perspective of his first source, which is absent from the section that embraces the letters and the subsequent narrative. Additionally, in his résumé in the third part, Eusebius states that after the conversion of Abgar and the Edessan people, “from then on, and until now, the whole city of the Edessans is dedicated to the name of Christ.” This corresponds exclusively to what is found in the first part, that which might derive from Bardaisan. There is no reference to this in the second section, which includes the Abgar-Jesus letters: here it is not even said that Thaddaeus with his preaching converted the whole Edessan people to Christianity (this will be highlighted in the Doctrina, which in this case differs from the second Eusebian section and draws closer to Bardaisan’s report). Eusebius, however, states this in his third part, and not even once but twice, as he adds that the converts amounted to the totality of the people there (τοὺς αὐτόθι πάντας), who converted because Thaddaeus startled them with his miracles. The conversion of all the population of Edessa, which is not mentioned in the second section, is present in the first, where Jesus promises that he will heal Abgar physically, and at the same time will also save spiritually both him and all of his subjects; this double promise was fulfilled through Thaddaeus-Addai.

4. The First Apostolic Novel on Abgar and Addai: The Doctrina Addai as “Orthodox” Reappropriation of the Narrative About a century after Eusebius’ composite account in his Church History, the Doctrina Addai, a novel of the kind of the Acts of Apostles that I have proposed

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to consider a historical novel,53 built on the Edessan lore that was already used by Eusebius, adding to that both doctrinal and narrative expansions. The doctrinal additions are the apostle Addai’s long doctrinal speeches, so important that the author calls his work malpanûtâ, “teaching” (Doctrina), and not tash‘îtâ, “history” (Griffith 2003, §§ 3, 46). The narrative expansions include the Protonike legend, a reworking of Queen Helena’s inventio crucis story (see J. W. Drijvers 1997). These two kinds of expansions responded to the religious agenda of the Edessan “official” church in the early fifth century. Mirkovic (2004), also on the basis of linguistic and socio-historical arguments, has maintained that the Doctrina reflects the Syrians’ social aspirations in the fourth century, when the nobles were embracing Christianity and Roman culture; Addai’s preaching is addressed primarily to the king and the aristocracy of Edessa, and the author-redactor of the Doctrina wants to guarantee to the Roman authorities that the church will help to strengthen the local nobles’ loyalty to Rome. In his dependency on Rome and expressions of loyalty to the Roman emperor, Abgar himself is similar to a Roman governor, and the Syrians, whose loyalty to Rome was feeble, are straightforwardly presented as Romans. Griffith thinks that the author of the Doctrina aimed at proposing “a paradigm of normative Edessan Christianity, supported by the local ecclesiastical and historical lore, which he hoped would play an authoritative role in the largely Christological controversies of his own days” (Griffith 2003, § 3). This narrative was composed, on the basis of preexisting material, to promote Rabbula’s program for the Edessan “Church of the Empire” (Griffith 2003, § 46). Wood (2010, 82–116) considers the Doctrina and the later Acts of Mari – on which more below – to be documents aimed at constructing a picture of a distinct Edessene or Suryaya ethnic identity, with Edessa as a Christian centre, protected by a promise of Christ, occupying a not insignificant place in a Christian Roman Empire. He observes that the Doctrina, by incorporating earlier material, and especially the story of Abgar’s conversion, established a tradition of the city’s early Christian past. He also points out strong anti-Jewish and anti-pagan tendencies in these documents (but with the exception, I would remark, of the Abgar-Tiberius letters, which were not composed by the author of the Doctrina but come from an independent, ancient, and well-documented source). Wood (2012, ch. 4) plausibly dates the Doctrina to the 440s, but as a composite of earlier traditions and documents, and correctly notes that it is ten times longer than the Abgar legend in Eusebius. On no firm grounds, however, he deems the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence a mere transformation of the pseudepigraphical 53 As argued by Ramelli 2009, and 2010 with further arguments. Pervo 2012, xvi describes the so-called apocryphal Acts of Apostles as “fictional narratives with long recognised similarities to, as well as major differences from, romantic and other novels.” This is also the case with the Doctrina Addai. On this historical novel see Desreumaux 1993; González Núñez 1995; Ramelli 1999; Griffith 2003; Mirkovic 2004; Illert 2007; Ramelli 2009b; 2008 introductory essay; Wood 2010, 2012.

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and late Pilate-Tiberius correspondence, and an expression of anti-Judaism like the rest of the Doctrina. I have already demonstrated that neither is quite the case, given the strikingly precise historical details the Abgar-Tiberius letters contain and given their profoundly different attitude from the anti-Judaism that is found in the rest of the Doctrina. Though Wood recognises, at least, that the Protonike legend in the Doctrina was added later than the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence. Addai’s sermons and actions function as a model for the correct behaviour of the church in the era in which the Doctrina was compiled; his foundation of the ascetics called “children of the covenant” – to whom Aphrahat also belonged in the fourth century54 – and of ascetic priesthood provided these existing Syriac religious institutions with an apostolic foundation. Thus, the whole narrative of the Doctrina was in the service of the strategic needs of the religious group that promoted its redaction and diffusion. Indeed, the religious political agenda that shaped this narrative is clear: the newly established Syriac “orthodoxy” wanted to reappropriate Edessa and, I would add, the very figure of its apostle Addai, who was first celebrated by “heretics” such as Bardaisan and his entourage. This is why Addai in the Doctrina is attributed long doctrinal homilies that shine with “orthodox” ideas and that were completely absent from Eusebius and arguably from his two Edessan sources as well (the celebratory source possibly identifiable with Bardaisan and the source of the fictional letters between Abgar and Jesus and the narrative revolving around these letters). This is also why the Doctrina presents Palut as the successor of Aggai, in turn Addai’s successor, whereas in fact, as the first bishop of Edessa, he was ordained by Serapion of Antioch around 190 c.e.55 But such a chronological telescoping between the apostolic age and the Severan age was strategically deployed by the author of the Doctrina in order to stress the apostolic origins of the church of Edessa. In fact, Palut in Edessa presented himself as a true heir of the apostolic tradition, in opposition to “heretical” groups such as that of Bardaisan. Thus, the Addai-Aggai-Palut direct succession guaranteed the “orthodoxy” of the Christian origins of Edessa. Moreover, Mirkovic (2004) points out the “Roman  See Lenzi 2012 with my review in Hugoye 17 (2014): 153–60. The emphasis placed by Christian apostolic novels on the conversion of kings – as happens in the Doctrina – and rich and influential people who are then turned into munificent benefactors for the church and the poor is rightly pointed out by Perkins 2014. The Doctrina lays emphasis on asceticism and on the care of the poor and the sick, which also seems to reflect views of Aphrahat, Ephrem and some hagiographic writings of the fifth century: the Doctrina thus recounts that Addai did not accept wealth from Abgar, nor rich burial clothes, although the king supports the building of the local church and Addai’s ministries; he recommends his disciples not to love “the profits of this world,” and indeed “they did not receive silver or gold from anyone … they were splendidly chaste, pure and holy … splendidly engaged in taking on the burden of the poor, in visiting the sick.” 55 See the Martyrdom of Barsamya, the Bishop of the Blessed City Edessa, in Cureton 1864, 71, on the basis of ms. British Museum Additamentum 14645. 54

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connection” in the Doctrina, especially evident in the Protonike legend, as a sign that its author wished to communicate to contemporary upper-class Syrians a message of reconciliation with Rome and of reinforcement of the “Church of the Empire.” The Doctrina is therefore a particularly evident case of how religious agendas in late antiquity shaped narrative forms. Like Eusebius’ second section encompassing the Abgar-Jesus letters, the Doctrina declares to be based on a Syriac document from the archives of Edessa. It was written by the king’s scribe, Labubna son of Sennak son of Abshadar, whose accuracy was tested by Hannan, “the king’s trustworthy archivist” (Howard 1981, lii–liii, 105–107). The Doctrina narrates that king Abgar Ukkama sent two Edessan nobles and his archivist Hannan on a diplomatic mission to the Roman official in Eleutheropolis. On their way back, they passed by Jerusalem and came to know Jesus and his miraculous deeds. So, from them, Abgar learned of Jesus’ miracles and of the risk he ran because of the Jewish chiefs’ hostility. The king wished he could go to Jerusalem himself, but in order to avoid entering Roman territory, he preferred to send a letter to Jesus, inviting him to come to Edessa, escape from “the Jews,” and heal him, Abgar, who had long been ill. The motif of Abgar’s refraining from entering Palestine clearly derives from the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence, but with a thorough reframing that leads to a historical absurdity: while to Tiberius Abgar wrote that he had avoided entering Palestine with his army, which would have clearly alarmed the Romans, here in the novelistic elaboration of this motif, Abgar because of the Romans refrains from entering Palestine privately, to meet Jesus, which is historically unlikely. The Romans would never have forbidden Abgar to move and travel to Palestine to be cured by Jesus; what they would have certainly prevented Abgar from doing was rather to march against Palestine with his army, and this is correctly stated in the introduction to Abgar’s letter in his correspondence with Tiberius. I deem it probable that the idea that Abgar was prevented from traveling to Palestine to be healed by Jesus is an echo and a distortion of the declaration that pertains to his political correspondence with Tiberius, i. e., that the Romans would have impeded him if he had marched on against Palestine with his army. The author of the Doctrina found this declaration in the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence and transposed it, not without a significant alteration, to his own narrative concerning Abgar, Jesus, and Addai. The alteration consists in the fact that the Christian novelist referred this declaration not to a possible military expedition of Abgar, which would have indeed alarmed the Romans, but to a possible journey of his to Jerusalem, to be healed by Jesus. Such an alteration can in fact be explained perfectly well as an adaptation to the fictional frame in which the Abgar-Jesus correspondence is embedded in the Doctrina: for it is here, and not in the correspondence with Tiberius, that Abgar is supposed to be ill and to ask Jesus to heal him. Now, all this is a further clue that the Abgar-Jesus-Addai story arose from the already existent Abgar-Tiberius letters, as an expansion and a legendary elaboration.

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The Doctrina goes on to narrate that Jesus did not travel to Edessa, but in a written message promised that a disciple would arrive at Edessa after his own ascension. He also let Hannan paint his portrait, which Abgar then enshrined in one of his palaces (this seems to be the first explicit reference to the Edessan Mandylion). The whole story I have summarised so far belongs to the section of the Doctrina that contains the most striking parallels with the accounts of Eusebius (although Eusebius mentions no portraits, arguably because he was hostile to representations of Jesus Christ and God) and Moses of Chorene, both of whom also declare that they obtained their material from the archives of Edessa. The Doctrina further narrates that, in fulfilment of Jesus’ promise, after his resurrection one of the twelve apostles, Thomas, actually sent “one of the seventy-two,” Addai, to Edessa, where he “dwelled in the house of Tobias, son of Tobias, the Jew, who came from Palestine.” Addai immediately began to work miracles, and thus was introduced to Abgar, at which point one notices the repetition of the motif originally taken from the Abgar-Tiberius letters but here adapted to the novelistic framework: the king, professing his faith, states again that he never went to Palestine himself because, “since the kingdom belongs to the Romans, I have respect for the covenant of peace established by me and my predecessors with our lord Tiberius Caesar.” At this point there is a transition from the narrative to the doctrinal part, which is quite long in the Doctrina and justifies its very title. An interpolated, additional story functions as a connection between these two parts: Addai tells the king the story of Protonike, Emperor Claudius’ alleged wife, converted in Rome by Simon Peter; she found the true cross in Jerusalem and had a big church built on Golgotha. (Protonike is clearly a variation on Queen Helena, the mother of Constantine, and Helena was also the name of the first-century queen of Adiabene, who died around 56 c.e., the mother of Izates II and Monobazus II; she too was related to Palestine, as she converted to some form of Judaism about 30 c.e., being a Nazirite for many years, and because she relieved a famine in Jerusalem; she also moved to Jerusalem at some point, had a palace there, and was probably also buried there.) The following day Addai preaches to the people of Edessa, summoned for this precise purpose, and the nobles, among whom is Labubna, the archivist who is said to have reported the whole story. The Doctrina divides Addai’s message into three main parts: Christological, personal, and anti-pagan. These are particularly interesting, for they help determine the religious landscape of the time in which these sections, at least, were written (see Griffith 2003, §§ 14–18). At the end of this doctrinal unit, reproducing Addai’s preaching and arguably aimed at reappropriating the Christian origin of Edessa and its apostle to “orthodoxy,” our document resumes the narrative-diegetic tone, and it relates that, as a result of Addai’s preaching, all converted, and it was decided to build a church. The apostle ordained Aggai, Palut, Abshlama, and Barsamya and gave them instructions for the Church of Edessa. Every day, “many people came to assemble

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for the liturgical prayer and the Old Covenant and the New of the Diatessaron” (a clear reference to Tatian’s work, which however Rabbula supplanted with the Peshitta). Abgar wrote to “Narsai, king of Assyria” – perhaps Adiabene56 – about Addai’s mission; then the document records the exchange of letters between Abgar and Tiberius, historically set to the years 35–36 c.e., and Addai’s recommendations for the evangelisation of Assyria. The very last section of the Doctrina is devoted to the development of Christianity in Edessa after Addai’s death. Edessa, we are told, became suffragan of Antioch and was in communion with the see of Rome. Aggai, Addai’s successor, ordained ecclesiastics throughout Mesopotamia, but died a martyr at the instigation of Abgar’s son, a “pagan.” After the death of Aggai, set toward the end of the first century, Palut asked Serapion of Antioch for the investiture. Serapion had received it from Zephyrinus of Rome, but the latter was a contemporary of Septimius Severus (193–211 c.e.) and cannot have been a contemporary of Palut, Addai’s second successor: it was too late for this. This collapse of the time interval between the first century and the Severan age is also common to the Acts of Mari and was probably aimed at connecting the firstknown bishop of Edessa, Palut, a fighter of “heretics,” directly with the apostolic origins of the city, in order to stress, as I have suggested, the “orthodoxy” of the Christian origins in Edessa, against the first spread of the Abgar-Addai legend by the “heretic” Bardaisan. Because, however, before Palut there was no other bishop recorded, and likewise before Abgar the Great, a contemporary of Palut, there was no Christian king of Edessa (to the point that Abgar the Great himself was said to have converted to Christianity as an adult and not to have been raised as a Christian in an already Christian royal family) the narrative of the Doctrina had to maintain that Abgar Ukkama’s successor did not keep to Christianity, and even persecuted Christians and the local clergy. This allowed for the re-Christianisation of Osrhoene after almost two centuries from its reported first Christianisation in the time of Jesus, when according to the Addai tradition, not only King Abgar, but also his family and the whole people had “converted to Christianity.” The Doctrina, as a remarkable historical novel, contains not only anachronisms, such as those of Palut or Protonike, but also several historical traces. The most substantial and momentous are to be found in the already existing Abgar-Tiberius letters, as I have argued, but there are also some others that have gone regularly unnoticed, especially the figures of Abdu(s) and Sennak (or Sennen, or Sinnaces), who in the Doctrina are depicted as notables converted by Addai (the latter may also be identifiable with the father of “Labubna, son of Sennak,” the royal scribe who wrote the Abgar-Jesus-Addai document reportedly preserved in the Edessan archives).57 These two, Abdu and Sennak, are utterly 56 Cf.

Griffith 2003, n. 41; Millar 1993, 100–101. is mentioned also by Eusebius HE 1.13.18–19: “Abdos son of Abdos,” and in the Acts of Mari, 4, where he is “Abd(u) son of Abdu,” one of Abgar’s ministers, who is healed by Addai together with the king, and is converted. An Abdos is also present in the Narratio ex diversis 57 Abdu

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historical figures, described by Tacitus as Abdus and Sinnaces, an influential eunuch and a noble and rich man, who in fact lived in the day of Abgar Ukkama and played a remarkable role in the political events in the Near East at that time. They were linked both to the Romans and to Abgar’s court (Ann. 6.31–32). They played an important role in the events of 35–37 c.e. as promoters (without king Artabanus’ knowledge) of a Parthian embassy to Tiberius intended to request Phraates as a king instead of Artabanus; for Tiberius supported Phraates. Then, maintaining the same political line, according to Tacitus Ann. 6.36, Sinnaces persuaded his father Abdageses to desert Artabanus, who was in difficulties because of the Caucasian Iberians and of Vitellius, and in 37 c.e., with his troops, he joined Tiridates, Artabanus’ rival, chosen by Tiberius himself (Ann. 6.32), after Tiridates had crossed the Euphrates together with Vitellius (Ann. 6.37) and before Vitellius went back to Syria. The political conduct of Abdus and Sinnaces, who frequented Abgar’s court, was clearly philo-Roman. Abdu and Sennak reappear in hagiography as martyrs, often called Abdon and Sennen, killed under the Roman emperor Decius, according to their ninth-century Acts, but behind these two legendary martyrs – about whom usually hagiographers say that historically nothing is known – in fact lie those two historical personages recorded by Tacitus.58 They may have been related to the original Abgar-Tiberius correspondence, which, as I have argued, contains exact historical references to the political situation of the Near East in 35–37 c.e. Later, when the Abgar-Tiberius letters gave rise to the Abgar-Addai legend, Abdu and Sennak entered the story of the first evangelisation of Edessa, which was then developed in the Doctrina.

5. The Second Apostolic Novel on Abgar and Addai: The Acta Maris A further stage of the narrative is found about two centuries later in the Acts of Mar Mari or Acta Sancti Maris, another apostolic novel with both historical nuggets and fictional material.59 The Acts of Mari must have been composed in their final shape in the late sixth or even the seventh century. Abbeloos (1885, 44–45) suggested that the redactor was a monk of the fifth or sixth century who made use of ancient traditions. Indeed, several monastic establishments at that time were also important cultural centres, or connected to such centres (as Becker 2006 illustrates). The redactor may have been a monk of the monastery of Dorqoni, and, as shown by ch. 34, he addressed the other members of his confraternity on the occasion of the liturgical commemoration of St. Mari. Nonetheless, the historiis collecta ascribed to Constantine Porphyrogenitus and concerning once again the Abgar-Addai legend, where he informs Abgar of Addai’s arrival at Edessa. 58 This is argued by Ramelli 2009b, 49–50. 59 I limit myself to referring to Ramelli 2008; Brock 2008; Perkins 2009. English translation in Harrak 2005.

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“propagandistic” purposes of the Acts of Mari, which I shall point out, and their very genre of historical novel of a hagiographical kind suggest that our narrative may have been composed also for a broader audience. We are concerned with this narrative here because in its first part it condenses the Addai legend and connects it to the legend of the apostle Mari. Again, as with the previous layers of the Abgar-Addai story, the political-ecclesiastical reasons that shaped this narrative are easy to trace, especially if one considers that the Acts of Mari provided evidence for the apostolic origins of the church in Seleucia-Ctesiphon, thus justifying, at the time of their composition, the hegemonic plans of the katholikos, the Eastern Syriac patriarch whose see was precisely Seleucia-Ctesiphon. The apostolic origins were guaranteed by Mari, via his link with Addai and, through Addai, to Thomas and the other apostles. The Acts of Mari present Papa as Mari’s immediate successor, but since Mari was the successor of Addai according to the Acts, this would place Papa at the end of the first century, whereas historically he belongs to the fourth: before 329 c.e. he was the first bishop of Seleucia-Ctesiphon, then patriarch-katholikos, the chief of the Persian church.60 His story is treated extensively enough in the Chronicle of Arbela.61 The patriarchal lists fill the interval between Mari and Papa, the first attested patriarch of Seleucia-Ctesiphon, with five names that obviously contradict the immediacy of the Mari-Papa succession in the Acts of Mari. But this direct, anachronistic succession evidently aimed at stressing the apostolic origins of the seat of the katholikoi, here symbolised by their first representative, Papa. Also, Papa in the Acts of Mari is described as the promoter of church unity, not accidentally, given that the Acts were composed in an age when secessionist trends were developing against Seleucia, from the hierarchical and the territorial point of view62 and also from the doctrinal point of view, with anti-Trinitarian groups such as the Marcionites, the Docetists, and the Manichaeans. In 553 c.e., when at the second Council of Constantinople Christianity was divided into the patriarchates of Rome, Alexandria, Antioch, Constantinople, and Jerusalem, Seleucia was excluded, but in 585 c.e. the katholikos of Seleucia-Ctesiphon re-divided Christianity into patriarchates, one of which was his own see, regarded as the direct heir of that of Jerusalem. In ch. 10, Mari’s preaching in Mesopotamia is associated with that of Peter and Paul in Rome: “Let us not say that Mari was the last of the apostles. For Paul too was chosen after all the other apostles, and … was the last of the apostles, but … he is mentioned together with Simon Kephas, since Paul evangelised the most important city of all, Rome. And Mari, likewise, evangelised the most important region of all,” i. e., Mesopotamia. This was also a move directed at lending importance to the region of Mesopotamia and to its patriarch, the katholikos. 1985, 65. On the role of the katholikos see Abramowski 2011. Kawerau 1985, 43, 46, 47, 52; Ramelli 2003, 50–55; 2008a. 62 Especially in the southern regions of Bet Huzaye and Fars, as attested by the tendency of the Bishop of Susa not to accept Papa’s central authority. 60 Kawerau 61 See

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Also, it has been noted that the names of some of Mari’s disciples display remarkable resemblances with those of the first followers of Mani (216–276 c.e.). For instance, Ada/Adda corresponds to the Manichaean Adda, who is mentioned in a passage of the Codex Manichaicus Coloniensis (165.4: Henrichs and Koenen 1988, 112) and in other fragments of Sogdian and Parthian sources: he is cited in the Greek Acta Archelai (first half of the fourth century), which relate the story of Mani’s origins and were one of the most important sources for the Christian anti-Manichaean heresiologists. We can add that the name of Mari himself is identical to that of Mani for but a letter. Moreover, Mari’s missionary itinerary in his Acts touches many centres closely linked to precise episodes of Mani’s own story. There might be a specific purpose behind the delineation of this missionary geography, to intimate that Mari, the first person to announce the gospel in Mesopotamia, initiated the propagation of Christianity precisely in the area where, in the time in which the Acts of Mari were composed, the rival doctrine was being spread (Manichaeism has often been described as fundamentally non-Christian, but van Oort 2012, 189, also on the basis of Augustine, deems it a Christian “heresy”). Thus, the narrative structure of our Acts would function as a sort of polemical modelling of Mari’s mission on that of Mani. In the case of the Acts of Mari, the competition with Mani’s itinerary of evangelisation seems to have determined a narrative structure based on extensive travel, in addition to miracles and some preaching. It is therefore manifest how multiple, interrelated religious agendas shaped the narrative form of the Acts of Mari, just as such kinds of agendas already shaped the narrative form of the Doctrina Addai and, back to the Severan age, the first nugget of the Abgar-Addai story. The redactor of the Acts of Mari is interested in the Doctrina Addai not so much for the apostle’s doctrinal sermons in it, which are linked to the time and place of the composition of the Doctrina itself, as for its narrative sections, which provided the Mari story with a valuable connection with Edessa and the apostles. Indeed, both narratives show that the evangelisation of Mesopotamia depended to a large extent on Edessa: the Doctrina, in its final part, speaks of proselytising letters sent from Edessa to the kings of Assyria and Persia and narrates that Aggai, Addai’s immediate successor, ordained ecclesiastics in all of Mesopotamia; in his Acts, Mari, the evangelist of Mesopotamia, comes from Edessa and, when he encounters difficulties in Seleucia, writes to the apostles who are in Edessa and are responsible for his mission. However, in the Acts of Mari, the primacy of the patriarchal see of Seleucia is retrojected onto the apostolic age, and this element in the Acts of Mari seems to contrast with the final part of the Doctrina, where a connection is established between Edessa and Antioch, according to an alternative tradition. Additionally, in the Acts, Edessa no longer has the exclusive possession of the privilege of impregnability that it enjoys in the Abgar legend: in the Doctrina, a clause of the alleged letter of Jesus to Abgar promises that Edessa, Abgar’s karkā or fortified city, would be blessed and would never be conquered

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by its enemies; the same will appear in Procopius in the sixth century, as we shall see. Now, in the Acts of Mari, this privilege is also invoked for Dorqoni, Mari’s foundation close to Seleucia-Ctesiphon.63 In ch. 34, the final prayer requests that Mari’s relics become a “glorious protection” and a “source of succour,” so that Dorqoni may be an “infallible shelter” and a city “illustrious and glorious thanks to its faith more than all the nearby regions and cities.” The author claims in ch. 6 that he has “collected the ancient tradition, handed down in written works,” and narrates the evangelisation of Osrhoene, Mesopotamia, and Persia by Mari, the successor of Addai, the evangelist of Edessa. The initial chapters (2–5) of the Acts of Mari summarise the Doctrina Addai and then begin to tell their own story as an extension of it. The résumé of the Abgar-Addai story given by the Acts is accurate enough and derives especially from the first section of the Doctrina, which contains the closest parallels to both Eusebius’ and Moses’ accounts. In particular, Acts of Mari 2 (sending of Abgar’s envoys to the West and letters exchanged between Abgar and Jesus) corresponds to Doctrina 1–8; Acts 4–5 (Addai healing Abgar and Abdu, and the dialogue between Addai and Abgar) correspond to Doctrina 9–10; Acts 5 (the assembly in Edessa, on the next day) has a pendant in Doctrina 12. At the same time, the incorporation of the Addai legend generates inconsistencies with the rest of the Acts of Mari. This makes it very likely that the Addai-Abgar story was inserted into the Acts after the Mari narrative was already formed. Even the manuscripts reveal a discontinuity between the two parts, with a strong punctuation and particular graphemes, also coloured, in ms. Sachau 222 = Berlin 75, and in Codex Vaticanus Syriacus 597. Furthermore, the Doctrina never mentions Mari, while the Acts of Mari, 6 and 27, depict him as a disciple of Addai. Thus, the incorporation of the Addai story in the Acts of Mari can be understood as a strategy to lend Mari prestige and authority, by connecting him to the apostles through Addai. After establishing the Apostles > Addai > Mari connection, the Acts of Mari trace Mari’s packed missionary itinerary. Mari started from Edessa, the city evangelised by Addai, and his story is closely connected to that of Addai himself: in fact, he is clearly presented as the continuator of Addai’s activity and as his spiritual, and even institutional, heir. Mari preached and founded churches and schools in southern Mesopotamia, Babylonia, Susiana, and Persia, following the River Tigris in his travels. The area of his preaching is very precisely situated between that of Addai (Edessa and southern Mesopotamia), and that of Thomas (eastern Persia and India). More in detail, after Edessa, Mari preached in Nisibis and Arzanene (Acts 6–7), near Arbela (8–11), Bet Garmai (12–14) and Babylon 63 The Acts of Mari attribute a remarkable degree of importance to the little town of Dorqoni, near Seleucia-Ctesiphon, like Kuke, the see of the future patriarchate. In Dorqoni, Mari chose his own successor, Papa, as a kind of prefiguration of the Eastern patriarch. From Dorqoni Mari governed the churches founded by himself. There, again, he gave the last recommendations to his disciples, in a spiritual will that parallels Addai’s in the Doctrina. In Dorqoni Mari died (ch. 33).

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(15–16), and in Persia (17); he stopped for a long while in Seleucia and its neighbourhood (18–30), and finally in Mesene and in Persia, as far as the inner and southern zones (31–32). Often Mari is depicted as opposing the exponents of local cults, especially “pagan” priests, who are regularly described as charlatans, as is pointed out in Ramelli 2014a. The narration is interwoven with biblical references that tend to model Mari on Old Testament characters (Elijah and Elisha in Acts 8, Moses in 34, and the three young people of Daniel 3 in 24) and above all on Jesus (esp. Acts 20–21); indeed, the miracles of Mari often resemble those of Jesus: healings, exorcisms, resurrections (see, e. g., Acts 14). The assimilation of the protagonists to Jesus is well attested in other apocryphal Acts of apostles, especially the Acts of Thomas. Moreover, Mari is presented as strictly linked to the apostles and as “the last of the apostles,” according to St. Paul’s self-definition: in ch. 10, as I have mentioned, Mari’s preaching is assimilated to that of Peter and Paul in Rome, with a “Roman connection” that we also observed above in the Doctrina Addai; in chs. 19 and 33, Mari describes the apostles in Jerusalem as his companions. But in his Acts, Mari appears as one of the group of the seventy apostles or disciples, whereas in the short section derived from the Doctrina he is one of the seventy-two; this discrepancy between the two parts of the same composition (the Addai story and the Mari legend) together with the lack of any mention of Mari in the Doctrina Addai among Addai’s disciples, leads us to suppose that the two traditions were originally distinct and that the Addai story was incorporated into the Mari plot only subsequently. As is typical for historical novels, some elements in the story line of the Acts of Mari clearly derive from historical situations and institutions but appear transformed. Both these transformations and the incorporation of the Addai story in the larger narrative on Mari responded to the strategic needs of the redactor, his community, and possibly his commissioner, in fact of religious politics.

6. Back to “History”: Moses of Chorene’s Development A different development of the Abgar-Addai narrative, shaped by yet different motivations, is found, no longer in an apostolic novel, but in a historical work, as was already the case with Eusebius: Moses of Chorene’s History of Armenia (Patmut‘iwn Hayoc‘, henceforth PH).64 Moses’ source, as he himself makes known, was due to “Lebubna son of Ap‘shadar, who gathered all these facts from Abgar and Sanatruk’s time and put them into the archives of Edessa” (PH 2.36); 64 Thomson (1978), with other scholars, dated Moses’ historical work to the seventh to eight centuries. Voicu (1983), with other scholars, dates the History of Armenia to the fifth century, in Moses’ own lifetime, and supposes subsequent redactional interventions in the eighth to explain several anachronisms.

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this clearly corresponds to the source of the Abgar-Addai story in the Doctrina Addai, “Labubna son of Sennak son of Abshadar.” Moses claims that he himself visited Edessa and its archives (PH 3.62), and may have derived the information directly from Labubna or perhaps through Mar Abas Katina, from the fourth century c.e.65 Both Eusebius’ history and the Armenian version of the Doctrina probably were among Moses’ sources, and Moses cannot always be taken as an independent witness, but in several details his reports differ from those sources. They might derive from other traditions, which provide reliable information, as is the case in a number of instances in his historical work.66 Moses, like the Doctrina, reports the letters exchanged by Abgar and Tiberius, in PH 2.32: here Abgar claims to be a “friend” of the emperor and writes him not one but two letters, and he expresses much more deference to the Roman emperor than to the kings of Assyria and Persia in two other alleged letters of his reported by Moses soon after. The two letters by Abgar to Tiberius instead of one, as well as their greater length, probably result from an expansion by Moses in the light of the Addai story. In the first letter to Tiberius, Abgar, here called “king of the Armenians,” besides denouncing the unjust execution of Jesus, a great benefactor, and reporting the darkness and earthquake that took place at Jesus’ death, also relates his resurrection and apparition to many people, and refers to Abgar’s own healing by Jesus through a disciple, further suggesting that Tiberius order all of his subjects to adore Christ as true God. The last points were extraneous to the original Abgar-Tiberius correspondence. The second letter by Abgar contains an exhortation to Tiberius to replace Pilate with another governor. What is more, and what is absent from both the Doctrina and Eusebius, Moses introduces a connection between this story and that of a senatusconsultum of 35 CE under Tiberius (Ramelli 2013a). This connection is drawn in Tiberius’ reply to Abgar, in a section of Tiberius’ letter that finds no parallel in the Abgar-Tiberius epistolary exchange reported in the Doctrina: Thus, since he was resuscitated from the dead, many people have recognised him as god. Therefore, I would have also wanted to do what you suggest [sc. extending the worship of Jesus to the whole empire], but the Romans customarily do not recognise a god by order of the emperor only, until the Senate has gathered to debate the question. As a consequence, I had to propose the recognition of this god to the Senate, but they rejected it, because the question had not been examined by them from the beginning. However, we have ordered that whoever so wishes can receive Jesus among the divinities, and we have threatened with death anyone who will accuse the Christians.

This clearly corresponds to what Tertullian reported in Apol. 5. It is unlikely that Moses could read Latin, but he could read Greek and Syriac, besides Armenian, 65 Becker (2006) admits that in the fifth century, Moses derived data from the archives of Edessa, where a “School of the Armenians” is attested by the Acts of the Ephesian Council called Latrocinium. See Ramelli 2007. 66 See Ramelli 2000; 2001.

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and Tertullian’s passage at stake was reported by Eusebius, whose Church History was available in Greek, Syriac, at the latest in the fifth century, and Armenian: Moses himself in PH 2.10 attests that Mesrop Mashtots († 440, the inventor of the Armenian alphabet) had Eusebius’ Church History translated into Armenian, probably from the Syriac version. However, Tertullian did not draw any connection between the senatusconsultum and Abgar’s letter to Tiberius. It is impossible to know for sure whence Moses drew the connection between the Abgar-Tiberius letters and the senatusconsultum from 35 CE, since this connection is absent not only from Tertullian, but also from the Doctrina and from Eusebius’ report concerning Abgar. Eusebius did know the senatusconsultum (since, as I mentioned, he included in his Church History the Greek translation of Tertullian’s relevant passage), but he dealt with it in a completely different section of his Church History than the section relating the Abgar-Addai story. So he drew no connection between the senatusconsultum and the correspondence between Abgar and Tiberius, with the latter of which he is not even acquainted. I deem it possible that Moses took this connection from his other source on the Abgar narrative, that is, Bardaisan’s aforementioned historical work, which indeed he declares to be one of his sources: “It is from this historical account [i. e., Bardaisan’s history of the Near East, which Moses calls ‘history of Armenia’] that I have drawn mine; I have reproduced it for you from the reign of Artavasdes up to the annals of Kosrov” (PH 2.66), which means that Bardaisan was a source for Moses from the first century BCE to the early third CE. Moses also states in PH 2.10 that he was directly acquainted with the historical work of the early-third-century chronographer Sextus Julius Africanus, who was the instructor of Abgar the Great’s son, Ma‘nu.67 In his Kestoi, Africanus offers an account of Bardaisan’s exceptional figure; he personally knew Bardaisan, Heraclas, and Origen, with whom he also exchanged letters.68 Since, as I have argued above in section 2, 67 Here,

after the long section of his history drawn from Mar Abas (Apsas) Katina, Moses moves on to another section drawn from another source, namely Africanus: “I will begin to tell you historical facts from Book 5 of the chronographer Africanus, whose testimony is confirmed by Josephus, Hippolytus, and many other Greek authors. Indeed, Africanus took from the manuscripts and the archives of Edessa, that is, Urhai, all that regards the history of our kings. These books were brought from Medzpin, but Africanus also made use of the histories of the temples of Sinope and Pontus; let nobody doubt this, since I have seen these manuscripts with my own eyes. As a proof and warranty you also have the Church History by Eusebius of Caesarea, which the blessed and learned Mashtots had translated into Armenian. Search at Kegharkhuni, in the district of Siuni, and in the first collection of documents, at number 13, you will find with certainty that in the archives of Edessa the history is kept of all the actions of our first kings down to the time of Abgar, and from Abgar to Eruand [58–78 c.e.]. I think that all these documents are still preserved in that city.” 68 Documentation in Ramelli 2009, 269–303. As for Heraclas (Origen’s former fellow student, then fellow teacher, and later bishop), in his chronography, fr. 54, Africanus himself attests that he went to Alexandria driven by the great fame of Heraclas: ἐν οἷς φησὶν ἑαυτὸν πορείαν στείλασθαι ἐπὶ τὴν Ἀλεξάνδρειαν, διὰ πολλὴν τοῦ Ἡρακλᾶ φήμην. Of Bardaisan, Africanus exalts the prowess with the bow and at the same time he attests that he met Bardaisan – whom

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Africanus treated Abgar Ukkama in his work, Moses may have depended on this source as well for his connection between the senatus consultum and the Abgar-Tiberius letters. However, also given the fragmentary state of Africanus’ work, certainty cannot be attained concerning the source of this connection. A comparative look at the very disposition of the material in the Doctrina Addai and in Moses’ Armenian version of the Addai legend confirms once again that the Abgar-Tiberius letters formed an independent nugget, later incorporated in the Abgar-Addai story, with little elaboration in the Doctrina and much more in Moses. In the Doctrina Abgar’s message to Tiberius is not quoted within the story of the king’s envoys sent to Palestine and the exchange of letters between Abgar and Jesus, which is at the beginning of the Doctrina, but rather falls at the end of the story, after Addai’s preaching and the description of his arrangements for the church in Edessa, and just before the account of the arrangements for the evangelisation of Assyria. In Moses’ account (PH 2.33), the letters to Nerseh/ Narsai king of Assyria and to Ardashes, king of Persia, are situated after the correspondence between Abgar and Tiberius, whereas in the Doctrina, 74–76, there is only the letter to Narsai, and this is placed before Abgar’s and Tiberius’ epistolary exchange. All this, together with the fact that Moses links the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence with the story of the senatusconsultum of 35 c.e. under Tiberius, which is absent from the Doctrina, indicates that the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence, entirely lacking in Eusebius, constitutes an independent section that was only subsequently integrated into the body of the Abgar legend. And this originally independent nugget, given the startling references to the historical situation of the years 35–37 c.e. in the Roman Near East, must be particularly ancient. In Moses’ version of the Abgar story, “Marinus” corresponds to “Albinus” found in the Doctrina. Tiberius, in his letter to Abgar in the Doctrina, mentions an “A(u)lbinus” as a governor or “proconsul” endowed with a power in the Near East that seems to be far superior and more extended than that of Pilate in Palestine; I have already identified it as the power of a legatus Syriae or a plenipotentiary such as Lucius Vitellius (Albinus). Tiberius adds that Pilate reported to this personage the facts concerning Jesus and his condemnation, and Albinus related them to the emperor. Moreover, in the body of the Doctrina, “Sabinus,” who seems to refer to the same political figure as Albinus,69 is described as a Roman imperial official based in “Eleutheropolis,” and the double form of his name confirms the double source that I have hypothesised respectively for the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence (Albinus) and for the Abgar-Jesus correspondence with the he calls “the Parthian”: (Βαρδησάνης ὁ Πάρθος) – at the court of Abgar the Great in Edessa, where he, Africanus, was the instructor of the king’s son Ma‘nu: Εἶδον καὶ αὐτός, ἐν Ἀβγάρου τοῦ βασιλέως, Μάννου τοῦ παιδὸς αὐτοῦ πολλάκις πειράσαντος, ἐμοῦ ὑφηγησαμένου. Τοξότης οὕτω δεινὸς ἦν (Kestoi 1.20). 69 In the Syriac writing, moreover, the names Sabinus and A(u)lbinus are graphically close, especially in Estrangela.

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appended narrative (Sabinus). In a later Syriac Transitus Mariae (Cureton 1864, 110–11) in which the Abgar legend and the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence are taken up, there is no longer a double name, one for the Abgar-Tiberius letters and one for the Abgar-Jesus-Addai story, but only one, “Sabina” (Syriac for “Sabinus”), who appears as a governor who was appointed by Tiberius and whose authority extended as far as the Euphrates; he is described as having acted as an intermediary between Abgar and the emperor. This further suggests that the double name in the Doctrina is due to a double source, whereas the later Transitus probably drew all of its Abgar material from the Doctrina, adapting it to its own frame, in which the focus is on the character of Mary, the mother of Jesus. The double name becomes one and a single name also in Moses, who in his own version of the Abgar story mentions a “Marinus” as the governor of “Phoenicia, Palestine, Syria, and Mesopotamia,” a plenipotentiary like Vitellius: At that time, Marinus, son of Eustorgius, was charged by the emperor with the task of supervising Phoenicia, Palestine, Syria, and Mesopotamia. Abgar sent to him two of his chief officers, Mar Ihab, prince of Aghdznik, and Shamashgram, head of the family of the Abahuni, together with Hannan, his favourite. The envoys went to the town of Bethgubin to let Marinus know the causes of Abgar’s travel to the East, by showing him the treatise signed by Ardashes and his brothers and at the same time to ask for Marinus’ support. They met Marinus at Eleutheropolis. Marinus received the envoys with courtesy and distinction, and replied to Abgar as follows: “Do not fear anything from the emperor, provided that you regularly pay the tribute.” On their way back, the envoys went to Jerusalem, to see Christ our Saviour, attracted as they were by the fame of his miracles. (PH 2.30)

In the Abgar narrative, Marinus plays here the same role as Sabinus in the Doctrina: he is the Roman official to whom Abgar sent his envoys – their names, Mar Ihab and Shamashgram, are the same as in the Doctrina – during the last year of Jesus’ life on earth, and is based, like Sabinus, in Eleutheropolis alias Bethogabra; Bethgubin in Moses’ text may indeed be a reminiscence of the older name of Eleutheropolis, Bethogabra. The transformation of Sabinus into Marinus (I have underlined the letters that undergo a change) in Armenian is very easily explained on a paleographical basis: s ( ) and m ( ) are extremely similar in Armenian, and so are also b ( ) and r ( ), all the more so in manuscripts as opposed to printed editions. Thus, it is not Moses who deliberately changed the name he found in the Syriac Abgar legend, but the variation must be the result of an alteration that occurred in the manuscript tradition. It is also interesting to note that in the Abgar-Jesus correspondence Abgar calls himself “toparch,” as in Eusebius, and calls Jesus “Saviour and benefactor” (PH 2.31), which is closer to Eusebius’ version (“good Saviour,” HE 1.13.6) than to the Syriac tradition (“good Physician,” asyā tabā).70 70 This divergence between Eusebius’ “Saviour” and the Syriac’s “Physician” is also noted by Brock 2013, 44.

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Moses presents Abgar as an Armenian king – and even offers an Armenian etymology of his name, which is almost certainly wrong71 – to trace back to him the very origin of Christianity in “Armenia” (Moses tends to incorporate many territories in his concept of “Armenia”). The tradition of Thaddaeus/Addai’s and Bartholomew’s preaching and martyrdom in Armenia, also in the first century, likewise endowed the Armenian church with apostolic origins and shifted back the spread of Christianity in Armenia to an epoch considerably earlier than that of Gregory the Illuminator, in order for the anti-Chalcedonian Armenian church to claim independence from the Byzantine church (as rightly observed by Calzolari 2011). This is indeed another excellent example of how religious agendas shaped narratives. At the beginning of the fourth century, thanks to Gregory the Illuminator, Armenia was the very first kingdom to adopt Christianity as a state religion, while the Roman Empire did so only under Theodosius. But Moses, by representing Abgar Ukkama as an Armenian king and by reporting the legend of his and his subjects’ conversion to Christianity, was suggesting that even as early as in the thirties of the first century, an Armenian kingdom adopted Christianity as state religion. This is probably the main reason why Moses incorporated the Abgar-Addai legend in his History of Armenia, but transforming Abgar into an Armenian.

7. History Again: Procopius’ Lack of Religious Agendas Determines a Different Narrative Shape An interesting contrastive parallel can be added with Procopius of Caesarea, who in the sixth century, while speaking of the Persian king Chosroes’ attempt to capture Edessa, recounts the story of how the miracles of Christ induced Abgar to ask Jesus to come to Edessa and heal him from his gout (Bell. Pers. 2.12). Jesus did not go, but promised by letter to heal the toparch – as Procopius, like Eusebius’ second source, calls him, moreover describing his kingdom as “small,” again as did Eusebius’ second source. Indeed, Abgar recovered after reading Jesus’ letter, and not after the arrival of the apostle Addai, as the story goes in Eusebius, in the Doctrina Addai, in the Acts of Mari, and in Moses. In fact, Procopius does not even mention Addai. He was clearly uninterested in linking the origins of Christianity in Edessa with this apostle, since he obviously did not share the religious-political agendas of the Doctrina, the Acts, or Moses. Procopius was much more interested in the clause that Jesus purportedly added to his reply to Abgar, namely that no barbarian would be able to conquer Edessa, since Procopius intended to explain how Chosroes was induced by that very fame of impregnability to try its reliability, by sieging Edessa – and failed. The clause was even inscribed 71 Avag

hair, or “valiant man” (PH 2.26).

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in the walls of the city as a protection, the same protection that, according to a parallel tradition, was granted to Edessa by the presence of the image of Jesus in it. The gist of Procopius’ version of the Abgar story is the Abgar-Jesus correspondence already known to Eusebius, but the emphasis is placed on the letters themselves and the healing and protective power of Jesus’ own letter, and not on the apostle Addai as the guarantor of the apostolic origin of Edessa’s Christianity, differently from what happens in the Doctrina, in the Acts of Mari, and in Moses.72 This is also why, in contrast to these other versions of the Abgar legend, Procopius does not even mention the conversion of all of Abgar’s subjects to Christianity. Thus it is evident how the lack of religious agendas in Procopius shaped his own Abgar narrative in a way that differs considerably from the other narratives, which on the contrary had strong religious agendas behind them.

8. Conclusions: The Role of Religion in Shaping Narrative Forms Thus, as I have offered, the story of Abgar and Addai is rooted in a historical fact (Abgar’s knowledge of the activity and execution of Jesus and his correspondence with the emperor, which took place historically for political reasons). It then became a religious narrative, first to celebrate – and possibly defend – Abgar the Great, arguably the first Christian king of Edessa, when the Abgar-Addai legend crystallised, and then to pursue various religious-political agendas. One of these agendas was that of the newly established Edessan “orthodoxy” in the Doctrina Addai, with its concern for appropriating to “orthodoxy” a legend that was probably first promoted by a milieu, Bardaisan’s, which had meanwhile become suspected of heresy. Another of those agendas was that of the Acts of Mari, in which this narrative was helpful to provide a link between Mari and the apostles, so as to support the authority of the patriarchal see of Seleucia-Ctesiphon. Moses, like Eusebius and partially perhaps Bardaisan, had a more “historical” goal: the celebration of the early spread of Christianity in Mesopotamia. And he closed the circle, so to say, with the return to an important detail: the connection of the Abgar-Tiberius correspondence with Tiberius’ Eastern politics and a motion of his to the Senate in 35 c.e., which may be historical. However, even Moses seems to have had a religious-political agenda: that of promoting the origins of Armenian Christianity as apostolic  – even boasting about the first Christian state as “Armenian” (Osrhoene)  – over against the Chalcedonian church with which the Armenian church was in conflict. Procopius, instead, has no religious agenda, but rather links the Abgar narrative to Chosroe’s plans on conquering Edessa. This is why he concentrates on the promise of impregnability for Edessa 72 Like Moses, however, Procopius mixes up Abgar Ukkama and his homonymous predecessor who lived under Augustus (Ramelli 1999).

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contained in the Abgar-Jesus letters and therefore leaves the Addai narrative completely aside. If the Addai-Abgar legend is rooted in history but developed in narratives that added many fictional elements, it comes as no surprise that the novels which present it in the fullest form are two historical novels, the Doctrina Addai and the Acts of Mari, and that Eusebius, Moses, and Procopius incorporated this story in their historical works (as Bardaisan and Africanus may already have done). In the case of the Addai legend, it is particularly evident how religion, and religious agendas changing over time, shaped narrative forms. I have demonstrated this at every stage of the development of the Abgar-Addai story, from its possible roots in the historical letters exchanged by Abgar Ukkama and Tiberius for eminently political reasons through Bardaisan, Eusebius, the Doctrina Addai, some Syriac Transitus Mariae, the Acts of Mari, Procopius, and Moses of Chorene.

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–. 2014a. “Lucian’s Peregrinus as Holy Man and Charlatan, and the Construction of the Contrast between Holy Men and Charlatans in the Acts of Mari.” In Holy Men/Women and Charlatans in the Ancient Novel, Proceedings of RICAN 6, Sixth Rethymno International Conference on the Ancient Novel, University of Crete, Department of Philology, 30–31 May 2011. Edited by Michael Paschalis and Stelios Panayotakis. Groningen: Barkhuis. –. 2014b. “The Jesus Movement’s Flight to Pella and the ‘Parting of the Ways.’” Augusti­ nianum 54: 37–53. –, ed. 2015. Bardaisan on Free Will, Fate, and Human Nature: The Book of the Laws of Countries. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Romeny, Bas ter Haar, ed. 2006. The Peshitta: Its Use in Literature and Liturgy; Papers Read at the Third Peshitta Symposium. Leiden: Brill. Rochette, Bruno. 1997. Le latin dans le monde grec. Recherches sur la diffusion de la langue et des lettres latines dans les provinces hellénophones de l’Empire romain. Bruxelles: Latomus. Taylor, Joan. 2014. “‘Two by Two’: The Ark-etypal Language of Mark’s Apostolic Pairings.” Pages 58–82 in The Body in Biblical, Christian and Jewish Texts. Edited by Joan Taylor. London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark. Thomson, Robert, ed. 1978. Moses Khorenats’i, History of the Armenians. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. van Oort, Johnannes. 2012. “Augustine and the Books of the Manichaeans.” Pages 188–99 in A Companion to Augustine. Edited by Mark Vessey. Oxford: Wiley-Blackwell. Voicu, Sever. 1983. “Movses Xorenac‘i.” Pages 2324–25 in Dizionario Patristico e di Antichità Cristiane II. Edited by Angelo Di Berardino. Casale Monferrato: Marietti. Victor, Ulrich. 2010. “Das Testimonium Flavianum. Ein authentischer Text des Josephus.” Novum Testamentum 52: 72–82. Votaw, Clyde. 1970. The Gospels and Contemporary Biographies in the Greco-Roman World. Philadelphia: Fortress. Wood, Philip. 2010. “We Have No King but Christ”: Christian Political Thought in Greater Syria on the Eve of the Arab Conquest (c. 400–585). Oxford: Oxford University Press. –. 2012. “Syriac and the ‘Syrians.’” In The Oxford Handbook of Late Antiquity. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Online edition DOI: 10.1093/oxfordhb/9780195336931.013.0006.

“On Fire with Desire” (πυρουμένη πόθῳ) Passion and Conversion in the Ancient Greek Novels and Early Christian Female Virgin Martyr Accounts Kathryn Chew Compare the following statements made by female characters in ancient Greek texts. In one case, the speaker is the heroine in a novel, and in the other, the speaker is a Christian virgin martyr: ἐγὼ δὲ καὶ γυμνὴ καὶ μόνη καὶ γυνή, καὶ ἓν ὅπλον ἔχω τὴν ἐλευθερίαν, ἣ μήτε πληγαῖς κατακόπτεται μήτε σιδήρῳ κατατέμνεται μήτε πυρὶ κατακαίεται. οὐκ ἀφήσω ποτὲ ταύτην ἐγώ. κἂν καταφλέγῃς, οὐχ οὕτως θερμὸν εὑρήσεις τὸ πῦρ. “I am naked and alone and a woman, but I have one weapon, my freedom, which cannot be knocked out by blows, nor cut out by iron, nor burned away by fire. I will not ever give this up, and if you try to burn it out of me, you will not find fire hot enough.” ἄπιθι πρὸς αὐτὸν ἀγαλλιωμένη. αὐτῷ γάρ σε νυμφεύομαι σήμερον, καὶ αὐτῷ προσάγω, καὶ αὐτῷ παρατίθημι. ἰδοὺ καὶ ὁ νυμφὼν εὐτρεπὴς. “Go off to him, rejoicing. For I am marrying you to him today, and I am leading you to him, and I am offering you to him. Look, the bridal chamber is ready.”

Without the subtle clues in the vocabulary and its usage,1 it would be difficult to assign each quotation to its genre from a casual reading. The heroine in the first passage (Ach. Tat. 6.22.4) speaks of herself as a martyr on the brink of torture, and the martyr in the second passage (Anastasia of Rome, AASS Oct. tome 12, 521C) is encouraged to go off [to torture as if] to her wedding. In fact, just prior to 1 The

use of ἐλευθερία identifies the first passage as novelistic, because in the martyr accounts, freedom is referred to as something given by Christ, not as something that a martyr possesses in any sense; e. g., τοῦ νομοθέτου Χριστοῦ ἐλευθερώσαντός με ἐκ τῆς τῶν πατέρων μου ἀνάγκης (“since the lawgiver Christ has freed me from the power of my parents”; Susanna of Eleutheropolis, AASS Sept. tome 6, 154E) and modo videbo si Christus tuus liberabit te (“soon I will see if your Christ will free you”; Aurea, AASS Sept. tome 2, 758B). The use of ἀγαλλιάω (“rejoice”) marks the second passage as Christian, for this word is restricted to Christian and Jewish (the Septuagint) writings, while secular authors use the older form ἀγάλλω. The rhetorical sophistication of the first quote, with its tricola of increasing momentum, also indicates its genre, compared with the relative simplicity of the second quote and its tricolon that actually reverses the order of significance. Without a thorough examination of tricola in the martyr accounts, I would be unwilling to argue the intentionality of this reversal. All translations are the author’s.

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her quote, the heroine reproves her would-be seducers thus: μαρτύρησον … πῶς πρὸς τὰς αἰκίας ἔχω (“witness … how I bear up under assaults”; Ach. Tat. 6.20.3). Her choice of vocabulary (μαρτύρησον, “witness”) clearly suggests that the allusion to martyr stories is deliberate.

Heroines and Martyrs: Passion and Conversion It is only relatively recently that scholars have examined Classical literature and early Christian writings under the same lens, to the mutual benefit of each literature.2 In this chapter, I want to explore certain thematic connections between the ancient novels and early Christian female virgin martyr accounts.3 These two literatures coexisted during the first few centuries of this era, though it is now fairly certain that the novels predate the martyr accounts, as the recent first-century dates for Chariton’s and Xenophon’s novels indicate.4 The structural similarity between the two literatures suggests that the writers of the martyr accounts were familiar with novelistic stories, and from imagery and vocabulary in the later novels, this awareness seems to be reciprocal.5 That the writers of martyr accounts adapted an extant genre also seems more likely, given Christianity’s tendency to adopt other neglected mainstream genres, like the sermon and the epistle. Both literatures feature leading female characters of outstanding beauty and constant devotion to a lover. In the novel heroine’s case, this lover is her fiancée or husband, and in the martyr’s case, it is God / Jesus. Some chance circumstance puts these female characters into danger and removes them from the safety of their societies. For the heroines, this usually involves travel, during which the heroine’s chastity is repeatedly and unsuccessfully challenged. The tranquility of the martyrs’ lives is interrupted by the inquisition of a Roman judge, who either 2 E. g., Perkins 1995; Cooper 1996; Pervo 1994; and more recently, Ramelli 2001; Thomas 2003. 3 The female virgin martyrs in this study include Agatha, Agnes, Anastasia of Rome, Anastasia the Younger, Antonina, Aquilina, Archelaa, Asteria/Hesteria, Aurea, Barbara, Caecilia, Catherina, Charitina, Christina, Eugenia, Eulalia, Eulampia, Euphemia, Fausta, Felicissima, Fusca, Ia, Julia, Juliana of Nicomedia, Juliana of Ptolemais, Macra, Marciana, Margarita/Marina, Martha, Martina, Menodora et al., Pelagia, Prisca, Regina, Sabina and Serapia, Sophia et al., Susanna of Eleutheropolis, Susanna of Rome, Theodora, Therme, and Zenobia. Most can be found in the Acta Sanctorum, which covers through November 10, or the Patrologia Graeca or Latina, and include both Greek and Latin acta. The criteria used for selecting martyrs for this study required that they be virgin martyrs, be martyred by the early fourth century, and have acta or passiones. As the dating of these accounts is vexed and the authorship often anonymous, I will not be arguing for direct intertextual connections with the ancient novels, but rather for thematic influence. 4 Rife 2002; Bowie 2002; and Tilg 2009, 36–79, though I disagree with his reading of Persius as a terminus ante quem for Chariton. 5 Cooper (1996, 45–46) and Perkins (1995) examine how Christian literature subverts the values of the Greco-Roman elite.

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transports them to Rome to be tried before the emperor or sets up a tribunal at the nearest major city. These magistrates assail the martyr’s chastity and devotion in myriad ways, but always unsuccessfully. What saves the heroines and martyrs in the end is their constant devotion to their lover and their chaste behavior. After they suffer terrible things and miraculously survive, divine intervention reunites each with her lover, and they live happily ever after. The heroines with their heroes return and settle in their home towns, and the martyrs join God in heaven. Elsewhere I have explored other thematic connections between the two literatures: chastity, suffering, and violence (Chew 2003a; 2003b). In this survey, I will turn to the themes of passion and conversion. Next, I would like to define these two terms and explain why I consider them in tandem. My basic interest is in a narrative pattern in which members of a group make belonging to their group appear attractive by publicly displaying loyalty to the principles of their group when they are isolated from it; this loyalty not only enables them to rejoin their group, but, through its public display, also makes others want to belong to the group. Passion denotes intense emotion and desire for one’s beloved; it can also connote suffering, but as I have considered that topic elsewhere, I want to focus here on desire. Conversion encompasses the winning over of others to one’s side through some contact, usually visual, that provokes an emotional reaction. The connection between passion and conversion is that through her spectacular representation of passion, the heroine or martyr is able to inspire in her spectators either a similar impulse or an appreciation for her achievement. Also, this display of passion leads to the heroine or martyr being welcomed into the life, broadly construed, of her society, a life for which the converted spectators yearn. These themes in the novels and martyr accounts are often intertwined: the passion of the lovers for each other or of the martyr for God necessarily becomes a public affair, and the public observing this emotion is, in turn, overcome by its power. My selection of these particular terms for this discussion requires some explanation, for while passion does not necessarily connote a Christian context, conversion does. The reason why I use conversion is to point to the connection between ancient novels and martyr accounts: long before conversion became a pattern in martyr stories, it was present in Greek literature. In line with the public becoming emotionally involved in the heroine’s or martyr’s passionate final reunion, there is also often some sort of accompanying resolution of relationship with the characters who are the heroine’s or martyr’s rivals or enemies. Passion and conversion are not traditional areas of scholarly investigation in novelistic literature, yet applicable scholarly approaches for analyzing them exist. The four works that I have found most useful for thinking about these themes are Morgan’s “Reader and Audiences in the ‘Aithiopika’ of Heliodoros,” Morales’s Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon,

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Haynes’s Fashioning the Feminine in the Greek Novel, and Perkins’s The Suffering Self. Morgan examines passages where the reactions of the fictional audiences relate to those of real audiences outside the narrative, and Morales shows how disparate characters embody different ways of reading.6 While Achilles Tatius’s and Heliodorus’s works are particularly deft examples of playing with reader and audience, all the ancient novels pay attention to the power of the visual, as do the martyr accounts. And if the internal audiences of these literatures approve of the heroine’s or martyr’s triumph over her aggressors, this has cultural and political implications. Haynes proposes that gender relations in the Greek novel reflect the Greek elite’s sense of cultural superiority to Romans and their antagonism toward the Roman occupation.7 The Greek heroine represents her people, and her victory over barbarian assaults points to the survival of Greek culture. Perkins observes a similar phenomenon in the martyr accounts: Christianity’s rejection of Roman social values, martyrdom as a symbol of victory over Roman power, and thus the subversion of Roman society and the substitution of new Christian cultural standards.8 The idea of spectacle, public display on an epic scale, underlies both passion and conversion.9 Both the novels and the martyr accounts utilize spectacle to create compelling imagery. The use of spectacle in the imperial age promoted the idea that seeing was by far the most important human sense; not only was seeing believing, but an event was far more believable if there were people who had witnessed it. The reciprocity inherent in spectacle – in that there are relationships between the creator and viewer of the spectacle, the creator and the spectacle itself, and the spectacle and the viewer – means that the power of spectacle is unpredictable. This will certainly be the case in the novels and martyr accounts, as the heroines and martyrs usurp control of their spectacles from their adversaries and win over the sympathy of the spectators. Elsewhere I have observed that imperial spectacle not only was the tool of the imperial family but also could be coopted by any group that had something worth seeing.10 With this in mind, let us turn to the texts.

 6 Morgan

1991; Morales 2004, 77–95. 2003, 156–62.  8 Perkins 1995, 26–28, 116–17, 132–36. Perkins (2009) explores the convergence between Greco-Roman and early Christian cultures around certain large themes, including violence, the body, prisons, and courts. These concerns are highlighted in the two literatures – the ancient novels and the martyr accounts.  9 The most recent general treatments of imperial spectacle include Futrell 1997 and Potter and Mattingly 2010. Bowersock (1995) gives the best and most succinct reflection on spectacle for the martyr accounts, saying that, given the exigencies of Roman spectacular culture, Christian martyrdom could only have arisen when and where it did. For spectacle in the ancient novel, see Morales 2004; Bartsch 1989. 10 Chew 2014b.  7 Haynes

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Passion and Conversion in the Early Ancient Greek Novels In both Chariton’s and Xenophon’s novels, the lovers’ private passion for each other is well established (Char. 1.1.7–10; Xen. Eph. 1.3.3–4, 1.5); the heroine’s reticence about her love (Char. 1.1.8; Xen. Eph. 1.4.6–7), compared with the hero’s more public symptoms (Char. 1.1.10; Xen. Eph. 1.5.5), is culturally appropriate behavior for a virgin. The public’s interest in the hero and heroine’s love affair leads to their public marriage (Char. 1.11–13; Xen. Eph. 1.7.3–4). In fact, in Xenophon’s novel, the crowd at the temple makes a match of Anthia and Habrocomes before the two set eyes on each other (Xen. Eph. 1.2.9).11 Once they are married, the heroine can express her passion for the hero publicly, as Callirhoe does at the trial (Char. 5.8.1) and as Anthia does in the public dedication she makes to Habrocomes in the temple of Helius (Xen. Eph. 5.11.5–6). The final reunion of the lovers abounds in their passion, as both couples swoon upon recognizing each other (Char. 8.1.8; Xen. Eph. 5.13.3). Their reunion takes on a public dimension as well. In Chariton’s novel, the couple finally returning home choose to reveal themselves to the Syracusans with a spectacular tableau (Char. 8.6.5–6) that subverts the expectations of the citizens, who assume that the lovers are dead. The effect of the triumphal vision of Chaereas and Callirhoe is compared to that of thunder, lightning, and gold (Char. 8.6.8). The people are so overwhelmed that by acclamation they assemble to hear the couple’s story, and they regard the couple’s happiness as their own (Char. 8.7.1). In Xenophon’s novel, the final reunion takes place at a public temple before a great crowd of Rhodians (Xen. Eph. 5.13.1–4), who have been following Anthia and Habrocomes’s story through the dedications they made at the temple of Isis (Xen. Eph. 1.12.1–2). Both reunions encompass spectacular elements, not only the epic tableau and the public dedications, but even the trial in Babylon (Char. 5.5–8) and Anthia’s actions at the brothel (Xen. Eph. 5.7), which focus public interest and sympathy on the heroines. At these public spectacles, the heroines usurp the attention and therefore the power from those in charge. For instance, not only does Callirhoe command the eyes of all who see her at her trial (Char. 5.5.8–9), but the king who presides over Callirhoe’s trial falls so deeply in love with her that he cannot function and instead calls for a monthlong recess so he can pursue her privately (Char. 6.2). Likewise, in the brothel’s showroom, Anthia seizes control of the situation from the pimp by faking an epileptic seizure, which makes all her potential customers feel pity for her and causes the pimp to take care of her as a sick woman.12 These spectacular displays gain the crowds’ favor. In Chariton’s 11 Perkins (1995, 49) points out the symbiotic relationship between the central couple and the civic body, in that the lovers meet at civic festivals. 12 In fact, Anthia and Habrocomes’s love results from Habrcomes’s spectacular usurpation of Eros’s power, which causes the god to take vengeance on him by making him fall in love. Xen. Eph. 1.1.5–6.

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novel, not only are the Syracusans won over by Callirhoe and Chaereas’s love, but all of Chaereas’s mercenaries want to become Sicilian, for they have more regard for him than for their countries or children (Char. 8.3.11–12). Later, Callirhoe’s father, a famous general, gives land to each of Chaereas’s mercenaries to farm, making them part of civic life (Char. 8.8.14). The Rhodians are so enthusiastic about Xenophon’s couple’s reunion that they see the lovers off to Ephesus en masse (Xen. Eph. 5.15.1), and once home, Anthia and Habrocomes τοῦ λοιποῦ διῆγον ἑορτὴν ἄγοντες τὸν μετ’ ἀλλήλων βίον (“lived the rest of their life with each other like a festival”; Xen. Eph. 5.15.3), which emphasizes the public aspect (ἑορτὴν; “festival”) of their life. Reconciliations abound at the ends of these novels. Chaereas reconciles with the king of Persia by returning Queen Statira to him (Char. 8.3.6–10, 8.5.1–8), and Callirhoe reconciles by proxy with Dionysius, leaving her son with him (Char. 8.4.7–11, 8.5.9–12). The Great King furthermore experiences a reversal of emotion, becoming envious of Chaereas (Char. 8.5.8), which puts him affectively in line with the mercenaries and Syracusans. In Xenophon’s novel, the couple reconcile with the brigand Hippothous, who menaces Anthia at different places in the story and eventually befriends the lovers individually and assists in their reunion (Xen. Eph. 5.11.6), and then joins them in their happy homecoming as their lifelong companion (Xen. Eph. 5.13.6, 5.15.4).13 It is also significant that Hippothous finds a male lover whom he adopts as his son, thereby becoming part of civic life. The aspects of passion and conversion are evident in Chariton’s and Xenophon’s works: the lovers’ public declaration of desire and devotion and subsequent reintegration into civic life, the persuasion of the crowd, the reintegration of the lovers’ allies into civic life, the celebration of the lovers’ lives. These two novels were written before the rise of martyr literature and thus show novelistic motifs before they were influenced not only by putative contact with Christian literature but also by the advent of the Second Sophistic, which favored a more rhetorical and erudite approach to narrative.14

13 The other erotic rivals who complicate the couple’s lives find themselves variously dropped from the story once their narrative purpose has been fulfilled (Euxinus, Manto, Moeris) or occasionally punished with death (Kyno, Anchialus). I have argued elsewhere (Chew 1998) that Xenophon’s narrative technique is focused primarily on the human story, which is why the references to the gods are soon dropped. If I had to extend that analysis, I would add that his novel focuses foremost on the main characters, and that the erotic rivals do not comprise a coherent whole, as they do in Chariton (see Alvares 2002) or the other novels; Xenophon seeks to overwhelm his reader with the amount of suffering his characters endure. 14 G. Anderson (1993) and Schmitz (1997) present overviews of the Second Sophistic; the book edited by Goldhill (2001) presents in-depth treatment of special topics within this.

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Passion and Conversion in the Early Christian Female Virgin Martyr Accounts The female martyr accounts adopt the patterns established in the early ancient novels. Like the early novelistic heroines, the female virgin martyrs make a formal commitment to their male counterpart at the beginning of the story. As many virgin martyrs consider themselves “betrothed to God/Christ,” this allows them to speak up publicly about their passion for him at their trials. Further resembling the conduct of the early novelistic heroines, female martyrs generally worship God in private until their devotion to him becomes a matter of public interest. The way this usually happens is through the martyr’s violation of an imperial edict requiring all to sacrifice to the Roman gods.15 For some, their reputation for beauty and good works draws the attention of a magistrate;16 others are accused of being Christians,17 some refuse outright to sacrifice,18 or are denounced by others,19 especially their fathers.20 A few offer themselves to the magistrates;21 many reject suitors, who in turn hand them over to the authorities;22 and some are caught through their association with another martyr.23 Once the martyr has been arrested, a magistrate publicly questions her, giving her an opportunity to proclaim her devotion to Christ. This commitment is a negation of the standard behavioral norms for elite women, who are expected to marry and be productive 15  There are several martyrs from Persia, such as Ia and Therme, who suffer under a similar persecution of Christians by Zoroastrians. 16 Agatha (AASS Feb. tome 1, 615E), Menodora (AASS Sept. tome 3, 490C), Anastasia the Younger et al. (PG 116, 580B), Fausta (AASS Sept. tome 6, 143F). 17 Antonina (AASS May tome 1, 381A), Macra (AASS Jan. tome 1, 325a), and Prisca (AASS Jan. tome 2, 185b). 18  Euphemia (AASS Sept. tome 5, 267B), Aurea (AASS Aug. tome 4, 757E), Martha (AASS Feb. tome 3, 362A), and Martina (AASS Jan. tome 1, 11d). 19 Sophia et al. (AASS Aug. tome 1, 19B), Charitina (AASS Oct. tome 3, 24C), Anastasia of Rome (AASS Oct. tome 12, 521D), Eugenia (PG 116, 629C–D), Aquilina (AASS Jun. tome 3, 674F–675A), Archelaa (AASS Jan. tome 2, 191b), Christina (AASS Jul. tome 5, 525B), Fusca (AASS Feb. tome 2, 648B), Ia (AASS Aug. tome 1, 331A–B), Marciana (AASS Jan. tome 1, 569B), Sabina (AASS Aug. tome 6, 500B), and Susanna of Eleutheropolis (AASS Sept. tome 6, 155B–C). 20 Barbara (PG 116, 308D–309A) and Christina (AASS Jul. tome 5, 525B). It is the authority of the paterfamilias that the virgin martyr challenges by refusing to marry and thus participate in civic life. Often the martyr’s father is angry when he learns that his daughter is Christian – e. g., Juliana of Nicomedia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 875C–D), Fusca (AASS Feb. tome 2, 647D–648A), and Margarita (AASS Jul. tome 5, 34E–F). 21 Catherina (PG 116, 277C–280C), Asteria (AASS Aug. tome 3, 542A–B), Eulalia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 577D–E). 22 Juliana of Nicomedia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 875D), Agnes (AASS Jan. tome 3, 351B), Julia (AASS Jul. tome 5, 135E), Margarita/Marina (AASS Jul. tome 5, 35A), Pelagia (AASS May tome 1, 454F–455A), Regina (AASS Sept. tome 3, 39A–B), Susanna of Rome (AASS Aug. tome 2, 632A), Theodora (AASS Apr. tome 3, 573B–C). 23 Caecilia (PL 155, 176B–C), Juliana of Ptolemais (AASS Aug. tome 3, 449A), Eulampia (AASS Oct. tome 5, 75D–E), Zenobia (AASS Oct. tome 12, 262B), Felicissima (AASS Aug. tome 2, 729D).

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members of society. As if to underline this, many magistrates fall in love themselves with the martyr and attempt to persuade her to marry.24 The spectators often respond to the martyr’s testimony in extreme ways, resulting in their conversion or punishment, as will be discussed in the next section, but occasionally there are modulated expressions of pity or hatred for the martyr.25 The vehement reaction of the crowd at the martyr’s public trial parallels the civic support that the heroines receive at the announcement of their marriages. That the martyrs receive so much public censure for their behavior is an affirmation that the martyrs are adhering to the standards of their minority Christian culture – rejecting the values of this world in exchange for the ones of heavenly society. A further similarity with the early novelistic heroines’ passion for their heroes is that the martyr’s publicly declared passion for God is often described using courtship or marriage terms, by the martyr herself, the narrator, the martyr’s associate, or even her inquisitor. While the image of the Church as the virgin bride of Christ is as early as Paul (2 Cor 11:2), Clark traces the origin of the metaphor of the celibate Christian woman as the virgin bride of Christ to Origen’s reflections on the Song of Songs, which employs similar imagery to represent Israel as God’s bride.26 Conceiving of countries, especially subjugated ones, or institutions as female is prevalent in both Greek and Latin (e. g., Thracia, Αἰθιοπία, ἡ Αἴγυπτος). Must we depend upon Origen for the martyrs’ marital vocabulary? I think not, given the strong parallels with the Greek novels. Origen’s reading could certainly have strengthened an author’s choice to use such metaphors in a martyr account, for his reading is an example of a Christian writer taking an ancient erotic topic and refunctioning it to represent chastity, as the martyr accounts do with the ancient novels. Cooper, in looking at the Acts of Andrew, observes that the Christians renounce the values of Roman society  – namely, by rejecting marriage.27 The martyrs, of course, renounce the traditional institution of Roman marriage but substitute a Christian version encompassing a similar function: the virgin martyr as the metaphorical bride of Christ. The most common marital language calls God the martyr’s “bridegroom” (νυμφίος or sponsus) and the martyr the  Including Agatha (AASS Feb. tome 1, 615D–E), Agnes (AASS Jan. tome 3, 351B), Antonina (AASS May tome 1, 381A), Julia (AASS Jul. tome 5, 133E–F), Juliana of Nicomedia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 875A–B), Juliana of Ptolemais (AASS Aug. tome 3, 449B), Margarita (AASS Jul. tome 5, 35A), Martha (AASS Feb. tome 3, 362E), Martina (AASS Jan. tome 1, 11E), Pelagia (AASS May tome 1, 454F), Prisca (AASS Jan. tome 2, 185B), Regina (AASS Sept. tome 3, 39B), Susanna of Rome (AASS Aug. tome 2, 631F), and Therme (PG 115, 88D). 25 Examples of pity include the crowd protesting the severity of torture (Christina, AASS Jul. tome 5, 527B–C) and the magistrate’s injustice to the martyr (Juliana of Ptolemais, AASS Aug. tome 3, 453F). Examples of hatred include the spectators calling for the martyr to be thrown to the lions (Marciana, AASS Jan. tome 1, 569E) and looking menacingly upon the martyr (Theodora, AASS Apr. tome 3, 574A). 26 Clark 1986, 396–99. 27 Cooper 1996, 45–46, 58–59. 24

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“bride” (νύμφη or Christi sponsa.)28 Frequent too are the various words used for the “bridal chamber” that awaits the martyr after death: the θάλαμος, νυμφών, παστάς, or thalamus. The rest of this metaphorical matrimonial language found in the martyr accounts encompasses a wide range of words to do with desire (e. g., πόθος/desiderium, καρδία/cor, πυρουμένη “desire,” “heart,” and “[she] is inflamed”); courtship (e. g., ἐράστης/amator, ἔρως/amor, κόλπος/amplexus/sinus, “lover,” “love,” “embrace”), and marriage (e. g., desponsata, νυμφεύεσθαι/ nubere, and even προίξ and annulus, “betrothed,” “marry,” “dowry,” and “ring”). More than two-thirds of the virgin martyr accounts employ this kind of language. That one-third of the virgin martyr accounts do not contain marital metaphor suggests there are other viable literary models for the writers of these accounts. For instance, some accounts use the metaphor of the martyr behaving like a man or being associated with men, in an imitatio Christi, which would be narratively incompatible with her simultaneously being a Christi sponsa.29 But aside from metaphor, internal evidence in the martyr accounts indicates three other possible narrative models for the female virgin martyrs: the five good virgins with oilfilled lamps from the parable of the ten virgins in Matt 25:1–13, the three youths in the fiery furnace from Dan 3:1–30, and Daniel himself in the lion’s den in Daniel 6.30 It is immediately striking how few paradigms for positive female behavior there are! The good virgins in the parable are part of the wedding party, but none is the bride. The bridegroom is not coming for them, so the moral of the story concerns being prepared for the second coming of Christ, rather than staying a 28  E. g., Ego habeo jam cælestem sponsum, a cujus amore nullus hominum me separare potest “I have now a heavenly bridegroom, from whose love no man can separate me” (Aurea, AASS Aug. tome 4, 757F); Χριστὸν τὸν μόνον εἰδυῖα νυμφίον, καὶ τῷ τῆς ψυχῆς αὐτῷ κάλλος τηροῦσα, καὶ μόνῳ τὸν ἔρωτα τῆς καρδίας ἀνάπτουσα “she knew only Christ as her bridegroom and was guarding the beauty of her soul for him alone, and she was inflamed with desire in her heart for him alone” (Catherina PG 116, 277C–D). 29 For example, there is Agatha’s military metaphor (AASS Feb. tome 1, 621A–B). Zenobia ἀναλαβοῦσα ἀνδρεῖον φρόνημα (“took on a masculine mind”; AASS Oct. tome 12, 262B). Concerning Archelaa, vestimentum suum omnes qui videbant non femineo [vultu] sed quasi virum computabant (“all those who saw her dress were thinking of her not with a feminine [expression] but as a man”; AASS Jan. tome 2, 191C). Christina hears a heavenly voice saying, “Viriliter age” (“Act like a man”; AASS Jul. tome 5, 527F). Eulampia replies to the magistrate ἀρρηνωπῷ τῷ φρονήματι (“with a masculine spirit”; PG 115, 1061C). Martina appears sitting with white-clad angels and refers to the book of Daniel (AASS Jan. tome 1, 14D); Prisca likewise (AASS Jan. tome 2, 186D). Susanna of Eleutheropolis advises her servants to worship Christ, who προσγράψει εἰς τὴν ἑαυτοῦ στρατείαν (“will induct you into his army”), and then she cuts her hair and dresses like a monk (AASS Sept. tome 6, 154E–F). 30 For reference to the parable, see Aquilina (AASS Jun. tome 3, 676E), Euphemia (AASS Sept. tome 5, 268D–E), and Pelagia (AASS May tome 1, 455F–456A). For the three youths, see Aurea (AASS Aug. tome 4, 758A–B), Eulampia (PG 115, 1064D), Euphemia (AASS Sept. tome 5, 269F), Fausta (AASS Sept. tome 6, 145B), Juliana of Nicomedia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 876E), Margarita (AASS Jul. tome 5, 39A), Martina (AASS Jan. tome 1, 14D), and Sophia (PG 115, 508C). For the story of Daniel, see Aurea (AASS Aug. tome 4, 758A–B), Euphemia (AASS Sept. tome 5, 269F), and Fausta (AASS Sept. tome 6, 145B).

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virgin. This parable is also paltry in terms of narrative material. The story of the three youths in Babylon, however, provides the strongest and clearest paradigm for the martyr accounts: there is a decree that all must sacrifice to the golden idol the king has made; three youths deny the power of the golden idol and are punished by being thrown into a furnace, which leaves them unscathed but burns anyone else who is with them; and finally, the king concedes supremacy to the God of the three youths. The parallels with the martyr accounts are obvious: the official decree violated by the youths, their profession of faith, their submission to torture and miraculous survival, and the incidental deaths of their captors. The principal difference is in the final outcome. While the king of Babylon acknowledges the superiority of the youths’ God, the magistrates persecuting the martyrs almost never experience conversion. In the interest of space, I will postpone my discussion of this puzzling phenomenon until the end of this survey. Spectacular elements abound in the events leading up to and including the union of the martyr with God. All of these occur in the public eye, just as the reunions of the early novelistic couples do. But God almost always remains unseen, so the focal point of the spectacles is the martyr herself, whose tortures are witnessed by both hostile and sympathetic spectators. The one exception is in the account of Fausta (AASS Sept. tome 6, 146C), wherein the martyr asks Jesus to show himself so that the prefect might believe, and Jesus appears, arrayed with shining angels.31 The prefect converts to Christianity, hops into the frying pan with the martyr, and dies. It is during these torturous spectacles that the martyrs attract observers to their side and profess their passion for God in their dialogues with the magistrates. Through the graphic depiction of these tortures, the martyr account co-opts the reader into the position of spectator at the trial. The inquisitions of the martyrs are part of the institution of imperial spectacle inaugurated by Augustus, which Futrell calls a “major political tool for Roman control.”32 The premise of this control, however, is that the emperor’s spectacle is the best, most compelling show on earth. As the master of ceremonies, the emperor, or his designee, implicitly controls every aspect of the spectacle, from the show in the arena to the enjoyment of the spectators. The martyrs, however, usurp control of the spectacle from the imperial seat, as can be seen in many ways: the failure of the devised torture to kill the martyr and the martyr’s miraculous survival, the apparent healing of the martyr from any injuries incurred,33 31 Perhaps the reason why this incident is unique among the martyr accounts has to do with the precept that God prefers people who believe without seeing, as Jesus’ encounter with Thomas instructs in John 20:24–27. Eugenia (PG 116, 649D–651A) appears to her mother after death, showing to her a vision of her happiness in heaven, but this is a private vision and one meant to comfort, not convert. 32 Futrell 1997, 110. 33 E. g., Peter cures Agatha’s breast (AASS Feb. tome 1, 620A), Agnes’s hair regrows to cover her body (AASS Jan. tome 3, 352C), Macra’s breasts are cured (AASS Jan. tome 1, 325F), and milk flows out of Martina’s wounds with a pleasant odor (AASS Jan. tome 1, 13D).

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the subsequent crescendo of torture devices that are no more successful than the first, the sympathy of the spectators for the martyr and their occasional conversion, the increasing anger of the magistrate at the disappointing outcomes of the show, the martyr’s conscious control over her death,34 and the concomitant destruction of the magistrate by some act of nature or God. All of these are signs that the imperial seat has not only lost power over one of the most public ways it symbolized its world domination, but also forfeited power to the most insignificant of its subjects. This, as I mentioned earlier, is the double-edged power of spectacle – that it can be coopted by any group that has something worth seeing. The triumph of the martyr’s spectacle works at two levels. At the narrative level, it makes for better drama when the martyr dominates the most broadbased political tool of the Romans, as opposed to God individually converting the magistrates. And at the political level, it demonstrates the transcendent power that Christianity has over this world as a prelude to what it can offer in the next. When Menodora speaks of the παστάδας τε ἱερὰς, καὶ θαλάμους ἀθανάτους, καὶ νυμφῶνας διηνεκεῖς (“holy, deathless, and continuous bridal chambers”; PG 115, 661B) that she and her martyr sisters will enjoy with Christ in heaven, she is one-upping the “happily ever after” endings of the Greek novels. Furthermore, the martyr accounts’ characterization of the magistrates, which always features anger,35 suggests that, from a Roman perspective, at best the magistrates are riddled with vice, and at worst they lack self-control. Van Hoof examines the two nearly complete texts on anger that survive from antiquity, Seneca’s De Ira and Plutarch’s Περὶ ἀοργησίας/De cohibenda ira. He argues that Seneca presents a Stoic reworking of Roman virtuous ideals, in that he posits anger as a vice that must be subordinated to reason, and thus righteous anger can no longer be justified.36 Plutarch, however, sees anger not in terms of virtue, but as something that the educated man should govern as part of self-control (ἐγκράτεια).37 The writers of the martyr accounts reflect these perspectives. The magistrate’s anger and visible lack of self-control lead to his eventual humiliation and defeat by the martyr. In contrast, the martyrs never yield to anger but maintain a calmness in the face of death that could be called Stoic.38 And the Greek virtue of ἐγκράτεια (self-control) is in turn refunctioned by Christians to denote abstinence.39 34 E. g., Pelagia easily endures the heated bronze cow before giving up her spirit (AASS May tome 1, 457F), Susanna of Eleutheropolis gives up her spirit at will (AASS Sept. tome 6, 159F), and Theodora, freed from the brothel, gives up her spirit (AASS Apr. tome 3, 574A). 35 E. g., Antonina (AASS May tome 1, 382D), Aurea (AASS Aug. tome 4, 757E), Charitina (AASS Oct. tome 3, 25E), Eulalia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 577F). 36 Van Hoof 2007, 65–72. 37 Ibid., 76–82. 38 Kelley 2006. 39 Cooper 1996, 56; Brown 1990.

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In lieu of winning over their chief antagonist, then, the martyrs gain converts from among the crowds at their trials. Once again, roughly two-thirds of the virgin martyr accounts in this study contain this element. Sometimes the number of converts is specified;40 other accounts refer to “many” converted to Christianity.41 The converts are almost always spectators, with a few high-profile exceptions. At Fausta’s trial, both presiding prefects are converted – one whom the Holy Spirit enters after that prefect listens to the martyr praising God (AASS Sept. tome 6, 145E) and the other after he sees the martyr’s faith and is then rewarded with a vision of Christ in heaven (AASS Sept. tome 6, 146C). Catherina wins over a general and the emperor’s wife (PG 116, 293D–296C, 297B–D), and Julia persuades the emperor of the barbarians to join her in martyrdom (AASS Jul. tome 5, 134E). This conversion most fundamentally confirms the worthiness of the martyr’s relationship with God and the veracity of her beliefs. With a couple of exceptions, the magistrates in charge do not punish or execute the converts.42 These people indicate by their conversion that they want to imitate the martyr’s life and ways, which is similar to the early novels, where not only do the couples capture the hearts of the crowds at their reunions, they also win the goodwill of their former adversaries, who either join their lives or live in envy. Internal evidence suggests that these accounts were not written to win converts – they are neither polemic nor apologetic, nor do they attempt to explain Christianity to the uninitiated, and they usually conclude with a prayer. That puts the reader in the position of believer – that is, someone who can identify with the converts in the story. Kelley argues that the martyr accounts were not merely historical documents for believers but also served a practical purpose: training Christians in spiritual discipline.43 This brings to mind the prologue of Longus’s novel, which claims the power to heal the sick and soothe the distressed, spark the memory of those who have loved, and teach those who have not. As the persecutors cannot belong to the martyrs’ life, there are two eventual resolutions to their interaction: either the persecutors are punished by some heaven-sent death, or they fade from the martyr’s story upon the martyr’s death, presumably to conduct further inquisitions. Half of the martyr accounts include the death of the martyr’s persecutors, often the officiating magistrate, his henchmen who apply the torture devices to the martyr, or the evil crowds 40 E. g., 7,000 converted (Christina, AASS Jul. tome 5, 527D), plus seven women who later visit her in prison (528A); 2,030 people (Martina, AASS Jan. tome 1, 17E–F); 3,000 converts (Prisca, AASS Jan. tome 2, 197E). 41 E. g., Caecilia (PL 115, 176B–C); Juliana of Ptolemais (AASS Aug. tome 3, 451D); Charitina (AASS Oct. tome 3, 24F); Ia (AASS Aug. tome 1, 330C); Margarita/Marina (AASS Jul. tome 5, 39C). 42 The exceptions include 130 converts executed (Juliana, AASS Feb. tome 2, 878B), and two converted soldiers whipped and imprisoned (Pelagia, AASS May tome 1, 457F). 43 Kelley 2006.

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who come to observe the martyr’s suffering.44 The causes of death fall into two broad categories: either the torture devices malfunction or are moved by angels to destroy those nearby, or else some later act of nature, God, or humanity kills the persecutors. Fire escaping from the torture devices is the most common way that persecutors die during the martyrs’ trials.45 As for the other category, there is endless variety in the means of death, including earthquakes, shipwreck, wild horses, torturous illnesses, spontaneous combustion, and mental disease (in alienationem mentis effectus emisit spiritum; “he died after suffering from alienation of the mind.”)46 Narratively speaking, it seems like a missed opportunity to conclude a martyr account without revealing what happened to the officiating magistrate, but this same phenomenon occurs in the early ancient novels. In Chariton’s novel, Mithridates conveniently disappears from the story once he brings Chaereas to Babylon (Char. 5.8.10), contrary to his intended purpose – namely, to make off with Callirhoe while Dionysius and Chaereas squabble (Char. 4.4.1). In Xenophon’s novel, as discussed previously, a few antagonists are executed, but most just drop out of the story once the couple has moved on to their next adventure. We have examined several features in the martyr accounts: marital vocabulary to convey the martyr’s passion for God, conversion of bystanders at the martyrs’ trials, and retribution for magistrates and other hostile parties at the trials, all in the interest of noting similarities between the martyr accounts and the early ancient novels. I mentioned the general occurrence rate of these features individually: two-thirds of the accounts employ marital vocabulary, two-thirds employ conversion, and one-half of them include retribution. Considering all the accounts in this study, two-thirds of them contain at least two of those three features, and nine-tenths of them include at least one of the features, though there 44 These accounts include the stories of Agatha (AASS Feb. tome 1, 618B), Agnes (AASS Jan. tome 3, 352C–D), Anastasia the Younger (PG 116, 600B), Antonina (AASS May tome 1, 382E), Archelaa (AASS Jan. tome 2, 193E), Barbara (PG 116, 316B–C), Catherina (PG 116, 297C), Christina (AASS Jul. tome 5, 526E, 527A, 527D), Eulalia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 578A), Euphemia (AASS Sept. tome 5, 272D, 273E), Felicissima (AASS Aug. tome 2, 730A), Juliana (AASS Feb. tome 2, 878E), Marciana (AASS Jan. tome 1, 569F), Martina (AASS Jan. tome 1, 16C, 17A, 17E, 17F), Menodora (AASS Sept. tome 3, 492C), Prisca (AASS Jan. tome 2, 187A, 187D, 187E), Sabina (AASS Aug. tome 6, 501A, 503A), and Sophia (AASS Aug. tome 1, 19E). 45 E. g., Sophia (AASS Aug. tome 1, 19E); Menodora (AASS Sept. tome 3, 492C); Euphemia (AASS Sept. tome 5, 269C); Christina (AASS Jul. tome 5, 526E); Eulalia (AASS Feb. tome 2, 578A), Catherina (PG 116, 297B–C), Martina (AASS Jan. tome 1, 16F–17A). 46 The quote applies to an official who thinks that Apollo has died when the idol shatters (Christina, AASS Jul. tome 5, 527D). Other examples include an earthquake and volcanic eruption (Agatha, AASS Feb. tome 1, 618C) and wild horses (623E); shipwreck (Juliana, PG 114, 1449C–1452A); lightning bolts (Barbara, PG 116, 316B–C); angels (Antonina, AASS May tome 1, 382D–E); an angel (Archelaa, AASS Jan. tome 2, 192A–B); being drawn and quartered by the emperor (Felicissima, AASS Aug. tome 2, 730A); spontaneous combustion (Marciana, AASS Jan. tome 1, 569F); a lion (Martina, AASS Jan. tome 1, 16C), God’s voice (17E), and a heart attack (17F).

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is no discernible pattern as to which accounts have which features. Furthermore, some of the martyrs have more than one account, and there is variation among these as well; though the story arcs remain the same, the details are told with more or less narrative skill, description, and literary mastery. A handful of martyr accounts display none of these three features, but they do exhibit other aspects I have observed in the novels, such as chastity, violence, and suffering. I would account for this difference by adducing other literary models or influences on the martyr accounts, such as the story of the three Babylonian youths from the book of Daniel, as well as acknowledging that literary forms always take on a life of their own. Two thousand years of technology separate Lucian’s True History from modern science fiction, but that originating spark is there.

Passion and Conversion in the Later Ancient Greek Novels Between the publication of Xenophon’s and Achilles Tatius’s novels, a literary shift took place that is characterized by a valuation of rhetorical technique and sophistication, as well as by an appreciation for innovation: the Second Sophistic. While this movement affected all active literary genres, the one it had particular influence on was the ancient novel. What this meant in terms of practice was that the later Greek novels approach novelistic motifs with a sense of sophistication and play, maintaining fidelity to novel motifs while exploring and pushing those boundaries in clever ways.47 A case can be made that the ancient novels with their focus on female suffering have a stronger influence on the female martyr accounts than other sources. For in the ancient novels, the heroines suffer many ordeals before they are reunited with their heroes, as compared with the one torture imposed upon the boys in Daniel. Likewise, female suffering proliferates in the martyr accounts, and the female martyrs tend to suffer many more tortures than their male counterparts.48 It is almost as if the writers of the Christian accounts are purposefully making their martyrs compete with the Greek heroines in suffering, for there is a con See, e. g., Chew 2014a. Without a better method of dating the martyr accounts, it is difficult to judge their benefit from the Second Sophistic. In general, physical description is avoided – i. e., no details about the “glorious beauty” of the martyrs. Rhetorical skill, a hallmark of Second Sophistic writing, is often wielded by the martyrs, but their oratorical triumphs are usually due to their exploitation of the cultural misunderstanding between Roman and Christian culture, rather than superior skill. 48 Konstan (1994) argues for the symmetry in love between heroine and hero in the ancient novels. Though I agree with him that love is enacted on much more equal terms in the novel than in previous Greek literature, I do think that the heroines tend to suffer more for their love, while the heroes negotiate more for theirs. This pattern shows up in the martyr accounts as well; female martyrs in general suffer more tortures than male martyrs, who in turn, due to the proprieties of social life, often spend their accounts traveling, preaching, and being more active in society than the female martyrs. 47

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sistent athletic metaphor running throughout the martyr accounts, describing the martyr as competing in a contest for God’s favor, and the more she suffers, the more worthy she will be.49 If the writers of martyr accounts were aware of the early Greek novels, it seems certain that the authors of the later Greek novels were themselves aware of martyr literature, from their torture imagery that is evocative of Christian contexts. For instance, Leucippe’s challenge to her captors to torture her draws upon typical devices used against the martyrs (Ach. Tat. 6.21.1–2 and 6.22.4), and Charicleia survives two travails that also could have come out of a magistrate’s guide to torture: being burned alive on a pyre (Hld. 8.9) and being grilled on a gridiron that fries nonvirgins (Hld. 10.9). Thus, the later Greek novels engage both their earlier models and their Christian competition, bringing a certain sophistication to bear on the material. The major difference between the heroines of the earlier and later novels is that the later heroines do not marry their heroes until the story’s end and thus must maintain their virginity throughout their adventures. While this difference might make the virgin martyrs seem more similar to the later heroines than the earlier heroines, the opposite is actually the case. This delayed wedding constrains the behavior of the later heroines, who cannot display their passion publicly before marriage, and distinguishes them from the martyrs, who consider themselves betrothed to God and thus face no prohibition in displaying their passion for him. This means that the heroine in the novels can express her passion only privately or by indirect means. One of the ways that the Second Sophistic’s influence shows up in the later ancient novels is through the use of ecphrasis, extended descriptions of artistic pieces that both hint at and highlight important themes in the narrative. One theme so articulated in all three later Greek novels is the mutual passion of the lovers. Both Achilles’s and Longus’s novels open with the description of a painting. In Achilles’s novel, it is an erotic painting, of Eros leading Zeus as a bull upon which Europa is seated (Ach. Tat. 1.1).50 The first narrator describes the painting not as a violent rape, but as a sensual seduction, with the maiden fully complicit in the adventure.51 This painting foretells that the love story about to be told is one of mutual passion. Leucippe otherwise never articulates her love for Clitophon verbally in person but uses subtle hints (Ach. Tat. 1.19, 4.1) or wordless action (Ach. Tat. 2.7, 2.19); the first-person narrator obscures Leucippe’s private feelings. Later, when Leucippe is imprisoned, her captors overhear her soliloquy about Clitophon (γεμόντων ἔρωτος; “full of passion”; Ach. Tat. 6.16). Thus, 49 For athletic metaphors, examples include Zenobia (AASS Oct. tome 12, 269B), Eulampia (PG 115, 1064D), Aquilina (AASS Jun. tome 3, 674D), Euphemia (AASS Sept. tome 5, 272F), and Theodora (AASS Apr. tome 3, 574D). 50 On this ecphrasis, see, e. g., Morales 2004, 37–48. 51 Ibid., 211.

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Leucippe is able to confess her love within the bounds of maidenly propriety.52 Longus’s pastoral novel begins with a description of a narrative painting (Longus prologue.2) that depicts the tale of young people falling in love (πάντα ἐρωτικά; “all of it romantic”),53 and the narrator expressly states that he will present the story behind the painting in the hopes of healing, reminding, or educating people (i. e., readers) about love, which looks ahead to the conversion section in this study. The sophisticated twist that Longus adds to his novel is that his characters are so rustic that they are ignorant of all the trappings of city culture, including the word, meaning, and deed of love. After Philetas enlightens them about the meaning of and remedies for love (Longus 2.8), they freely express their passion for each other, as well as pledging their love to each other (Longus 2.39), as foretold in the prologue (νέοι συντιθέμενοι; “young people making pacts with each other”), but Chloe keeps silent about her passion in public (Longus 4.27). Heliodorus’s novel begins with a still-life tableau of a battle’s aftermath, with a scene of bloody destruction surrounding a pair of lovers, as observed by pirates (Hld. 1.1–2). The lovers’ passion for each other is implied in their dramatic declarations of fidelity even in death, but Charicleia makes no public declaration of love for Theagenes, and she can scarcely admit her passion when alone with Kalasiris, using paraphrases to hint at her condition (Hld. 4.10). Like Leucippe, Charicleia does reveal her feelings more explicitly in a later soliloquy (Hld. 6.8). The painting at the center of Charicleia’s story, like those in Achilles’s and Longus’s novels, illuminates the couple’s love: it depicts Perseus unchaining a naked Andromeda from the rocks (Hld. 4.8). This story, as Persinna says in her letter to Charicleia, is a love story (τοῖς ἔρωσιν; Hld. 4.8.3), and not only does the image of Andromeda imprint itself on Charicleia’s form, but it foretells her amorous adventures.54 This increased interest in visuality in the novels, combined with a putative awareness of martyrdom motifs, makes for splendid spectacles. Like those in the female martyr accounts, spectacles in the later Greek novels focus on the heroine and emphasize her suffering, passion for the hero, and virginity, as well as attract admiration and affirmation from the crowd. In Achilles’s novel, in addition to the initial erotic painting, whose “voyeuristic eroticism” Morales explores,55 the paintings of Andromeda and Prometheus presage Leucippe’s suffering (Ach. Tat. 3.6–8), which in turn is described in spectacular terms (Ach. Tat. 3.15), as is her spell of madness (Ach. Tat. 4.9). The painting of Philomela (Ach. Tat. 5.3) foreshadows Leucippe’s forthcoming spectacular beheading (Ach. Tat. 5.7). The ecphrasis of the garden (Ach. Tat. 1.15) has long been identified as a metaphor for the heroine’s virginity,56 and the scandalous trial at the novel’s end (Ach. 52 Clitophon

reveals later how he found out about this private scene (Ach. Tat. 8.15.1). Zeitlin 1990 for an excellent exploration of the poetics of love in Longus. 54 See M. Anderson 1997. 55 Morales 2004, 38, 186. 56 Bartsch (1989) is the first to point this out. 53 See

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Tat. 7.7–12; 8.1–3, 8–14) draws the public’s attention to the lovers, so that the entire population of Ephesus shows up for Leucippe’s virginity test (Ach. Tat. 8.13–14). In Longus’s novel, aside from its programmatic narrative painting, periodic “purple” passages describe the seasons and their amorous effect on the lovers (Longus 1.9, 1.23, 3.12–13). Philetas’s garden (Longus 2.3–6) acts as a spectacular metaphor for the question that haunts the novel: Is love natural, or can it be taught or trained, like a garden? The description of Lamon’s garden toward the novel’s end (Longus 4.2) is reminiscent of the garden in Achilles’s novel, and we are not amiss to take it as a metaphor for the heroine, especially as Lampis, the brute that tramples the garden (Longus 4.7–8), also attempts to rape Chloe (Longus 4.28). The final spectacle of the novel, Dionysophanes’s feast for the Mytilenean elite, where he displays Chloe’s recognition tokens and reunites her with her true parents (Longus 4.34–36), wins for Chloe her heart’s desire, to be married to Daphnis. In Heliodorus’s novel, even inset tales can become spectacular, for Kalasiris so vividly describes the festival at which Charicleia and Theagenes fall in love that Knemon cries out as if he can see them (Hld. 3.4.7)! Besides the opening tableau and the painting, which point to the heroine’s passion for the hero, there is also the unforgettable recognition scene between Kalasiris and his sons in Memphis (Hld. 7.6–7) that Charicleia dramatically interrupts by running into Theagenes’s arms, to the delight of the crowd (Hld. 7.7–8). Charicleia’s spectacular tortures, previously discussed, evoke a martyrly context: burning on the pyre (Hld. 8.9) and enduring the gridiron (Hld. 10.9). This last trial proves her virginity and paves the way for the triumphant conclusion and final spectacle, the human sacrifice ceremony (Hld. 10.4–41), which results in the termination of human sacrifice in Ethiopia as well as Charicleia’s marriage to Theagenes. As virgin martyrs and early novelistic heroines did before them, the later heroines subvert the power of spectacle from those who would control them. In Achilles’s novel, the villain Thersander puts on an elaborate trial at which he hopes to subjugate the lovers, making Leucippe his slave and imprisoning Clitophon for adultery (Ach. Tat. 8.8–14). Leucippe foils Thersander’s plans when she passes her virginity test with flying colors and the crowd in turn begins to abuse Thersander (Ach. Tat. 8.14.2). In Longus’s novel, Eros, MacQueen argues, seeks to build a love story around Chloe (Longus 2.27.2) and consequently subordinates all those who would thwart that purpose.57 In doing so, Chloe is featured spectacularly, when the Methymnean pirates kidnap her and the supernatural phenomena around her hint at the gods’ wrath (Longus 2.26.1), and at her recognition scene at the party of elite citizens in Mytilene (Longus 4.33–36, esp. 4.36). Heliodorus’s Charicleia enjoys a spectacular triumph four times: twice over her Persian rival Arsace, at her reunion with Theagenes below the walls of 57 MacQueen

1991.

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Memphis (Hld. 7.6–7) and on the flaming pyre (Hld. 8.9), and twice over her father, Hydaspes the king of Ethiopia, who initially wants to make her a human sacrifice for the prosperity of his people (Hld. 10.9) and who finally recognizes her as his heir (Hld. 10.38). These victories over adversaries bring the heroines into higher civic esteem. Together with enhanced attention to the visual in the later Greek novels comes an expanded consciousness of readers and audiences, both internal and especially external.58 Achilles’s novel has two narrative levels: the framing story wherein the first narrator meets Clitophon and views the painting of Europa, and the second narrative, which contains Clitophon’s first-person account of his adventures. There are two narrative levels to Longus’s novel as well: the framing prologue wherein the narrator describes stumbling upon a painting, and the second narrative that recounts the story from the painting. This sensitivity to different levels of narrative implies that these novels were constructed with a view to their effect and even interaction with the reader.59 In Achilles’s novel, the first narrator becomes a model as it were for the reader, for the first narrator becomes the audience for the second narrator, much in the same way that the reader is the first narrator’s audience. Longus’s novel explicitly sets out to affect the reader with its claim that its story will heal the sick, stir the memory of those who have loved, and instruct the uninitiated in love (Longus prologue.3). Heliodorus’s novel also sustains multiple narrative levels: the main story of Charicleia, told by a near-omniscient narrator; the inset tale of Knemon, told in two chunks by a first-person narrator (Hld. 1.9–18, 2.8–10); and the inset tale of Kalasiris, also told in two chunks by a first-person narrator (Hld. 2.24–5.1, 5.17–5.33). In this novel, the issue of being a skillful reader comes to the fore, as the reader is put into the position of interpreting information gained through different audiences within the novel, with a view to deciphering the puzzle of Charicleia’s story.60 Thus, in these later Greek novels, the reader feels in some way included within the scope of the story as one of the various audiences. As in the earlier novels, there is much public interest in the couple’s reunion. That of Leucippe and Clitophon occurs in a public temple, where the trial also takes place. Achilles’s characters are explicitly prevented from emotional displays of passion due to the presence of Leucippe’s father (Ach. Tat. 7.16.3–4), as well as the social constraints upon Leucippe as a virgin, but the couple convey all the excitement they cannot express to each other in the exuberance of their actions (Ach. Tat. 7.15–16) and especially in their visual connection (Ach. Tat. 7.16.4). 58 Morgan

(1991) and Winkler (1991) are the first to discuss this. Reardon (2004) shows how mythology guides the reader’s interpretation in both Achilles’s and Heliodorus’s novels; Whitmarsh (2003) argues that the narrator’s voice maintains an ironical distance, and that his play between naïveté and experience destabilizes the reader and complicates interpretation. 60 E. g., as Whitmarsh 1998 or M. Anderson 1997. 59 E. g.,

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The crowd of spectators thrills alongside the couple at every juncture in their story (Ach. Tat. 7.16.1, 8.3.1, 8.3.3, 8.13.1, 8.14.2, 8.14.3, 8.14.6). Clitophon’s first-person narrator prevents the reader from knowing the crowd’s feelings, but when this guise is temporarily altered in book 6, during the lovers’ separation, there is a brief window into the feelings of the villain Thersander, which shows him to be envious of Clitophon: ὁ μοιχός μου κρατεῖ πανταχοῦ· δοκῶ, ὁ ληστὴς καὶ φαρμακεύς ἐστι. Μελίτη φιλεῖ, Λευκίππη φιλεῖ. ὄφελον, ὦ Ζεῦ, γενέσθαι Κλειτοφῶν (“The adulterer overpowers me everywhere. The pirate is also a magician, I think. Melite loves him. Leucippe loves him. O Zeus, if only I could become Clitophon”; Ach. Tat. 6.17.1–2). In Longus’s novel, after Daphnis is recognized by his blood parents (Longus 4.22–23) and Chloe is cleaned up in anticipation of finding hers (Longus 4.32), the citizens of Mytilene throng Dionysophanes’s house, the men to share his pleasure in his handsome new son, and the women to hope for a daughter as beautiful as Chloe (Longus 4.33). Everyone congratulates them on their upcoming marriage. It is only after they are wed that Chloe displays her love for Daphnis by kissing him in public (Longus 4.38). In Heliodorus’s novel, the crowds in different cities repeatedly express enthusiasm for Charicleia and Theagenes. Their dramatic reunion in Memphis (Hld. 7.7) enraptures the crowd and leads them to idolize the couple and yearn for what they share (Hld. 7.8). The crowd in Meroe is so sympathetic to Charicleia that they bodily prevent Hydaspes from sacrificing her (Hld. 10.17), and they dance and cheer for joy at the final recognition of the couple by the royal family (Hld. 10.38). In each case, observation of the couple’s passion leads the crowd to desire to share in their lives in some way, whether they want to be one of them, want children like them, or celebrate their nuptial happiness. These reactions affirm the love of the couple and the power of their culture, whether construed in terms of ethnicity or lifestyle. Despite the overwhelmingly positive reactions of the crowds to the lovers’ reunions, just as in the martyr accounts, some wicked characters are punished. In Achilles’s novel, the villain Thersander exiles himself to escape arrest (Ach. Tat. 8.14.4–6), while his henchman Sosthenes is captured and imprisoned (Ach. Tat. 8.15.1–3). The couple is already reconciled with the femme fatale Melite, one of the rare antagonists who undergoes a reversal, for she assists Clitophon in his haphazard escape (Ach. Tat. 6.2–5), and her acquittal at her chastity test also vindicates Clitophon (Ach. Tat. 8.14.3–4). In accordance with pastoral convention, in Longus’s novel, Daphnis and Chloe are reconciled with all who try to bring them harm: Gnathon (Longus 4.29.5), Lampis, and even their blood parents (Longus 4.38.2).61 In Heliodorus’s novel, characters irredeemably hostile to the central couple end up dead, often by an act of nature, sometimes by a well-timed 61 See

Rosenmeyer 2004, 186–87, on the locus amoenus.

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accident.62 There are, however, some antagonistic characters that experience reversals toward the couple and become their allies – Hydaspes and Thyamis in particular. What these two have in common apart from the other hostile characters is that they (learn to) speak Greek. This is not to say that Greek speakers are exempt from death, but that in this novel, the people who turn out to be friendly to the lovers tend to be Greek speakers, despite their ethnic origin, with Cybele being a notable exception, and those who remain hostile are also Greekless, such as Arsace. Rather than reading this as a plain affirmation of Hellenism, I would take speaking Greek as a familiar sign of what all heroines are looking for: home.63 Cybele deceitfully tries to convince the heroine and hero that they have a home with Arsace, but her ulterior motives are soon revealed. When Charicleia does find her parents on the far side of the world, Hydaspes and Persinna inexplicably speak Greek, but the meaning is clear: Charicleia has come home.

Conclusions In looking at the Greek novels and martyr accounts, we see a pattern. A female is isolated from her home and made an object of spectacular interest due to her beauty. She rejects all corrupting influences and stands firm by her true love, and for this she is put to the test in a spectacular way. At her trial, she subverts the control of the spectacle from the powers that be and, in doing so, wins over the public and sometimes even those in charge. In the ancient novels, when the heroine’s passion is given public display, it elicits the favor of the public, who in turn support the union of the couple. In the end, all characters that can conceivably be reconciled with the couple are, and those whose characters do not allow rehabilitation are dropped from the story, by death or attrition. The heroine becomes the emblem of her people as she proves her chastity or virginity and wins her hero, thereby affirming the couple’s culture, which is some amalgam of Greek identity. The couple subverts spectacle from the powers that be by showing that they have something worth seeing: their love. Their reintegration into society, and that of their associates and many former rivals, signals the importance of civic life. The female virgin martyr accounts offer a similar story. The martyrs’ passion for God is often expressed through marital vocabulary and imagery, and at her public trial, the martyr often converts spectators when she subverts the power of the presiding magistrate by foiling all of his tortures. Spectators are drawn in because the martyr also has something worth seeing: her passion for God. The 62 E. g.,

Thermouthis, the witch of Bessa, Cybele, Arsace, Achaemenes. are divided on whether the novel privileges Greece because Ethiopia becomes culturally Greek (e. g., Morgan 1998) or Ethiopia because it is culturally superior to Greece, which Selden (1998) points out but does not espouse. Along with Whitmarsh (1998), I do not think that Heliodorus necessarily wants us to choose. 63 Scholars

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martyr at last is integrated into heavenly society, something for which those she leaves behind can only hope and strive. The martyrs emphasize the importance of their new life and society by conceiving of it in the social terms of a marriage, a union with Christ. A striking difference between the novels and martyr accounts can be found in the villainous characters. In the novels, not all brigands, tyrants, officials, or erotic rivals are evil by nature. It turns out that many of them just need love in order to be satisfied and leave the couple alone. In Chariton’s novel, the Persian king gets back his queen (Char. 8.5.3–8), and Dionysius receives Callirhoe’s son (Char. 8.5.9–15), a form of displaced love. In Xenophon’s novel, the brigand Hippothous finds the handsome Cleisthenes (Xen. Eph. 5.13.6, 5.15.4). In Achilles’s novel, the brigand Callisthenes wins Clitophon’s sister (Ach. Tat. 8.17), and Melite gets to satisfy herself once with Clitophon (Ach. Tat. 5.27). In Longus’s novel, Lycaenion satisfies her desire for Daphnis (Longus 3.18), and Gnathon reinvents himself after he rescues Chloe, replacing his need for sex with his need for food (Longus 4.29.4).64 In Heliodorus’s novel, King Hydaspes gains a daughter (Hld. 10.16), and the brigand Thyamis receives a high priesthood (Hld. 7.8), another form of displaced love. While the transformative power of love operates in the novels, it is glaringly absent from the martyr accounts. Why is love not the answer there? As we will see, the quality of the [human] love at work in the novels thoroughly differs from the [divine] love in the martyr accounts. While human love, obviously, is accessible to all people, divine love originates from God and can be acquired only through the martyr’s desire or the grace of the Holy Spirit.65 There are several ways we can approach the reasons for why the magistrates who persecute the martyrs almost never convert or cede any political ground. A social approach takes into account the fact that the heroines and martyrs belong to fundamentally different societies. The novelistic heroines may subvert the spectacular power of those in charge, but then the heroines and heroes ultimately join the societies whose power they overcome and thereby attain a higher status and prestige. The female martyrs, in contrast, disavow the societies whose power they subvert and instead adhere to their heavenly goals. This explains why there can be no reconciliations and very few conversions among officials, because they are thoroughly entrenched in the very society that the martyr rejects. A historical approach instead considers the larger historical constraints on the martyr accounts, for famous figures such as Claudius, Aurelian, or Diocletian is forgiven without incident, perhaps to maintain the locus amoenus (see n. 61). an example of desire, Catherina is μόνῳ τὸν ἔρωτα τῆς καρδίας ἀνάπτουσα “inflamed in her heart with love for him alone” (PG 116, 277C). For an example of grace, for Barbara ἡ τοῦ Παρακλήτου χάρις … αὐτῆς ὀφθαλμῶν … ἁψαμένη, φωτί τε θεογνωσίας ἐφώτισε καὶ τὸν ἀψευδῆ Θεὸν γνώριμον αὐτῇ παραδόξως κατέστησεν “the Holy Spirit’s grace touched her eyes, illuminated them with the light of the knowledge of God, and miraculously made the true God known to her” (PG 116, 304B). 64 Lampis 65 For

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sometimes serve as the inquisitors at trials, and the writers run the risk of undermining the veracity of their accounts if they falsify established history. This does not stop some of them, though. Martina’s account is pure historical fiction: both Emperor Alexander Severus and his father, who is misnamed Eumenius, die – the first from a heaven-sent heart attack (AASS Jan. tome 1, 17F), and the second by a lion intended for the martyr (AASS Jan. tome 1, 16C).66 Prisca’s account essentially copies Martina’s, changing only the names – Claudius for Alexander Severus, and his mysterious cousin Limenius (who also shows up in Martina’s account) for Severus’s father – and the number converted (5,000 versus Martina’s 2,030). Pelagia’s account features an ahistorical son of Diocletian, whose unrequited love for the martyr makes him commit suicide. A political approach acknowledges that the magistrates’ conversion would ruin the martyrs’ raison-d’être, undermining the Roman state that is invested in this world and instead shifting focus to the rewards of piety in the next world. For martyrs to function, they need not only a healthy opposition but also one that also wields vast temporal power, so that their triumphs will be all the more glorious by comparison. But these explanations are extra-textual. Reading along the lines of the internal logic of the martyr accounts, we see that they depict a society and even a world that is errant, from the Christian perspective, to such an extent that the only solution for Christians is to leave it. Hence, there can be no redeeming qualities about this world, no hope that their persecutors might have a change of heart. The magistrates, then, do not represent people as much as they represent the Roman state, the very world that Christians hope to escape. Their very intransigence symbolizes the fixed condition of a world that needs to be redeemed and remade through God’s love.67 And what the martyrs crave is this divine love, not the all too human love that saves the novelistic heroines and their associates and that the martyrs thoroughly reject from the magistrates. In this ideological context, human love and divine love cannot mix.68 I would close with a comment on Charicleia. Her recognition means the end of human sacrifice in Ethiopia, as new ways replace the old. I am tempted to see some competition with martyr stories at this narrative turn, for in the martyr accounts, spectators are converted, but never all of them, so that the inquisitorial 66 Both were actually assassinated – Alexander by his legionaries and his father on the orders of Macrinus, seven years before the supposed martyrdom. 67 This is also completely different from the situation in Babylon with the three youths (Dan 3) discussed above as a model for the martyr accounts. The Old Testament focuses on how God helps his people stake a claim in this world. Thus King Nebuchadnezzar’s acknowledgement of the superiority of the Hebrew God, as well as his promotions of Daniel and the three youths, indicates the supremacy and worthiness of Hebrew culture. With its emphasis on this world and this life, the Old Testament is paradoxically more similar to the ancient novels than to the martyr accounts. 68 Many thanks to Steven Cruikshank for an illuminating discussion of theological issues.

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apparatus can continue on. In this likely final novel, the gridiron and the sacrificial machinery are shut down once and for all, and the heroine not only gains a human spouse but also takes on holy orders as priestess of the moon – the best of both worlds, the heroines’ and the martyrs’.

Bibliography Alvares, Jean. 2002. “Love, Loss, and Learning in Chariton’s ‘Chaereas and Callirhoe.’” CW 95.2: 107–115. Anderson, Graham. 1993. The Second Sophistic: A Cultural Phenomenon in the Roman Empire. New York: Routledge. Anderson, Michael J. 1997. “The Σωφροσύνη of Persinna and the Romantic Strategy of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica.” CP 92.4: 303–322. Bartsch, Shadi. 1989. Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bowersock, G. W. 1995. Martydom and Rome. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bowie, Ewen. 2002. “The Chronology of the Earlier Greek Novels since B. E. Perry: Revisions and Precisions.” Ancient Narrative 2: 47–63. Brown, Peter. 1990. “Bodies and Minds: Sexuality and Renunciation in Early Christianity.” Pages 479–93 in Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World. Edited by David M. Halperin, John J. Winkler, and Froma I. Zeitlin. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Chew, Kathryn. 1998. “Inconsistency and Creativity in Xenophon’s Ephesiaka.” CW 91, no. 4: 203–213. –. 2003a. “The Chaste and the Chased: Sophrosyne, Greek Novel Heroines and Christian Female Martyrs.” Pages 205–222 in Frogs around the Pond. Edited by Laurel Bowman and Ingrid Holmberg. Syllecta Classica 14. –. 2003b. “The Representation of Violence in the Greek Novels and Martyr Accounts.” Pages 129–41 in The Ancient Novel and Beyond. Edited by Maaike Zimmerman, Stelios Panayotakis, and Wytse Keulen. Boston: Brill. –. 2014a. “Achilles Tatius, Sophistic Master of Novelistic Conventions.” Pages 62–75 in A Companion to the Ancient Novel. Edited by Edmund Cueva and Shannon Byrne. Hoboken: John Wiley & Sons. –. 2014b. “Sport and Spectacle in Early Imperial Literature.” Forthcoming in The Oxford Handbook on Sport and Spectacle. Edited by Alison Futrell and Thomas Scanlon. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Clark, Elizabeth A. 1986. “The Uses of the Song of Songs: Origen and the Later Latin Fathers.” Pages 386–427 in Ascetic Piety and Women’s Faith: Essays on Late Ancient Christianity. Edited by Elizabeth A. Clark. Lewiston, N. Y.: Edwin Mellen. Cooper, Kate. 1996. The Virgin and the Bride: Idealized Womanhood in Late Antiquity. Boston: Harvard University Press. Futrell, Alison. 1997. Blood in the Arena: The Spectacle of Roman Power. Austin: University of Texas Press. Goldhill, Simon, ed. 2001. Being Greek under Rome: Cultural Identity, the Second Sophistic and the Development of Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haynes, Katharine. 2003. Fashioning the Feminine in the Greek Novel. New York: Routledge.

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Kelley, Nicole. 2006. “Philosophy as Training for Death: Reading the Ancient Christian Martyr Acts as Spiritual Exercises.” Church History 75, no. 4: 723–47. Konstan, David. 1994. Sexual Symmetry: Love in the Ancient Novel and Related Genres. Princeton: Princeton University Press. MacQueen, Bruce D. 1991. Myth, Rhetoric, and Fiction: A Reading of Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe. Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press. Morales, Helen. 2004. Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ “Leucippe and Clitophon.” Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morgan, John R. 1991. “Reader and Audiences in the ‘Aithiopika’ of Heliodoros.” Groningen Colloquia on the Novel 4: 85–103. –. 1998. “Narrative Doublets in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika.” Pages 60–78 in Studies in He­li­ odorus. Edited by Richard Hunter. Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society. Perkins, Judith. 1994. “Representation in Greek Saints’ Lives.” Pages 255–71 in Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context. Edited by J. R. Morgan and Richard Stoneman. New York: Routledge. –. 1995. The Suffering Self. New York: Routledge. –. 2009. Roman Imperial Identities in the Early Christian Era. New York: Routledge. Pervo, Richard. 1994. “Early Christian Fiction.” Pages 239–54 in Greek Fiction: The Greek Novel in Context. Edited by J. R. Morgan and Richard Stoneman. New York: Routledge. Potter, David S., and David J. Mattingly. 2010. Life, Death, and Entertainment in the Roman Empire. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Ramelli, Ilaria. 2001. I Romanzi Antichi e il Cristianesimo: Contesto e Contatti. Eugene, Ore.: Wipf & Stock. Reardon, Bryan P. 2004. “Mythology in Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus.” Pages 377–89 in Mitos en la literatura griega helenística e imperial. Edited by J. A. López Férez. Madrid: Ediciones Clásicas. Rife, Joseph L. 2002. “Officials of the Roman Provinces in Xenophon’s Ephesiaca.” ZPE 138:93–108. Rosenmeyer, Thomas G. 2004. The Green Cabinet: Theocritus and European Pastoral Poetry. New York: Bristol Classical Press. Schmitz, Thomas. 1997. Bildung und Macht. Zur sozialen und politischen Funktion der zweiten Sophistik in der griechischen Welt der Kaiserzeit. Munich: Beck. Selden, Daniel L. 1998. “Aithiopika and Ethiopianism.” Pages 182–217 in Studies in He­li­ odo­rus. Edited by Richard Hunter. Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society. Thomas, Christine M. 2003. The Acts of Peter, Gospel Literature, and the Ancient Novel: Rewriting the Past. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tilg, Stefan. 2009. Chariton of Aphrodisias and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. van Hoof, Lieve. 2007. “Strategic Differences: Seneca and Plutarch on Controlling Anger.” Mnemosyne 60, no. 1: 59–86. Whitmarsh, Tim. 1998. “The Birth of a Prodigy: Heliodorus and the Genealogy of Hellenism.” Pages 93–124 in Studies in Heliodorus. Edited by Richard Hunter. Cambridge: Cambridge Philological Society. –. 2003. “Reading for Pleasure: Narrative, Irony, and Erotics in Achilles Tatius.” Pages 191–205 in The Ancient Novel and Beyond. Edited by Maaike Zimmerman, Stelios Panayotakis, and Wytse Keulen. Leiden: Brill. Winkler, John J. 1991. “The Mendacity of Kalasiris and the Narrative Strategy of He­li­odo­ ros’ Aithiopika.” YCS 27: 93–158.

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Zeitlin, Froma I. 1990. “The Poetics of Eros: Nature, Art, and Imitation in Longus’ Daphnis and Chloe.” Pages 417–64 in Before Sexuality: The Construction of Erotic Experience in the Ancient Greek World. Edited by David M. Halperin, John J. Winkler, and Froma I. Zeitlin. Princeton: Princeton University Press.

Part 3: “Pagan” and Christian Narratives: Social Worlds and Philosophical Agendas

Competing Voices in Imperial Fiction Judith Perkins An essential question in historical studies is, Who is speaking and from where? That is, which social constituency or constituencies had the opportunity to inscribe their perspectives into the historical record, and what kind of social worlds do their writings then imagine? In the early Roman imperial period, different social constituencies were turning to fictive narratives to debate just these sorts of questions. I propose that a comparison of two elite fictive narratives, Heliodorus’s Charicleia and Theagenes (Aethiopica)1 and Philostratus’s In Honor of Apollonius (Apollonius), with the Christian fictive Acts of Thomas (ATh) discloses their very different perspectives on public voice and imagined social worlds. And the Christian fiction’s alternative perspective on language, community, and divine benevolence contributed to its appeal in the socially stratified communities of the early imperial period. By the second century, the geographically diverse Roman state was managed by an integrated amalgam of elites from across the empire, who although ethnically diverse, shared a very similar and privileged education, style of life, and perspective.2 They also played a major role in the mechanics of Roman rule, as local elites across the empire continued to manage their cities and territories. Their participation also allowed Rome to avoid problems that more direct interventions of power might provoke, and by granting their elite partners citizenship, Rome won their political loyalty and defused the likelihood of locally based anti-Roman solidarity.3 The provincial elite’s increasing wealth during the period suggests they were well rewarded for their service.4 The Eastern elite’s use of an Atticizing Greek further helped to unify them, even as it differentiated them more sharply, not only from non-Greek speakers in their communities, but also from lesser-educated Greek speakers. Dimitris Krytatas describes the divisive effects of this Atticizing standard: it allowed its speakers “to cut themselves off from the great tide of Hellenism they shared with the masses.”5 In the communities across the Eastern empire, the non-elite might speak Greek, but not necessarily 1 See

Whitmarsh 2005, 592, for the title. 2005, 111. 3 Ando 2010, 18–20; 40–44; Ando 2011, 37–44. 4 Bang 2008, 110. 5 Kyrtatas 2007, 352. 2 Woolf

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the educated Greek of their leaders, and a number of them would have spoken no Greek at all. Language was a key social marker in this period. Heliodorus produced an elegant example of the high Greek style in his stylistically sophisticated and intricately plotted romance, Charicleia and Theagenes (Aethiopica). Language usage is a major focus in his work, and it is often used to disparage non-elite, non-Greek speakers. Tim Whitmarsh describes Heliodorus’s stylistically sophisticated and intricately plotted narrative as “antiquity’s longest, latest and arguably greatest romance.”6 I would add that it is also its most polemical. From its beautifully crafted opening scene to its triumphant conclusion, the narrative advances a double agenda: the promotion of an elite, cosmopolitan, moral, “Hellenic” identity and the re-centering of this identity away from Greece to the east. The author of the perhaps “greatest” Greek romance announces in its last lines that he is a “Phoenician from Emesa, one of the clan of descendants of the Sun, the son of Theodosius, Heliodorus.”7 Commentators have recognized that Heliodorus’s fictionalized Meroe acts as a trope for his own city, Syrian Emesa, and that his promotion of this city and its gods challenges a traditional Hellenocentric Hellenism.8 Both Emesa and Meroe are cities on large rivers devoted to sun cults.9 Heliodorus’s narrative expressly recenters Hellenism away from Greece and the West. A comparison of the romance heroines’ peregrinations is indicative. In Xenophon and Chariton’s likely earlier narratives, their heroines travel from Syracuse and Ephesus to the east, until they finally return to home and safety in Greek space. Charicleia’s travels turn this narrative pattern inside out, reorienting the traditional Greek geographical schema.10 Her peregrinations begin in Ethiopian Meroe, a place figured in traditional Greek geographical thinking as the edge of the world, and she travels to Delphi, its traditional center (omphalos), only to return finally back to Meroe.11 Charicleia’s father, King Hydaspes, articulates this reoriented perspective when he describes Delphi, rather than being the center, as “the ultimate limits of the earth.”12 By constructing the traditional center as the periphery and the periphery as the center, Heliodorus contests Greece’s privileged position in definitions of Hellenism and its cultural formations, and makes a strong claim for the cultural authority of the Hellenic East. And in its promotion of Emesa and its Semitic god, the narrative also shifts Hellenism’s religious center east. In the third century the  6 Whitmarsh

2011, 110. 10.41.4.  8 See Hägg 2004 for the historical Meroe.  9 Whitmarsh 2011, 115–17; Morgan 2009, 268. See Hägg 2004, 345–47 on correspondences between fictive and historical Meroe. 10 Achilles Tatius’s narrative shares this Eastern orientation. 11 Whitmarsh 2011, 115. Homer had positioned the Ethiopians as the most distant (eskhatois) of men (Hom. Od.1.23). 12 Aeth.10.16.6.  7 Aeth.

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Emesan god did in fact reach the highest level of the Roman pantheon, when the emperor M. Aurelius Antoninus (Elagabalus) had the large conical Stone worshiped at Emesa brought to Rome and its priest given precedence over the pontifex maximus before soldiers finally killed him and his mother.13 The Aethiopica is replete with references to the sun. The narrative opens with a striking metaphor of the rising sun and closes with the romance couple, Theagenes and Charicleia, being inducted, prior to their wedding, as priest and priestess of Helios and Selene.14 This solar omnipresence acts as a trope for the divine oversight that the reader finally comes to discover has directed the romance’s entire action all along. For much of the narrative, its innovative “in medias res” structure leaves the reader very confused about what is going on in the narrative. Beginning with the Ethiopian king and queen’s conception of a white child, it moves on to the queen’s exposure of her child to protect her reputation, the child’s rescue by the Ethiopian gymnosophist Sisimithres, who later gives her to the care of the Delphic priest Charicles, who brings her to Delphi. There the girl, now named Charicleia, becomes a priestess of Artemis. She sees and falls in love with the Greek Theagenes. The couple then flee Delphi with the Hellenized Egyptian priest Calasiris, and tribulations ensue: capture first by bandits, then by Persian forces, and finally the couple’s capture by the Ethiopian king Hydraspes, Charicleia’s father, who selects them to be his sacrificial victory offerings. Only near the narrative’s end does the reader finally learn that all these events were part of a divine strategy to persuade Meroe’s leaders to desist from human sacrifice and allow the city to achieve the final stage of its exemplary piety. As Sisimithres, Meroe’s chief gymnosophist, tells King Hydraspes near the narrative’s conclusion, “You ought to have realized long ago that the gods have no desire for the sacrifice you are preparing.”15 He then calls upon the Ethiopians to acknowledge that all the miraculous deeds they have seen point to only one conclusion: “Let us abolish human sacrifice forever.”16 The entire action of the narrative had one goal – to ensure Meroe’s religious purity. In his thesis on dreaming in the ancient novel, David Carlisle has argued for the intrinsically religious character of the Greek novel – reviving a critical perspective that had lost ground over the last decades.17 Carlisle maintains that romance offers an essential historical source for examining a key religious experience of the period, that of “living in a world which was understood, and more importantly coped with, in ways which at times relied on the simple belief in 13 Cf.

Gradel 2004, 351. 10.41.1. 15 Aeth. 10.39.2. Σὲ γοῦν καὶ πάλαι συμβάλλειν ἐχρῆν ὅτι μὴ προσίενται οἱ θεοὶ τὴν εὐτρεπιζομένην θυσίαν. 16 Aeth. 10.39.3. 17 Carlisle 2009. Carlisle suggests that this religious perspective lost ground by being over promoted, by Merkelbach (1962), for example. Perkins (1995, 54–58) supports this optimistic reading of the Greek romances. 14 Aeth.

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divine providence and the emotional comfort which it undeniably can provide.”18 This providential perspective informs the reiterated Greek romance plot, where elite protagonists repeatedly face anxiety-filled crises and hardships only to win through in the end and reassume their privileged lives. That divine interventions often contribute to affecting such happy endings only increases, as Carlisle emphasizes, the novel readers’ sense that they live in a world guided by benevolent deities having their “best interests at heart.”19 For all those able to identify with the elite protagonists, the romances’ “optimistic” plot reiterates the good news that the gods are on their side, and no matter what vicissitudes or hardships they may encounter, they will always win out in the end. The Aithiopica offers the quintessential example of the optimistic romance plot. References to the sun suffuse the narrative. It opens with a striking metaphor of the rising sun and closes with the romance couple’s induction as priestess and priest of Selene and Helios, right before they marry (10.41.1). This solar omnipresence acts as a trope for the divine oversight that the reader comes to discover has directed the romance’s entire action. Like all the other romances, the Aethiopica encodes the optimistic message that the gods watch over its elite protagonists and ensure their happy ending.20 In the Aethiopica, this divine oversight is emphatically myopic; it includes primarily the Greek-speaking elite.21 In book 4, where readers finally learn some of the heroine’s backstory, as Calasiris reads the band that Charicleia’s mother had woven for her baby, they also glimpse the optimistic plot’s restricted purview.22 Calasiris explains why he was able to read the Ethiopian script on the band so easily: it was not “the demotic variety (οὐ δημοτικοῖς) but the royal kind (βασιλικοῖς), which closely resembles the so-called hieratic script of Egypt.”23 By using socially inflected terms to differentiate between the two scripts, Calasiris foregrounds one of the narrative’s overriding concerns: the connection between social and moral worth and language usage. The narrative illustrates that Calasiris’s ability to read the kingly script but not the demotic is reprised at the divine level by the gods’ ability to see and assuage the needs of its elite protagonists but seemingly not 18 Carlisle (2009, 15–16) describes the effect of the romance plot. “This emotional effect is, I argue, the product of a structure of divine control and intervention which the novels present as one of their governing narrative rules, and which allows the generalization of their optimistic patterns to a life believed to be under the watchful eye of the divine.” 19 2009, 220. 20 Cf. Whitmarsh 2011, 177–213 for his subtle and sophisticated analyses of the romance telos. 21 Cf. Zeitlin 2008, 92–94 for religion in the Greek novel. 22 Whitmarsh 199, 120. Whitmarsh notes that the similarity between the Ethiopian and Egyptian royal scripts suggests that “the legibility of the tainia is not confined to one group, but to a number of non-Greek élites; which may, in turn, imply … that the crucial requirement for reading in the Aithiopika is … an elite non-Greek perspective.” The operative word here is elite. 23 γράμμασιν Αἰθιοπικοῖς οὐ δημοτικοῖς ἀλλὰ βασιλικοῖς ἐστιγμένην, ἃ δὴ τοῖς Αἰγυπτίων ἱερατικοῖς καλουμένοις ὡμοίωται (Aeth. 4.8.1).

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those of the lower orders. The optimistic romance plot with its reiterated message of survival and celebration is primarily reserved for its wellborn, multiethnic, Greek-speaking protagonists. Heliodorus uses his in medias res opening to impress the narrative’s informing dichotomy on readers: the difference between persons able to speak Greek and those lacking that ability. Heliodorus’ unusual attentiveness to language usage is well known and much studied. Donna Shalev calculates that the Aethiopica offers thirty explicit references to language usage or cross-cultural encounters.24 And as Niall Slater observes, Heliodorus repeatedly correlates his characters’ intelligence and trustworthiness and the reader’s sympathy for them with their ability in Greek.25 The narrative opens just as the sun rises, with bandits looking down from a hilltop on a puzzling battle scene. They see signs of battle, overturned tables, dead bodies, and a beautiful woman tending a grievously wounded man (Charicles and Theagenes). The bandits hesitantly approach, thinking that the beautiful Charicleia must be a goddess. When she finally addresses them, she asks only that they kill her and her companion and free them from their miseries and the drama of their lives (1.3.1). Enthralled by the girl’s beauty, her resolve, and the pathos of her final request, readers are shocked when the bandits move on in their search for booty without a response; the narrative explains that they didn’t understand a word.26 This scene vividly constructs a stark dichotomy between the two beautiful elite Greek speakers and the non-Greek-speaking ignorant bandit “other.” This theme structures the narrative, as ignorance of Greek repeatedly correlates in the narrative with low moral or social worth. This first scene, as John Winkler writes, immediately makes “knowing Greek an achievement, rather than a premise.”27 And he notes that Heliodorus’s Greek could be difficult even for some Greek speakers. This sophisticatedly rendered opening episode sets the agenda of discriminating between those who speak an educated Greek and those who do not.28 A similar episode correlating ignorance of Greek with ignobility comes near the Aethiopica’s midpoint. The wellborn, Hellenized Homeric exegete and Egyptian priest Calasiris had earlier differentiated between types of magical practices: “There is one kind that is of low rank (δημώδης) and, you might say, crawls

24 On

Heliodorus’s attention to language, see Winkler 1982; Morgan 1982, 258–601; Saïd 1992, 169–86; Whitmarsh 1998, 118–20; Perkins 1999; Slater 2005; Shalev 2006. 25 Slater 2005, 114. There is some slippage to this schematic. The Athenian Cnemon shows some moral lapses. 26 οἱ δὲ οὐδὲν συνιέναι τῶν λεγομένων ἔχοντες (Aeth. 1.3.2). 27 Winkler 1982, 106. 28 See Telo 2011, 581–613 for the sophistication of this scene and its ecphrastic interrelations with Homer’s slaughter of the suitors in the Odyssey.

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around the earth; it waits upon ghosts and skulks around dead bodies.”29 Calasiris contrasts this with what he calls another kind of magic, the “true wisdom” (ἡ ἀληθῶς σοφία) that priests practice: “Its eyes are raised toward heaven; it keeps company with the gods and partakes in the nature of the Great Ones.”30 An example of this degraded magic soon follows. As Calasiris and Charicleia search for the missing Theagenes, they happen upon an old woman in a field littered with Egyptian and Persian dead. The woman laments and clutches a corpse. The text stresses her Egyptian ethnicity31 and that Calasiris must speak to her in Egyptian. They ply the Egyptian woman for information, and she explains that she mourns her dead son, who was part of a band from the nearby Egyptian town. They had attacked a Persian squadron to rescue a handsome young foreigner (obviously Charicleia’s beloved Theagenes). She also tells them that the men of the town, Bessa, along with her other son are on the way to Memphis to attack and restore their leader, Thyamis (Calasiris’s son), to his high priesthood. After providing this critical information, the woman agrees that after she completes her sons’ rites, she will escort them into Bessa, where they can spend the night. She explains it would be too dangerous for two strangers to enter Bessa alone. Calasiris falls asleep, and the woman offers a living enactment of the base magic practices described earlier in the narrative. Charicleia watches as she performs a magic rite to raise her dead son to learn if her living son will survive the war. Resuscitating the dead by magic was considered a heinous act, yet Charicleia benefits significantly from her eavesdropping of this necromancy; she learns that if he hurries, Calasiris can interrupt his sons from fighting to the death over the priesthood of Memphis. The resuscitated corpse also foretells Charicleia’s own happy ending. He announces that after her countless hardships and dangers, she will finally live with Theagenes “at earth’s farthest boundaries in glorious and royal estate.”32 The episode ends badly when the woman, frenzied over having been observed, tries to attack the eavesdroppers and impales herself on a sword. In this narrative’s perspective, neither her willingness to help the protagonists, nor the loss of her two sons, nor the important information her listeners obtain earn her even the slightest sympathy.33 As that of a poor, non-Greek-speaking Egyptian woman, her existence matters not at all. The Aethiopica’s emphasis on discriminating between Greek speakers and others continues into the novel’s last book with a graphic demonstration of how the imperial elite could employ language 29 Ἡ

μὲν γάρ τις ἐστὶ δημώδης καὶ ὡς ἄν τις εἴποι χαμαὶ ἐρχομένη, εἰδώλων θεράπαινα καὶ περὶ σώματα νεκρῶν εἰλουμένη, βοτάναις προστετηκυῖα καὶ ἐπῳδαῖς ἐπανέχουσα. Aeth. 3.16.3. See Jones 2005, 79–98. 30 Ἡ δὲ ἑτέρα, τέκνον, ἡ ἀληθῶς σοφία, … ἄνω πρὸς τὰ οὐράνια βλέπει, θεῶν συνόμιλος καὶ φύσεως κρειττόνων μέτοχος. Aeth. 3.16.4. 31 Aeth. 6 14.7. 32 Aeth. 6.15.4. 33 The apostle Thomas also revives the dead, but not for his own ends.

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to manipulate their civic populations. The narrative had earlier established that the Ethiopian elite speak Greek,34 and it shows them turning to Greek precisely so that their people will not be able to understand them. When King Hydraspes returns to Meroe after his victory, he asks Sisimithres why he hasn’t prepared the ceremony to sacrifice Charicleia and Theagenes. Sisimithres answers, as the text notes, “in Greek so the people should not understand what he was saying.”35 This debate over the couple’s fate structures the concluding scenes of the romance, during which the elite continue to manipulate the people rhetorically and linguistically. After Hydaspes has been convinced that Charicleia is his daughter, for example, but is still concerned that the city will expect him to sacrifice her, he offers a long address (in Ethiopian, it seems) insisting that he will follow the laws and sacrifice the girl. He frames his speech to have the opposite effect, however, ending it with a pathetic apostrophe to Charicleia.36 The narrative notes that he prayed that his speech would be unsuccessful. The gods answer his prayer, and the people insist that he spare his newly discovered daughter.37 The Ethiopian civic leaders continue using Greek as they sort out Charicleia’s identity and her claim on her Ethiopian heritage. And Meroe’s people continue to have difficulty following their leaders’ proceedings. When the queen finally tells Hydraspes that Charicleia should marry Theagenes, as the text describes, “The people cheered and danced for joy where they stood …, for although they understood very little of what was said, they were able to surmise the facts of the matter from what had already happened with Charicleia or else they had been brought to the realization of the truth by the same divine force that had stage-managed the whole drama.”38 The divine forces managing the plot of this romance primarily concern themselves with the multiethnic Greek-speaking elite. Although the people are unclear what is going on, they celebrate and cheer nonetheless, when Hydaspes, “once again speaking in his native language,” marries the couple for the bearing of children. It is the perfect romance ending: a couple united and a future community anticipated  – a very elite multiethnic Greek-speaking community, as the wedding party entering the city shows, limited to the Ethiopian king and queen, the Ethiopian bride and her Greek Thessalian groom, and the priests, the Ethiopian Sisimithres and the Greek Charicles. The divine forces directing the plot have achieved their purpose. The Aethiopica’s distain for the under-stratum and their linguistic deficiencies is hardly unusual in elite literature of the period. Philostratus, the biographer of 34 Aeth.

9.25.3. ἑλληνίζων ὥστε μὴ τὸ πλῆθος ἐπαΐειν. Aeth. 10.9.6. 36 See Morgan 2006 on the rhetorical ploys that Hydraspes uses in his speech to achieve his goal. 37 Aeth. 10.17.1. 38 Aeth. 10.38.3 (ἐσκηνογράφησεν). 35 ἀπεκρινατο

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the second sophists, reflects a very similar perspective in his In Honor of Apollonius, his tribute to the famed first-century Cappadocian wonder worker and wise man. In an incisive analysis, John Morgan points to the surprising number of similarities that the Aethiopica and the Apollonius share. Most significantly, they reflect the same objectives – first, the promotion of a solar religion on the Emesan model, purged of any associations with the emperor Elagabalus and his excesses, and second, a validation of Eastern Hellenic wisdom.39 The narratives also share numerous details; both refer to the gem pantarbe, to a non-Delphic omphalos, to peculiarities of the Nile’s flooding, to the use of elephants in warfare, to a blush on a black man’s face, among others.40 I would add that both also explicitly depreciate non-Greek, or insufficiently trained Greek speakers.41 Morgan proposes that these numerous “details, motifs and themes that are shared … betoken some sort of intertextual relationship between the two works, an awareness of one writer on the part of the other.”42 And he emphasizes that their respective promotions of fictive solar cults in distant locations was “a displaced means to articulate a message about the Emesan cult … accommodating the cult to Hellenic norms.”43 Morgan makes a strong case for an intertextual relationship between the two narratives. These similarities, I suggest, offer a context for understanding the narratives’ relationship: a contest over celebrating the Emesan solar divinity. Competition was at the heart of Greek sophistic culture.44 After the imposition of Roman rule, the Greek elite had to seek new venues for asserting themselves and for showcasing their expertise and power. As Philostratus’s Lives shows, competitive oratorical performances provide a key venue for this elite competition. Years were spent training in rhetorical techniques and Atticizing Greek to acquire the necessary skills for competitive public declamation. And the stakes were high; a man’s reputation could be made or ruined on the basis of such performances. Competitive public speaking provided a crucial arena for the Greek male elite to establish their manhood and to compete for honor and reputation.45 Sophistic competitions were often extemporaneous. A theme was proposed, and each speaker would riff on it in turn. Similarities in speeches on the same topic did not pose a problem, but were to be expected, as Philostratus indicates when he describes a situation where the same man gives two speeches on the same topic in rapid succession. Because the speaker used “such different words and rhythms,” his listeners “did not feel he was repeating himself.”46 Sophistic 39 Morgan

2009, 269–77. 270–73. 41 Perhaps a similarity too standard to note. 42 Morgan 2009, 270. 43 Ibid., 279–80. 44 Whitmarsh 2005b, 40. 45 Gleason 1995. 46 Vit. soph. 573. 40 Ibid.,

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competitions were not about originality, but about style and performance. The similarities shared by Heliodorus’s and Philostratus’s narratives suggest an analogous relationship. One author vies with the other in celebrating the glory and power of the Emesan Sun god.47 Philostratus, the author of the Apollonius, likely also wrote the Lives of the Sophists. Flinterman suggests that the Apollonius appeared sometime between 217 and 238 c.e.48 And the narrative had an extended afterlife. Sossianus Hierocles used it as the basis for his early-fourth-century challenge to Christianity. And Eusebius in turn contested this text in his Contra Hieroclem. In contrast, both Heliodorus’ identity and his dates are very uncertain. The statement concluding the narrative, that he is “a Phoenician from Emesa, and a descendent of the Sun,” if true, offers the most secure testimony. The narrative’s sophisticated style further testifies to its author’s superior rhetorical education and its Platonic overtones to his philosophical education. And both of these indicate significant financial resources. Heliodorus displays all the social and educational criteria for belonging to the Eastern pepaideumenoi.49 His self-identification (if reliable) also may explain why he wrote his narrative celebrating Emesa, in the guise of Meroe, achieving its final stage of exemplary piety. As an Emesan, a highly sophisticated Greek stylist, and a descendent/priest of the Sun, he may well have felt that he had a better right to celebrate the Emesan god than the Athenian Philostratus. Or perhaps, as his intricate and carefully crafted narrative suggests, he may have just enjoyed the sophistic challenge of using a different genre, the romance, to contest Philostratus’s fictional biography. The narratives in fact do seem to interact, as if they were rhetorical performance speeches. A theme has been set: exonerate and promote the Emesan sun cult. The On Apollonius and the Aethiopica are respective responses to this theme. The uncertain chronological relationship of the narratives, however, makes it difficult to determine which of the narratives plays off the other. The proposed dates for Heliodorus range from the early second century to the late fourth century. At present, the chief contenders for the narrative’s date are either the later third or the fourth century. The later third century, when Aurelian was promoting a solar divinity would seem opportune for a narrative in praise of the Emesan god. Aurelian may also have had a special relation with this divinity. The fifth-century historian Zosimus reports that after defeating Zenobia’s forces in 272 c.e., Aurelian was welcomed into their city by the Emesans.50 And the suspect Historia Augusta reports that Aurelian, when he visited the Emesan temple, saw there the same supernatural figure that had rallied his flagging troops during 47 Prepared

written narratives, of course, differ in kind from rhetorical performances. Flinterman 1995, 15–28 for Philostratus’s biography. 49 See Sartre 2005, 286, for a survey of influential Eastern sophists. Cf. Andrade 2013, 253–60, on Dio’s and others’ negative estimation of Syrians. 50 Zosimus I, 50–60; SHA, Aurel. 25,5–6. Cf. Millar 1993, 172–73, on this episode. 48 See

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the battle. It was then that he decided to build a temple to Sol Invictus in Rome as a memorial of the Emesan god’s help. While this testimony is suspect, Aurelius in fact did build his temple to Sol in Rome after his victory over Palmyra, making it a state cult, with a new college, the Pontifices Dei Solis, to venerate Sol. Aurelian was also the first emperor to publicly wear a diadem and thus associate himself with the Sun.51 The fourth-century date is based on the similarities between the Aethiopica’s description (9.3–6) of the siege at Syene and the description of the siege of Nisibis in Julian’s panegyric to Constantius, suggesting a date after Julian’s work.52 Morgan recognizes that an earlier date for Heliodorus would better explain his narrative’s correspondences with the Apollonius. Both authors could, then, have shared an Emesan context about the same time. He rejects this scenario, however, on the basis of the siege similarities. Morgan suggests that Heliodorus’s work “would make equally good sense as a rearguard reassertion of Paganism around the time of Julian’s Hymn to the Sun.”53 Morgan firmly locates the narrative in a pagan context. In her study to reconcile the narrative’s numerous divine aretologies within the biographical tradition that Heliodorus became a bishop of Tricca, Margaret Edsall comes to a similar conclusion. She offers that the narrative captures “the imagination of a pagan on the cusp of conversion to Christianity.”54 If Heliodorus did become a Christian bishop, his youthful production reflects little familiarity with the Christian ethos. Whatever their chronological relationship, both Philostratus’s and Heliodorus’s narratives explicitly deprecate the under stratum and emphasize language usage as indicative of social and moral worth. Through its characterization of Damis, however, the Apollonius is more overt about the social mechanics societies use to prevent the under stratum’s voice and perspective entrée to the cultural archive. Philostratus opens his narrative with an explanation of the circumstances that led him to write about Apollonius, the famed first-century c.e. wonder-worker and holy man. The Empress Julia Domna, the wife of Septimius Severus, an Emesan, and the daughter of a high priest of the Emesan cult asked him to undertake the project. Philostratus indicates that he was a member of her “circle,” and that she was both an admirer and patron of the contemporary rhetorical writings (1.3).55 The empress explains why she needs his help. It seems that a family of a man called Damis, who had accompanied Apollonius on all his journeys, including those to India and Ethiopia, had approached her with Damis’s writing tablets (δέλτους). In these, Damis 51 Sviatoslav

2004, 577.

52 On the date, see Morgan 2003, 417–21; Bowie 2008, 32–34 Swain 1996, 423–24, Bowersock

1994, 149–59. 53 2009, 280. Morgan suggests that Heliodorus is familiar with the Christian semiotic system, “which he inverts in a playful or polemical way.” 54 Edsall 2000–2001, 131. On Christianity in the Ancient romances, see Ramelli 2001 and 2007. See the historian Socrates (Hist. Eccl. 5.22) for Heliodorus’s bishopric. 55 See Bowersock 1969, 103–108, on this supposed “circle.”

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had recorded all of the holy man’s actions, speeches, predictions, and interactions with learned and powerful people during his numerous journeys. The empress asks Philostratus to transcribe (μεταγράψαι) this record, and to “take care” over its style, because Damis had written his narrative clearly (σαφῶς) but not stylishly (δεξιῶς).56 According to Julia, his work fails to measure up to the literary standard and thus cannot be promulgated as-is. Thomas Schirren points out that the two verbs used in this passage suggest that the narrator emphasizes that he has altered Damis’s text.57 That is to say, Damis’s words (and with it his perspective) have been written over and lost to the cultural archive, so that it could be made more suitable for elite readers. Here the On Apollonius shows yet another similarity with the Aethiopica – a devaluation of the non-elite voice. Poor Damis, he had wanted nothing more than that he and his work might be acceptable to the cultured. He expresses this yearning in a scene when Iarchas, the chief Brahmin wise man, asks him, in a “teasing” manner,58 if he possesses any of Apollonius’s prophetic powers. Damis, apparently not getting the jest, offers a sincere explanation of what he foresees happening to him through his association with Apollonius: “that I would be a wise man (σοφός) and no longer an ordinary and ignorant one (ἰδιώτου τε καὶ ἀσόφου), a cultured man (πεπαιδευμένος) and no longer a barbarian … to become “Greek.”59 In pursuit of this goal, Damis loyally follows Apollonius on all his travels, recording his words and actions, and admiring his wisdom, until Apollonius finally sends him away just before his own bodily disappearance.60 In the end, however, neither Damis’s devotion nor his diligent reporting can compensate for his lack of high culture.61 On the basis of its stylistic deficiencies, Damis’s text is rejected by an empress, who is explicitly described as favoring the high rhetorical style promoted by Philostratus in his Lives and showcased by Heliodorus in his romance. In this context, Damis’s loyal but stylistically unsuitable narrative is revised and his perspective erased from the historical record. In a world controlled by the pepaideumenoi, the cultured and the culture makers, only their peers can claim a public voice. Philostratus emphasizes that the wonder-worker’s social and cultural credentials conform to the highest sophistic standards. Apollonius was born in a 56 Vit. Apoll. 1.3.1. Philostratus notes other sources, Maximus of Aegeae, Apollonius’s own will, and an unreliable text of Moeragenes. 57 Schirren 2009, 165. 58 Vit. Apoll. 3.43.1 (χαριεντιζόμενος). 59 Vit. Apoll. 3.43. 60 Apollonius is described as initially being accompanied by two family retainers, a shorthand writer and a calligrapher. Vit. Apoll. 1.19.1. 61 Bowie (1978, 1653–71) argues that Damis is fictive. Flinterman (1995, 79–88) provides an overview of the debate around this. He thinks it “improbable” that Philostratus would invent a source contrary to his views, and thinks it more likely that Apollonius drew upon a pseudepigraphic work of the second or early third century. Whether or not Damis was real, the habitual erasure of the non-elite voice in the early imperial centuries was certainly not fictive.

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“Greek” city, Tyana, in Cappadocia to a distinguished and exceptionally wealthy family, and he received an excellent education.62 As a boy, Apollonius already spoke a pure Attic without any Cappadocian accent, and he was both innately gifted and dedicated to his studies. By fourteen, Apollonius was devoting himself to philosophy, including Platonists, Stoics, Aristotelians and Epicureans. Philostratus also displays Apollonius’s natural precociousness. He acquired his knowledge of Pythagoreanism through a kind of wise osmosis after he lost his instructor (because of his debauchery).63 Philostratus describes Apollonius as the epitome of Greek learning and Pythagorean asceticism.64 Philostratus also conveys Apollonius’s disdain for the social under stratum. Early in the narrative, just after he finished his self-imposed five-year silence, Apollonius visits the sanctuary of Apollo at Daphne. When he encounters some “semi-barbarous” and “uncultured” folk,65 he prays to the god to turn these “dumb” (ἀφώνους) people into trees, so they will at least rustle like cypresses. The narrative also shows Apollonius’s avoiding “crowded and unruly places,” because, as he says, he seeks the company “of true men and not mere humans.”66 It is precisely to interact with this better sort of human that Apollonius begins his visits to various Greek holy places, until finally he determines to visit the East with its wise men, the Brahmans and Hyrcanians. As Jaś Elsner demonstrates, Apollonius’s journey to the East plays a pivotal role in preparing him to become a “holy man” to the whole Roman Empire. It served to equate him with Heracles, Dionysius, and Alexander, and shows him even surpassing Alexander when he reaches the far-off Brahmans.67 The Brahmans instruct Apollonius how to achieve full spiritual and philosophical maturity. They reveal to him that he will be honored as a god, both before and after his death. Through their teachings, he has achieved divinity and has nothing more to learn.68 As Elsner emphasizes, after India, Apollonius has only one mission: to instruct, teaching priests and philosophers and emperors the way to wisdom. As the Damis incident indicates, language usage is as significant in Philostratus’s narrative as it is in Heliodorus’s romance. The Apollonius, however, inverts its use as a social and moral indicator. Rather than offering repetitive denigrations of non-Greek speakers, as Heliodorus does, Philostratus emphasizes instead that an educated Greek offers the universal language of learned and moral people everywhere. Apoll. 1.4. Apoll. 1.7.2. See Swain 1999, 165–74; Flinterman 2009, 154–75on Apollonius’s Pythagoreanism. 64 Vit. Apoll. 1.4–1.8. 65 Vit. Apoll. 1.16.2 (ἀνθρώπους ἡμιβαρβάρους καὶ ἀμούσους). 66 Vit. Apoll. 1.16.3 (φήσας οὐκ ἀνθρώπων ἑαυτῷ δεῖν, ἀλλ’ ἀνδρῶν). 67 Elsner 1997, 29–31 for this discussion. 68 Vit. Apoll. 3.50. 62 Vit. 63 Vit.

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Apollonius first meets Damis in ancient Ninos (Syrian Hierapolis) right before he starts his journey into the unknown. This is Damis’s native city and Apollonius’s last stop before crossing the Euphrates.69 When Damis hears Apollonius lecturing in the temple of the Syrian goddess, he is so impressed that he immediately asks to join him on his journeys: “Let us go, Apollonius, you following God and I following you …”70 Damis explains that he can be of help. He has traveled to Babylon already and knows the barbarian languages of the Armenians, the Medes, the Persians, and the Cadusians. The holy man, however, explains that he doesn’t need a language interpreter: “But I, my friend, know them all, and have learned none.”71 The reader will find that Apollonius even knows the language of animals and birds; the Arabs taught him. Damis’s deficient Greek is emphasized again in this section, where it is noted that he “lacked elegance of style, having been educated among barbarians.” His factual reliability is emphasized, however. Damis is described as “better than anybody” at keeping accurate records.72 The narrator emphasizes that Damis’s notebooks needed rewriting, not because they were factually untrustworthy, since he is relying on them, but because their deficient style (and perhaps alternative perspective?) would offend cultured readers. As soon as Apollonius and Damis cross the Euphrates and enter Babylonian territory, an imperial satrap stops and questions them. He asks who sent them and why. Apollonius responds imperiously that he sent himself, and he announces, “All the world is mine, and it is open to me to voyage through it all.”73 At one level the entire narrative vindicates this claim and its corollary, Apollonius’s equally gnomic statement that, “to the wise man, Greece is everywhere.”74 No matter how far Apollonius travels, he does indeed find that everyone whom he might wish to interact with not only speaks Greek, but also shares his values and perspectives. When Apollonius goes on to Babylon, for example, the Parthian king Vardanes greets him in Greek. Apollonius inquires later if the king knows only enough Greek to be polite to guests. The king assures him that he knows Greek as well as he knows his native language.75 This situation repeats, when Apollonius reaches Taxila and meets its king, Phraortes. The two converse at first through an interpreter. Phraortes, however, soon dismisses the interpreter, explaining that he had not wanted to appear too forward, but in fact is fully competent in Greek.76 Later Phraortes is depicted reading a play of Euripides in 69 See

C. Jones 2001 for the unreliability of Philostratus’s trans-Euphrates geography. 1.19.1 (ἴωμεν,“ ἔφη „Ἀπολλώνιε, σὺ μὲν θεῷ ἑπόμενος, ἐγὼ δὲ σοί). 71 Vit. Apoll. 1.19.2; Arabs 1.20.3. He uses an interpreter at points. Cf. 2.26.1. 72 Vit. Apoll. 1.19.2. 73 Vit. Apoll. 1.21.1. 74 Vit. Apoll. 1.35.2 (ὅτι σοφῷ ἀνδρὶ Ἑλλὰς πάντα). 75 Vit. Apoll. 1.32.1. Cf. Reger 2007, 262, for Greek material presence in India (Afghanistan). Reger offers an insightful analysis the social “networks” (trade, language, Christianity) enabling both Thomas’s and Apollonius’s travels. 76 Vit. Apoll. 2.27.1. 70 Vit.Apoll.

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a moment of leisure.77 All of the Brahmins speak Greek fluently. Indeed Damis is astonished by their ability. When he hears the chief Brahmin, Iarchas, lecture on the universe and its nature, he is so overcome that he shouts out that he “would never have thought that an Indian would have progressed so far in the Greek language … or would have spoken of these matters with such fluency and charm.”78 The Apollonius celebrates Sophistic Greek as the shared language of wise and powerful people everywhere.79 Studies of modern imperialisms offer a frame for understanding claims such as “To the sophist, the whole world is Greek.” When imperialists look out into the world, they typically see only themselves and their interests reflected back, as the British imperialists did when they looked at North America and Australia; they saw virgin territories waiting to be possessed but overlooked the indigenous peoples inhabiting these lands.80 Philostratus similarly overlooks the many indigenous non-Greek speakers who surely were present in the East, as he promotes Greek as the universal language of the wise and holy. In his narrative, Heliodorus does represent non-Greek speakers, but he regularly fashions them as other, criminal, shifty, or muddled. Both texts employ language usage to advance the imperial elite’s perspectives and interests. Simon Swain’s title, “Defending Hellenism: Philostratus, In Honour of Apollonius,” sums up his interpretation of Philostratus’s narrative. He sees Philostratus’s depiction of Apollonius’s deep learning and piety as providing a defense and justification for the Hellenic elite’s style of life and privileges. The Aethiopica’s emphasis on the gods’ interest in and focus on the protection of its elite protagonists can be seen as a similar defense: the elite are special and deserve the gods’ attention and their own good fortune. Swain argues that the Apollonius’s emphasis on traditional Hellenic values should be read as his reaction to the changing religious and political climate of the period  – in particular, to Christian apologetic writings.81 In a subsequent study, Swain suggests that Philostratus could well have known Christians or about them through his connection with Julia Domna.82 And he did not like what he saw: “He [Philostratus] sensed that change was in the air – and he wanted to stop it.”83 John Morgan also suggests that  Vit. Apoll. 2.32.1. Apoll. 3.36.1. 79 Whitmarsh (2004, 162) emphasizes this ethnocentric perspective, noting, for example that the Brahmans’ “hill is the height of the Athenian Acropolis ( 3.13); their spring looks like Dirce in Boeotia, and their song sounds like a Sophoclean paean (3.17); and their tripods resemble those of Pythian Apollo, and their cupbearers Ganymede and Pelops (3.27).” 80 McClintock 1995, 30–32. 81 Swain 2009, 188. 82 Swain (2009, 37) offers that after Julia Domna’s death, Philostratus may have stayed connected to Julia Mamaea, her niece and the mother of the emperor Severus Alexander, who had Christian connections, according to Eusebius (Hist. Eccl. 6, 21). She even invited the Christian theologian Origen of Alexandria to converse with her about theology. 83 Swain 2009, 45. 77

78 Vit.

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the Aethiopica offers a challenge (perhaps ludic) to Christian writings, when it displays Meroe’s deity trumping the Christian God’s claim to turn the Ethiopian white. Meroe’s divinity not only turns Charicleia white, he turns her black again. As the Delphic prophecy had foretold, the couple’s priestly crowns are placed on their “blackening” brows.84 Heliodorus’s Sun divinity here explicitly one-ups the Christian God. In the early imperial period, elite Greeks may ignore Christians, but this does not require that they were unaware of them. Philostratus’s and Heliodorus’s sophisticated Hellenic defenses, as we know, did not carry the day – Christians continued to make social and religious inroads in the early imperial centuries. Some of the reasons why they did, I suggest, are implicit in Heliodorus’s and Apollonius’s narratives. Recall poor Damis, who wanted so much to become a wise man (sophist) and no longer be looked down upon as an ordinary, ignorant one (idiōtēs). His aspirations, however, come to naught. Julia Domna and her circle reject his writings on the basis of their deficient style. They just don’t measure up to elite standards. The Damis vignette (although likely fictive) reveals how militantly the imperial elite strove to block alternative voices from the social dialogue. While Heliodorus and Philostratus were adamantly dismissing the voice of the under stratum, the Christian movements evolving during the same period were taking a very different stance on language. They willingly accommodated not only non-elite voices, but non-Greek ones as well. This linguistic eclecticism explicitly challenged sophistic premises and opened a social space for new voices to enter the historical archive. Recall that the canonical Acts of the Apostles describe the apostles John and Peter, like Damis, “as uneducated (agrammatoi) and ordinary (idiôtai) men.”85 To the elite – men like Celsus, Philostratus, Heliodorus, and Porphyry – all the early Christian texts would have appeared deficient, the work of uncultured idiôtai. By not only accepting but also even revering these voices, Christians opened a new social platform for the idiôtai to speak from. Contrary to Julia Domna’s and Philostratus’s treatment of Damis, Christians made the voices of idiôtai available to history. The Acts of Thomas reflects a very different perspective on language and community than Apollonius’s and Philostratus’s narratives do. The ATh’s original language is in debate, but by the third century, both Greek and Syriac versions seem to have been circulating in the Eastern church.86 Christian communities did not hesitate to employ translation to meet their challenge to teach all nations. The canonical Acts reflect the Christian agenda of linguistic accommodation, 2005; Aeth. 2.35.5 (κροτάφων στέμμα ἐπὶ μελαινομένων). 4.13. 86 See Roig Lanzillotta (this volume) for his detailed argument for Greek as the original language of the ATh. Drijvers (1992, 323) proposes an early-third-century date for an original Syriac text, closely followed by a Greek translation. Most salient for my discussion is the Christian communities’ obvious openness to translation to disseminate their message. 84 Morgan 85 Acts

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when it describes how tongues of fire descended on the apostles and they began to speak in foreign languages (λαλεῖν ἑτέραις γλώσσαις; 2.4). Christian communities provided a public platform for not only contemporary non-elite voices, but non-Greek voices as well. The ATh would eventually be disseminated in many languages. Textual evidence attests not only to Greek and Syriac, but also eventually to Latin, Coptic, Arabic, Ethiopian, Armenian, Georgian, and Old Slavonic versions of the Acts of Thomas.87 The Greek Acts of Thomas falls far below the sophistic standard and shows very little literary merit. David Warren describes its style as “simple prose, without any literary pretensions. It is written in the everyday language of the common people, for whom it was intended.”88 If a reality, Damis’s tablets would have matched, or likely even surpassed, the ATh’s Greek style. Nevertheless, although language is not a major focus in the ATh, its opening scenes immediately challenge the Aethiopica’s and On Apollonius’s position that an educated Greek is the only language of power. The text opens in Jerusalem, where the apostles are casting lots for their missionary assignments. India falls to Thomas (also called Didymus, the twin) who immediately rejects this assignment, citing his bodily weakness and linguistic inadequacy. As Thomas asks, “How can I, who am a Hebrew, go and preach the truth among the Indians?”89 That night, Jesus appears to Thomas and reassures him that his grace will support him in India. Thomas continues to refuse: “Send me where thou will, but I am not going to India.”90 The Lord then approaches a merchant, Abban, who is looking for a carpenter to buy for his Indian king. The Lord offers to sell him his slave, a carpenter, and points out Thomas. After they agree to a price, Jesus writes up the bill of sale, which says, “I Jesus the son of Joseph the carpenter, confirm that I have sold my slave, Judas by name.”91 This document emphasizes the non-elite status of both the Lord and his apostle and their lack of social authority: Jesus, the son of a carpenter, and Thomas, a carpenter and a slave. The Lord takes Thomas to Abban, who questions him, “Is this your master (δεσπότης)?” Thomas answers, “Yes, he is my Lord (κύριος).”92 The next morning, after finally telling the Lord, “Thy will be done,” Thomas joins Abban for the trip to India, carrying with him nothing but his price. Jennifer Glancy emphasizes the poignancy of this scene, which reifies the metaphor of believers as slaves of God, as it also confronts readers with the vulnerability of 87 Geerard 1992, 147–52 with citations. The Christian texts share this tendency with other non-elite popular literature. Cf. Selden 2010. 88 Warren 1999, 114. In contrast, Winkler (1982, 104) described Heliodorus’s Greek as “hard even by ancient standards.” 89 Bonnet 1959, 1:100. Subsequent references are to this text, citing Bonnet chapter and page numbers. See Perkins 2013 for discussion of community in the apocryphal Acts, including the ATh. 90 ATh. 4:01. 91 ATh. 2:102. 92 ATh. 2:102.

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the real slaves in their own communities, who might suddenly be sold off and separated from everything and everyone familiar.93 On the journey’s first night, the ship stops at the city of Andrapolis, where a king is celebrating his daughter’s wedding and insists that the whole community attend, “rich and poor, bond and free, strangers and citizens.”94 Arriving at the banquet, Thomas, as a slave, sits separately from his master. When he takes his place, he sits with his head cast down. The narrative reports the impression he makes on the other guests. They see him “as a stranger and one from a foreign land.”95 This description echoes the common Christian self-positioning of themselves as “passers-by” and “strangers,” persons alienated from their social and civic world,96 for whom every fatherland is a foreign place. The Christians’ true homeland is in the world hereafter. The apostle’s refusal to eat or drink or enjoy the civic festivities similarly reflects Christian norms. The Syrian Tatian describes Christians as being “withdrawn from public and earthly talk.”97 And Pseudo-Justin similarly describes how “he hates public assemblies because of their excessive eating and flute playing that incite licentiousness.”98 A female flute player does, in fact, play at the banquet in Andrapolis; she is described as Hebrew and is most likely a slave.99 She stops and plays a long time for Thomas, who, the text emphasizes, does not look up at her. Then suddenly a cupbearer slaps Thomas.100 At this, Thomas finally does look up and says, “My God will forgive you this injury in the world to come, but in this world he will show his wonders, and I shall even now see that hand that struck me dragged by dogs.”101 Thomas appears to indicate a belief in universal salvation here; eventually all will be saved.102 Jason König suggests that Thomas’s behavior in this episode, his silence and withdrawal from the festivities, could have been read as a challenge to symposiastic culture. The symposium provided an important cultural site for the elite to display their learning and superiority. The apostle’s refusal to attend to the conversation may have figured him here as transgressive and threatening. In fact, Thomas is utilizing the banquet to enact his community’s norms, but since none of the other guests can understand these, his actions appear as aggressively antisocial.103  93 Glancy

2012, 7–8. 4:105.  95 ATh. 4:106 (ὡς εἰς ξένον καὶ ἐξ ἀλλοδαπῆς ἐλθόντα γῆς). See König 2012, 307–314, on this scene’s place in symposiastic literature.  96 See Dunning 2009 for Christians’ alienated stance.  97 Tatian, Oratio ad Graecos 32.  98 Pseudo-Justin, Oratio ad Graecos 4. See König 2012, 140.  99 Glancy 2012, 8–9, on the flute player’s slave status. 100 ATh. 6:108. 101 ATh. 13:108. 102 See Ramelli 2009. 103 König 2012 310–11.  94 ATh.

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After Thomas rebukes the cupbearer, he rises and sings a hymn, celebrating the nuptials of the daughter of light.104 When he finishes, the other guests notice that his appearance has changed, but they don’t understand his song, because, as the text emphasizes,105 as a Hebrew, he spoke Hebrew (likely indicating a form of Aramaic here). Meanwhile, during the hymn, the cupbearer had left the dining room to draw water and was killed by a lion and then ripped apart by dogs. One of the dogs returns to the dining room, dragging in the cupbearer’s arm. At this, the flute player smashes her flute, announcing, “This man is either a god or an apostle of a God, for I heard him say in Hebrew” that he would see the hand that struck him dragged by dogs.106 This scene graphically demonstrates that Greek is certainly not the only language with power, or the Greek-speaking elite the only ones protected and watched over by the Divine. Thomas’s show of power so impresses the king that he insists that Thomas must go and pray for his newly married daughter. Thomas reluctantly acquiesces, concluding his prayer by asking that the Lord “do for them the things that are helpful and useful and profitable.”107 Blessing the couple, he leaves. The groom then lifts the veil around the bride and is surprised to find “the Lord Jesus, in the likeness of the apostle Thomas,” conversing with her.108 He is confused, but the Lord explains that he is not Judas, called Thomas, but his brother (and look-alike). The Lord then offers a long speech, condemning “filthy passion”109 and all its accompanying evils, chief among them childbearing and children. He promises that if they remain pure, they will live an undisturbed life without grief or anxiety. He persuades the couple, and they dedicate themselves to him and to avoiding “filthy intercourse.”110 The next morning, the bride explains to her parents why she has not consummated her marriage: she is now yoked with the “true man.” The distraught king sends people to bring the “sorcerer” (pharmakos) to him, but Thomas and Abban have already sailed away. The king’s search party does, however, find the flute girl and tells her about the bridal couple’s conversion. She immediately rushes to join the royal couple, and they stay on together, eventually convincing the king and many others to join their Christian community.111 When they hear that Thomas is teaching in India, they all go off to join him. This vignette of Thomas in Andrapolis converting high-status persons, who then join and support mixed-status Christian communities, introduces the theme that will structure the whole narrative, as high-status persons are reDrijvers, Acts of Thomas 1992, 329–31; Myers 2010, 70–72. 8:111. 106 ATh. 9:113. 107 ATh. 10:115. 108 ATh. 11:116. 109 τῆς ῥυπαρᾶς ἐπιθυμίας. 110 ATh. 13:119 (ῥυπαρᾶς ἐπιθυμίας). 111 ATh. 16.123–24. 104 See

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peatedly shown being folded into the communities as benefactors.112 A similar episode transpires at their next stop, as Thomas and Abban reach Gundaphorus’s kingdom in India. Abban immediately goes to the king to report he has brought the carpenter, purchased for him. The king then quizzes Thomas on his skills. Thomas carefully explains what he can make in wood and then in marble. The king then orders Thomas to build him a palace. Thomas agrees and gives the king a detailed rendering for its layout. This scene emphasizes the manual nature of Thomas’s work. The sophistic elite had little regard for those who labored with their hands. According to Lucian, educated sophists would dismiss even sculptors as talented as a Pheidias or Polyclitus as mere manual workers.113 Gundaphorus agrees to Thomas’s plans for the building and gives him money to build it. Thomas immediately distributes the king’s funds to the poor and distressed.114 Soon he requests even more money to finish the roof. Once again he uses the king’s money to refresh the afflicted.115 Eventually, reports reach Gundaphorus that Thomas has built nothing. Instead he “gives to the poor, teaches a new God, heals the sick, drives out demons, and performs many miracles.”116 Gundaphorus is outraged and sends both Thomas and Abban off to prison to be flogged and burned to death. That night, however, the king’s brother, Gad, dies and goes to heaven, where the angels show him a beautiful palace, saying Thomas built it for his brother.117 The angels agree to Gad’s request to return to life so he may ask Gundaphorus to sell him his heavenly palace. When he hears Gad’s report, Gundaphorus realizes that he has, in fact, received the eternal benefits that Thomas promised. He releases the apostle and entreats him to intercede with Jesus, so that he may learn to become worthy of his heavenly home and to serve Thomas’s God.118 Both the king and his brother then join Thomas and are described as “never leaving him and supplying the needy, giving to all and relieving all.”119 The episode ends with the brothers asking to receive the seal and be incorporated into the Christian community. Thomas conducts the sealing ceremony, and divine approval sanctions the brothers’ membership. A voice from heaven is heard, saying “Peace be with you.” And after their sealing, a young man appears carrying a blazing torch

112 ATh. 26–27: King Gundaphorus and Gad and their subjects; ATh. 121: Mygdonia; ATh. 157–58: the family of King Misdaeus (excepting the king), the wealthy general Siphor and his family. 113 Somn. 8. Cf. Czachesz 2007, 130–33, for sophisticated analysis of how the list of abilities and tools metaphorically alludes to Thomas’s mission. 114 ATh. 19:128.6–7 115 ATh. 19:129 116 ATh. 20:130–1. 117 ATh. 22: 136. See Hilhorst 2001; and LeLoir 1987 on this episode. 118 ATh. 24:139. 119 ATh. 26:141.12–13.

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that outshines all the other lights.120 The narrative notes that not only the royal brothers, but also many other believers, were added to the community on this occasion. The ATh again configures a multi-status Christian community of all those who believe in Thomas and his God’s message. Rather than prioritizing the elite, as the fictions of Heliodorus and Apollonius do, the Christian fictions envisage multi-status communities working together for the benefit of all.121 The Christian fictions also emphasize the power and authority of their low-status apostolic heroes. Thomas, for example, challenges and handily defeats a terrifying monster.122 On the night of Gad and Gundaphorus’s sealing, the Lord wakes Thomas and tells him to get up early the next morning and go down the eastern road, and “there I will show my glory in you.”123 Following the directives, Thomas finds the corpse of a young man lying in the road. He immediately recognizes that the enemy (ἐχθρός; Satan) has perpetrated this deed.124 Then a large serpent (δράκων μέγας) emerges from its hole, saying that he wants to justify himself, before the apostle rebukes him.125 The serpent describes how a beautiful girl used to pass by his den and he followed her and fell in love with her. Then he saw this dead man kissing her and having intercourse with her. So he killed the man for his shameful action, which was especially heinous because it had been committed on the Lord’s Day.126 Thomas questions the serpent about “his seed and race.” And the serpent reveals that he and his family had prompted most of the nefarious acts troubling Jewish and Christian history. He explains that he is the “offspring of the serpent, the baleful son of a baleful father … and the son of him who encircles the globe.”127 He, himself, had encouraged Eve’s actions in Paradise, had inflamed Cain to kill Abel, had prompted the Pharaoh to kill the children of Israel, had aroused Herod, and had encouraged Judas to betray Jesus, among other such evils. Finally Thomas commands the serpent to stop and suck out all his poison from the dead man. The serpent obeys, and the young man jumps up and immediately falls at the apostle’s feet. Then the serpent explodes and a large chasm opens where the poison had spattered. The apostle bids Gundaphorus and Gad to send workmen to fill in this chasm and build houses there, “that it may be-

120 ATh.

27:142–43. harmonious imagined communities may react to an increasing stratification in imperial cities. See Zuiderhoek 2009 for growing oligarchization in early imperial cities. 122 See Czachesz 2012, 56–70, for an analysis of the strategic role that demons’ sexual desires play in the ATh. 123 ATh. 29:146 (καὶ ἐκεῖ δείξω ἐν σοὶ τὴν ἐμὴν δόξαν). 124 ATh. 30:147. 125 See Vit. Apoll. 3.6–9 for huge snakes (dragons) in India. 126 ATh. 31:148. 127 ATh. 31:147. See Czachesz 2012, 59, for the image of a snake holding its tail in its mouth in Jewish sources. 121 These

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come a dwelling place for strangers.”128 The narrative offers a model Christian community here, one that is socially integrated and focused on the needs of the have-nots. The scene also serves to equate the apostle, a Hebrew slave, with Greek cultural heroes, like Hercules, and Perseus, who similarly proved their power by defeating snaky monsters. Just as Elsner suggests that Apollonius’s travels put him in the company of Dionysius and Alexander, so Thomas’s actions display his heroic prowess. The episode also emphasizes the Christian Lord’s encompassing welcome. The young man that Thomas raised begs the apostle to explain how he may be reunited with the wondrous one he encountered while dead. Thomas assures him that if he frees himself from his former beliefs and actions, he can be with the Lord forever.129 Thomas explains, “He seeks neither gifts nor sacrifices. One only has to look to him and he will not disregard you, turn to him and he will not forsake you.”130 Thomas preaches a God who welcomes all comers. He restates this message to the crowd that greets them when they come through the city gates. He exhorts them to renounce their former lives, with all its possessions and bodily desires, and believe in Jesus Christ, and the Lord will then be their companion in an eternal life.131 The apostle emphasizes again that the Lord overlooks all transgressions done in ignorance.132 This inclusive social message appears diametrically opposed to Heliodorus’s and Apollonius’s socially restrictive position. Such different perspectives are to be expected when different social constituencies have access to expressing their respective positions. The Christian movements opened space in the historical record for the voices and perspectives of early imperial non-elite and non-Greek speakers to emerge and make themselves heard.133 All the Apocryphal Acts highlight the apostles’ lack of status. When the Indian queen Tertia visits Thomas in prison, for example, the apostle asks, “What have you come to see? A stranger, poor and contemptible and beggarly, who has neither riches nor possessions.”134 He lacks all the contemporary status markers. As, indeed, does his Lord. As a demon complains, when he describes how Jesus was able to defeat the demons: “He … left us under his power, because we knew him not. He tricked us by his unsightly form and his poverty and his want.”135 The Lord’s lack of status is emphasized again when Thomas offers a prayer of thanksgiving for the Lord’s willingness to humble himself to redeem humanity: 128 ATh.

33:150 (ἵνα οἴκησις γένηται τοῖς ξένοις). 35:152. 130 ATh. 36:154 (ἀλλ’ ἄπιδε πρὸς αὐτόν, καὶ οὐ παραβλέψει σέ· καὶ πρὸς αὐτὸν ἐπίστρεψον καὶ οὐ καταλείψεισε). 131 ATh. 37:155. 132 ATh. 38:155. 133 Internal Christian contests soon developed over this public access. 134 ATh. 136:242. 135 ATh. 45:162 (ἠπάτησεν δὲ ἡμᾶς τῇ μορφῇ αὐτοῦ τῇ δυσειδεστάτῃ καὶ τῇ πενίᾳ αὐτοῦ καὶ τῇ ἐνδείᾳ). 129 ATh.

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“Glory to your majesty that for our sakes was made small; glory to your kingship that for our sakes was humbled; glory to your strength which for our sakes was made weak; … Glory to your humanness, that for our sakes died that it might make us live.”136 The ATh’s God (in his earthly form), its apostle-hero, and its writer are all presented as people very like those who were scorned or ignored in Heliodorus’s and Apollonius’s narratives. And it would be their alternative social vision and voice that the apocryphal Acts and canonical Christian texts introduced, reworked, and rewrote in various languages across the centuries. The original language of the ATh has been much debated.137 By the early third century, both Syriac and Greek versions of the ATh were circulating in the east. From its beginning, the Christian movements were linguistically inclusive. Portions of the New Testament were translated into Syriac by the end of the second or beginning of the third century, and into Coptic during the early third century.138 In the fifth century, an alphabet was specifically devised for the Armenian language in order to translate the New Testament.139 The late-fifth-century translation of the Scriptures into Georgian was based on this first Armenian version and so on across an array of imperial languages.140 Augustine testifies to the Christian propensity for translation when he explains the reason for the variety of Latin versions of the Scriptures: “In the early Christian period when anyone got his hands on a Greek codex, and he thought he had some ability in both languages, he attempted to translate it.”141 The Scriptures were for disseminating, not for discriminating, as the sophistic texts were.142 This study of the prose fictions of two collective identities developing synchronously in the early imperial period testifies to a debate taking place in the period around issues of language, community, and the divine, and reminds that “Christian” was a social and political identity as well as a religious one in the period. And that Christians in their various manifestations were able to provide a social platform for the emergence or reemergence into the public sphere of texts in languages whose public written expression had been limited in the earlier 136 ATh.

80: 195. Roig Lanzillota (this volume) for Greek as the original language of ATh. Cf. Drijvers 1992, 323, for Syriac; Myers 2010, 33–53, for Syriac, with her overview of ATh’s date and provenance. The many similarities the ATh shares with the other early Apocryphal Acts support an argument for their common background. 138 Metzger 1987, 68–69 139 Alexanian 1995, 157. 140 See Dunch 2002 for a sophisticated analysis of the cultural role of translation in modern proselytizing. 141 Ut enim cuique primis fidei temporibus in manus venit codex graecus et aliquantulum facultatis sibi utriusque linguae habere videbatur, ausus est interpretari. (Aug., Doctr. chr. 2.11.) 142 See Selden 2010 on this quotation and his discussion of how popular imperial texts (including the Gospels) tend to proliferate and create related “text networks” in this period. Cf. Thomas 2003 earlier had identified such “textual fluidity” as characteristic of all the Apocryphal Acts. 137 See

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imperial period – in Syriac, Egyptian, and Armenian, for example.143 And these voices and perspectives were then able to enter or reenter the historical archive. Sebastian Brock, for example, points out how Christianity lent Syriac the requisite prestige to compete with Greek, at least in the religious sphere.144 Adams and Swain remind that the absence of written Aramaic in Syria and Lebanon in the early imperial period did not indicate “that Aramaic was extinguished from any social level. The prevalence of Syriac writers in the later centuries testifies to the continuous presence in the area of local Aramaic speakers.”145 Just as Apollonius had overlooked non-Greek speakers in India, so elite Greek literary productions, even those written by Syrians, tended to erase the Aramaic speakers in their midst.146 Paul Veyne described how the early Christian movement succeeded in opening its culture’s epistemological lens to include the needs of the impoverished, the sick, and the old, groups that Veyne writes “paganism had abandoned without much remorse.”147 Recent studies have sought to soften Veyne’s judgment, but without much success. A recent study by Anneliese Parkin, for example, finds evidence for pagan almsgiving, but she notes, “Most gifts to the destitute must have come from non-elites.”148 The rich, she explains, likely seldom came into contact with the destitute; they were too well protected by their servants.149 I offer that another contribution that the Christian movements were making in their cultural moment was opening the period’s lens to include non-Greek and less-educated Greek speakers, who, like the sick and poor, had been there all along.150 The Christian movements supplied for non-elite and non-Greek speakers a public platform and an institutional presence to preserve and circulate their words. And so new voices and new perspectives entered the historical archive. In the late fourth century, John Chrysostom, for example, attests to the continuing presence and participation of diverse linguistic communities when he describes a nocturnal procession leaving Constantinople with alternating choruses singing the psalms, in Latin, Greek, Syriac, and Gothic.151 As social movements gain legitimacy, they often tend to become so invested in their own positions, per See Bagnall 2011, 75, mentioning Syriac, Armenian, and Coptic as examples among others of languages reemerging in the period. Bagnall does not refer to Christianity in this context. 144 Brock 1994, 158. 145 Adams, Janse, and Swain 2002, 13–14. 146 Lucian offers an exception. See now Andrade 2013, 261–313, for his discussions of the Syrians, Lucian, Justin, and Tatian and their critique of the imperial sophistic constructions of “doxa and thereby Greekness (or Greco-Romaness).” 147 Veyne 1990, 33 (English version of Le Pain et le cirque, 1976). 148 Parkin, 2006, 69. 149 Ibid., 68. 150 The Life of Aesop’s (second century ce) description of its slave hero as being unable to speak likely belongs to this same social trajectory toward non-elite cultural inclusion. 151 PG 63.472.10–13. 143

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spectives, and power that they resist alternatives.152 In essence, they attempt to stop change, to stop history. History is, however, ongoing, and new voices will continue to emerge and new worlds to be imagined.

Bibliography Acta Apostolorum Apocrypha. 1891–98; repr. 1959. Edited by R. A. Lipsius and M. Bonnet. Vol. 2. Darmstadt: George Olms. Adams, James N., Mark Janse, and Simon Swain, eds. 2002. Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Word. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ando, Clifford. 2011. “From Republic to Empire.” Pages 37–66 in The Oxford Handbook of Social Relations in the Roman World. Edited by Michael Peachin. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Andrade, Nathanael J. 2013. Syrian Identity in the Greco-Roman World. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bagnall, Roger S. 2011. Everyday Writing in the Graeco-Roman East. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bang, Peter F. 2008.The Roman Bazaar: A Comparative Study of Trade and Markets in a Tributary Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bonnet, Maxillianus. 1959; orig. pub. 1898. Acta apostolorum apocrypha, vol. 2/2 Leipzig: Hermann Mendelssohn; Darmstad: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschraft. Bowersock, G. W. 1969. Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire. Oxford: Oxford University Press; New York: Clarendon. –. 1994. Fiction as History: Nero to Julian. Berkeley: University of California Press. Bowie, Ewen L. 1978. “Apollonius of Tyana: Tradition and Reality.” ANRW 2.16.2: 1652–99. Bowie, Ewen L., and Jaś Elsner, eds. 2009. Philostratus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Bremmer, Jan. 1999. “Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus in Christian East Syria.” Pages 21–29 in All Those Nations  …: Cultural Encounters within and with the Near East; Studies presented to Han Drijvers at the Occasion of His Sixty-Fifth Birthday by Colleagues and Students. Edited by J. W. Drijvers, Herman. L. J. Vanstiphout, et al. Groningen: Styx. –, ed. 2001. The Apocryphal Acts of Thomas. Studies on Early Christian Apocrypha 6. Leuven: Peeters. Brock, Sebastian. 1994. “Greek and Syriac in Late Antique Syria.” Pages 149–60 in Literacy and Power in the Ancient World. Edited by Alan K. Bowman and Greg Woolf. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Carlisle, David P. C. 2009. “ΚΑΙ ΟΝΑΡ ΚΑΙ ΥΠΑΡ: Dreaming in the Ancient Novel.” PhD diss., University of North Carolina. Christidēs, Anastasios-Phoivos, ed. 2007. A History of Ancient Greek: From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Czachesz, István. 2007. Commission Narratives: A Comparative Study of the Canonical and Apocryphal Acts. Leuven: Peeters.

152 As the Christian movements’ internecine conflicts testify, see, for example, Gaddis 2005; Shaw 2012

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–. 2012. The Grotesque Body in Early Christian Literature: Hell, Scatology and Metamorphosis. Bible World. London: Equinox. Demoen, Kristoffel, and Danny Praet, eds. 2009. Theios Sophistes: Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ “Vita Apollonii.” Mnemosyne Supplements. Leiden: Brill. Dmitriev, Sviatoslav. 2004. “Traditions and Innovations in the Reign of Aurelian.” Classical Quarterly 54, no. 2: 568–78. Dowden, Ken. 1996. “Heliodorus: Serious Intentions.” Classical Quarterly 46, no. 1: 267– 85. Drijvers, Han J. W. 1992. “The Acts of Thomas.” Pages 2:323–411 in Schneemelcher 1992. Dunch, Ryan. 2002. “Beyond Cultural Imperialism: Cultural Theory, Christian Missions, and Global Modernity.” History and Theory 41: 301–25. Dunning, Benjamin. 2009. Aliens and Sojourners: Self and Other in Early Christianity. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Edsall, Margaret. 2000–2001. “Religious Narratives and Religious Themes in the Novels of Achilles Tatius and Heliodorus.” Ancient Narrative 114–33. Elliott, James Keith. 1993. The Apocryphal New Testament: A Collection of Apocryphal Christian Literature in an English Translation. Oxford: Clarendon. Elsner, Jaś. 1997. “Hagiographic Geography: Travel and allegory in the Life of Apollonius of Tyana.” Journal of Hellenic Studies 117: 22–37. Flinterman, Jaap-Jan. 1995. Power, Paideia and Pythagoreanism: Greek Identity, Conceptions of the Relationship between Philosophers and Monarchs, and Political Ideas in Philostratus’ Life of Apollonius. Dutch Monographs on Ancient History and Archaeology 13. Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben. –. 2009. “The Ancestor of My Wisdom: Pythagoras and Pythagoreanism in the Life of Apollonius.” Pages 155–75 in Philostratus. Edited by Ewen L. Bowie and Jaś Elsner. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gaddis, Michael. 2005. There Is No Crime for Those Who Have Christ: Religious Violence in the Christian Roman Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press. Geerard, Maurice. 1992. Clavis apocryphorum Novi Testamenti. Corpus Christianorum. Turnhout: Brepols. Glancy, Jennifer A. 2012. “Slavery in the Acts of Thomas.” Journal of Early Christian History 2, no. 2: 3–21. Gleason, Maud W., Making Men: Sophists and Self-Presentation in Ancient Rome. Princeton, N. J.: Princeton University Press, 1994. Gradel, Ittai. 2004. Emperor Worship and Roman Religion. Oxford: Clarendon. Hägg, Tomas. 2004. “The Black Land of the Sun: Meroe in Heliodorus’s Romantic Fiction.” Pages 345–75 in Parthenope: Selected Studies in Ancient Greek Fiction (1969–2004). Edited by Lars Boje Mortensen, Tomas Hägg, and Tormod Eide. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press. Heliodorus. 1960. Les Éthiopiques (Théagène et Chariclée). Edited by R. M. Rattenbury and T. W. Lumb. Translated by J. Maillon. Collection des Universités de France. Paris: Société d’édition Les Belles Lettres. Hilhorst, Antonius. 2001. “The Heavenly Palace in the Acts of Thomas.” Pages 53–64 in The Apocryphal Acts of Thomas. Edited by Jan N. Bremmer. Louven: Peeters. Jones, Christopher. 2001. “Apollonius of Tyana’s Passage to India.” GRBS: 185–99. Jones, Meriel. 2005. “Wisdom of Egypt: Base and Heavenly Magic in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika.” Ancient Narrative 4: 79–98. Kayser, Carl Ludwig, ed. 1870. Flavii Philostrati opera. 2 vols. Leipzig: Teubner.

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König, Jason. 2012. Saints and Symposiasts: The Literature of Food and the Symposium in Greco-Roman and Early Christian Culture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kyrtatas, Dimitris J. 2007. “The World during the Roman Empire.” Pages 346–55 in A History of Ancient Greek: From the Beginnings to Late Antiquity. Edited by Anastasios-Phoivos Christidēs. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. LeLoir, Louis. 1987. “Le baptême du roi Gundaphor.” Le Muséon: Revue d’études orientales 100, nos. 1–4: 225–33. McClintock, Anne. 1995. Imperial Leather: Race, Gender, and Sexuality in the Colonial Contest. New York: Routledge. Merkelbach, Reinhold. 1962. Roman und Mysterium in der Antike. Munich: Beck. Metzger, Bruce Manning. 1987. The Canon of the New Testament: Its Origin, Development, and Significance. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Millar, Fergus. 1993. The Roman Near East, 31 b.c.–a.d. 337. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press. Morgan, John R. 1982. “History, Romance, Realism in the Aithiopika of Heliodorus.” Classical Antiquity 1: 221–65. –. 1989 “Heliodorus: An Ethiopian Story.” Pages 349–588 in Collected Greek Novels. Edited by Bryan P. Reardon. Berkeley: University of California Press. –. 2003. “Heliodorus.” Pages 417–56 in The Novel in the Ancient World. Edited by Gareth Schmeling. Leiden: Brill. –. 2005. “Le blanc et le noir: Perspectives païennes et perspectives chrétiennes sur l’Éthiopie d’Héliodore.” Pages 309–18 in Lieux, décors et paysages de l’ancien roman des origines à Byzance: Actes du 2e colloque de Tours, 24–26 octobre 2002. Edited by Bernard Pouderon. Lyon: Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditeranée. –. 2006. “Un discours figuré chez Héliodore: comment, en disant l’inverse de ce qu’on veut, on peut acomplir ce qu’on veut sans sembler dire l’inverse de ce qu’on veut.” Pages 51–62 in Discours et débats dans l’ancien roman: Actes du colloque de Tours, 21–23 octobre 2004. Edited by Bernard Pouderon and Jocelyne Peigney. Lyon: Maison de l’Orient et de la Méditerranée. –. 2009. “The Emesan Connection: Philostratus and Heliodorus.” Pages 263–81 in Theios Sophistes: Essays on Flavius Philostratus’ Vita Apollonii. Edited by Kristoffel Demoen and Danny Praet. Vol. 305. Leiden: Brill. Morgan, John R., and Meriel Jones, eds. 2007. Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel: Ancient Narrative. Supplementum 10. Groningen: Barkhuis. Myers, Susan E. 2010. Spirit Epicleses in the Acts of Thomas. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. Olsen, Sarah. 2012. “Maculate Conception: Sexual Ideology and Creative Authority in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica.” AJP 133: 301–322. Parkin, Anneliese. 2006. “You Do Him No Service: An Exploration of Pagan Almsgiving.” Pages 60–82 in Poverty in the Roman world. Edited by E. M. Atkins and Robin Osborne. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Perkins, Judith. 1994. The Suffering Self: Pain and Narrative Representation in the Early Christian Era. London: Routledge. –. 1999. “An Ancient Passing Novel: Heliodorus’s Aithiopika.” Arethusa 12: 197–214. –. 2013. “Reimaging Community in Christian Fictions.” Pages 535–51 in Companion to the Ancient Novel. Edited by Edmund P. Cueva and Shannon N. Byrne. Chichester, West Sussex: Wiley Blackwell. Philostratus, Flavius. 2005. The Life of Apollonius of Tyana. Translated by Christopher P. Jones. LCL 16, 17, 458. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press.

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Ramelli, Ilaria. 2001. I romanzi antichi e il cristianesimo: Contesto e contatti. Graeco-romanae religionis electa collectio 6. Madrid: Signifer Libros. New edition Eugene, OR: Wipf & Stock, 2012. Ramelli, Ilaria L. E. 2007. “The Ancient Novels and the New Testament: Possible Contacts.” Ancient Narrative 5: 41–68. –. 2009. “Origen, Bardaisan, and the Origin of Universal Salvation.” Harvard Theological Review 102, no. 2: 135–68. Reardon, Bryan P. ed. 1989. Collected Ancient Greek Novels. Berkeley: University of California Press. Reger, Gary. 2007. “On the Road to India with Apollonius of Tyana and Thomas the Apostle.” Mediterranean Historical Review 22, no. 2: 257–71. Saïd, Suzanne. 1992. “Les langues du roman grec.” Pages 417–56 in Le monde du roman grec. Edited by Marie-Françoise Baslez, Phillippe Hoffman, and Monique Trédé. Paris: Études de littérature ancienne. Sartre, Maurice. 2005. The Middle East under Rome. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap. Schirren, Thomas. 2009. “Irony versus Eulogy: The Vita Apollonii as Metabiographical Fiction.” Pages 161–86 in Theios Sophistes. Edited by Kristoffel Demoen and Danny Praet. Leiden: Brill. Schneemelcher, Wilhelm, ed. 1991–1992. New Testament Apocrypha. 2 vols. Rev. ed. Translated by Robert M. Wilson. Louisville: Westminster/John Knox. Selden, Daniel. 2010. “Text Networks.” Ancient Narrative 8: 1–23. Shalev, Donna. 2006. “Heliodorus’ Speakers: Multiculturalism and Literary Innovation in Conventions for Framing Speech.” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 49, no. 1: 165–91. Shaw, Brent D. 2011. Sacred Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Slater, Niall. 2005. “And There’s Another Country: Translation as Metaphor in Heliodorus.” Pages 106–21 in Metaphor and the Ancient Novel. Edited by Michael Paschalis, Stavros Frangoulidis, and Stephen Harrison. Gronigen: Barkhuis. Stratton, Kimberly B. 2007. Naming the Witch: Magic, Ideology, and Stereotype in the Ancient World. New York: Columbia University Press. Sviatoslav, Dmitriev. 2004. “Traditions and Innovations in the Reign of Aurelian.” Classical Quarterly 54, no. 2: 568–78. Swain, Simon. 1996. Hellenism and Empire: Language, Classicism, and Power in the Greek World, ad 50–250. Oxford: Oxford University Press. –. 1999. “Defending Hellenism: Philostratus, In Honour of Apollonius.” Pages 131–96 in Apologetics in the Roman Empire. Edited by Mark Edwards, Martin Goodman, and Simon Price. Oxford: Oxford University Press. –. 2009. “Nature and Culture in Philostratus.” Pages 33–46 in Philostratus. Edited by Ewen Bowie and Jaś Elsner. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Telo, Mario. 2011. “The Eagle’s Gaze in the Opening of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica.” AJP 132, no. 4: 581–613. Thomas, Christine M. 2003. The Acts of Peter, Gospel Literature, and the Ancient Novel: Rewriting the Past. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Veyne, Paul. 1990. Bread and Circuses: Historical Sociology and Political Pluralism. Translated by Brian Pearce. Introduction by Oswyn Murray. London: Allen Lane. Warren, David H. 1999. “The Greek Language of the Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles: A Study in Style.” Pages 101–142 in The Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles: Harvard Divinity

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Argumentum ex Silentio: Religion in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica1 Svetla Slaveva-Griffin The presence of a chapter on the Aethiopica in a volume dedicated to Early Christian and Jewish Narrative is, on the surface, surprising because Heliodorus does not overtly expose his attitude towards Christianity in this most complex and celebrated of the ancient novels. Scholars have attempted to contextualize the romance, with oscillating degrees of Hellenic and Christian influence, in the fluent, but turbulent, religious climate of the fourth century.2 This contextualization, no matter how fragile, does not render the inclusion of Heliodorus in the current volume paradoxical but, in fact, mandatory as an alternative to the culture of outspokenly Christian narratives from the period. My goal is to examine the role of religion in the Aethiopica in pursuit of answers clarifying Heliodorus’ position on the matter in general. This examination can help us understand better his taciturn approach to Christianity in the novel. The topic of religion permeates every aspect of the romance, from shaping the storyline, to portraying the characters, to recreating, with encyclopedic breadth, the tumultuous spirit of its times. A closer analysis reveals that religion underpins all transformative events in the life and character of the main heroine, Chariclea, so much so that she herself could be viewed as an embodiment or an allegory of the changing fate of religion, polytheistic or not, in late antiquity. As such the chapter offers a felicitous match to the subtitle of the volume, The Role of Religion in Shaping Narrative Forms. To showcase the controversy concerning Heliodorus’ faith, it is best to remember the statement of the fourteenth-century church historian, Nicephorus Callistus, that, when forced to choose between what seemed in the clergy’s eyes his licentious novel and his see, as a bishop of Tricca, Heliodorus “preferred to resign his bishopric to suppressing his writings” (Hist. eccl. XII.34) (Smith 1889, viii). Even though this statement has been long discredited (Smith 1889, ix, de1 I am obliged to acknowledge that this article is written during a fellowship from the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. 2 The scholarship is palpably divided between interest in the literary tradition of the novelistic genre (Smith 1889; Bartsch 1989; Holzberg 1995; Morgan 1996, Hunter 1998a, among many) and interest in its religio-philosophical context, with intersections with Christian literature (Koraïs 1804; Dowden 1996; Konstan 1994; Ramelli 2001; 2009, among many). All dates in the chapter are in the Common Era unless otherwise specified.

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pending on Huet 1682, followed by Bowersock 1991, 43 and Holzberg 1995, 78), it dramatizes the two controversial and, in the minds of more credulous Christians like Nicephorus, irreconcilable pieces of information about Heliodorus. One is the Heliodorus – mentioned by the fifth-century Socrates Scholasticus (Hist. eccl. V.22.50–51) – native of cosmopolitan Emesa, who is steeply imbued in everything Hellenic, the author of the most evocative ancient romance of a young couple whose love carries them from Delphi to Ethiopia in pursuit of its fruition.3 The other is the Heliodorus, the bishop of Tricca, who according to the same Nicephorus forced his clergy to denounce marriage and embrace celibacy. Much ink has been spilt to reconcile or at least make some sense of how the two sides relate to each other but the arid evidence of Heliodorus’ life and career binds any opinion to the realm of speculation. The Aethiopica, the love child of his first calling or the alleged destroyer of his later vocation, are the only pieces of information we possess from or about Heliodorus.4 Therefore we have to do what we can with what we have and try to avoid succumbing to Nicephorus-like two-tone vision about the novelist, which would force us to choose one side of his allegiance over the other. The religious landscape of the fourth century is simply too complex to allow it. There is, however, a grain of reason in Nicephorus’ conjecture. The passage of a millennium allowed him to see the religious permutations of the fourth century encapsulated in Heliodorus’ life and career.5 From Diocletian’s great persecution in 299–303 to the battle at Adrianople in 378, the fourth century unleashes the long seething clash between the fecund polytheistic world of late antiquity and the institutionalization of the rapidly-growing monotheistic religion, which valiantly tries to close the gap between the human and the divine (Digeser 2010b). Renaming the capital city of the newly-formed Eastern Roman Empire from Byzantium to Constantinople, after its recently baptized emperor, did not stop, however, the clash between the Scylla and Charybdis of the two 3 Through Calasiris’ eyes, Heliodorus describes Delphi as the center of Greek religion and philosophy (Aeth. II.26–27), below n. 15 and Ethiopia is traditionally conceived as the land of the setting and rising sun, i. e. the end of the world, see below, 16. 4  Socrates’ attribution of the authorship of the Aethiopica to Heliodorus may rely on the author’s own sphragis at the end of the novel (Aeth. X.41.4). Hereinafter the Greek text is according to Rattenbury–Lumb’s edition (1960). Its translation is according to Morgan (1989b), with alterations. 5 The dates of Heliodorus’ life and the composition of the Aethiopica have long been an object of debate, ranging from 240, with the death of the sophist Heliodorus (Philostratus, Vit. soph. II.32), to 273, with the rekindling of Helios’ cult in Emesa (Herodian V.3; Hist. aug., vita Aureliani 25), to the end of the third century, with the description of the Ethiopian kingdom and the city of Axum, and to the second half of the fourth century, with the fictitious description of the siege of Syene in book nine after the Parthians’ third siege of Nisibis in 350 (Julian Or. 1 and 3). For an overview of the scholarship on the issue, see Ramelli (2001). The question has been settled, in my opinion rightly, in favor of the second half of the fourth century and this is the time period my analysis is based on.

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worldviews for centuries to come (Momigliano 1963). The fourth century itself synthesizes the history of this clash in which pockets of relative religious stability such as Constantine’s reign after the Milan Edict (313) are followed by even greater waves of upheaval such as Julian’s restoration of the ancient polytheistic beliefs and rituals (361–3) (Digeser 2010b). The external tension between the two worldviews is paralleled by internal dissent on principally conceptual, and later grown to be ideological, issues on both sides of the divide.6 The religious disagreement was more often than not expressed in military arms and violence, which were further escalated by the external political and military pressure on the imperial borders. Political, religious, and military power formed a dynamic coalition, which itself made the ground propitious for intellectual flexibility, “cultural fusion,” and transformation (Digeser 2010a, 2010b). Any intellectual idea, which took shape in textual or visual medium during this time, is by definition implicitly or explicitly in dialogue with both sides of this cosmographical clash. The Aethiopica is no exception and the conspicuous role of religion in the novel, coupled with its overt silence regarding Christianity, is especially significant for understanding the undercurrents, which either effect or deflect the boiling tempest on the historical surface.

History and Allegory: “Sometimes even a lie can be good, if it helps those who speak it without harming those to whom it is spoken.” (Aeth. I.26.6) The relation between reality, historiography, and fiction in the Aethiopica has been avidly explored, with fruitful results that improve our understanding of Heliodorus as a sophisticated author in tune with the past and the present (Lesky 1966; Morgan 1982, 1996; Bowersock 1994). His knowledge of realia from the Classical and late antique world, East and West, Greek and barbarian culture, the traditional and the exotic, makes the fictitious storyline of the novel real.7 The anachronism between Heliodorus’ times, the fourth century, and the eclectic dramatic setting of the narrative, which bear elements going back to the sixth century BCE, gives the author the freedom to pick and choose ingredients which nourish the plot, as it has been widely accepted, but it also allows the possibility, which has been often dismissed, for Heliodorus to have some conceptual program behind it (Morgan 1982b). 6 For Christian theologians, it involves the question of Christ’s nature as a son of God; for the Hellenes, it involves the debate about the use of blood sacrifices (Digeser 2010b, 377–82). Both controversies respond to each other’s external pressure. 7 There are 79 names of places in the novel all of which are authentic. For divergent views on their purpose in the narrative, see Capelle (1953), Morgan (1982, 234–43; 1996, 434).

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The reader of the Aethiopica, familiar with the (post)Classical world, would find Heliodorus’ picture of it thought-provoking. The literary world of the Aethiopica is built upon two stochastic elements: violence and religion. The ‘time-period’ of the novel presents the zenith of Hellenic centrism, upon which the novelist superimposes the ethically and religiously fractured world of late antiquity, when Greek influence does not reach the periphery as much as the periphery has made of Athens a city that has seen better times. This anachronistic setting grapples with the religious explosiveness of its ‘fictional’ times by looking back to the past to rethink, perhaps also to save or to adapt, its Graeco-Roman ideals. In the historical times of the rapidly changing environment directed by the new status quo in Constantinople, fiction is the best and safest tool for this kind of intellectual enterprise. One of the secondary stories in the novel features Cnemon, an Athenian youth, who is exiled by his compatriots on charges of attempted patricide.8 Cnemon’s Athens, in Heliodorus’ eyes, is not the Athens of Classical Greek ideals but of social chaos and dilapidated morality which breeds debased characters such as the source of the young man’s misfortune, his step-mother Demaeneta’s immoral passion for him, the servant-girl Thisbe’s resourceful but equally immoral behavior, his father’s uncritical jump to conclusions.9 This Athens has lost its moral compass and this message transpires in the final acts of Demaeneta’s ruinous fate. Heliodorus contrives the climax of the story, leading to its end, to take place near “the garden where the Monument of the Epicureans is” (τὸν κῆπον … ἔνθα τὸ μνῆμα τῶν  Ἐπικουρείων, Aeth. I.16.5) (Clarke 1973). The anachronistic insertion of the reference startles the reader with its moralistic overtones (Morgan 2007, 39–40). The Epicurean garden brings into focus the corrupt morality of the times the remedy for which, Heliodorus implies, is found in Demaeneta’s end.10 Captured in flagrante by her husband, on her way from Epicurus’ garden, the unfaithful wife throws herself in the Pit (βόθρος) in the Academy (ἐν Ἀκαδημίᾳ) “where the polemarchs perform the traditional sacrifices to the Heroes” (Aeth. I.17.5).11 The topographical symbolism can hardly be overstated, if we take into account the dominant Platonizing motifs in the rest of the novel.12  8 On the ahistorical elements of the judicial procedure in the Athenian court, see Russell (1983, 25). For dating to the times before Alexander the Great, see Blackwood’s Magazine (1843); Smith (1928, 533). For dating to the sixth and fifth century b.c.e., see Morgan (2007, 39).  9 For the world of the New Comedy in Cnemon’s Athens, see Morgan (1989; 1996, 434; 2007, 39). 10 It is later mirrored by Arsace’s death as a result of her ruinous passion for Theagenes (Aeth. VII–VIII). 11 According to Clarke (1973: 386), the heroes were presumably Harmodius and Aristogeiton, murderers, like Cnemon, but for a very noble cause. Cf. Aristotle, Ath. Pol. 58. 12 Embodied most so in Chariklea and proportionally less so in Calasiris and Theagenes. The presence of Platonic motifs in the novel has received considerable, but not exhaustive, attention. Recent treatments include Dowden (1996), Morgan (2007), Repath (2007), Trapp (2007).

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Moreover Heliodorus allows Cnemon alone in the novel to tell his own story in one piece, from beginning to end (Hunter 1998b). The cohesiveness of his account, front-loaded in book one, makes the mention of the Academy emblematic. At the inception of the plot, Plato’s school is the only place, which still stands strong among the moral ruins of Athens. This is the message the carefully designed ahistorical topography of the story imparts. The fictional stage allows Heliodorus to mix and match elements from different epochs in order to create a stylized image of a world in which not only Cnemon and the young protagonist couple need direction and a haven, but perhaps the author and his audience as well. Fiction is also the most genre-specific characteristic, which separates the ancient novel from history and historiography.13 For this reason, it is oftentimes considered a double-edged knife, which on one hand enables the storyline to grab the reader with its reliance on the fantastic but on the other hand the same fantastic undermines any programmatic message it may impart. Smith has best captured this dichotomy by saying that “the works of fiction may, as we know, administer a poisoned cup, but they may also supply a wholesome and pleasing draught; they may be the ministers of grossest immorality and absurdity, but they may likewise be the vehicles of sound sense and profitable instruction” (Smith 1889, vi). For Nicephorus Callistus, it was “a poisonous cup”, for Cervantes, it was “a pleasing draught”.14 We, in turn, look for “sound sense and profitable instruction.” Fiction allows Heliodorus to connect an avalanche of events enfolding lands, peoples, languages, cultures, religions, and characters into an organic whole, the frequent digressions in which panoramically bring to life the world it creates. The geography of the events in book one as well as in the rest of the novel outlines, if not underlines, a way out of the moral crisis of Cnemon’s Athens. The Greek centrifugal movement of his life as an exile in Egypt is manifold matched by the life of the main heroine. Born in Ethiopia, under extraordinary circumstances (below pp. 319–20), Chariclea’s life starts in Egypt, moves to Delphi – one of the Greek religious and philosophical centers – only to come back to Egypt and lastly to her native Ethiopia. In this full geographical circle, Delphi and Chariclea’s role of a priestess there are the turning point from which the real story of her life – her nostos  – unfolds.15 The macro-plot of the novel, tracing the permutations of her fate, moves away from Greece to the periphery, first to Egypt – the font of wisdom and civilization for the Athenians, as celebrated in the beginning of 13 For an overview of Heliodorus’ debt to history and historiography, Morgan (1982) and Bowersock (1994). 14 On the reception of the Aethiopica, see Sandy (1982b, 95–124). 15 The presence of Delphi in the novel is complex, standing for Greek religion, science, and philosophy (Aeth. II.26–8). The patron deity of the sanctuary is also a patron of the late Platonic philosophers and is poignantly fused with Helios at the end. Cf. Marinus, Procl. 15, Edwards (2000, 80, n. 159).

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Plato’s Timaeus (21e–25d) – and then to her long-lost Ethiopia, the land of the rising and the setting sun.16 The former is held in high esteem by Plato and even more prominently by Heliodorus’ Neoplatonic contemporaries, the latter is the epicenter of the monotheistic cult of Helios. It has been argued (Smith 1889, vii) that the Greek novels, although seeking exotic destinations in the Orient, are in their core culturally Greek-centered. Moreover, the above analysis suggests the Greekness of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica runs a deeper vein not only with the political and ideological turmoil of late antiquity but also with his persistent use of philosophical and religious motifs characteristic for the Neoplatonic school in the fourth century.17 Scholars have broadly labeled the philosophical strains in the novel Platonic, with particular semblance to developments in contemporary Neoplatonic thought, i. e., allegory and theurgy (Sandy 1982a, 142). Sandy’s treatment of both aspects has outlined the signposts of Heliodorus’ interaction with the Neoplatonists, as presented in the works of Porphyry, Iamblichus and Proclus. His investigation (Sandy 1982a) has much contributed 1) to understanding the complexity of Calasiris’ character and 2) to sketching a provisionally ‘philosophical’ direction Heliodorus pursues.18 Building upon Sandy’s conclusion about the shared interest of the late Neoplatonists and Heliodorus in allegory and theurgy – for economy of space – I deem it more productive here to look into another, unexplored yet, area of possible Neoplatonic influence on Heliodorus, Plotinus’ treatment of allegory. Before delving into any details, I should briefly address why I think retracing our steps back to the founder of the Neoplatonic school, would enrich our understanding of the role of fiction and allegory in the Aethiopica. The main reason lies in the history of the school itself. While Porphyry and Iamblichus are immediate, if not a bit elderly, contemporaries of Heliodorus if we take the year 350 as the terminus post quem for composition of the novel – the proximity of time makes it difficult, in my opinion, to determine with certainty, without taking into account earlier Neoplatonic developments, that Heliodorus is influenced precisely by Porphyry’s study of allegory and Iamblichus’ infatuation with religion and theurgy.19 It is true that, from a broader perspective, the post-Plotinian history  Egypt holds a special place for all Platonists, especially for Porphyry and Iamblichus (Sandy 1982b, 160–4). Since Ethiopia lies at both ends of the world (Homer, Od. 1.22 ff.), it is directly associated with the rising and the setting sun. A legend attributes the Ethiopians’ dark skin to living closely to it (Snowden 1970; Morgan 1982, 238). On Julian’s promotion of the cult of Helios, see Digeser (2010b, 387). 17 For a steady discussion of the intersection of Heliodorus’ Aethiopica with post-Hellenistic philosophical schools, see Geffcken (1978), Sandy (1982a, 2001), Morgan (2007). The subject, however, remains not fully examined. 18 For late antique fiction as a philosophical allegory with a wholly didactic purpose, see Kahane (2007). 19 I keep Proclus out of the discussion here because he is too late and not immediately pertinent to Heliodorus. R. Smith himself uses him anachronistically to accentuate the religious development of Neoplatonism. 16

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of Neoplatonism progressively brings closer philosophy and religion, especially starting with Iamblichus whose de Mysteriis illustrates the successful amalgamation of the two.20 But both the later Neoplatonists and Heliodorus could have been responding, as contemporaries, to the same external pressure, posed by the expanding presence of the Christian literature, presented in this volume, and by the same internal project to consolidate intellectual and religious ideas in a mutually dependent medium under the influence of ‘eastern’ texts such as the Corpus Hermeticum and the Chaldean Oracles. The distance of time between Plotinus and Heliodorus offers a clearer view of the processes, which help shape the thought of the fourth-century Neoplatonists and Heliodorus. That is, of course, if we agree, as we should, that he is in a conceptual dialogue with them. Moreover Plotinus’ Enneads, edited and organized by Porphyry (Plot. 4–6), are published between 301 and 305 (Goulet-Cazé 1982), about the same time as Porphyry and Iamblichus produce their primary works of Heliodorus’ concern, De antro Nympharum and De Mysteriis, respectively. It is highly unlikely for the novelist not to be familiar with the Enneads. In Heliodorus’ fashion, we should seek answers for the present in the past. In addition, if one looks to discern a common trajectory of intellectual developments, with serious religious consequences, in the fourth century, we find the same eastward-ness, as in the Aethiopica. There is a symbolic overlap between the topography of Chariclea’s life and the history of the Neoplatonic school.21 The Neoplatonists’ growing interest in religion can be described as a move from West, Plotinus’ school in Rome, to the eastern provinces of the empire (Phoenicia, Syria, and Egypt). In this diaspora, Plotinus, as the (post)Classical Athenian world in book one of the Aethiopica, is the center whence later developments take place and, mutatis mutandis, repackage their content to fit the demands of the changing times. Allegory is fiction’s next of kin. It is not an accident that both Plotinus and Heliodorus look to Egypt to demonstrate that, when it comes to divine matters, visual images and text are imbued with hidden meaning. A famous passage from Enn. V.8[31].6 reads: The wise men of Egypt (οἱ Αἰγυπτίων σοφοί) … did not use the forms of letters which follow the order of words … but by drawing images (ἀγάλματα) and inscribing in their temples one particular image (ἄγαλμα) of each particular thing, they manifested the non-dis20 For status quaestionis of the exchange between Porphyry and Iamblichus on the issue, see Clark et al. (2003). Heliodorus impersonates the trend of philosophical and religious fusing in Calasiris’ character (Aeth. II.21.2). 21 The former originates in Ethiopia and Egypt and returns back to Egypt and Ethiopia (in this order) after a life-shaping sojourn in the Greek religious center at Delphi. The latter begins with Plotinus’ birth in Egypt (Eunapius, Soph. 455.34–35; Edwards 2000, 4, n. 26), then his studies in Alexandria, his life in Rome (Porphyry, Plot. 3), and after his death the torch of his thought was carried eastward by his successors only to return back to his alma mater, Alexandria, in the sixth century.

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cursiveness of the intelligible world, that is, that every image is a kind of knowledge and wisdom (τις καὶ ἐπιστήμη καὶ σοφία ἕκαστόν ἐστιν ἄγαλμα) and is a subject of statements, all together in one, and not discourse or deliberation. (Plotinus, Enn. V.8[31].6.1–9)22

The passage fuses philosophy and religion by describing the Egyptian temples, and specifically the hieroglyphic images on them as repositories of divine truths, the key knowledge to which is given to “the wise men of Egypt” representing the sect of the educated high priests, the Egyptian version of the intellectual elite (the so-called pepaideumenoi). In this exclusively religious cast, Plotinus envelops his view of the epistemological foundation of allegory in that the complete understanding of reality requires a complete ontological identification between subject and object (Ramelli 2014). Discursivity drives a distance between us (the subject) and the metaphysical realm (the object). Since our human reasoning is such that we express knowledge by laying it out in diachronic or ratiocinative sequence, text inevitably segregates – instead of aggregates – the subject from the object of knowledge. The Egyptian hieroglyphics occupy a privileged position in that they collapse the sequential order of discursive thought in a single image. Their unique nature combines the properties of text and image in producing a visual narrative. It also obscures the meaning of this narrative and creates the need for a learned interpretation Plotinus puts in the hands of “the wise men of Egypt” (Rappe 2000; Emilsson 2007). The use of ἄγαλμα or ἀγάλματα in the above passage is commonly translated as “image” but one should not ignore the context in which these images appear. They are on a temple’s wall not as “semi-alphabetic hieroglyphics of the sacred books” but as “ideogrammatic symbols” containing knowledge about the higher realities and the gods.23 Considered in this light, they stand as “offerings to” or “statues of the gods.”24 It would be willfully naïve of us to assume Plotinus’ innocence of the double entendre of ἄγαλμα. Another form of an allegorical narrative about higher realities and the gods for Plotinus is myth, which stands on the brink between discursivity and non-discursivity. It belongs to the field of the ontologically devalued written word about which he is skeptical in the previous passage and in general.25 His definition of the allegorical nature of myth comes at the end of his interpretation of the myth of Aphrodite’s birth in Enn. III.5[50]: 22 Discussed in Rappe (2000: 107). Hereinafter the Greek text of the Enneads is according to Henry and Schwyzer (1966–1984); the translation is according to Armstrong (1966–1988), with alterations. 23 Armstrong’s expressions (1984: 256–7). Also see de Keyser (1955, 60–62). 24 LSJ lists the first specialized meaning of ἄγαλμα as “pleasing gift for the gods” (Homer, Od. 8.509; Herodotus 5.60), the second as “a statue in honour of a god” (Herodotus 1.131), and the last as “hieroglyphic sign” citing the instance in Plotinus’ passage above. 25 A recent theoretical development of this interpretation is found in Kahane’s (2007) understanding of the “disjoining” nature of myths.

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Myths, if they are really going to be myths, must separate in time (μερίζειν χρόνοις) the things of which they tell, and set apart (διαιρεῖν) from each other many realities which are together …; the myths, when they have taught us as well as they can (ὡς δύνανται), allow the man who has understood them to put together (συναιρεῖν) again that which they have separated. (Plotinus, Enn. III.5[50].9.24–29)

According to the passage, myth shares the double nature of the Egyptian hieroglyphics, but in alphabetic form. First, its discursive nature (diairesis) separates (diairein) sequentially the non-discursive intelligible entities into a storyline. Secondly, its non-discursive nature (synairesis) – like the Egyptian hieroglyphics – brings together (synairein) the above entities back to their original state. To borrow Struck’s apt analogy (2010), if we compare allegory to ‘a switch’ that turns ‘on’ and ‘off ’ any hidden meaning in the text, diairesis turns the ‘switch’ ‘off,’ synairesis turns it ‘on’. While myth as a form of communication is the surface, allegory is the ‘surface-switch’, which controls to whom and how the hidden knowledge is conveyed. By sequentially unfolding the topography of higher realities, the diairesis creates a distance between the surface of the myth (the storyline) and its hidden meaning. The onerous task of attending to the allegory ‘switch’ and understanding the hidden knowledge it imparts lies, for Plotinus, with “the wise men of Egypt” (Enn. V.8[31].6.1) and with the Platonic philosopher (Enn. III.5[50].1.60–63). Heliodorus’ use of allegory has been explored, in its own terms and those of the later Neoplatonists’ hermeneutics but not in relation to Plotinus’ treatment of allegory and myth. The above analysis shows that, even before the more overtly outspoken Neoplatonic attitude towards the fusion of philosophy and religion, found in Iamblichus and his successors, philosophy and religion are epistemologically fused in Plotinus’ treatment of allegory and provide the conceptual foundation for the presence of religion in the storyline, the topography, and the characters of the Aethiopica.26 One possible objection to this line of interpretation may be that, in the novel, we are dealing not with myths but with a fictional line of events propelling mortal characters, not higher realities. It is exactly here where the religiosity the main characters are shrouded in and the central role religion plays in the storyline itself deserve a second look. Upon a closer examination, the romance offers a literary and literal enactment of Plotinus’ views on allegory and myth. The diairetic characteristic of myth is also in the narrative foundation of the novel as a genre. The plot depends on characters whose true identity is originally unknown (hidden or collapsed) and is later revealed through a discursive sequence of events, facilitated by deities, agents, and circumstances. The result is an elaborate web of storylines and col26 The Neoplatonists stand in the forefront of harvesting the intellectual crop of allegory and although Porphyry’s Cave of the Nymphs and Proclus’ ubiquitous interest (Struck 2010: 68) present some of the finest examples of Neoplatonic allegorēsis, in the foundation of their pursuit of allegory, as with all things Neoplatonic, is Plotinus. Cf. Coulter (1976).

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lapsed images, which are impossible to decipher without special help. In the case of the hieroglyphs and the myths, this privilege is delegated to the “wise men of Egypt” and the Platonic philosopher. In the case of the Aethiopica, it is delegated to a certain “wise man of Egypt,” the high priest of Isis à la Greek philosopher Calasiris, introduced in book two. While Plotinus collectively refers to “the wise men of Egypt” and thus implicitly places their office in their homeland, Heliodorus explicitly makes Egypt the place where the events in the novel are not only mostly unfolded but also singularly told. Calasiris impersonates the two exclusive groups Plotinus envisages as interpreters of divine knowledge.27 Although a high priest, Calasiris conspicuously looks like a Greek philosopher, follows a Pythagorean diet, and possesses intimate knowledge of Platonism (Sandy 1982a, Morgan 2007: 40–2). As Plotinus’ “wise men of Egypt,” Heliodorus endows his ‘wise man’ with the ability to ‘read’ the characters as stories (especially Chariclea’s) and thus treat them as ‘images’ with hidden meanings. In his seminal article on the complexity of Calasiris’ character, Sandy has made the case that the deceitful side of the Egyptian priest is not a result of deeply seated personal convictions but more of a literary device to propel the plot. In his heart of hearts, the old man remains unequivocally devoted to the higher knowledge of the gods. One of Sandy’s arguments (1982a: 148) for the complexity of Calasiris’ duplicity is its relation to Plato’s ‘noble lie’ (R. 415b–c) where the truth may be concealed from people of lower status of knowledge for their own sake. Calasiris’ Protean role in shaping the main events of the plot follows the same guidance in concealing divine – but also not so divine – matters from those who are either not yet prepared to understand a particular truth or incapable of understanding it. I agree with Sandy’s call. But I also think Heliodorus’ commitment to the idea of the helpfulness and harmlessness of ‘a noble lie’ and thus fiction goes beyond the bounds of Calasiris’ character as proven by the main heroine’s explanation, in book one, of why she does not truthfully reveal, to Thyamis and his crew, who she and Theagenes are and whence they come (Aeth. I.22.3–7), i. e. before Calasiris is introduced: My deception is our protection, my love, and we must maintain it; … Sometimes even a lie can be good, if it helps those who speak it without harming those to whom it is spoken. (Heliodorus, Aeth. I.26.6)

As implied later in the novel – at the religious ceremony at Delphi (Aeth. III) –, Chariklea’s fabrication that she and Theagenes are siblings, with priestly offices of the divine siblings, Apollo and Artemis, is not a lie in essence. Chariclea is 27 The Egyptian setting of Calasiris’ narration and his ‘elderly’ attitude towards Greek culture bears some of the hallmarks of the triple-nested tale of the pre-history of Egypt and Athens in Plato’s Ti. 21a–25d where Critias tells an “old story” told by his grandfather who heard it from Solon who heard it from the Egyptian “priests, scholars of antiquity” (Ti. 22a).

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presented as a priestess of Artemis throughout the novel until at the end – upon discovering her true identity – she inherits from her parents the priesthood of the Moon, one of Artemis’ main domains. One of the numerous transformations Chariclea’s character illustrates is her metamorphosis from a priestess of the Greek cult of Artemis to a priestess of the Ethiopian cult of the Moon. The deity is essentially the same, only the cultural setting and the rituals are different. Chariclea’s sole embellishment in front of the bandits is that she and Theagenes do not come from Delphi but Ionia (Aeth. I.22.2). This is a rather miniscule geographical dislocation within the Greek world in a novel which is about Chariclea’s own completely dislocated life (and identity) from one foreign land to another. Her kinship relation with Theagenes is not a full fabrication either, just presented from a different, more physical than conceptual, perspective. When the two first meet at Delphi, Heliodorus introduces them as two parts, which belong to the same whole and reunite after a long separation. This the novelist describes through the ‘knowing eyes’ of Calasiris who here and elsewhere shows awareness, if not understanding, of the Platonic theory of soul, recollection, and in this particular case, Aristophanes’ myth in the Symposium (189c–193e). But the circumstances of the situation in Egypt are different. The bandits lack Calasiris’ learnedness. To their ‘unknowing’ eyes, Chariclea provides a more literal rendition of the Platonic idea of kinship. The kinship of the young couple’s souls is transformed into a physical bloodline. Heliodorus deliberately creates, here and on numerous occasions throughout, two distinct levels of knowledge for two distinct kinds of audience: the ones who ‘know’ and the ones who do not. The ones who ‘know’ (Heliodorus, Calasiris, Chariklea, the educated readers, the pepaideumenoi) can see the hidden meaning through the surface of the plot, the ones who do not (the different groups of Egyptian bandits, the spectators at the religious ceremonies in Delphi and Meroe [the hoi polloi], Charicles [Chariclea’s Greek foster-parent], Cnemon) get only what they see or are told. Heliodorus’ use of fiction then has, among many others, religious and philosophical underpinnings.

Religion and the “Breathing Image” of a Goddess Religion is in the center of Heliodorus’ hermeneutical enterprise.28 The main characters of the Aethiopica are all human, but they are all connected in a web of religious infrastructure, down to the different ethnic crowds of spectators at the ceremonies at Delphi and Meroe. It is reasonable but not justifiable that Calasiris’ 28 On the intersection of fiction, reality, and religion in the novel, see Morgan (1982, 229–30). For an earlier interpretation of Heliodorus’ religious views, see Rohde (1914, 424). The central role of hermeneutics in the novel is compared to a “hermeneutic sponge” (Doody 1994, 195) and a “hermeneutic hothouse” (Morgan 1996, 445).

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association with religion and hermeneutics has received almost exclusive attention (Sandy 1982a). However, the part of the narrative, in which the resourceful priest is not yet introduced, lays the foundation for his future hermeneutical actions. In fact, in book one, all the characters introduce themselves in their own words, without his mediation. Chariclea’s understanding of the advantageous and harmless use of fiction, cited at the end of the preceding section, shows that the main heroine is as devoted to the project of ‘double meaning’ as her soon-to-berevealed guidance counselor who is more practiced, as Heliodorus himself, with this sort of thing.29 But it is exactly in the pure and yet inexperienced knowledge of how to manipulate the facts of one’s life where the immediacy of Heliodorus’ interest in the role of religion in the daily life transpires. The events in book one are narratively naked, presented through the eyes of the people who experience them, and thereby acquire a notion of reality, actuality, and timeliness that cannot be created by Calasiris’ story-telling which is at best one removed from the source. The blurring of reality and fiction in the stories the characters tell is further strengthened by Heliodorus’ choice of Egypt as the main stage of the events (Smith 1928, 533). As previously pointed, the ruin of Athenian morale casts a long shadow over the past, reaching over to the present of many of the characters in the novel, with the notable exception of the protagonistic couple. The death of Thisbe, who is instrumental for unfolding Cnemon’s tragedy, takes place at the same temporal plane as the events in book one and symbolically brings the torch of moral depravity – and the moral up-standing of the Academy – to the present and future characters.30 The first-personal account of Cnemon’s story makes the uncontrolled pursuit of carnal desire a central theme, which is magnified to programmatic proportions in the rest of the novel (1) externally in the relationship between Chariclea and Theagenes and (2) internally in Chariclea’s own struggle to overcome the power of physical attraction.31 Cnemon’s autobiographical account is not only the first complete story in the novel but also the first and only autobiographical account (even though he, too, relies on second-hand information for the end of his story). This creates a powerful effect of a ‘live’ report, which engages with the moral dilemmas of his immediate audience, Chariclea and Theagenes, and the general audience of the Aethiopica. All events in the fictitiously ‘realistic’ plane of book one relate to two things: violence and religion (above, p. 306). They are connected such that it is impossible to discern which is the cause and which is the result. The opening scene 29 For a parallel between the narrative personae of Calasiris and Heliodorus, see Sandy (1982a), Hardie (1998, 31). 30 Calasiris and Astarce are but two of the later characters who face moral dilemmas. 31 It is outside of our present scope to examine in full length Chariclea as an allegory of the Platonic understanding of the soul, but it is timely to point out that such philosophical dimension of her role as an allegory only strengthens her intrinsic relation with religion.

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presents a Hollywood-esque panorama (Bühler 1976; Morgan 1994; Holzberg 1995, 99–101) of a human massacre: “the beach! – a mass of newly slain bodies, some of them quite dead, others half-alive and still twitching, testimony that the fighting had only just ended” (Aeth. I.1.3). This violence, we later learn (Aeth. I.33), is the ruinous aftermath of the feud between Calasiris’ sons for the Isian office in Memphis their father vacated in his self-imposed exile from the passions of the flesh (Aeth. II.25). Although driven by the right, Platonically based, motive, Calasiris’ action unknowingly causes a civil war of the worst kind. The power religion offers dissolves the bond of blood into the carnage of the opening scene. But, in the opening scene, Heliodorus withholds this information from the reader and, instead, paints the iconic image of the protagonist couple in the midst of chaos and bloodshed: On a rock sat a girl, a creature of such indescribable beauty that one might have taken her for a goddess (ἀμήχανόν τι κάλλος καὶ θεὸς εἶναι). Despite her great distress at her plight, she had an air of courage and nobility. On her head she wore a crown of laurel; from her shoulders hung a quiver; her left arm leant on the bow, the hand hanging relaxed at the wrist. She rested the elbow of her other arm on her right thigh, cradling her cheek in her fingers. Her head was bowed, and she gazed steadily at a young man lying at her feet. (Heliodorus, Aeth. I.2.1–2)

The Homeric content of the scene has been scrutinized (Holzberg 1995). Of interest to our investigation is Heliodorus’ portrayal of divine presence in Chariclea and the observers’ reaction to it. The extraordinary sight the heroine offers is presented through the unknowing eyes of Egyptian bandits to whom the scene appears as “a sight even more inexplicable than what they had seen before” (θέαμα προσπίπτει τῶν προτέρων ἀπορώτερον; Aeth. I.2.1). The source of their perplexity is the presence in Chariclea of what seems to them a divine-looking creature (“larger and more godlike”; μεῖζον γάρ τι καὶ θειότερον; Aeth. I.2.5) amidst the sea of death. The pirates, regardless of their ignorance about the ‘hidden meaning’ of things, have an intuitive sense for recognizing the presence of the divine, even in the most of unusual circumstances. Their sense of religiosity is so well developed that it overpowers their basic instinct for plunder (Aeth. I.1.8). Heliodorus carefully, as if in slow motion, describes their train of thought at the puzzling sight. From a distance and thus themselves ‘hidden’ in a more literal sense, they deliberate about the maiden’s divine identity. To some of them, the novelist intimates, she was “the goddess Artemis,” to others “their native Isis,” to third “a priestess possessed by one of the gods” (Aeth. I.2.6). Their religiosity is palpable and deeply ingrained in the dynamic polytheistic environment of their times in which the divine was perceived to manifest itself in many, culturally diverse, forms and in different grades, extending down to the human level. The opening scene of the novel offers Heliodorus’ first lesson in late antique hermeneutics, presented from the perspective of the hoi polloi (Morgan 1991). Unbeknownst to them, the bandits ponder, within their abilities, the question

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about the physical manifestation of the divine, which has been a center of a heated debate, with serious consequences, among both philosophers and theologians in the fourth century (Thdt. HE 1.4).32 Although the bandits are not able to reflect upon the philosophical depth of their considerations, they show genuine religious sensitivity. Their inability to comprehend what they see gives Heliodorus a chance to introduce one of the persistent Platonic motifs in the novel with his conclusion about the bandits’ reaction: “this is what they thought”; however, “they did not yet know the truth” (Καὶ οἱ μὲν ταῦτα ἐγίνωσκον, τὰ ὄντα δὲ οὔπω ἐγίνωσκον; Aeth. I.2.6). The juxtaposition between things (ταῦτα) and their real nature (τὰ ὄντα) is not solely a novelistic device to foreshadow the future events in the plot or an allegorical allusion. It introduces the founding Platonic principle of the ontological difference between physical images or “that which becomes” and their intelligible source or “that which is,” to put it in terms of the textbook definitions of “becoming” and “being” in Ti. 27d. Heliodorus’ commitment to Platonic ideas makes the image/Form divide recognizable even in the eyes of the ‘unknowing.’ To them, Chariclea seems to be at the brink between the physical world and what is beyond it. Considered in this light, she serves as a ‘switch,’ which turns ‘on’ the awareness of the presence of the divine in everyone, from the educated and religiously savvy to the uninformed vagabond. This is no more apparent than in the scene of her reception by the entire pirate community: When [the crowd] saw the huge quantities of booty and looked upon the girl, whose beauty seemed to exceed that of humankind, they assumed (ὑπελάμβανον) that their comrades must have looted a holy place, a temple full of gold (ναοὺς πολυχρύσους ἀποσεσυλῆσθαι); had they carried off the priestess too (προσαφῃρῆσθαι δὲ καὶ τὴν ἱέρειαν αὐτήν), they imagined (εἴκαζον), or was this girl the statue of the goddess, a breathing image (αὐτὸ ἔμπνουν μετῆχθαι τὸ ἄγαλμα)? (Helidorus, Aeth. I.7.2)

The passage brings to the surface of the text the parallel between violence and religion Heliodorus sets up in the opening scene. The bandits’ crowd, which, unlike in the case of Chariclea’s identity, is knowledgeable about the means of their livelihood, instinctively “assumes,” again by physically perceiving things (i. e., the spoils), that a temple has been pillaged. Apparently the times are such that this is a rather common experience for them and they are accustomed to recognizing it. But the use of the third personal plural form of ὑπολαμβάνω to describe their comprehension of the sight switches ‘on’ the allegorical register of the text. This notion is confirmed by the second verb, used to describe their mental process: They “imagine” (εἴκαζον) that they have a priestess or her “breathing image” (τὸ ἄγαλμα) in front of them. The bandits, it turns out, are able to do their own kind of deductive hermeneutics and what they perceive 32 The question is in the foundation of both theurgy (Shaw 1995) and theological debates (Digeser 2010b, 383).

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is rather revealing of Heliodorus’ view of the religious conflict of his day. The fate of religion comes down to a statue of a goddess standing amid the spoils of her ruined temple. The scene puts the finishing touches to Chariklea as an allegory of the divine and its tumultuous fate. She is a “statue” (τὸ ἄγαλμα) of the kind Plotinus places in the foundation of his definition of allegory. But Heliodorus’ picture is rather different. Instead of “wise men of Egypt,” we have bandits of Egypt; instead of an erect temple, we have spoils from a ruined temple. The only surviving element from Plotinus’ frame is the ἄγαλμα still standing and yet transformed. Instead of the static representation of the divine inscribed on the temple’s wall, Chariclea is “a breathing image” (ἔμπνουν … τὸ ἄγαλμα), with a life-story about to be told.33 Her “breathing image” iconically unfolds the hieroglyphics in Plotinus’ definition of allegory into the diairesis of his understanding of myth. The Egyptian wise man needed for the task is Calasiris. That Calasiris is the hierophant who is in charge of leading Cnemon and the reader to the correct interpretation of Chariclea’s allegorical nature is nowhere clearer than in Heliodorus’ second and central lesson of late-antique hermeneutics. While, in the middle of the night, the priest is churning in his head the Pythian oracle, foreseeing in the young couple’s future a journey through oceans and torrid regions (Aeth. II.33.5), he has a theophany in which Apollo and Artemis lead Theagenes and Chariklea into his hands (Aeth. III.11.5) and the goddess lists his tasks, i. e., to return to Egypt, to take the young couple under his protection as his own children, and to bring them to the land the gods ordain. To give the event the air of a physical experience of the divine, Heliodorus makes Calasiris insists that he had a vision, not a dream (μὴ ὄναρ ἦν ἡ ὄψις ἀλλ᾽ ὕπαρ, Aeth. III.12.1). Puzzled by the event, Cnemon asks the priest the same question the bandits ponder in the opening scene: how the gods “manifest themselves in physical form” (ἐναργῶς ἐφάνησαν, Aeth. III.12.1). But while the bandits were looking for answers through their own senses, Cnemon has Calasiris’ erudition to pick on. The latter readily replies with a learned quotation from Homer (Aeth. III.12.2) and the condescending remark that “the ignorant majority miss the allusion” (οἱ πολλοὶ δὲ τὸ αἴνιγμα παρατρέχουσιν). Caught on the spot, Cnemon willingly admits that he “seems to be one of the ignorant majority” (ἦ καὶ αὐτὸς ἔοικα τῶν πολλῶν εἶναι; Aeth. III.12.3). But unlike the bandits, who have no means to be better informed about the gods, Cnemon, as a product of the declined Athenian education, concedes that “[he] was taught the superficial purport of the lines 33 The attribute ἔμπνουν also alludes to the common practice, in late antiquity, of ‘animating’ the statues of the gods, with the immediate presence of their divine patrons, cf. Iles Johnston (2008). In a fragment from his On the Cult of Statues, preserved in Eusebius’ PE 3.7–13, Porphyry “equates the appearance of statues with the activities of deities” (Sandy 1982a, 160–1).

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when the text was first expounded to [him], but [he] is totally unaware of the religious teaching embedded in them” (θεολογίαν ἠγνόηκα; Aeth. III.12.3).34 Heliodorus pulls many Neoplatonic strings in this impromptu lesson of late antique hermeneutics but it should be noted, above all, that in its center is the question of the visible manifestation of the gods and Cnemon’s confessed “ignorance of theology.” Considering the prominent religious overtones of the plot and the characters, it would not be far-fetched to suggest that the ontological implications of the question at hand are indiscernible from and perhaps even subsumed to the religious theme of the novel. Notwithstanding the long literary tradition capturing the divine presence in human affairs, when this question is found in a fourth-century author, it is impossible to ignore its association with two major contemporary developments: (1) the philosophic and more precisely Neoplatonic interest in activating, through theurgy, the physical presence of the gods and (2) the principal theological question of the physical presence in Christ, which leads to the resolution of the Nicene Creed in 325 that the Son is homoousios with the Father (Placher 1988, 52–53; Digeser 2010b, 382–85). While the Aethiopica offers plenty of material to substantiate the presence of the former, it does not afford the same to the latter. But this should not deter us from continuing along this line of thought. Heliodorus does not pledge openly his allegiance to Neoplatonic philosophy, why should we expect that he would openly engage with the Christian debate about the physical manifestation of divinity? One of the appealing advantages of the novelistic genre is exactly the subtlety with which the author can address the important philosophical and religious questions of the day and leave them open for thought. Perhaps Heliodorus is not ready to declare his stance on the issue, perhaps it was not yet important for him to take such a stand, or perhaps he has already taken a stand but he preferred not to disclose it until what would seem to him the right time. That he made the question the focus of the central hermeneutical lesson in the novel is indicative enough of his awareness that the question not only exists but how important it is for both the philosophical and religious milieu of his time. Both the pepaideumenoi and the hoi polloi in the Aethiopica grapple with the question of the fourth century. While the latter are able properly to experience religious awe and admiration and can accept, based on their physical perception of beauty, the presence of the divine in the human, they are not able to reconcile it with the outflow of human emotion. What surprises the bandits the most in Chariklea is not her godly appearance but the humanity she shows underneath it when, in the opening scene, she leans over her beloved in a display of deepest affection: “How,” the bandits think, “could a god behave like that (ποῦ ταῦτ᾽ ἂν 34 In a second bout of inquisitiveness, Cnemon later presses Calasiris for referring several times to Homer as an Egyptian: “A suggestion, which no one in the whole world has heard made before” (Aeth. III.14.2). Calasiris’ answer is a mélange of Neoplatonic motifs, including the propensity for etymologizing.

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εἴη θεοῦ τὰ ἔργα)? How could a divine being kiss a corpse with such passion?” (ποῦ δ᾽ἂν νεκρὸν σῶμα φιλοίη δαίμων οὕτω περιπαθῶς; Aeth. I.2.7). The novelistic genre allows Heliodorus safely to explore the question under the protective and allusive polytheistic cover of the novel. In Calasiris’ vision, Apollo and Artemis formally acknowledge the young couple as their physical manifestation. In fact, the divine siblings prove Chariclea’s earlier ‘lie’ about her kinship with Theagenes to be a part of the allegory. Even the geographical location of her ‘chosen’ destination, the island of Delos, which gives Leto shelter in her labor with the divine twins, is in the middle between Delphi and Ionia. Chariclea has an intuitive connection with Artemis and Apollo. Calasiris’ emphasis on the divine siblings’ disappearance (ἀπεχώρησαν; Aeth. III.12.1) from his vision, establishes the young couple as the physical manifestations of their patrons, literally as their ‘breathing’ images. The divine action in Calasiris’ vision brings to life the idealized image of the wounded Theagenes and god-like Chariclea amidst the sea of death in book one (Aeth. I.2) and the image of Chariclea as “a breathing statue” standing amidst the spoils of a ruined temple in the bandits’ camp (Aeth. I.7.2). The divine guardianship in Calasiris’ vision explains the resilience with which the young couple meets every obstacle on their way. More specifically, ever since this moment Artemis’ protection of Chariclea rectifies her battered image in its proper place in the events. In the words of Chariclea’s eponymous adaptive Greek father, Charicles, “wherever she [Chariclea] appears – in the temples, colonnades, and squares – she is like a statue of ideal beauty (καθάπερ ἀρχέτυπον ἄγαλμα) that draws all sight (ὄψιν) and thought (διάνοιαν) to herself ” (Aeth. II.33.3). When the old Greek first meets Chariclea, he is also struck by her appearance: “there was something special, something godlike, about the light in the baby’s eyes, so piercing yet so enchanting was the gaze she turned on me as I examined her” (μέγα τι καὶ θεῖον τῶν ὀφθαλμῶν ἐξέλαμπεν, οὕτω μοι περισκοποῦντι γοργόν τε καὶ ἐπαγωγὸν ἐνεῖδε; Aeth. II.31.1). Earlier in the plot, Heliodorus describes Chariclea’s impact on Calasiris’ son as “her beauty dazzled him even more now, for her reflections had brought a special blush to her cheeks, and there was fire in her eyes” (Καὶ γὰρ πεφοίνικτο τὴν παρειὰν ὑπὸ τῶν ἐνθυμημάτων πλέον ἢ σύνηθες καὶ τὸ βλέμμα κεκίνητο πρὸς τὸ γοργότερον; Aeth. I.21.3). Chariclea stirs the notion of divine presence in everyone. Heliodorus withholds revealing the reason of Chariclea’s ‘divine’ effect on people until the recognition scene. When the Ethiopian king, Hydaspes, rejects the possibility for Chariclea to be his daughter based on the wrong color of her skin, Sisimithres, the leader of the gymnosophists in residence in Meroe, gives him a markedly Platonic explanation.35 Persina, the queen and his wife, while 35 The role of the gymnosophists, transplanted by Heliodorus from India to Ethiopia, is another crucial element in the permanent theme of the amalgamation of religion and philosophy in the novel. When Sisimithres is about to hand Chariclea over to her Greek ‘father’, he confesses that he could not desert “in danger a soul which has once entered a human body” (ψυχὴν ἅπαξ

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consorting with him, was looking at an image of Andromeda, one of the patron deities of Ethiopia (Aeth. X.6.3), and “have absorbed certain images and visual forms of resemblance from the picture of Andromeda” (Aeth. X.14.7).36 To see for himself, the gymnosophist urges Hydaspes to compare Andromeda’s original (ἀρχέτυπον), publicly available at the Ethiopian celebration, to Chariclea, its ‘breathing’ copy (Aeth. X.14.7). This explanation satisfies Hydaspes’ need for ‘physical proof ’. He is not a Greek and more literal means suffice for him to form his opinions. But more importantly Sisimithres’ lesson in recognition explains the source of Chariclea’s divine presence. Instead of an offspring, Persina conceives an image (ἐσπακέναι τινὰ εἴδωλα; Aeth. X.14.7), an immaterial representation of one of the founding Ethiopian deities.37 Chariclea’s beauty is a literal copy of divine presence and beauty and therefore they both shine through her. Ultimately there is no real physical foundation for her existence, she is an idea in a human form, in Calasiris’ words, “motherless” (ἀμήτωρ; Aeth. II.23.2). The immaterial nature of her character allows Heliodorus to mold her identity throughout the novel from a physical manifestation of Artemis to a physical image of Andromeda. On the macro-scale of the novel, the young couple’s journey from Delphi to Ethiopia diachronically unfolds their transformation from physical manifestations of Apollo and Artemis to their literal embodiments of the Sun and the Moon in the Ethiopian cult of Helios. To borrow Heliodorus’ own pun in describing the divine beauty of Chariclea and Theagenes at the Delphi ceremony, “Greece and the sun (ἡ Ἑλλάς τε καὶ ὁ ἥλιος) gazed upon them” (Aeth. III.4.8). At the end, the young couple embodies the transformative union of Greece and Ethiopia, of philosophy and religion.38

ἐνανθρωπήσασαν; Aeth. II.31.1). I am most thankful to Ilaria Ramelli who pointed out to me the strong resonance of Heliodorus’ “inhumanation” of Chariclea with the popular theme of Christ’s “inhumanation” (ἐνανθρώπησις), preferred to “incarnation,” among contemporary Christian theologians. Cf. Gregory of Nyssa, Adv. Arium 3.1, p. 81.26–31; Adv. Apollinarium 3.1, p. 143.1–10; Eusebius, HE VIII.10.2.5–7: ἐν νῷ λαβόντες … τὸν μὲν κύριον ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦν Χριστὸν εὑρόντες ἐνανθρωπήσαντα δι’ ἡμᾶς; also DE IV.16.19.1–3. 36 The text is corrupt here and I follow Rattenbury’s recommendation (1960, vol. 3, 94). On the Christian and late-antique overtones of Chariclea’s true identity embroidered on a band (Aeth. II.31.2, IV.8.7, X.12.4), see Hilton (1998). 37 Heliodorus lists Memnon, Perseus and Andromeda as the Ethiopian founding deities. Both Memnon and Andromeda undergo color transformation between the Asian and the African versions of their myths. Here the novelist sticks with the Asian version, but it should be noted that, according to one version, Memnon is transformed into a statue of black marble (Snowden 1970, 153). 38 Both the Platonic philosophers and the priests of Helios (Digeser 2010b, 382–83) held special prestige and power in the fourth-century imperial court.

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Conclusion The borders of the Roman Empire were redrawn, with the move of the capital to Constantinople, faster than settling the conflict between the newly institutionalized Christianity and the verdant fusion of polytheistic beliefs in late antiquity. The anachronistic setting of the Aethiopica carries in itself a shade of idealistic escapism, but the strongest overtone of the novel is directed at the question of the changing fate of religion in the fourth century. Julian’s program of military engagement with Persia (paralleled by the siege of Syene in the novel) and his aggressive agenda to restore traditional polytheism (Digeser 2010b, 385) provide a tempting historical background for some of the motifs in the Aethiopica. But if this were the case, why Heliodorus did not make his position clear? The times were ripe for it. Apparently he was not interested in making such a stand. Examining Heliodorus’ allusion to some Christian texts, Morgan (2007, 42) cautiously states that “it appears that he [Heliodorus] is using key terms from contemporary theological debate in a mischievously distorting way”. The same could be said about Heliodorus’ use of contemporary philosophical debates. I think it is safer for now, until we have more evidence, to conclude that the Aethiopica presents Heliodorus’ work in progress on the status quaestionis of religion in his time. The principal position he is comfortable adhering to is that religion is the physical manifestation of deeper underlying truths, philosophic and theologic. His systematic adaptation of allegory throughout the novel, and especially carving Chariclea’s story as an image of the evolving fate of religion, is his response to the “divine plasticity” of the times (θεοπλαστοῦσι; Aeth. ΙΧ.9.3). The dual nature of allegory, as conceived by Plotinus and his successors, enables Heliodorus to make a programmatic statement about the state of religion and the kind of understanding it fosters. The constant permutations of religion exact a greater philosophical toll for their proper understanding and thereby leave room for grave conceptual ignorance. In Heliodorus’ times, the distinction between the educated (pepaideumenoi) and the common (hoi polloi) has been clearly defined on didactic, cultural, and perhaps religious grounds. The division between the ones who ‘know’ and the ones who do not is a permanent parallel to the allegorical theme.39 The polarity between the two groups is deeply embedded in the late antique life as best defined at the end of Calasiris’ hermeneutical lesson to Cnemon. There are two kinds of Egyptian wisdom: one, which “crawls upon the earth,” is vulgar (δημώδης); the other, which is “in company with the gods,” is true wisdom (ἡ ἀληθῶς σοφία; Aeth. III.16.3). The present analysis shows that Calasiris’ division of the two kinds of wisdom also reflects an ambivalent understanding of religion. The elevated status of knowledge about the gods can 39 Heliodorus most likely here reflects upon both sides of the contemporary debate among Christian writers on the literal vs. allegorical reading of the Bible (Turner 2007).

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be taken as granted in the highly sophisticated intellectual environment of late antiquity but at the same time some kind of explanation about these matters is also needed by the masses. The hoi polloi demand answers as well, however misunderstood or literal they can be. The awareness that this kind of division is socially ingrained by the end of the fourth century is boldly captured by Heliodorus’ younger contemporary, Synesius of Cyrene, who, before entering his bishopric, admits that “I can take over the holy office on condition that I may prosecute philosophy at home and spread legends abroad” (Epist. 105, trans. FitzGerald 1926, 200). This kind of double understanding is transparent in Heliodorus’ portrayal of Chariclea as an allegory. On one level, she embodies the union of philosophy and religion in revealing higher divine truths such as the Platonic understanding of the amphibian nature soul (one rational, the other irrational) or the virtues of purity and chastity of maidens devoted to Christ as his brides (Ramelli 2009). This side is accessible only to those with proper training in the hidden meaning of the divine. On another level, Chariclea’s god-like appearance raises the intuitive awareness of the divine in everyone, regardless if they are equipped to understand it properly or not. The two levels come into literal combustion periodically throughout the novel in the numerous times in which Chariclea either attends Apollo’s pyre at Delphi (Aeth. III.4.6), is thought to be burnt in fire (Aeth. II.1.1), buried in a cave (Aeth. II.2.1), mistakenly is taken to be dead by another corpse’s appearance (Aeth. II.5.1–6.2), or has her chastity proven by her ascent on the Ethiopians’ fire-altar (Aeth. X.8–9.5).40 She comes unscathed through it all, and in her resilience lies Heliodorus’ view about the fate of religion. Through violence, burial and resurrection, elevation and misunderstanding, religion – polytheistic or monotheistic – will survive it all. Like the Platonic soul, it is amphibian in nature, but with roots in the divine. If we go back to Smith’s summation that “the works of fiction may … administer a poisoned cup, but they may also supply a wholesome and pleasing draught,” it is clear that in Heliodorus’ case, the times themselves are “a poisoned cup,” and his talent provides “a wholesome and pleasant draught” for its desiccated grounds. The text of the novel is his temple’s wall upon which he inscribes the “breathing image” of religion, the identity of which is hidden, but not lost, even from itself.

40 The Christian overtones of Chariclea’s inhumation and multiple resurrections throughout the novel deserve a closer look in the future. See above, note 35.

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List of Contributors (in the order their contributions appear in the volume) Lawrence M. Wills is the Ethelbert Talbot Professor of Biblical Studies at the Episcopal Divinity School, Cambridge, Massachusetts. Erich S. Gruen is the Gladys Rehard Wood Professor Emeritus of History and Classics at the University of California, Berkeley. David Konstan is Professor of Classics at New York University and the John Rowe Workman Distinguished Professor Emeritus of Classics and the Humanistic Tradition and Professor Emeritus of Comparative Literature at Brown University. Karen L. King is the Hollis Professor of Divinity at Harvard Divinity School, Massachusetts. Laura Salah Nasrallah is Professor of New Testament and Early Christianity at Harvard Divinity School, Massachusetts. Dennis R. MacDonald is the John Wesley Professor of New Testament and Christian Origins at Claremont School of Theology, California. Lautaro Roig Lanzillotta is Associate Professor of New Testament and Early Christian Studies at the University of Groningen, The Netherlands. Mark J. Edwards is Professor of Early Christian Studies at Oxford University and Tutor in Theology at Christ Church, Oxford, UK. Vincent Hunink is University Docent in Classical Latin and Early Christian Greek and Latin at Radboud University Nijmegen, The Netherlands. Richard I. Pervo has been Professor at the University of Minnesota and is a Fellow of the Westar Institute, home of the Jesus Seminar. Ilaria Ramelli, FRHistS, is Professor of Theology and K. Britt Chair, Graduate School of Theology, SHMS (Angelicum), Onassis Senior Visiting Professor in

328

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Greek Thought at Harvard and at Boston University, Gastprofessorin in Religion at Erfurt University, and Visiting Research Fellow at Oxford University. Kathryn Chew is Professor of Classics at California State University Long Beach. Judith Perkins is Professor Emerita in the Humanities at the University of St. Joseph, West Hartford, Connecticut. Svetla Slaveva-Griffin is Associate Professor of Classics at Florida State University and has received a Humboldt Fellowship for Experienced Researchers at Ruhr-University Bochum, Germany.

Index Locorum Note to index: An n following a page number indicates a note on that page; a t following a page number indicates a table on that page.

Achilles Tatius Clitophon and Leucippe 1.1 261 1.15 262 1.19 261 2.7 261 2.19 261 2.24 135 3.6–8 262 3.15 262 3.18 135 Leucippe (see also Clitophon and Leucippe) 1.9 180n56 4.1 261 4.9 262 5.3 262 5.7 262 5.18.3–4 191 5.27 267 6.1–5 187n94 6.2–5 265 6.16 261 6.17.1–2 265 6.20.3 248 6.21.1–2 261 6.22.4 247, 261 7.7–12 262–263 7.15–16 264 7.16.1 265 7.16.3–4 264 7.16.4 264 8–14 263 8.1–3 263 8.3.1 265 8.3.3 265 8.8–14 263 8.13–14 263 8.13.1 265 8.14.2 263, 265 8.14.3 265

8.14.3–4 265 8.14.4–6 265 8.14.6 265 8.15.1 262n52 8.15.1–3 265 8.17 267

The Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena 1 181n61 1–5 180 1–6 169 1–21 172, 190 2 169n36 3 180, 180n57 3.25 186n90 3.40 186n90 4 173n44 4.4 187n95 6 180 6/62.7–8 194 7 172t–173t 7–8 171–172t 7/62.23 183n73 7/74.5 183n73 8 166n22 8/63.10 181n60 9 180n57 10 181, 197 10–13 181 12 162 12/65.22 200 13 171, 197–198 13.66.24 181n64 13/66.5–6 190n106 14/67.17–25 175t 15 181n65, 185 17 174–175, 181–182 17–18 166n23, 182 19/71.25–29 163n10 20 172n43, 182n66

330

Index Locorum

20/72.20–24 198 20/73.11–12 182n68 21 163, 173, 174n47, 182 21–22 195 21/73.19–23 182n69 21/73.38 194n121 22 179 22–24 183 22/73.32–34 194 22/74.9 195 22/74.35–37 168 23/74.22–23 195n125 24 163, 169n32, 197 24[–25] / /GE 24 164–165 24/77.20–22 196 25 166, 184, 197 26 184, 185n86 26–27 184 26–30 171n41 26/77.4 167 29 180, 193, 197 29/79 185 30 184–185, 193 31 184n80, 185, 193 31–32/80.15 198 31–34 190n108, 197 31/80.6–7 189n105 31/80.9–10 185n89 32 165, 185–186 33 179, 184n80, 185n87, 186, 198n144 34 186 35 179, 193 35–36 187 35/82.8 194n122 36–37 190n108 37 171n41 38 186n92, 187, 187n98, 200 39 164n17 39/84.33 188 40–41 195 40/85.5–9 167 40/85.10–11 196 41 187n96, 194n122 41/85.15–17 191 42 169, 196 42/85.31 188 62.15 172n43 64–69 190n109 74.15 194n124 80.9–11 193 81.11 198

85.18 195n127 85.24–26 195

Acta Sanctorum (AASS) January tome 1, 11D 1, 11E 1, 13D 1, 14D 1, 16C 1, 16F–17A 1, 17A 1, 17E 1, 17E–F 1, 17F 1, 325a 1, 325F 1, 569B 1, 569E 1, 569F 2, 185B 2, 185B 2, 186D 2, 187A 2, 187D 2, 187E 2, 191B 2, 191C 2, 192A–B 2, 193E 2, 197E 3, 351B 3, 352C 3, 352C–D

253n18 254n24 256n33 255nn29–30 259n44, 259n46, 268 259n45 259n44 259n44, 259n46 258n40 259n44, 259n46, 268 253n18 256n33 253n19 254n25 259n44, 259n46 253n18 254n24 255n29 259n44 259n44 259n44 253n19 255n29 259n46 259n44 258n40 253n22, 254n24 256n33 259n44

February tome 1, 615D–E 1, 615E 1, 618B 1, 618C 1, 620A 1, 621A–B 1, 623E 2, 577D–E 2, 577F 2, 578A 2, 647D–648A 2, 648B 2, 875A–B 2, 875C–D 2, 875D 2, 876E

254n24 253n16 259n44 259n46 256n33 255n29 259n46 253n21 257n35 259nn44–45 253n20 253n19 254n24 253n20 253n22 255n30

331

Index Locorum 2, 878B 2, 878E 3, 362A 3, 362E

258n42 259n44 253n18 254n24

April tome 3, 573B–C 3, 574A 3, 574D

253n22 254n25, 257n34 261n49

May tome 1, 381A 1, 382D 1, 382D–E 1, 382E 1, 454F 1, 454F–455A 1, 455F–456A 1, 457F

253n17, 254n24 257n35 259n46 259n44 254n24 253n22 255n30 258n42

June tome 3, 674D 3, 674F–675A 3, 676E

261n49 253n19 255n30

July tome 5, 34E–F 253n20 5, 35A 253n22, 254n24 5, 39A 255n30 5, 39C 258n41 5, 133E–F 254n24 5, 134E 258 5, 135E 253n22 5, 525B 253nn19–20 5, 526E 259nn44–45 5, 527B–C 254n25 5, 527D 254n25, 258n40, 259n46 5, 527F 255n29 527A 259n44 527D 259n44 August tome 1, 19B 1, 19E 1, 330C 1, 331A–B 2, 631F 2, 632A 2, 729D 2, 730A 3, 449A 3, 449B 3, 451D 3, 453F 3, 542A–B

253n19 259nn44–45 258n41 253n19 254n24 253n22 253n23 259n44, 259n46 253n23 254n24 258n41 254n25 253n21

4, 757E 4, 757F 4, 758A–B 6, 500B 6, 501A 6, 503A

253n18, 257n35 255n28 255n30 253n19 259n44 259n44

September tome 2, 758B 3, 39A–B 3, 39B 3, 490C 3, 492C 5, 267B 5, 268D–E 5, 269C 5, 269F 5, 272D 5, 272F 5, 273E 6, 143F 6, 145B 6, 145E 6, 146C 6, 154E 6, 154E–F 6, 155B–C 6, 159F

247n1 253n22 254n24 253n16 259nn44–45 253n18 255n30 259n45 255n30 259n44 261n49 259n44 253n16 255n30 258 256, 258 247n1 255n29 253n19 257n34

October tome 3, 24C 3, 24F 3, 25E 5, 75D–E 12, 262B 12, 269B 12, 521C 12, 521D

253n19 258n41 257n35 53n23 253n23, 255n29 261n49 247–248 253n19

Acta Theclae 2 150n15

Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (AXPR) c. 1 c. 2 c. 2–6 c. 3 c. 4 c. 5 c. 6 c. 7

149, 154n33, 157n42 149, 155n37 155n36 155n34 149, 155n34 155 149, 155n34 149–150, 154n33

332 c. 8 c. 8–9 c. 11 c. 11–13 c. 12 c. 13 c. 14 c. 15 c. 18 c. 19 c. 20 c. 21 c. 22 c. 22–42 c. 23 c. 24 c. 25 c. 26 c. 27 c. 28 c. 28–31 c. 29 c. 30 c. 31 c. 33 c. 34 c. 35 c. 36 c. 37 c. 38 c. 38–39 c. 38–40 c. 38–42 c. 39 c. 41 c. 42

Index Locorum 150 155n34 150 155n36 155n34, 157n44 157n43 155n34 150, 155n34 153nn24–25 155n34 155n34 151 151, 151n20, 156n39, 157n46 156 151, 156n38, 157n44 151, 154n33, 155n34, 157n42 151, 151n20, 154n33, 156n38, 157nn42–44 155n34, 157n42, 157n44 151, 157n42 155n34, 157n42 197 152, 156n39 152, 155n34 156n39, 157n42 157n42, 157n46 152, 155n33, 157n42 152, 155n34, 156, 156nn38–40 152, 156, 156n38, 157n46 152, 155nn33–34, 157n42 152, 157n42 152–153 197 155n33 157n42 151n20, 153, 153n24, 156n39 153, 154n28, 156, 157n44

Acts of Andrew (AA) (GE) 5:11–12 (GE) 6:569 (GE) 18a

168 168 164n18

Acts of the Apostles 16:37 77 22:25 77

Acts of Ignatius 2 142n19 4 142n19 7 142n20

Acts of John, 3–4 1:26–29 190n107 21 101 69.5 113, 119 87 101 88–89 101–103 90–93 104

Acts of Mari 2 234 2–5 234 4 230n57 6 234 6–7 234 8–11 234 10 235 12–14 234 15–16 235 17 235 18–30 235 27 234 31–32 235 34 231

Acts of Paul (APl) 1 171n41 3 170n37 3–4 189 3.3 171–172t, 173 3.7–9 172t–173t 3.18 171 3.21 181n65 3.25 185, 185n88 3.28 171n41 4 141 4.9–10 184n83 4.14 195 7 142n16, 171n41 9 171n39, 174n41, 171n49 9.24 184n83 13.3 195 14.2 195

Index Locorum

Acts of Paul and Thecla 27–28 142n16

Acts of Perpetua 20 196n135

Acts of Peter (APtr) 1 169n36 1–3 169 1–4 169 4 169 (Verc) 5 169 17 182n70 24 169 34–35 197n140 35 140 38 140 40 141

Acts of Philip 5.22 166n22 8 166 8.1 166n21 140 140n13

Acts of Thomas (ATh) 2:102 290nn91–92 4:01 290n90 4:105 291n94 4:106 291n95 4.7 115 6–7 110n21 6:108 291n100 8:111 292n105 9:113 292n106 10:115 292n107 11 181n65 11:116 292n108 13:108 291n101 13:119 292n110 14 (B. 120.8) 112–113, 114 16.123–24 292n111 19:128.6–7 293n114 19:129 293n115 20:130–1 293n116 21 (B. 134.7–8) 117n69 22:136 293n117 24:139 293n118 26–27 293n112

26:141.12–13 293n119 27:142–43 294n120 28 (B. 144.3–4) 116 29:146 294n123 30:147 294n124 31:147 294n127 31:148 294n126 32 (B. 149.9) 113, 119 33:150 295n128 35:152 295n129 36:154 295n130 37:155 295n131 38:155 295n132 39 (B. 157.4–5) 113 40 117n70 45:162 295n135 48 (B. 164.17) 113 59 119 63 117n70 66 112, 117n70 66 (B. 184.10) 112n36, 114 67 (B. 184.13) 113 72 119n78 74 119n78–120n78 76 (B. 191.1) 112n36, 114, 117n69 80 (195, 12–15) 175 (table) 81 117n70 82–133 174n49 85 117n70 88 117n70 101 (B. 214.12) 112n36, 114 115 (B. 225.22) 118n71 116 (B. 227.7) 118n71 117 (B. 227.17–18) 118n71 121 293n112 130 (B. 238.21) 118nn71–72 136 (B. 243.5) 118n72 136:242 295n134 146 119, 141–142 148 114 157–58 293n112

Alexander Romance 2.13 48

Apollodorus Bibliotheca 3.5.3 100 4.5.2 104

333

334

Index Locorum

Appianus

Basilius Caesariensis

Bellum civile 4.36.12 119n77

Enarrationes in Isaiam 13.266.18 115n52

Apuleius

Quaestiones 31.944.41 112n34

Metamorphoses 2.2 172n43 6–10 186n91 7.17–24 198n143 9:39–42 186n91 10.2–9 180n56

Aristotle Athenian politeia 58 306n11 Poetics 23.1 17n17 1451a–51b 16n12 1459a 16n12

Arnobius Against the Nations 4.9 143n22

Athanasius Vita Antonii 58.25 119n76

Augustine Against the Donatists 3.3 138 De doctrina Christiana 2.11 296n141 Epistle to Catholics 42 138 On Genesis according to the Letter 12.2.3 143n22 12.9.20 143n22 12.12.25–6 143n22

Barhebraeus Chronicon Ecclesiasticum 1.47 215

Book of Jubilees 25.14 193n117

Chariton Kallirhoe 1.1.7–10 251 1.1.8 251 1.4.12 151n18 1.11–13 251 4.4.1 259 5.5–8 251 5.5.8–9 251 5.8.1 251 5.8.10 259 6.2 251 8.1.8 251 8.1.8–9 192 8.3.6–10 252 8.3.11–12 252 8.4.7–11 252 8.5.1–8 252 8.5.3–8 267 8.5.8 252 8.5.9–12 252 8.5.9–15 267 8.6–8 189n102 8.6.5–6 251 8.6.8 251 8.7.1 251 8.8.12 193 8.8.14 252

Cicero De fato 1.1 82 De Oratore 2.52 83 2.62 84, 93–94

Clement of Alexandria Paedagogus 2.10 116n62

335

Index Locorum Stromateis 1.23.154.2 31n1 5.14.108 144 8.4 116n62

Clementine Homilies 17.14

135, 143n22

Codex Manichaicus Coloniensis 165.4 233

Dares 1.27 197 1.34 197 3.24 197 12 197n138

Dictys 2.26 197 3.2 197 3.3 197 4.11 197

Didache

De Isocrate 9.49 115n52

Doctrina (Addai) 1–8 234 9–10 234 12 234 74–76 238

An Ephesian Tale 1.4 182n67 1.4–6 180n56 2.3.1 194n118 5.7 186n93 5.13 189n102

Ephrem Prose Refutations 2.143–69 217n31

Epiphanius Panarion 3.126.7 210n13 56 214n23

9 141n14

Eunapius

Dio Chrysostom

Vitae sophistarum 455.34–35 309n21

Oration 4.66 144n24

Diodorus Bibliotheca historica 1.53–58 39n37 2.1–20 39n38 2.2.2 39n38 2.20.3 39n38 66.25.2–4 87 5.72.1.2 115n57 24.5.2.2 115n57

Euripides Bacchae 4–5 104 22 104 42 104 53–54 104 478 104 Hecuba 98–608 196n135 568–70 196n135

Diogenes Laertius

Eusebius

2.36–7 197

Chronicon 214 ap.

Dionysius of Halicarnassus

Commentarius in Psalmos 23.1369.42 115n52

Antiquitates Romanae 6.93.3.6 115n57

215

336 Contra Hieroclem, 283

Demonstratio Evangelica IV.16.19.1–3 320n35 Historia eccesiastica 1.2.6 225 1.13.1–4 216, 218 1.13.1–22 216 1.13.6 239 1.13.18–19 230n57 2.1.6–8 224 2.25.5 169n33 4.30 214n23 6 288n82 6.10 222 VIII.10.5–7 320n35 21 288n82 Praeparatio Evangelica 3.7–13 317n33 6.10 222 9.18.1 31nn1–2 9.23.1 31n1, 32n3 9.23.1–4 32n4 9.27.1–6 33n6 9.27.7–10 33n7 9.27.11–20 33n8 9.27.21–22 33n9 9.27.23–26 34n11 9.27.27–28 34n13 9.27.27–33 34n12 9.27.31 34n15 9.27.33 34n14 9.27.34 35n16 9.27.35 35n18 9.27.35–37 37n32 9.27.37 35nn19–20

Galen On the Avoidance of Grief 13 74n2 De locis affectis libri 8.136.5 115n57 De rebus boni malique suci 6.756 115n57

Gospel of Judas 4:15–46:4 60 16:8–9 2–3, 55

Index Locorum 33:1–2 60 33:6–9 3, 56, 57 33:10–13 64 33:14–18 60 33:15–18 57 33:22–34:9 57 33:27–34:11 62 34:18 ff. 60 35:9–36:4 58 35:15–16 65n32 35:21–36:4 61n23 35:23–25 58n10 36:1–4 61 37:1–8 66 37:1–16 60 37:21–40 60 37:21–41:2 57 39:7–11 62n27 39:18–28 57 41:1–2 62 42:1–7 57 42:10–22 60 42:11–14 66 42:22–56:18 58 43:7–11 60 43:11–23 62 43:14–23 66 43:14–44:13 60 43:26–44:2 65n32 44:23–45:1 58 44:24–45:1 60n22 45:1–2 58n10 47:1–53:7 60 53:16–25 66 53:16 ff. 62 53:17 ff. 60 54:8–12 60 54:15–57:14 60 56:6–8 60 56:6–11 58 56:8–11 61 56:11–20 62n27 56:18–21 58 56:19–20 60 56:22–57:21 58 57:11–15 66 57:19–20 58, 60 57:21–24 58 57:24 61 57:24–58:5 58 58:3 58 58:5–6 58, 61 58:9–22 58

Index Locorum 58:11 65n32 58:16–19 60 58:19–22 65n32 58:23–26 58

Gospel of Thomas 22 140n13

Geographiae expositio compendiaria 20 210n13

Gregorius Palamas Homiliae 49.8.3. 119n77

Gregory of Nyssa Adversus Apollinarium 3.1, p. 143.1–10 320n35 Adversus Arium 3.1, p. 81.26–31

320n35

Heliodorus Charicleia and Theagenes (Aethiopica) 1.1–2 262 1.3.1 279 1.3.2 279n26 1.9–18 264 2.8–10 264 2.24–5.1 264 2.35.5 289n84 3.4.7 263 3.16.3 280n29 3.16.4 280n30 4.8 262 4.8.1 278n23 4.8.3 262 4.10 262 5.17–5.33 264 6.8 262 6.14.7 280n31 6.15.4 280n32 7.6–7 263, 264 7.7 265 7.7–8 263 7.8 265, 267 8.9 261, 263, 264 9.3–6 284 9.25.3 281n34

10.4–41 263 10.9 261, 263, 264 10.9.6 281n35 10.16 267 10.16.6 276n12 10.17 265 10.17.1 281n37 10.38 264, 265 10.38.3 281n38 10.39.2 277n15 10.39.3 277n16 10.41.1 277n14, 278 10.41.4 276n7

Heliodorus, Rattenberry-Lumb ed. Charicleia and Theagenes (Aethiopica) I.1.3 315 I.2 319 I.2.1 315 I.2.1–2 315 I.2.5 315 I.2.6 315, 316 I.2.7 319 I.7.2 316, 317 I.16.5 306 I.17.5 306 I.21.3 319 I.22.2 313 I.22.3–7 312 I.26.6 305, 312 I.33 315 II.1.1 322 II.2.1 322 II.5.1–6.2 322 II.21.2 309n20 II.23.2 320 II.25 315 II.26–8 307n15 II.26–27 304n3 II.31.1 319, 320n35 II.31.2 320n36 II.33.3 319 II.33.5 317 III 312–313 III.4.6 322 III.4.8 320 III.11.5 317 III.12.1 317, 319 III.12.2 317 III.12.3 317, 318 III.14.2 318n34 III.16.3 321

337

338 IV.8.7 320n36 VII–VIII 306n10 IX.9.3 321 X.6.3 320 X.8–9.5 322 X.12.4 320n36 X.14.7 320 X.41.4 304n4 Ethiopics (Aethiopica) 2.22 194n118 10.3.1 194n118

Hephaistion Apotelesmatica 152.1 210n14

Herodianus De prosodia catholica 3/1.267.11 210n14

Herodotus Histories 1.53.3 136n6 1.131 310n24 2.102–110 39n37 5.60 310n24 6.107 136 7.143 137n7

Homer Odyssey 1.22 ff. 308n16 1.23 276n11 8.509 310n24

Index Locorum 7.44 102–103 7.53–57 99

Hymn of the Soul (in the Acts of Thomas) 108–13 179n54

Irenaeus Adversus haereses 111.11.7 65n32

Isidore of Pelusium Epistulae 5.28 116n62

Jerome Apology against Rufinus 1.30–31 143n22

John Chrysostom De jejunio 62.731.21 112n34 62.731.24 112n34 In evangelii dictum et de virginitate 64.39.44 115n55

1 John 2:9 113n43 5:7–8 163n11

Johannes Tzetzes Epistulae 61.92.8 119n76

Homeric Hymn

Joseph and Aseneth

7.6–17 98 7.7.1–4 98, 102–103 7.8–9 102–103 7.9 100 7.14–15 102–103 7.20–24 98 7.33–53 99 7.34 102–103 7.34–37 98 7.37 100 7.38 102–103 7.42–46 98–99

1–21 190 11 180 13:9 180n57

Josephus, Flavius Antiquitates Judaicae 2.268 34n10, 35n16 5.155.2 115n55 10.250.1 119n77 18.4.3 207 18.89–90 207 18.90–95 211

Index Locorum 18.106 208 18.109–150 208 20.2.4–5 210 20.9.1 207n8 122 207

Quomodo Historia 41 92 71 85n48

Julian

Somnium 8 293n113

Or. 1 304n5 3 304n5

Julius Africanus Kestoi 1.20 237n68–238n68

Liber legum regionum 604–607 Nau

222n49

Longus Daphnis and Chloe, 157n45 1.9 263 1.23 263 2.3–6 263 2.8 262 2.26.1 263 2.27.2 263 2.39 262 3.12–13 263 3.18 267 3.31.3 194n118 4.2 263 4.7–8 263 4.27 262 4.28 263 4.29.4 267 4.29.5 265 4.32 265 4.33 265 4.33–36 263 4.34–36 263 4.38 265 4.38.2 265 prologue.2 262 prologue.3 264

Lucian De morte Peregrini 34.3 115n57

Revivescentes sive piscator 23.9 115n57

Verae Historiae 1.2 86 1.4 86

Marcus Diaconus Vita Porphyrii episcopi Gazensis 101.3 115n55

Marinus Vita Procli 15 307n15

Martyrdom of Polycarp 3.1 142n17

Maximus Planudes Epistulae 97.14 119n76

Micheal Psellus Opuscula 18.60 116n63

Moses of Chorene History of Armenia 2.10 237 2.26 240n71 2.29.103 208 2.30 239 2.31 239 2.32 209n12, 236 2.33 238 2.36 235 2.39 212 2.66 214–215, 237 3.62 236

339

340 New Testament Gospel of Matthew 4:18 101 4:18–22 104 8.22 141 9.26 181n62 10:1–2 223 11:12 113n43 14.58 139 15.20 141 15.28 141 21.33 par 141n14 23:3–10 60n22 23.34 143n23 24.15–51 139 24.29 139 25:1–13 255 26.61 139 27.19 143 27.29 144 Gospel of Mark 1:14 62, 63n29 1:15 68 1:16 97 1:16–20 104 1:17–18 100 1:18–19 97 1:19 100 1:24 65n32 4:1–2a 97 4:2–20 65n32 5:27–28 180n59 6:56 180n59 7:19 60n18 8:27–35 67 8:31 59n17 8:34 68 9:9 59n17 9:31 59n17 9:33–35 67 10:21 197 10:33 59n17 10:46–52 165 13 60, 62 13:10–13 68 13:13 3, 56, 66 13:14 60n18 13:27 3, 66 13:37 60 13:53 68 13.14–31 139 13.24 139

Index Locorum 14:14 65n32 14:27 59 14:28 59n17, 60 14:30 59 14:49 59 14:50 59 14:66–70 65n32 14:66–72 58n12, 59 16:6 59 16:7 59–60 16:8 2–3, 55 Gospel of Luke 1:46–55 181 1:48 181n60 4:14 181n62 5:1–3 97 5:1–11 101, 104 5:4 98 5:4–9 99, 101–102 5:7 100 5:8 99 5:9 100 5:9–11 100 7:38 181 9:61 185n88 9.23 140 14.18–20 142 21.21–27 139 21.26 139 23:12 212 24:19 187n98 Gospel of John 1:18 181n65 2.20 139 2.21 139 4 197n139 5:17 113n43 7.38 141 13:24 100 15.1–8 141n14 16:24 113n43 19:34 162n7 20:24–27 256n31 Acts 1:12–16 1:12–26 58n10 1:15–26 61 1:18 60n22 1:24–25 61n23 2.29–31 139 3:1–9 165

Index Locorum 4–5 234 4.13 289n85 5 234 8 235 8:26–39 184n84 8:26–40 197 8:39 184n80 16 187n98 16:20–21 90 18 76 20–21 235 20:7–12 195 21 187n98 24:10 100 27 187n96 28–30 164 Romans 3.4 136n4 5.1 142n17, 142n18 7 88 9:10–12 197 13 89 15.24 149n12 15.28 149n12 1 Corinthians 4:13 113n43 7 93, 168, 182n66 7:5 154n29 7:9 88, 193 8:7 113n43 9:25 88 14 93 14:33b–35 73, 92 15:6 113n43 15:32 142 34–35 93n76 2 Corinthians 2:1–9 77 11:2 254 Galatians 3.16 139 3.28 185, 185n87, 193 4:21–31 197 4.24 138n10 Ephesians 1.2 142n17 1.3 187n97 Philippians 1:1 168 4:3 195n127

Colossians 4.7 187n97 4:9 200 1 Timothy 1:2 195n127 2:15 89 3:14–15a 89, 89n64 2 Timothy 1:2 195n127 4:13 89n64 Titus 1.2 136n4 1.4 195n127 Philemon 21–22 77 Hebrews 1.5 138 2.7–9 138 6.18 136n4 6.20 138 7.3 139 8.5 137 9.11–28 139

Nicephorus Callistus 2.25 169n33

Old Testament Genesis 1.3 137 2:21 162n7 3.17 137 5.3–4 137 12:10–13:1 32n3 12:13–14 197 14–16 137n9 19 197 21.12 139 22.13 139 24:10–27 197 29:1–12 197n139 37:2–36 32n5 40.9–19 137 45.25–33 137 47:13–26 32n5 Exodus 2:15–21 197n139 12:36 35n16, 145

341

342

Index Locorum

14:21–22 35n17 26.40 137

Zechariah 13:7 59

Numbers 23.19 136n4

1 Maccabees

21

Deuteronomy 12.5 137

2 Maccabees 17, 20 3:18–21 18 5:15–16 18

Judges 7 163

Origen

2 Samuel 18.9–15 16

Commentarii in Canticum 2.1.55 219

1 Kings 17:17–24 195

Contra Celsum 1.32 142n18 3.44 50, 79 8.44 138n10

2 Kings 4:18–37 195 5 180 19:19 184n81

De principiis 1.5.4 138

Psalms 2.1–2 114 2.7 138 8.6 138 16.10 139 110 138

In Jeremiam 5.8.16 115n52 20 138n11

Wisdom 2.12 144 12.20 144

Ovid

Isaiah 5.1–7 141n14 53 4, 139, 144 Jeremiah 20.7 138 Ezekiel 28.7–10 138 Daniel 1–6 40n42 2–5 181–182 2.26–45 137 3 268n67 3:1–30 255 3.1–7 137 3 in 24 235 5.24–28 137 13:1–64 41n44 14:1–27 41n43 Joel 2.10 139

Philokalia 13 145

Metamorphoses 3.581–691 100 10.30 153n26

Patrologia Graeca 63.472.10–13 297n151 114, 1449C–1452A 259n46 115, 88D 254n24 115, 508C 255n30 115, 661B 257 115, 1061C 255n29 115, 1064D 255nn29–30, 261n49 116, 277C 267n65 116, 277C–280C 253n21 116, 277C–D 255n28 116, 293D–296C 258 116, 297B–C 259n45 116, 297B–D 258 116, 297C 259n44 116, 304B 267n65 116, 308D–309A 253n20 116, 316B–C 259n44, 259n46 116, 580B 253n16 116, 600B 259n44

343

Index Locorum 116, 629C–D 253n19 116, 649D–651A 256n31

fr. 53 213n20 fr. 53 ap. 215

Philaster

De mirabilibus 7.2.3 115n55

De Haeresibus 88.6 176n52

Photius

Philo

Fragmenta in epistulam ad Ephesios 621.11 119n77

De posteritate Caini 132–47 197n139

Prosopographia Imperii Romani 2 A

In Flaccum 1–3 208n9 25 208n9 36–30 144n24 40 208n9 116 208n9 158 208n9

Philostratus Vita Apollonii 1.3.1 285n56 1.4 286n62 1.4–1.8 286n64 1.7.2 286n63 1.16.2 286n65 1.16.3 286n66 1.19.1 285n60, 287n70 1.19.2 287nn71–72 1.21.1 287n73 1.32.1 287n75 1.35.2 287n74 2.27.1 287n76 2.32.1 288n77 3.6–9 294n125 3.13 288n79 3.17 288n79 3.27 288n79 3.36.1 288n78 3.43 285n59 3.43.1 285n58 3.50 286n68 Vitae sophistarum 573 282n46 II.32 304n5

Phlegon Chronographiae fr. 16d

206

1414 208n9

Patrologia Latina 155, 176B–C

253n23

Plato Phaedo 60A–B 197 116b 197 Republic 361e 144 415b–c 312 Symposium 2.10 197 189c–193e 313 Timaeus 21a–25d 312n27 21e–25d 308 22a 312n27 27d 316

Plotinus Enneades III.5[50] 310–311 III.5[50].1.60–63 311 III.5[50].9.24–29 311 V.8[31].6 309–310 V.8[31].6.1 311 V.8[31].6.1–9 310

Plutarch Lycurgus 4.6 210n13 Moralia 461D 197

344

Index Locorum

Polybius Historiae 1.1.2 83n36

Pontius Life of Cyprian 12 143 13 143 15 144

Porphyry Vita Plotini 3 309n21 4–6 309

Procopius Bellum Persianum 2.12 240 2.12.16 222

Pseudo-Justin Oratio ad Graecos 4 291n98

Pseudo-Lucian Onos 32, 10

5.12.3 210n13 5.13.1 210n13 5.c.11 210n13 8.18.2 210n13 8.19.1 210n13 8.19.5 210n13 8.29.19 210n13

Recognitiones 9.34 135

Socrates Scholasticus Historia Eccesiastica 5.22 284n54 V.22.50–51 304 XII.34 303

Sophocles Oedipus Tyrannus 981 136

Sozomen Historia Eccesiastica 9.13.4. 210n14

Strabo 194n118

Pseudo-Macarius Epistulae 12.7 119n76 Epistula magna 267.15 112n34

Pseudo-Scymnus Ad Nicomedem 927 210n13

Ptolemaeus Geographia 5.9.7 210n13 5.9.11 210n13 5.9.14 210n13 5.10.4 210n13 5.11.1 210n13 5.12.1 210n13

Geographia 1.2.39 210n13 2.1.31 121n89 11.1.5 210n13 11.2.15 210n13 11.2.18 210n13 11.3.4 210n13 11.4.8 210n13

Synesius of Cyrene Epistles 105 322

Syncellus Ecloga chronographiae 439.21 215

Tacitus Annales 6.31 210 6.31–32 231

Index Locorum 6.31–37 206n7 6.32 210, 231 6.32–36 210 6.32.3 ff. 207, 209 6.33 210 6.36 231 6.37 231 12.12–14 210 41–46 206n7 Historiae 2.58–59 207n8

Interpretatio in epistulam s. Pauli 82.541.8 116n63

Xenophon Cyropaedia 4.6.9 194n118 Memorabilia 2.2 197

Xenophon of Ephesus

Tatian Diatessaron

Theodoret

220, 223, 224

Oratio ad Graecos 32:1–3 78 32 291n97

Tertullian Apologeticus 5 236 De anima 3 79

Testament of Abraham 3 49 9 49 10 50

Theodotion Historia Ecclesiastica 1.4 316

Ephesian Tale 1.1.5–6 251n12 1.2.9 251 1.3.3–4 251 1.4.6–7 251 1.5 251 1.7.3–4 251 1.12.1–2 251 2.3.1 194n118 5.7 251 5.11.5–6 251 5.11.6 252 5.13.1–4 251 5.13.3 251 5.13.6 252, 267 5.15.1 252 5.15.3 252 5.15.4 252, 267

345

Name Index Note to index: An f following a page number indicates a figure on that page; an n following a page number indicates a note on that page; a t following a page number indicates a table on that page. Character names are not included in the index.

Abdageses 231 Abdos 230n57–231n57; cf. Abdu(s) Abdu(s)  230–231, 230n57; cf. Abdos Abel (biblical)  85, 294 Abgar Hewara  206 Abgar the Great  6, 213, 213nn20–21 Abgar Ukkama  206n6, 208, 210 Abraham (biblical)  31–32, 36, 37, 50, 139 Absalom 16 Abshlama 229 Achaemenes 266n62 Achilles 196–197 Achilles Tatius  4, 135, 190n110, 249–250, 261, 265–266, 267, 276n10 Ada / Adda 233 Adam (biblical)  57, 58, 66, 137, 162 Adiabene  210, 229 Adrianople 304 Africanus, Sextus Julius  215, 237, 237n67, 237n68–238n68 Agatha (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n16, 254n24, 255n29, 256n33, 259n44, 259n46 Aggai  227–228, 229–230, 233 Aghdznik 239 Agnes (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n22, 254n24, 256n33, 259n44 Alans 209n12, 214 Albania 210n13 Albans 209n12 Albinus 197n140, 207, 207n8, 238, 238n69 Alexander (the Great)  21, 25n33, 49, 268n66, 286, 295 Alexander Severus  268 Alexander, Loveday  2 Alexandria  19, 49, 125, 232, 237n68, 309n21 Allah 49 Allison, Dale C. Jr.  50n8 Ammon 48 Amsler, Frédéric  166n23 Ananus 207n8

Anastasia of Rome (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19 Anastasia the Younger (virgin martyr) 248n3, 253n16, 259n44 Anchialus 252n13 Andrapolis 291–293 Andreas 154n31, 156n38 Andrew  101–102, 140, 152, 164n18, 165, 170, 184–185, 193, 197, 199 Andromeda  262, 320, 320n37 Anthia  251, 251n12, 252 Antigonus 136 Antioch  142, 152, 170–171, 171n38, 227, 230, 232, 233 Antonina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n17, 254n24, 257n35, 259n44, 259n46 Antoninus 215 Antonius Diogenes  23 Ap‘shadar 235 Aphrahat 227n54 Aphrodite 310 Apion 99 Apis bull  33, 41 Apollinaris / ius 163n13 Apollo  259n46, 286, 312, 317, 320, 322 Apollonius 285n56 Apollonius Sophista  99 Apuleius  45, 153n26, 154n32, 156n40, 172n43, 198 Aquilina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 255n30, 261n49 Arabia 33 Artapanus 2 Arbela 234 Archelaa (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 255n29, 259n44, 259n46 Ardashes  214, 238, 239 Aretas  208, 208n9, 212 Aristogeiton 306n11 Aristophanes 313

Name Index Aristotle  16n12, 17n17, 81 Armenia  6, 210, 210n13, 240 Arsace  263, 266, 266n62 Arsaces 210 Artabanus 231 Artabanus II  210 Artapanus  2, 24, 31–42, 40–41 Artavasdes  215, 237 Artemidorus 136 Artemis  90, 312–313, 315, 317, 319, 320 Arzanene 234 Asia Minor  89, 166n21, 167, 171 Assyria  124, 230, 233, 236, 238 Asteria / Hesteria (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n21 Athens  6, 19, 82, 136–137, 306, 307, 312n27 Attridge, Harold W.  116–117, 117nn69–70, 117n72, 118nn71–72, 119 Augustine  138, 174n48, 233, 296 Augustus  209, 241n72, 256 Aurea (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n18, 255n28, 255n30, 257n35 Aurelian  267–268, 283–284 Axum 304n5 Babel  120, 121n89 Babylon  39, 138, 151, 235–236, 255, 256, 260, 268n67, 287 Babylonia  164, 183, 183n77, 234, 287 Bagnall, Roger S.  297n143 Bar Kochba  214 Barbara (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n20, 259n44, 259n46, 267n65 Bardaisan of Edessa  4, 6, 209, 209n12, 213–230, 237–238, 241–242 Bardesanes  107, 109, 109n20, 124; v. Bardaisan of Edessa Barhebraeus 215 Barnabas 138 Barsamya 229 Bartholomew 240 Barton, Stephen  2 Bartsch, Shadi  135 Bauer, Walter  27n81 Becker, Adam  236n65 Beit Qazan  121 Belshazzar  40, 137 Bennett, E. N.  163n13 Berossus 19 Berry, Paul  79–80 Bessa 280 Bet Garmai  234 Bet Huzaye  232n62

347

Bethge, Hans-Gebhard  56n5, 67–68 Bethgubin 239 Bethogabra 209n10, 239 Bevan, Anthony Ashley  109, 109n20, 123 Beyer, Klaus  110–111, 110n26 Bhabha, Homi  18 Bithynia 210n14 Blount, Brian K.  59n15, 60n18, 66 Bonnet, Maximillian  108, 108n8 Bousset, Wilhelm  123, 124 Bowersock, Glen W.  85, 250n9 Bowie, Ewen L.  285n61 Brahmins 288 Brankaer, Johanna  56n5, 67–68 Brescia 176 Brock, Sebastian  239n70, 297 Bülbüldag 89 Burkitt, Francis Crawford  111–114, 111n32, 115, 117n69, 119, 120, 123 Burrus, Virginia  161n4 Byzantium  164, 304 Cadusians 287 Caecilia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n23, 258n41 Caiaphas  206, 207, 207n8, 208, 211, 212 Cain  85, 294 Calypso 221n46 Cappadocia  282, 286 Carlisle, David P. C.  277–278, 277n17, 278n18 Carpus 89n64 Carthage 138 Caspian Sea  210n13 Catherina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n21, 255n28, 259nn44–45, 267n65 Caucasian Iberia  209n12, 210nn14–15 Caucasian Iberians  209–210, 209n12, 231 Celsus 289 Cephas/Kephas (Simon)  223, 232 Certeau, Michel de  13n2 Cervantes 3–7 Chakrabarty, Dipesh  92n74 Charitina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 257n35, 258n41 Chariton  24, 154n32, 176, 179n54, 248, 248n4, 251–252, 252n13, 259, 267, 276 Charybdis 304–305 Chatterjee, Partha  18 Chenephres 33 Chosroes  6, 215, 240, 241

348

Name Index

Christina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 253n20, 254n25, 255n29, 258n40, 259nn44–46 Cicero  82–84, 83n33, 83n36, 85, 86, 88, 93–94 Clark, Elizabeth A.  254 Clarke, M. L.  306n11 Claudius  88, 199, 267–268 Clearchus of Soli  36n23 Cleitus 47 Clement of Alexandria  125, 144–145, 217n30 Cleopatra 47 Clitophon  261–262, 262n52, 264–265, 267 Coleman, Kathleen  87–88 Colossae 200 Constantine  164, 216, 220, 220n39, 305 Constantine Porphyrogenitus  208n9, 231n57 Constantinople  167, 232, 297, 305, 306, 321 Constantius  209, 284 Cooper, Kate  248n5, 254 Corcyreans 87 Cotter, Holland  65 Craigie, William A.  148n7, 153n24, 161n3, 196n133 Cribiore, Raffaella  74, 85–86, 85n47 Critias 312n27 Croesus 136 Ctesias 26 Cumont, Franz  123–124, 180n58 Cybele  266, 266n62 Cyprian 142–144 Cyrus 41 Damis  284–285, 285n61, 287, 288, 289, 290 Daniel (biblical)  40–41, 137, 168 Dannemann, Irene  148n7, 154nn29–31 Daphne 286 Dares the Phrygian  23, 196–197 Darius  21, 47, 48, 49 David (biblical)  138, 139 Davies, Stevan L.  162, 162n5, 190n109 Decius 231 DeConick, April D.  55n4 Deissmann, Adolf  75n6 Delcor, Mathias  45n1 Delos 319 Delphi  276, 277, 304, 307, 307n15, 307n21, 312–314, 319, 320, 322 Demetrius the Chronographer  17 Desreumaux, Alain  205n4–206n4 Devereux, G.  136n5 Devos, P.  112

Dictys of Crete  23, 196 Didymus 290 Dio Cassius  87–88, 218 Dio Chrysostom  23 Diocletian  267–268, 304 Diodorus Siculus  18, 103–104 Dionysophanes 265 Dionysus  104, 259, 267, 286, 295 Dodds, Eric Robertson  126 Domitian 214 Donatus 138 Doody, Margaret Anne  165n20 Dorqoni monastery  231, 234, 234n63 Drijvers, Han J. W.  106n4, 127n113, 220, 289n86 Drusiana 101 Duncan-Jones, Arthur Stuart  109n18 Eastern Syria  4, 105, 232 Eden 138 Edessa  6, 210n13, 213n18, 217n36–218n36, 225, 228, 230, 231, 233–234 Edsall, Margaret  284 Egeria 201 Egger, Brigitte M.  183n71 Egypt/Egyptians 26n34, 35n16, 39, 85, 89, 307–308, 308n16, 309–310, 312, 312n27, 314 Ehrman, Bart D.  56n5, 74, 89n63 Elagabalus (Marcus Aurelius Antoninus) 217n36, 277, 282 Eleutheropolis 209n10, 228, 238, 239 Elijah  16, 184n81 Elsner, Jaś  286, 295 Emesa  276, 283, 304, 304n5 Emmel, Stephen  56n5 Ephesos  89–90, 92; v. Ephesus Ephesus  21, 89, 91f, 92, 142, 187n97, 252, 253, 263, 276; v. Ephesos Ephrem 109n20, 215, 217, 227n54 Eros 182n67, 251n12, 261, 263 Eruand 237n67 Eskenazi, Tamara Cohn  14 Esther  21, 40 Estrangela 238n69 Ethiopia/ Ethiopians  8, 33, 39, 41, 197, 266n63, 276n11, 304n5, 320n37 Eubula 174n49 Eugenia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 256n31 Eugenius 201 Eulalia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n21, 257n35, 259nn44–45

Name Index Eulampia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n23, 255n29, 255n30, 261n49 Eumenius 268 Euphemia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n18, 255n30, 259nn44–45, 261n49 Euphrates 210n14, 212n16, 222, 231, 239, 287 Euripides  104, 287–288 Europa 261 Eusebius  6, 31, 206, 207–208, 208–209, 214, 216–217, 216–218, 220, 221–225, 224–225, 229, 236, 237n67, 283 Eutychus 195 Euxinus 252n13 Eve (biblical)  162, 294 Ezekiel 138 Ezra  16, 19 Fars 232n62 Fausta (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n16, 255n30, 258 Feldman, Louis H.  17n17 Felicissima (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n23, 259n44, 259n46 Flaccus, A. Avillius  208, 208n9 Flavian Amphitheatre (Coliseum)  87–88 Flinterman, Jaap-Jan  283, 285n61 Foucault, Michel  73n1, 75, 79 Fowler, Alastair  22–23 Freedman, David Noel  15n10 Freudenthal, Jacob  35n21–35n22 Frye, Northrup  184n79 Fusca (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 253n20 Futrell, Alison  256 Gad  293, 293n112, 294–295 Galilee 59 Gallio 76n9 Gaul 200 Gazak 121 Germanicus 209 Gideon  163–164, 168 Gilgamesh 50 Glancy, Jennifer A.  290–291 God  3, 15–16, 33–34, 49–50, 57, 59n15, 61n23, 62, 63, 63n29, 67, 68, 89, 89n64, 97, 126, 135–136, 137, 138–139, 141, 145, 149, 150, 152, 157n44, 162, 163, 164–165, 167, 169–170, 172t, 173, 181n63, 182, 182n68, 183–184, 186, 189, 191, 194, 212, 236, 248, 249, 253, 254, 256–257, 256n31, 258, 259, 261, 266–267, 267n65, 268n67,

349

287, 289, 290–291, 292, 293, 295, 296, 305n6 Gog 48 Goldhill, Simon  13, 14n4, 16 Golgotha 229 Gorman, Jill  148n7, 151n20, 153n25, 156n39, 161n4, 181n64, 182n69, 183n75, 188nn100–101, 190n110, 194n118, 194n122, 195n131, 196, 196n132 Goths 209 Greece  13–14, 14n4, 17, 24, 26, 151, 152, 154, 163, 164–165, 164n18, 166, 167, 176, 177t, 179, 183, 187, 190, 266n63, 276, 287, 306, 320 Gregory (Bishop of Tours)  164, 165, 168 Gregory of Nyssa  163 Gregory the Illuminator  240 Griffith, Sidney H.  209, 226 Gruen, Erich S.  19 Gundaphorus (king)  293, 293n112, 294–295 Gutschmid, A. Von  206n6 Habrocomes 182n67, 251, 251n12 Hadrian 214 Hägg, Tomas  2, 167 Haight, Elizabeth  190n110 Hannan  228, 229, 239 Harmodius 306n11 Harrington, Daniel J.  45n1 Haynes, Katharine  250 Hecataeus 36 Hector 197 Hecuba 196 Helena (mother of Constantine)  226, 229 Helios, cult of  304n5, 308, 308n16, 320 Hellanicus of Lesbos  17 Heraclas  237, 237n68 Heracles  196, 286 Hercules  83, 295 Hermes  33, 36, 42, 75 Hermes-Thoth 40 Hermippus of Smyrna  36n23 Hermocrates 141 Herod Antipas  208, 208n9, 212, 294 Herodotus  14, 14n6, 15, 16, 17, 26, 81 Hesiod 85 Hilgenfeld, Adolf  108n9 Hippias 136 Hippocrates  75, 80 Hippolytus 237n67 Hippothous  252, 267 Hoffmann, Georg  109, 123 Holladay, Carl  37n31

350

Name Index

Holofernes 41 Holy Spirit  78, 139, 163n11, 258, 267, 268n65 Holzberg, Niklas  150n14 Homer  15, 47, 276n11, 317, 318n34 Hooker, Morna  60n21 Huxley, Georg  121n90 Ia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n15, 253n19, 258n41 Iamblichus  308–309, 308n16, 309n20, 311 Iarchas (Brahmin wiseman)  285, 288 Iberia 210n13 Iberian Peninsula  167, 209 Iberians  209–211, 210n13, 210n15 Ignatius (Bishop of Antioch)  142, 187n97 India  39, 49, 121n89, 174, 217, 217n36–218​ n36, 234, 284, 286, 290–291, 293–294, 297, 319n35 Ionia  313, 319 Irenaeus 65n32 Isaac  49, 139 Isis  40, 251, 312, 315 Israel  14, 14n4, 15, 15n10, 16, 19, 37, 137, 139, 254, 294 Israelites 15n10, 35, 35n16, 37, 142n15, 145 Issus (battle)  47 Izates (king of Adiabene)  210 Izates II  229 James  101, 207n8 James, Montague Rhodes  148n6, 153–154, 161nn2–3, 162, 164–165, 166n22, 168, 171n40, 172n43, 174, 199–201 Jenott, Lance  55–56, 61n24, 68 Jeremiah 139 Jerome 73n1, 76, 187 Jerusalem  18, 49, 139, 207n8, 213n16, 228, 229, 232, 235, 239, 290 Jesus Christ  3–4, 6, 7, 46, 55, 56, 56n5, 58– 63, 59, 60, 61, 63, 67, 98, 99–100, 99–103, 104, 107, 112, 138–139, 142, 144, 192, 206, 207, 207n8, 208, 211, 212, 212n16, 216, 217n30, 218, 221–225, 222n48, 228, 233–234, 235, 236, 238, 239, 240, 290, 294, 320n35 Jews 8n1, 19, 19n20, 32, 36, 38, 40, 41, 42, 76, 77, 90, 137, 139, 206, 211, 212n16, 222–223, 222nn48–49, 228 Jocasta  4, 136 Joel 135 John Chrysostom  297 Joseph (biblical)  31, 32, 36, 37, 136–137

Josephus  18, 19, 20, 34n10, 35n16, 45, 76, 207n8, 212, 237n67 Jouanno, Corinne  24, 24n31 Judah  14, 16 Judas 60n22, 294 Judas Thomas  141–142, 290 Judith  21, 24 Juel, Donald  55, 59, 67 Julia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n22, 254n24 Julia Domna  284–285, 288, 288n82, 289 Julia Mamaea  288n82 Julian  284, 305, 321 Juliana of Nicomedia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n20, 253n22, 254n24, 255n30, 258n42, 259n44, 259n46 Juliana of Ptolemais (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n23, 254n24, 254n25, 258n41 Julius Africanus  6, 213, 214, 220n39 Julius Caesar  88 Jung, Carl  24n31 Junod, Eric  103n2, 148n7, 156n41, 161n2, 167, 168n29 Justi 120 Justin  145, 206 Justinian 167 Kaestli, Jean-Daniel  103n2 Kahneman, Daniel  66–67, 67n34 Kasser, Rodolphe  57n7 Kelley, Nicole  258 King, Karen  55n2, 68 Kittim 21 Klijn, A. F. J.  114–116, 117n69, 120–121 Klinghardt, Matthias  2 König, Jason  291 Konstan, David  9n1, 179n54, 260n48 Kosrov 237 Kyno 252n13 Kyrtatas, Dimitris J.  275 Labubna  228, 229, 230, 236 Laminum 201 Lebanon 297 Lebubna 235 Lepore, Jill  14n7 Lesbos  17, 179 Leucippe  190–191, 191n111, 261, 262–263, 264–265 Lewis, David  80–81, 86 Limenius 268 Lincoln, Andrew  68n37 Linus 176n53 Lipsius 111

Name Index Longus  24, 258, 261, 262, 264, 265, 267 Lucan the Poet  76 Lucceius  82–83, 84, 94 Lucceius Albinus  207n8 Lucian of Samosata  23, 85n48, 86–87, 92, 221n46, 260, 293 Lucillius 85 Lucius (Luke)  187, 187n98 Ludlow, Jared W.  45–46 Luther, Andreas  206n6 Lysias 47 Ma‘nu  213, 237, 238n68 Ma‘nu IV  206n6 MacDonald, Dennis R.  165 Macedonia / Macedonians  21, 48, 210n14 Machinist, Peter  15 Macke, Karl  108–109, 108n13, 109n20, 111 MacQueen, Bruce D.  263 Macra (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n17, 256n33 Madai 120 Magness, Jodi Lee  58n13, 63–64 Magog 48 Maisan 120 Manetho  19, 38 Mani  4, 107, 124, 233 Manicheans  107, 124 Manto 252n13 Mar Abas (Apsas) Katina  236, 237n67 Mar Ibad  239 Mara Bar Serapion  212 Marcellus  141, 176n53 Marciana (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 254n25, 259n44, 259n46 Marcinus 268n66 Marcion 2 Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Elagabalus) ​ 277 Margarita / Marina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n20, 253n22, 254n24, 255n30, 258n41 Marincola, John  17n15 Marinus 239 Markovich, Miroslav  110, 110n23, 111 Martha (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n18, 254n24 Martial 85 Martina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n18, 255n29, 255n30, 256n33, 258n40, 259n44–46, 268 Mary (biblical)  55, 239 Mary Magdalene  55 Mashtots 237n67

351

Matisse 65 Maximus of Aegeae  285n56 Medzpin 237n67 Megasthenes 36n23 Meister, Ferdinand  196n137 Melania the Younger  201 Melchisedek 138–139 Memnon 320n37 Memphis  35, 263, 264, 265, 280, 315 Mendels, Doron  17n17 Menodora (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n16, 259nn44–45 Merkelbach, Reinhold  277n17 Meroe  265, 276, 281, 283, 289, 313 Mesene 235 Mesopotamia  6, 15, 210, 219, 230, 232–235, 239, 241 Mesrop Mashtots  237 Methone 48 Michael (archangel)  49, 50 Milvian Bridge  164 Mirkovic, Alexander  226, 227–228 Misdaeus (King)  293n112 Moeragenes 285n56 Moeris 252n13 Momigliano, Arnaldo  14n4, 46n6 Monobazus II  229 Morales, Helen  249, 250, 262 Morgan, John R.  249, 250, 282, 284, 284n53, 288–289, 321 Moses (biblical)  2, 16, 31, 32–36, 39, 40, 137 Moses of Chorene  6, 205, 208–209, 208n9, 209n12, 214–215, 217n36, 219, 229, 235–237, 235–240, 235n64, 236n63, 237n67, 238, 240 Musaeus (Greek form of Moses)  32–33, 36, 41, 42 Myra 141 Mytilene  263, 265 Naaman 180 Nahum 161n3 Narsai  230, 238 Nebuchadnezzar  40, 41, 137, 139, 268n67 Nectanebo  40, 47; v. Nectanebos Nectanebos  40; v. Nectanebo Nero  76, 77, 79, 197n140, 200 Ní Mheallaigh, Karen  87 Nicanor 20 Nicephorus Callistus  303–304, 307 Nimis, Steve  1, 13 Nineveh 39 Ninos 287

352

Name Index

Ninus 39 Nisibis 206n6, 234, 284, 304n5 Nizami 49 Noah 168 Nock, Arthur Darby  180n58 Noetus 162n9 Nöldeke, Theodor  106, 107, 108, 108n9, 109n20, 111, 112, 116, 120, 123 Octagonal Complex, Philippi  92f Odysseus  196, 221n46 Ohm Wright, Ruth  90 Olympias 47 Onesiphorus 172t Optatus of Milevis  138 Orient 121n89, 308 Origen of Alexandria  79, 138, 138n10, 145, 214, 217n30, 219, 220, 237, 254, 288n82 Orpheus  32, 41, 42 Osiris  40, 42 Osrhoene  6, 123–124, 213, 216, 218, 219, 224, 225, 230, 234, 241 Pagels, Elaine  68 Painchaud, Louis  57, 61–62, 61n26–62n26, 62n27, 64, 64n31 Palestine 166n21, 169, 180, 207, 207n8, 208, 209, 209n10, 211, 213, 214, 218, 228, 229, 238, 239 Palmyra 284 Palut  227–228, 229–230 Papa  232, 232n62 Paradise  50, 179n54, 185n87, 294 Parkin, Anneliese  297 Parthia  121, 166n21 Parthians  120, 206, 207, 210, 211, 214, 216, 231, 233, 287, 304n5 Patras  200, 201 Paul  3, 6–7, 73, 76, 78, 89, 90–91, 92, 93, 141, 142, 149, 149n12, 150n15, 152–153, 154n31, 155n37, 169, 169n32, 169n36, 170, 171–173, 172, 172n43, 172t–173t, 174n47, 181, 182, 182n66, 182nn68–69, 199, 200, 232, 235, 289 Pelagia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n22, 254n24, 255n30, 257n34, 258n42, 268 Pella 47 Perkins, Judith  8, 227n54, 248n5, 250, 250n8, 251n11, 277n17 Perseus  262, 295, 320n37 Persia 234 Persina 319–320 Persinna 266

Persius 248n4 Pervo, Richard I.  8, 226n53 Peshitta  114, 223 Peter (Simon Peter)  59–60, 65, 76, 98, 99–100, 101–102, 140, 141, 151, 154n31, 164, 169, 169n32, 226, 228, 229, 232, 235, 256n33, 289 Peterson, Erik  106n4, 148n8, 171n39, 174n49 Pharaoh (biblical)  31, 32, 34, 137, 294 Pharasmanes 210 Pheidias 293 Pherecydes 13 Philaster 176 Philemon  187, 200 Philetas 262 Philip  151, 152, 165, 166n21, 170, 183, 185, 186, 197, 197n141 Philip of Macedon  21, 47–48 Philip the Arab  220n39 Philip the Tetrarch  208 Philippi  90, 92, 92f Philo  19, 45, 76, 208n9 Philomela 262 Philostratus  282–286, 285n56, 285n61, 286, 287–288 Philotheus  150, 154, 181, 182, 200 Phlegon of Tralles  23, 206, 221n46 Phoenicia  239, 309 Phraates  210, 231 Phraortes 287–288 Pilate  143, 206, 207, 208, 211, 212, 212n16, 227, 236, 238 Pinheiro, Marília F.  8 Plato  80, 125, 144, 145, 307, 308, 312 Plotinus  309–311, 311n26, 321 Plutarch  47, 257 Poirier, Paul-Hubert  110, 121, 121n90, 123 Polybios 83n36 Polybius 16 Polycharmus  192, 193 Polyclitus 293 Polyhistor, Alexander  31, 34n10, 36 Polytheus 198 Polyxena / e 156 Pompeius Trogus  18 Pontius 143–144 Pontus 209n12 Porphyrios 90 Porphyry  289, 308, 308n16, 309, 311n26, 317 Potiphar 32 Praxeas 162n9

Name Index Preuschen, Erwin  109, 109n18, 109n20, 123 Priam 196 Prieur, Jean Marc  165, 168 Prisca (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n17, 254n24, 255n29, 258n40, 259n44, 268 Priscillian 163 Proclus  308, 311n26 Procopius  6, 222, 240–241, 241n72 Prometheus 262 Protonike  226, 228, 229, 230 Pseudo-Dionysius the Areopagite  7 Pseudo-Clementine 179n54, 192 Pseudo-Lucius 23 Pyrrhus 136 Quintilian 17–18 Qune (Bishop)  213n18 Rabbula  220–221, 224n52, 226, 230 Ramelli, Ilaria  6, 9n1, 76, 226n53 Reardon, Bryan P.  264n59 Red Sea  35, 37 Reger, Gary  287n75 Regina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n22, 254n24 Reitzenstein, Richard  123, 124 Rome  4, 19, 77, 80, 85, 87, 92, 93–94, 140, 149, 164, 169, 169n32, 170, 171, 176, 177t, 179–180, 179n54, 181, 183, 200–201, 208n9, 222, 226, 228, 229, 230, 232, 235, 275, 277, 283–284, 309, 309n21 Römer, Cornelia  76 Rosenmeyer, Thomas G.  80, 89 Ruiz-Montero, Consuelo  24n30 Sabellius 162n9 Sabina (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 259n44 Sabina / Sabinus  238, 238n69, 239 Saklas  57, 62n27 Salome 55 Samosata  86, 212 Sandaruk 120 Sandy, Gerald N.  8, 24n30, 308, 312 Sarmatia 209n12 Sassanid Empire  121 Satan 294–295 Schenke Robinson, Gesine  56n6 Schepens, Guido  17n15 Schirren, Thomas  285 Scylla 304–305 Scythia 210n14 Sea of Galilee  97

353

Selden, Daniel L.  266n63 Seleucia-Ctesiphon  6, 232, 241 Seleucia/ Seleucids  19, 89, 233, 235 Semiramis  39, 40, 42 Seneca  76, 78, 196, 212–213, 257 Sennak  228, 230–231, 236 Septimius Severus  230, 284 Serapia (virgin martyr)  248n3 Serapion of Antioch  230 Sesostris  39, 40, 42 Sevenster, J. N.  79 Severus Alexander  288n82 Shakespeare 183n77 Shalev, Donna  279 Shamashgram 239 Silas 90 Simon (Cephas / Kephas)  223, 232 Siphor 293n112 Sirinçe 90 Sisimithres  277, 282, 319–320 Slater, Niall  279 Smith, Anthony  19 Smith, Morton  14n4 Smith, Rowland  307, 308n19, 322 Socrates  80, 144–145, 197 Socrates Scholasticus  304, 304n4 Sol Invictus  284 Soli 36n23 Solomon 48–49 Solon 312n27 Sophia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n19, 255n30, 259nn44–45 Sophocles  4, 136 Sossianus Hierocles  283 Sosthenes 265 Sotian 76 Spain  149, 151n20, 152, 154, 163, 166–167, 187, 200 Stagnum Augusti  87–88 Statira (Queen)  252 Sterling, Gregory E.  38n34 Stoppard, Tom  56n5 Stowers, Stanley K.  88 Strabo  18, 25n33 Struck, Peter  311 Suevi 209 Susa 232n62 Susanna 41 Susanna of Eleutheropolis (virgin martyr) ​ 248n3, 253n19, 255n29, 257n34 Susanna of Rome (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n22, 254n24 Susiana 234

354

Name Index

Swain, Simon  288, 288n82 Synesius of Cyrene  322 Syracuse / Syracusans  87–88, 251–252, 276 Syria  239, 309 Syrianized Israel  19 Syros 13 Szepessy, Tibor  149n13, 155n33, 157n44 Tacitus 207n8, 210, 231 Tatian  78, 220–221, 223, 224n52, 291 Taxila 287 Tertia 295 Tertullian  73, 76, 79, 80, 81, 83, 89, 92–93, 94, 206 Thebes 136 Themistocles  80, 81–82, 136–137 Theodora (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n22, 254n25, 257n34, 261n49 Theodosius  240, 276 Theophilus 78 Theophrastus 36n23 Therme (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n15, 254n24 Thermouthis 266n62 Thilo, Johann Karl  107, 108n8 Thomas (Judas Thomas)  141–142 Thomas, Christine M.  23–24, 23n29, 25 Thomas, Rosalind  14n6 Thomson, Robert  235n64 Thoth  36, 40 Thrace 164 Thucydides 16 Thyamis  266, 267, 280, 312 Tiberius  6, 206n6, 208n9, 229, 231 Tigranes I  213 Tigranes III  213 Tigris River  234 Tiridates  210, 231 Tischendorff, Constantinus von  107, 108n8 Titus 87–88 Tobias 229 Toledo 201 Tricca  284, 303–304 Troas 89n64 Turner, John D.  56n5 Turribius of Astorga  124

Tyana 286 Tyre 138 Urhai (= ancient Edessa)  237n67 Van Seters, John  17, 21n26 Vandals 209 Vardanes (Parthian king)  287 Veyne, Paul  297 Vinzent, Markus  2 Visigoths 209 Vitellius, Lucius  207, 207n8, 208, 209, 210, 212, 231, 238, 239 Voicu, Sever  235n64 Vouaux, Léon  171n39 Walsh, Robyn  46 Warren, David H.  290 Weinfeld, Moshe  15 Weitzman, Steven  19, 19n20 Whitmarsh, Tim  75n6, 264n59, 266n63, 276, 278n20, 278n22, 288n79 Wills, Lawrence M.  45, 68–69 Winkler, John J.  279, 290n88 Wire, A. C.  93n76 Wiseman, T. P.  84–85 Wittgenstein, Ludwig  22–23 Wood, Philip  226–227 Woodman, A. J.  83, 84 Wright, William  107, 108n9, 111, 120 Wurst, Gregor  57n7 Xenophon of Ephesus  21, 83, 157n45, 176, 179n54, 194n118, 197, 248, 251, 252, 252n13, 259, 260, 267, 276 Yahweh 37 Zechariah 59 Zenobia 248n3, 253n23, 255n29, 261n49 Zenobia (virgin martyr)  248n3, 253n23, 255n29, 261n49 Zephyrinus of Rome  230 Zeus  99, 261, 265 Zosimus 283

Subject Index Note to index: An n following a page number indicates a note on that page; a t following a page number indicates a table on that page.

Abgar the Great ​6 –– conversion of ​218–219, 220n39, 230 –– as namesake of Abgar Ukkama ​215 –– Romanization of Osrhoene by ​218 –– see also Addai-Abgar legend Abgar Ukkama ​206n6, 208, 210 –– Abgar the Great as namesake of ​215 –– Bardaisan on ​215 –– legend of Christianity of ​213, 215 –– refrains from entering Palestine ​228 –– see also Abgar-Jesus pseudepigraphic letters Abgar-Jesus pseudepigraphic letters ​6, 208, 216, 221–225 –– healing of Abgar by Jesus in ​236 –– sources for ​238–239 Abgar-Tiberius correspondence ​205–212, 226–227, 231 –– “children of Spain” motif in ​207, 209–210 –– and death of Jesus ​206–207, 211–212 –– loyalty motif in ​207, 208 –– senatus consultum, connection with ​ 236–237, 238 –– sources for ​238–239 Academy of Plato ​307 Achilles Tatius ​190n110 –– Clitophon and Leucippe ​135, 249–250, 261 –– and deferred fulfilment of prophecy ​4, 135 –– Eastern orientation of novels of ​276n10 –– retribution in novel of ​265–266 –– villainous characters in novel of ​267 Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena, The (XAN) ​5 –– as amalgamation vs. epitome ​166–168 –– and anti-Jewish sentiment ​185 –– Apocryphal Acts as historical source for ​ 5, 166, 169–176, 189–190, 201 –– – Acts of Andrew ​163–166 –– – Acts of John ​176 –– – Acts of Paul ​170–174, 172 (table)–173 (table)

–– – Acts of Peter ​169–170, 171, 201 –– – Acts of Philip ​166, 176 –– – Acts of Thomas ​174–175 (table) –– apparent death motif in ​191–192, 195–196 –– attempted rape motif in ​170, 186, 186n93, 191 –– avian images in ​174 –– baptism motif in ​181, 184–185, 185n87, 188, 189 –– – delayed ​174, 174n48, 179, 181 –– – of Probus by Paul ​174n47, 182nn68–69 –– bribery in ​171, 181 –– canonical Acts as historical source for ​ 170–171, 187 –– celibacy in ​189, 195, 198 –– characterization of apostolic figures in ​ 170, 179, 184, 197 –– characters in ​192–196 –– – major character appearances ​193 –– clothing in ​184, 184n81 –– conversion in ​180, 187, 190 –– cross-dressing motif in ​185n87, 186n90, 198 –– dating of ​162–166 –– demon motif in ​182 –– diffusion of cult through slave motif in ​ 180 –– disabled individual seeking help motif in ​165 –– distressed seafarers delivered by prayer of apostle motif in ​165 –– distribution of heroine role in ​5, 189 –– and divorce ​180 –– dream motif in ​181–182, 183, 194 –– drover character in ​185–186, 197–198 –– ecclesiology in ​168–169 –– eroticism between women in ​198–199 –– as family novel ​192 –– first-person narrator in ​187

356

Subject Index

–– foreshadowing in ​179, 183n74, 194, 194n123 –– genre as Christian romance ​189–191 –– heavenly communication motif in ​164, 165 –– ignorance in ​180n57 –– kidnapping motif in ​151, 153, 170, 179, 183–184, 186, 190–191, 195, 197, 199–200, 263 –– lament motif in ​193 –– longing motif in ​155 –– love motif in ​191, 198–199 –– love-sickness theme in ​179–181 –– magic in ​183 –– male ideal of educated woman in ​182–183 –– marriage in ​182, 185, 193 –– miracles in ​171, 181, 200 –– Nachleben ​199–201 –– narrative compression in ​178 –– narrative division, problems with ​178–179 –– natural theology in ​180 –– oracles in ​175, 196 –– Part I and Part II, differences between ​ 178–179 –– Paul as savior figure in ​181 –– Polyxena –– – first appearance of ​194–195 –– – as ideal believer ​169 –– – as loving no one ​198 –– – nature of relationship with Xanthippe ​ 194 –– – physical appearance of ​197n138 –– – return of ​188–189, 195–196 –– – source of name of ​196–197 –– – virtues of ​168n29 –– prayer / praying in ​180, 196, 197 –– prefect character in ​186–187, 198n144 –– Probus ​167, 189 –– – baptism by Paul ​174n47, 182nn68–69 –– – of companion life of Peter and Paul ​200 –– – love for wife ​198 –– – view on baptism ​174n48 –– provenance of ​166–167 –– rape theme in ​186n93 –– Rebecca (Jewish slave) –– – abandoned in narrative ​186n92, 187, 189 –– – baptism of ​193 –– – as gender-reversing character ​193n116 –– – and marriage ​198 –– – mobility of ​180 –– – as prophet ​193n117 –– – source of name of ​197

–– – supporting role of ​193 –– – virtues of ​168n29 –– repentance theme in ​180n57 –– restoration of paradise as baptismal theme in ​185n87 –– reunion motif in ​188, 191–192 –– robbery motif in ​164, 190 –– romantic novels, parallels with ​5, 179– 180, 188–189, 190–191, 193, 194, 201 –– Rome, Spain, and Greece as settings for ​ 176 –– and salvation ​172, 180–181 –– Sarah, as replacement for Rebecca ​197, 200, 201 –– and Scripture ​168 –– seafaring and travel motif in ​165, 166, 183–184, 187–188, 197–198 –– shift in narrator of ​187n96 –– shipwreck motif in ​164–165, 183–184, 187 –– similarities between Parts I and II of ​178 –– speaking animal motif in ​166, 185n87 –– stories of sisters, parallels with ​178 –– and story of Gideon ​164 –– storyline of ​179–189 –– structure of ​177t–178t –– suffering motif in ​187, 196 –– suicide motif in ​188 –– Thecla story as model for ​170–171, 171n41, 181, 186, 186n90, 187, 187n95, 189 –– as “there and back” narrative ​179, 183 –– violence motif in ​182, 182n70 –– virginity theme in ​188, 191, 196, 198 –– vision motif in ​165 –– wandering motif in ​5, 190–191 –– wild beasts in ​151–152, 184–185, 187, 193 –– Xanthippe –– – as ideal believer ​169 –– – love for Probus, Paul, Polyxena ​198 –– – nature of relationship with Polyxena ​ 194 –– – prayer for conversion of husband ​ 162–163 –– – source of name of ​197 –– – view on baptism ​174n48 –– – virtues of ​168n29 Acta Archelai ​233 Acta Maris ​230, 231–235 –– apostolic origins of ​232–233 –– audience of ​231–232 –– date of composition of ​231

Subject Index –– discontinuities / inconsistencies in ​234, 235 –– Doctrina Addai and ​233–234 –– historical references in ​235 –– incorporation of Addai story in ​234, 235 –– missionary itinerary of Mari in ​234–235 –– narrative structure of ​233 –– religious agenda of ​6–7, 231–235 Acta Philippi. see Acts of Philip Acta Theclae. see Acts of Thecla Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (AXPR) –– and Acts of Thecla ​5, 152, 153 –– and Apocryphal Acts ​151n19, 153 –– baptism motif in ​150, 151, 152 –– Christian ass-driver in ​152 –– cliffhanger technique in ​150, 150n18– 151n18 –– conversion motif in ​151, 151n19, 153 –– dating of ​148, 148n5, 149 –– dream interpretation motif ​150–151 –– easy disposal of secondary character motif ​ 154n32 –– epiphanic situation in ​150 –– friendship motif ​5, 156 –– genre of ​157–158 –– happy ending motif ​153 –– indications of time in ​153n24 –– influences on ​147, 148n5, 152, 153–154, 155n35, 156n40 –– kidnapping motif ​151, 153 –– longing motif in ​155 –– love motif in ​5, 150, 153, 155–156 –– prayer in ​149, 155n34 –– predictive dream motif ​151 –– proto-feminist layer in ​152n23 –– readership of ​158 –– religious layer in ​157, 157n44 –– robbery motif in ​5 –– same-sex desire in ​151n20, 153n25, 154, 156n39 –– seafaring and travel motif in ​5, 151, 157, 157n42 –– secondary figures in ​151–152, 154 –– separation of protagonists motif in ​152 –– sexual abstinence motif in ​151 –– sexual purity motif in ​156 –– sexual renunciation motif in ​155–156 –– structural unbalance of ​153–155 –– – plot development ​154–155 –– – treatment of characters ​154 –– – use of sources ​153–154 –– summary of text of ​148–151

357

–– supernatural elements motif in ​5, 151–152 –– unifying themes of ​155–157 –– vision motif in ​150 –– wandering motif in ​5 –– in wider tradition of ancient novel ​5 Acts ​6–7, 24, 65n32, 168 Acts of Andrew ​3–4, 127, 163–166, 254 Acts of Barnabas ​176 Acts of John –– as historical source for XAN ​ 176 –– use of Greek mythology in ​3–4, 101–103 Acts of Mari –– evangelization by Mari ​235–236 –– incorporation of Addai story in ​234, 235 –– and miracles ​233, 235 –– religious-political agenda of ​6 Acts of Paul –– as historical source for XAN ​170–174, 172 (table)–173 (table) –– influence on Acts of Barnabas/ Acts of Titus ​ 176 –– linguistic coincidences with Acts of Thomas ​106n4 –– miracles in ​141 –– Tertullian on ​73, 83, 94 Acts of Paul and Thecla ​78, 147n2 –– as historical possibility ​89–92 –– Tertullian on ​81, 89 Acts of Peter ​24, 140, 141, 169–170, 171, 201 Acts of Philip ​148n5 –– as historical source for XAN ​ 166, 176 –– religious agenda of ​6–7 Acts of the Apostles ​73, 76n9, 78, 90 –– description of apostles as uneducated / ordinary ​289 –– natural context of ​129 –– as similar to / different from romantic novels ​226n53 –– similarities to Acts of Thomas ​106, 126, 127 Acts of the Council of Serdika (343/344 CE) ​ 90 Acts of Thecla –– and AXPR ​ 5, 152, 153 –– Paul’s character in ​156n37 –– popularity of ​147 –– readership of ​147n3 Acts of Thomas (ATh) –– and Christian inclusiveness ​295 –– and Christian norms ​291–292 –– comparison with Christian fictive narratives

358

Subject Index

–– – apostolic heroes ​290–291, 293–296 –– – conversions of high-status persons ​ 292–294 –– – diverse linguistic communities ​ 289–290, 292, 297–298 –– – inclusiveness ​294, 295 –– – norms ​291–292 –– as historical source for XAN ​174–175 (table) –– hypothesis of Syriac origin ​4, 105–129, 174n50, 217, 217n34 –– – alleged oriental character of ​107, 123–124 –– – and Armenian names ​120–121 –– – conceptual world ​124–126 –– – Eastern Syria as place of composition ​ 105 –– – general worldview ​126 –– – and Hymn of the Bride ​107 –– – and Hymn of the Pearl ​107, 108, 109–111, 120, 121 –– – and Hymn of the Soul ​179n54 –– – and Hymn of the Wedding ​108, 110 –– – metric traces in Syriac version ​108–111 –– – problems and irregularities of ​107–121 metric traces in Syriac version ​ 108–111 personal names and toponyms ​ 120–122 Syriacisms ​111–120 corrupt Syriac ​118–119 inner-Greek corruptions ​116–117 mistranslations ​112 omissions ​117 paleographic corruptions ​ 112–114, 117, 128 Semitisms ​116 –– – reasons to reconsider Syriac origin alleged oriental influence ​107, 123–124 conceptual world of ATh ​124–126 general worldview of ATh ​126 and Hymn of the Bride ​122 and Hymn of the Pearl ​122–124 and Hymn of the Wedding ​123–124 similarities / parallels with other Apocryphal Acts ​106n4, 127 textual transmission of ATh ​106–107, 122–123 –– – and text of ms U ​4 –– – as “there and back” story ​179n54 –– – University of Groningen work on ​ 127–129

comparison of Hymn of the Bride / Hymn of the Pearl ​128 conceptual analysis, theological, philosophical study on ​128–129 critical edition and translation of / commentary on ​128 overarching synthesis ​129 reassessment of textual transmission and primitive character ​127–128 –– and miracles ​293 –– similarities to Acts of the Apostles ​106, 126, 127 Acts of Titus ​176 Addai-Abgar legend –– and Acts of the Apostles ​5, 205 –– Aggai as successor to Addai ​227–228, 229–230, 233 –– Bardaisan’s first development of ​213–221 –– as biography ​5, 205 –– and epistolary novels ​5, 205 –– – Abgar-Jesus letters ​208, 221–225, 238–239 –– – Abgar-Tiberius correspondence ​ 205–212, 226–227, 231, 236, 238–239 –– Eusebius on –– – and Abgar-Jesus correspondence ​6, 206 –– – and Abgar-Tiberius letters ​207–208, 209 –– – and Albinus / Sabinus ​208–209 –– and fictional novels ​205 –– as hagiography ​5–6, 205 –– healing of Abgar by Addai in ​221, 224, 234 –– historical basis of ​6 –– and historical novels ​5, 205 –– legend of Abgar’s conversion to Christianity ​212 –– and miracles ​214, 229 –– Moses of Chorene version of ​6, 205, 235–240 –– paleographic corruptions in ​239 –– political agenda of ​6 –– Procopius version of ​6, 240–241 –– reign dates of Abgar ​206n6 –– religious agenda of ​6–7, 231–235 –– and role of religion in shaping narrative forms ​241–242 –– and Thaddaeus (Addai) ​205, 223 –– – as evangelist ​225, 229 –– – recommends evangelization of Assyria ​ 230 –– – sources of information on ​215, 217 –– see also Doctrina Addai adultery ​57, 264

Subject Index adynaton (impossible) ​88 Africanus, Sextus Julius –– Kestoi ​ 237, 237nn67–68 Ahikar ​ 24 Alexander Romance ​23, 24 –– influence of ​48–49, 51 –– paternity of Alexander in ​47–48 –– as subversive biography ​46–48 –– Testament of Abraham as analogous to ​ 49–51 allegory –– of divine ​8, 312–320, 322 –– dual nature of ​321–322 –– myth as ​310–312, 317 –– and Neoplatonism ​8, 307–313, 309–310, 311, 311n26 ambivalence, and colonial history ​20 ancient novels –– parallels with romantic novels ​5, 179–180, 188–189, 190–191, 193, 194, 201 –– see also individual novels Andrew –– calling of, by Jesus ​101–102 –– martyrdom of ​140 anger, texts on ​257 animal baptism ​187 animal sacrifice ​57 animal worship, and Jews ​35–36, 37 animals, supernatural ​5, 151–152, 166, 171n38, 171n41, 174, 184–185, 185n87, 187, 193 Annales school ​84 anti-Semitism ​211n16 anti-Trinitarian groups ​232 Antonius Diogenes –– The Wonders Beyond Thule ​23 Apis bull ​33, 41 Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius ​48 apocalyptic revelations –– in Gospel of Judas ​62–63, 69 –– in Gospel of Mark ​62–63, 69 Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles (AAA) ​4, 107 –– and AXPR ​151n19 –– miracles in ​3, 97 –– and myth ​97–104, 166 –– rebellious wives in ​190n107 –– similarities to romantic novels ​190–191 –– and XAN ​5, 161n2, 166, 169–176, 175 (table), 189–190, 201 –– see also Acts of Andrew; Acts of John; Acts of Thomas (ATh) Apuleius

359

–– Golden Ass ​45 –– Metamorphoses ​ 153n26, 156n40, 172n43, 198 –– secondary character disposal motif in ​ 154n32 Arabic language ​122, 290 Arabic romances, Alexander the Great in ​49 Arabs ​32, 33, 220n39, 287 Aramaic language ​110, 216, 292, 297 archaeological evidence, and Paul ​3, 90 archē ​20–21 Aristophanes –– Symposium ​ 313 Aristotelians ​286 Aristotle, on poet vs. historian ​81 Armenia ​210, 210n13 –– adoption of Christianity as state religion ​ 240 –– as first Christian state ​6 –– see also Moses of Chorene, History of Armenia (PH) Armenian language ​8, 120–121, 122, 174n50, 287, 290, 297n143 Armenian New Testament, translations of ​ 296 Artapanus ​24 –– Book of Daniel influence on ​40–41 –– On the Jews ​2, 31–42 –– – on Abraham ​31–32, 36 –– – as apologist story ​37–38 –– – cultural context of ​39–40 –– – entertainment value of ​39 –– – as Jewish / pagan ​25n21–26n21, 35–38 –– – on Joseph ​32, 36 –– – on Moses ​32–36, 39, 40 adventure tale ​33 allusions to Exodus in ​33–35 as benefactor ​32–33 as magician ​34 as miracle worker ​36 responsibilities of Moses ​33 –– – readership of ​41–42 –– – religious context of ​40–41 –– – source for ​31 –– – whimsy and mischief in ​41–42 artwork, foreshadowing in ​262 ascesis theme in XAN ​ 168n29 assimilation, and colonial historiography ​19 Athenian Enlightenment ​13 athletic metaphor ​261 Augustine ​138, 174n48 –– on Manichaeism ​233 –– on translations of New Testament ​296

360

Subject Index

authorial voice –– in fictional narrative ​21 –– in Hebrew biblical texts ​15–16 –– in historical narrative ​14–16, 21 –– in Near Eastern texts ​15 authorship –– gendered ​14, 21 –– readers-turned-authors ​3, 64–66 avian images, in XAN ​174 axiomata ​82 baptism –– animal baptism ​187 –– Tertullian on women who baptize ​73, 92–93 baptism motif –– in AXPR ​ 150, 151, 152 –– delayed baptism ​174, 174n48, 179, 181 –– in XAN ​174nn47–48, 179, 181, 182nn68– 69, 184–185, 185n87, 188, 189 Bardaisan of Edessa –– accused of being a heretic ​220–221 –– and Addai-Abgar narrative ​213–221, 219–220 –– and Caucasian Iberians ​209, 213–214 –– on conversion of Abgar the Great ​ 218–219, 220n39 –– as educator of son of Abgar the Great ​213 –– Against Fate ​214, 219, 220n39 –– on Indian mission of Thomas ​213 –– knowledge of Greek and Syriac ​214n23 –– Moses of Chorene on ​214–215 –– as source for Eusebius ​221–222, 224 –– view toward Jews ​222 –– see also Liber legum regionum (school of Bardaisan) Barnabas, on allegory ​138 Basilian menology ​199 “Bel and the Dragon,”  41 believing reader ​3, 59–60, 62, 69 biography –– civic ​46, 47 –– dual purpose of ​46n6 –– subversive ​46–48, 50–51 body theme ​250n8 Book of Daniel ​1, 13, 40–41, 255, 255nn29– 30, 256, 260, 268n67 Book of Esther ​1, 13, 21, 24, 40 Book of Exodus ​32, 33 –– see also Artapanus, On the Jews Book of Judith ​1, 13, 21, 41 Book of Tobit ​1, 13, 24 bribery ​150, 171, 171n41, 181

canonical Acts –– description of disciples in ​289 –– and linguistic accommodation ​289–290 –– and Paul and Thecla story ​90 –– similarity to Abgar-Tiberius letters ​212 –– and XAN ​ 170–171, 187 Caucasian Iberians ​209, 210–211 causality –– and fate ​84 –– historical ​21–22 –– moral ​21–22 Chaldean Oracles ​309 chaos ​25, 306, 315 Chariton ​24, 248n4 –– Callirhoe / Kallirhoe –– – cliffhanger technique in ​151n18 –– – easy disposal of secondary character motif in ​154n32 –– – geography of ​183n77 –– – marriage in ​193 –– – miracles in ​192 –– – passion in ​251 –– – rapid action / lengthy direct speech in ​ 155n35 –– – reconciliation in ​252 –– – reunited lovers in ​179n54, 192, 251–252 –– – travel motif in ​276 –– – villainous characters in ​267 –– “there and back” stories of ​179n54 –– veracity of works of ​176 chastity motif ​7, 168n29, 249, 266. see also virginity motif Christian female martyrs. see Greek novelistic heroines / Christian female martyrs, comparison of Christian fiction –– deferred fulfilment of prophecy in ​4–5, 136–140 –– emphasis on conversions of kings in ​ 227n54 –– enacted sayings of Jesus in ​140–142 –– familiarity with pagan novels ​5, 135 –– lamentations in romances ​184, 185n86, 186, 193, 196, 198 –– and prophetic dreams ​142–144 –– suffering in ​139.143, 144 –– see also Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena, The (XAN); Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (AXPR) Christianity –– division into patriarchates ​232 –– norms of ​291–292

Subject Index –– and pagan prophecy ​136–140 –– Platonizing trend within ​125 –– as state religion in Roman Empire ​240 Christians, accusations of starting fire in Rome ​77 Chronicle of Elijah of Nisibis ​206n6 Chronicon Edessenum ​201, 213 Cicero –– De Oratore ​82–84 –– On Fate ​82–84, 83n36, 88 –– on love, effect on truth in writing ​94 –– on writing history ​93 circumcision ​33, 39, 41 –– Judaism without ​210 civic biography ​46, 47 Clementina ​ 5, 135 cliffhanger technique ​150, 150n18–151n18 closure –– and fictional narrative ​21 –– and historical narrative ​20–21 colonial historiography ​18–22 –– and assimilation ​19 –– and colonial universalism ​18–19 –– and ethnicism ​19 –– and postcolonial criticism ​19–20 colonial history –– and ambivalence ​20 –– and hybridity ​20 –– and mimicry ​18–19, 20 constancy theme, in XAN ​ 168n29 Constantinople, becomes patriarchate ​232 constellation model ​22–23, 25 continuum model ​22 conversion –– of Abgar the Great ​218–219, 220n39, 230 –– in AXPR ​ 151, 151n19, 153 –– connection with passion ​7, 248–250 –– within context of marriage ​190 –– at Edessa ​225 –– in Gospel of Judas ​66–68 –– in Gospel of Mark ​67 –– of high-status persons ​292–294 –– legend of conversion of Seneca ​212–213 –– Liber legum regionum on ​219 –– of Thecla ​170n37 –– through agency of slaves ​180 –– in virgin martyr accounts ​258, 259–260, 268–269 –– in XAN ​180, 187, 190 –– see also passion and conversion themes Coptic language ​8, 174n50, 296, 297n143 Coptic New Testament, translations of ​296 1 Corinthians ​78, 88

361

Corinthians ​87 Corpus Hermeticum ​309 counterfactuals ​80–81 cross-dressing theme ​185n87, 186n90, 198 crucifixion ​60, 61, 140, 144, 212 Cyprian’s dream ​142–144 Cyropaedia ​ 26 Dares the Phrygian –– History of the Fall of Troy ​23, 196–197 death motif –– in Testament of Abraham ​50 –– in XAN ​ 168n29, 191–192, 195–196 deception ​81, 81n27, 136–137, 312 declamations (meletai) ​ 85 delayed baptism motif ​174, 174n48, 179, 181 Delphic prophecy ​289 demons ​151, 173, 182, 182n69, 295 desire for Christ theme ​168n29 diairein ​ 311 diairesis ​ 311, 317 diaspora ​35, 37, 309 Dictys of Crete –– Trojan War Diary ​23, 196 diffusion of cult through slave theme ​180 Dionysus, polymorphism of ​104 disabled individual seeking help theme ​165 dissuasion ​64, 64n31 divine oversight ​277, 278–279, 281 divorce ​47, 149, 180 Docetists ​232 Doctrina Addai ​220, 225–231 –– Abgar-Tiberius letters included in ​230 –– “children of Spain” motif in ​207 –– and Christianity after death of Addai ​230 –– dating of ​226, 227 –– and death of Jesus ​206–207, 211 –– doctrinal unit of ​226, 229 –– establishment of Edessan “orthodoxy” in ​ 6, 240, 241 –– historical traces found in ​230–231 –– loyalty motif in ​207 –– religious agenda of ​6–7, 227–228 –– and return to paganism ​219 –– Roman connection in ​226, 235 –– sources of ​221, 224, 226, 228–229, 238–239 –– see also Acta Maris dream interpretation motif ​40, 49 –– in AXPR ​150–151 –– in Gospel of Judas ​57, 60 –– in XAN ​ 181–182, 183, 194

362

Subject Index

dreams –– fulfilled in figurative then literal sense ​4, 136–140 –– oneiromancy ​4, 135, 181 –– see also prophecy ecclesiology in XAN ​168–169 ecphrasis ​261–263 Edessa ​210n13, 213n18, 217n36–218n36 –– conversions in ​225 –– Edessan orthodoxy ​6, 230, 240, 241 –– establishment of Church of ​229–230 –– evangelization of ​231 –– promise by conquered ​233–234 –– siege of ​240–241 –– see also Bardaisan of Edessa; Doctrina Addai Edessan archives ​228 –– as source for Eusebius ​216–217, 224, 225, 229 –– as source of Moses of Chorene ​214, 229, 235–237, 236n63 Edessan Mandylion ​229 Egypt ​26n34, 85, 89 –– division into nomes ​39 –– and Platonists ​308n16, 309 –– as setting for Aethiopika ​ 307–308, 309–310, 312, 312n27, 314 Egyptian wisdom ​307–308, 309–310, 321–322 elect ​3, 60, 62, 66 end time prophecy ​56, 58, 60, 61–63, 66–69 enkrateia (self-control) ​7, 88, 257 entertaining history ​24–25 entertainment value, of work of Artapanus ​ 39 Ephesiaca ​ 157n45 Epicureans ​286 epikos kyklos (“cyclic epic”) ​15n10 epiphanic situation in AXPR ​150 epistolary narratives –– cultural context of ​80 –– as forgeries ​81n27 –– voice in ​80 –– see also Abgar-Jesus pseudepigraphic letters; Abgar-Tiberius correspondence; Letters of Paul and Seneca epitome ​166–168 Ethiopia –– Assyrians subdue ​39 –– end of human sacrifice in ​263, 268 –– founding deities of ​320n37 Ethiopian language ​8, 290

ethnic histories ​19 Eucharist ​67–68 Eusebius ​6, 31, 220 –– on Abgar Ukkama and Addai ​216 –– Abgar-Addai narrative –– – did not incorporate Abgar-Tiberius letters ​207–208, 209 –– – did not mention Albinus / Sabinus ​ 208–209 –– and Abgar-Jesus correspondence ​6, 206 –– on Bardaisan as not heretic ​220 –– Church History ​214, 216–217 –– – description of Abgar Ukkama in ​218, 224–225 –– – as source for Moses of Chorene ​236, 237n67 –– – source of ​216–218, 221–225, 229 –– Contra Hieroclem ​283 –– Doctrina Addai ​217 –– Praeparatio Evangelica ​31, 214 evangelization –– of Assyria ​230, 238 –– of Edessa ​231 –– of India ​217n36–218n36 –– of Mesopotamia ​232–235, 234 –– of Osrhoene ​234 –– of Rome ​232 exile theme ​168n29, 265, 306, 307 exorcists ​40 fables ​74–75, 85, 86 Fachprosa (technical prose) ​13–14, 14n6, 15, 16, 21 faith theme ​168n29 fictional narrative –– myth incorporated into ​21 –– similarity to / difference from historical narrative ​20–21 fidelity ​5, 156, 197, 262 five good virgins as model for martyr ­accounts ​255–256 foreshadowing –– in artwork ​262 –– of death of Ignatius ​142 –– introductory oracle as ​194, 194n123 –– prophetic ​3, 56, 58–63, 60n21 –– in XAN ​ 179, 183n74, 194, 194n123 forgery ​81, 81n27, 82, 93 friendship ​5, 77, 79, 156 gender –– and cross-dressing motif ​185n87, 186n90, 187n94, 198

Subject Index –– in early virgin martyr accounts ​250, 255 –– gender-reversing character ​193n116 –– and history authorship ​14, 21 –– and novel authorship ​14 genre distinction models ​22–26 –– constellation model ​22–23, 25 –– continuum model ​22 –– Platonic-Aristotelian model ​22 –– popular history ​24–25 –– trickster novel ​24–25, 24n31 –– Wittgenstein’s notion of genre ​22–23 Georgian language ​8, 290 Georgian New Testament, translations of ​ 296 Gnosticism ​125, 220 –– pre-Christian ​124 God –– and Abraham ​49–50 –– Israel as bride of ​254 –– and Moses ​33–34 –– prophecy about Jesus Christ by ​138–139 Gog ​48 gospel genre ​2 Gospel of John ​4, 65n32, 101 Gospel of Judas –– animal sacrifice in ​57 –– and salvation ​3, 55–56, 57, 61n26–62n26, 64, 66–68 –– secret apophasis in ​60, 67 –– see also Gospel of Mark/Gospel of Judas, comparison of Gospel of Luke ​139, 140, 168 –– borrowings from Homeric Hymn ​4, 97, 98–101, 104 –– compared with Acts of John ​101–102 –– and rewriting of Gospel of Mark ​65, 65n32, 97–98, 100 Gospel of Mark –– and Gospel of Luke ​97–98, 100 –– messianic secret in ​63, 67 –– miracle stories in, as different from Gospel of Luke ​98 –– rewriting of ​65, 65n32 –– and salvation ​3, 62, 67 –– suffering in ​60, 62, 66 –– see also Gospel of Mark/Gospel of Judas, comparison of Gospel of Mark / Gospel of Judas, ­comparison of ​2–3 –– apocalyptic revelations –– – in Gospel of Judas ​62–63, 69 –– – in Gospel of Mark ​62–63, 69

363

–– conversion and salvation –– – in Gospel of Judas ​66–68 –– – in Gospel of Mark ​67 –– dissuasion ​64, 64n31 –– end time prophecies ​56, 66–68 –– Mark as possible source for Judas ​65n32 –– meanings of teachings of Jesus ​56 –– meanings of violent death of Jesus ​56 –– mystery of identity of Jesus ​56 –– notion of authorship ​3, 64–66 –– – reader as author / character ​3, 64–66 –– overview of Gospel of Judas ​57–58 –– prophetic foreshadowing ​3, 56, 58–63, 60n21 –– – in Gospel of Judas ​60–62 –– – in Gospel of Mark ​59–60 –– repentance theme in Gospel of Judas ​62, 62n27 –– suspended endings ​3, 56, 63–70 –– – in Gospel of Judas ​62 –– – in Gospel of Mark ​58–59 –– synecdoche ​3, 56, 63 –– temporality ​69 Gospel of Matthew ​65, 65n32 Greek histories –– archē in ​20 –– method in ​16 –– rationalistic register of ​16, 17 –– rhetorical register of ​16, 17–18, 19 –– similarity / difference with Israeli ​15–16 Greek novelistic heroines / Christian female martyrs, comparison of –– audience reactions ​250 –– body motif ​250n8 –– chastity motif ​7, 249 –– courts ​250n8 –– cultural implications ​250 –– dating issues ​248 –– hatred ​254n25 –– leading female characters ​248–249 –– marriage ​7 –– military metaphor ​255n29 –– passion and conversion –– – Christian female virgin martyr accounts ​ 253–260 adoption of patterns of ancient novels ​ 253–254 athletic metaphor ​261 conversion motif ​258, 259–260, 268–269 Daniel in lion’s den as literary model for ​255

364

Subject Index

five good virgins as literary model for ​ 255–256 hate for martyrs ​254 historical constraints on martyr ­accounts ​267–268 marital vocabulary in ​254–255, 259–260 martyr behaving as man/or associated with men as literary model for ​ 255 and negation of standard behavioral norms for elite women ​253–254 pity for martyrs ​254, 254n25 practical purpose of martyr accounts ​ 258 retribution motif ​258–260 self-control in ​257 spectacle motif ​255–257 three youths in fiery furnace as literary model for ​255, 256, 260 –– – connection between ​7, 248–250 –– – conversion, defining ​7, 249 –– – and gender relations ​250 –– – Greek novels, early ancient ​251–252 motifs ​252 public spectacle motif ​251–252 reconciliations ​252 –– – Greek novels, later ancient ​260–266 delayed weddings of heroines ​261 ecphrasis in ​261–263 expanded consciousness of audiences of ​264 garden as metaphor for heroine in ​ 262–263 increased interest in visuality in ​ 261–263 narrative levels in novels of Achilles/ Longus / Heliodorus ​264 public interest in reunion of couple motif in ​264–265 retribution motif in ​265–266 and Second Sophistic ​80, 89, 252, 260, 260n47 spectacle in ​263–264 suffering of Greek heroines ​260–261, 262 virginity in ​262–263 –– – passion, defining ​7, 249 –– – and public spectacle motif ​250 –– political implications ​250 –– prisons ​250n8 –– similarities ​266–267 –– spectacle and ​250

–– suffering motif ​7 –– villainous character motif ​267 –– violence ​7, 250n8 Greek novels –– Alexander the Great in ​49 –– categorization of ​23 –– cliffhanger technique in ​150n18–151n18 –– geography of ​183n77 –– happy ending motif in ​153 –– lament in ​149 –– shipwreck as normal means of transportation in ​184n79 –– as “there and back” narrative ​179 –– see also Chariton, Callirhoe / Kallirhoe; Greek novelistic heroines / Christian female martyrs, comparison of hagiography ​5–6, 201, 205, 231 happy endings ​40, 151, 153, 189n103, 195–196, 278, 280 heavenly communication motif ​164, 165 Hebrew language ​292 Heliodorus ​24, 190n110, 265 –– Aethiopika (Charicleia and Theagenes) ​8 –– – as allegory of divine in ​8, 312–320, 322 –– – chronological relationship to In Honor of Apollonius ​283–284 –– – Cnemon ​306n11, 307, 314, 317–318, 318n34 –– – divine oversight in ​278–279, 281 –– – double agenda of ​275 –– – double meaning in ​314 –– – dual nature of allegory in ​321–322 –– – Egypt as main setting for ​312, 314 –– – fictional character of ​307–308 –– – fusion of philosophy and religion in ​ 311–313 –– – and Hellenic religion ​276–278 –– – high / low magic in ​279–280 –– – Homeric effects in ​315 –– – human sacrifice in ​281 –– – ‘inhumanation’ of Charicleia in ​320n35 –– – language as prime social marker in ​7, 275–276, 278–281, 284 –– – myth as allegorical narrative in ​ 311–312 –– – and Neoplatonism ​8, 308–309, 317–318 –– – optimistic romance plot of ​278–279 –– – philosophy and religion, fusion of ​ 309–313 –– – Platonic motifs in ​307–308, 312, 316 –– – references to sun in ​277, 278, 279, 289, 320

Subject Index –– – retribution in novel of ​265–266 –– – role of hermeneutics in ​313–320, 313n28 –– – setting of ​305–306, 321 –– – similarities to In Honor of Apollonius ​ 282–283, 285 –– – and socioeconomic differences ​ 321–322 –– – tension between Hellenistic and Christian theology in ​304–305, 305n6 –– – topographic symbolism in ​306, 307–308, 309 –– – two distinct knowledges for two distinct audiences of ​313 –– – and two-tone vision of Heliodorus ​ 303–304 –– – villainous characters in novel of ​267 –– – violence and religion in ​314–320 –– An Ethiopian Story ​179 Heliopolitans ​35 Helios, cult of ​304n5, 308, 308n16, 320 Hellenic romances, motifs in ​39 Hellenism ​19–20 hermeneutics ​313–320, 313n28 Herodotus ​15, 16, 26 –– History ​ 14 Himmelsreise der Seele ​124 Historia Augusta ​283 historical narrative –– and open endings ​20–21 –– similarity to / difference from fictional narrative ​20–21, 23–24, 69, 75n6 historical novels ​24. see also Addai-Abgar legend historiography –– and historical possibility ​85–92 –– myth incorporated into ​17 –– use of rhetoric in ​82–85 –– see also Letters of Paul and Seneca history –– defining ​21–22, 21n26 –– myth incorporated into ​14–15, 18, 85 –– practices of ​74–75 History of Religion School ​129 history writing –– author as male-gendered ​14, 21 –– evolution of ​13–18 –– rationalistic register of Greek ​16, 17 –– rhetorical register of Greek ​16, 17–18, 19 –– similarity / difference between Greek and Israeli ​15–16 Homer –– Odyssey ​87

365

human sacrifice ​62, 62n27, 263, 264, 265, 268, 277, 281 hybridity ​19–20, 25 Hymn of the Bride ​107, 122, 128 Hymn of the Pearl ​107, 108, 109–111, 120, 121, 122–124, 128 Hymn of the Soul ​179n54 Hymn of the Wedding ​108, 110, 123–124 Iamblichus ​308, 308n16, 311 –– de Mysteriis ​309 iconography ​90 ideal (believing) reader ​3, 59–60, 62, 69 identity, as aim of historical narrative ​20, 69 idolatry ​41, 62, 63, 67–68, 167, 215, 256 ill-health / impiety connection ​185 imitation –– as core of rhetoric ​85–86 –– and credibility ​165–166, 170–174, 172 (table), 176, 187 immorality ​57, 306, 307 immortality ​48, 62, 66, 162 imperial fiction. see Heliodorus, Aethiopika (Charicleia and Theagenes); Philostratus, In Honor of Apollonius (Apollonius) incarnation ​138, 320n35 India ​49 –– evangelization of ​217n36–218n36 –– see also Acts of Thomas inhumanation ​320n35 introductory oracle as literary device ​194, 194n123 irony ​16, 26, 157, 181 Israel, as bride of God ​254 Jerusalem –– becomes patriarchate ​232 –– conversion of Alexander to Judaism in ​49 –– fall to Nebuchadnezzar ​139 –– siege of ​18 Jesus Christ –– and Abgar ​6, 208, 221–225, 222n48, 233–234 –– betrayal by Judas ​63, 294 –– chooses disciples ​223 –– crucifixion of ​60, 61, 144, 212 –– dimorphism of ​101 –– educational conception of mission of ​225 –– execution of ​207n8 –– and fishermen story ​3–4, 99–101, 101–103 –– inhumanation of ​320n35 –– Josephus’s knowledge of ​212

366

Subject Index

–– life of, as subversive/civic narrative ​46 –– marriage to, by female martyrs ​7, 112 –– meanings of teachings of ​56 –– miracles of ​98, 99–100, 101, 212n16, 216, 218, 228, 235, 239, 240 –– mystery of identity of ​56 –– and Pilate ​206, 207, 208, 211, 212, 212n16, 236, 238 –– polymorphism of ​102, 103, 104, 107 –– prophecy about ​138–139 –– prophecy by ​3, 56, 58–63, 139 –– resurrection of ​55, 56n5, 59, 61, 63, 67, 139, 142, 192, 206, 235, 236 –– as teacher ​217n30 –– Tertullian and death of ​206 –– on Thomas’s trip to India ​290 Jewish fiction –– categorization of ​23 –– novellas ​1–2 Jewish histories –– archē in ​21–22 –– difference from Greece histories ​16 –– method in ​16 Jewish Temple ​60 Jews –– accused of starting fire in Rome ​77 –– and animal worship ​35–36, 37 –– and anti-Semitism ​185, 211, 211n16 –– Manetho on ​38 –– values of ​38 –– wisdom of ​49 –– see also Artapanus, On the Jews John –– description as uneducated and ordinary ​ 289 –– Gospel of John ​4, 65n32, 101 –– see also Acts of John Joseph (biblical) ​32, 36, 37, 136–137 Joseph and Aseneth ​1, 13, 23n29, 178, 180, 180nn57, 190, 194n118 Josephus ​18, 19, 76, 237n67 –– Antiquities ​ 20, 45 –– knowledge of Jesus ​212 –– on Lucceius Albinus ​207n8 –– rewriting of Exodus ​34n10, 35n16 Judas Thomas. see Thomas (Judas Thomas) Judges ​16, 163 Julian –– Hymn to the Sun ​284 Justi –– Iranisches Namenbuch ​120

kidnapping motif ​39, 151, 153, 170, 179, 183–184, 186, 190–191, 195, 197, 199–200, 263 lamentations –– in AXPR ​ 149 –– in XAN ​ 184, 185n86, 186, 193, 196, 198 language –– as prime social marker ​7–8, 275–276, 278–281, 284–285, 286, 287–288 –– see also Acts of Thomas (ATh), hypothesis of Syriac origin Latin language ​78, 80, 108n14, 122, 166, 201, 210n15, 248n3, 290 Latin New Testament, translations of ​296 Latin novels –– AXPR as different from ​157 –– happy ending motif in ​153 Letters of Paul and Seneca ​76–82, 212 –– and effect of love on truth in writing ​94 –– as historical fiction confirming facts about Paul ​77 –– as historical possibility ​82, 88–89, 92 –– letter 1 ​77 –– letter 13 ​78 –– “Paul” as author function in ​75, 79 –– and Roman citizenship of Paul ​90 –– theme of expressing longing during absence in ​77 –– theological and cultural argument of ​ 77–79 Letters of Themistocles ​81–82 Liber legum regionum (school of Bardaisan) ​ 213, 213n12, 217, 218, 219, 222 Life of Aesop ​23, 24, 47, 297n150 Life of Cyprian ​4–5 Life of Homer ​47 Lipsius –– Die Apokryphen Apostelgeschichten ​111 longing motif ​77, 155, 173, 180 Longus ​24, 258, 261, 262, 265, 267 –– Daphnis and Chloe ​157n45 love motif –– in AXPR ​ 5, 150, 153, 155–156 –– in XAN ​191, 198–199 love-sickness theme ​179–181, 180n56 loyalty motif ​156, 207, 208 Lucian of Samosata ​23, 293 –– How to Write History ​85n48, 86, 87, 92 –– True Histories ​86–87, 221n46, 260

Subject Index Maccabees ​17, 18, 24 magic / magicians –– high / low magic in ​279–280 –– Moses as magician ​34 –– sympathetic ​195n129 –– in XAN ​ 183 Manetho ​19 –– Aegyptiaka ​ 38 Manichaeans ​107, 124, 232 Manichaeism ​220, 233 Marcionism ​220 Marcionites ​215, 232 Marcus Aurelius Antoninus (Elagabalus) ​ 277 marriage –– in Acts of Thomas ​292 –– in ancient Greek novels ​251, 254, 261, 263, 265 –– in Callirhoe / Kallirhoe ​ 193 –– conversion within context of ​190 –– and female virgin martyrs ​7, 112, 254–255, 259–260, 261, 267 –– to nonbelievers ​185n89 –– Paul on ​89, 93, 182, 182n66 –– and Thecla ​89 –– in XAN ​ 182, 185, 190, 193, 198 martyrs. see Greek novelistic heroines/ Christian female martyrs, comparison of Mede language ​287 Medes ​21, 287 meletai (declamations) ​85 Mesopotamia, evangelization of ​232–235, 234 messianic secret ​63, 67 Middle Platonism ​125 Milan Edict ​305 military metaphor ​255n29 mimicry ​18–19, 20, 75n6 miracles –– and Acts of Mari ​233, 235 –– and Addai ​214, 229 –– in Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles ​3, 97 –– in Callirhoe / Kallirhoe ​ 192 –– differences between Gospel of Luke and Gospel of Mark ​98 –– and Jesus Christ ​98, 99–100, 101, 212n16, 216, 218, 228, 235, 239, 240 –– and Moses ​36 –– and Paul ​141 –– similarities between Gospel of Luke and Homeric Hymn ​99–100, 101, 102 –– and Thaddaeus ​225 –– and Thomas ​293

367

–– in XAN ​ 171, 181, 200 modalistic monarchianism ​162–163 Modalists ​162n9 monolatry ​37 Monophysite Christology ​163n13 Moon, cult of ​308, 313 Moses (biblical), Artapanus on ​32–36, 39, 40 Moses of Chorene ​205, 208n9 –– on Addai legend ​219 –– on Bardaisan as historian ​214–215 –– and Caucasian Iberians ​209, 209n12 –– on faithfulness of Abgar to Tiberius ​208 –– History of Armenia (PH) ​235–240 –– – and Abgar-Tiberius letters ​236–237, 238 –– – date of ​235n64 –– – religious agenda of ​240 –– “Marinus,”  208–209, 238 –– religious-political agenda of ​6 –– sources used by ​214, 217n36, 229, 235–237, 236n63, 237n67 Muses ​85 Muslim authors, on Alexander the Great ​49 myth –– as allegorical narrative ​310–312, 317 –– and Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles ​ 97–104, 166 –– incorporated into fiction ​21 –– incorporated into historiography ​17 –– incorporated into history ​14–15, 18, 85 –– mythological status of biblical Moses ​ 32–33, 36, 41 –– Redeemer ​124 narrative compression in XAN ​ 178 natural theology in XAN ​ 180 naumachiai ​ 87–88 Near Eastern texts –– authorial voice in ​15 –– parallels to Moses story by Artapanus ​ 39–40 Neoplatonism ​8, 207–313, 307–313, 311, 311n26, 317–318 New Comedy ​192 New Testament, translations of ​296. see also individual books Nicene Creed (325) ​318 “noble lie” of Plato ​312 Old Slavonic ​290 Old Testament prophecy ​137–139 omissions –– in Artapanus ​33, 34

368

Subject Index

–– in gospel stories ​65 –– in Greek texts ​116, 117 oneiromancy ​4, 135, 181 open endings ​3, 20–21, 56, 64–65, 69–70 oracles –– as enigmatic ​136–137 –– introductory, as foreshadowing ​194, 194n123 –– in XAN ​175, 196 Origen of Alexandria ​145, 217n30, 237, 288n82 –– on allegory ​138 –– Contra Celsum ​79 –– reflections on Song of Songs ​254 –– on spread of Christianity ​219 Osrhoene ​213, 216, 224, 225 –– evangelization of ​234 –– as first Christian kingdom ​6, 219, 241 –– prohibition of ritual mutilation at ​218 –– re-Christianization of ​230 pacifism ​163 paleographic corruptions –– in Acts of Thomas ​112–114, 117, 128 –– in Addai-Abgar narrative ​239 Paradise ​50, 179n54, 185n87, 294 parody ​45–46, 86–87, 191n111 Parthian war ​210–211, 212n16 Passio Thomae ​217 passion and conversion themes –– connection between ​7, 248–250 –– and early ancient Greek novels ​251–252 –– and early Christian female virgin martyr accounts ​253–260 –– and later ancient Greek novels ​260–266 Pastoral Epistles ​3, 73, 89 patriarchates ​232 Paul ​154n31 –– actual number of genuine letters by ​73 –– appeal of, in XAN ​172 (table)–173 (table) –– archaeological evidence about ​90 –– archaeological evidence on ​3, 90 –– baptism of Probus by ​174n47, 182nn68– 69 –– of Basilian Menology ​199 –– as caring and kind ​155n37–156n37 –– description as uneducated/ordinary ​289 –– and Mari ​232, 235 –– on marriage ​89, 93, 182, 182n66 –– martyrdom of ​76 –– martyrization of ​92 –– and miracles ​141 –– miracles by ​141

–– as multivalent trope for orthodox faith ​ 169 –– at Philippi ​90–91 –– physical description of ​150n15, 171–172 (table), 172n43 –– polymorphism of ​172 –– Polyxena eliminated from biography of ​ 200 –– Roman citizenship of ​90 –– as savior figure in XAN ​181 –– speech at Areopagus by ​6–7 –– travels to Spain ​149, 149n12, 152–153, 169, 169n32, 169n36 –– use of metaphor by ​142 –– on women ​78, 89 –– on women’s silence ​93 –– and XAN ​ 170 –– see also Letters of Paul and Seneca Paul-after-Paul –– cultural context of ​74–75 –– as historical possibility ​3, 93–94 –– and Letters of Paul and Seneca ​73 –– Paul as author function of ​3, 93 pepaideumenoi ​ 8, 283, 285, 313, 318–319, 321–322 Peri Dynatōn ​82, 88 Persia ​49, 210n14 –– and Aethiopica ​ 263, 277, 280 –– defeat of Darius of ​21, 47, 48 –– kings of ​236, 238, 240, 252, 267 –– Mari at ​235 –– martyrs from ​253n15 –– military engagement with Julian ​321 –– and evangelization ​233, 234, 235 Persian language ​120, 287 Persianized Judaism ​19 Peter (Simon Peter) ​65, 151, 154n31, 164 –– calling of, by Jesus ​101–102 –– converts Protonike ​226, 228, 229 –– cures Agatha’s breast ​256n33 –– description as uneducated and ordinary ​ 289 –– goes to Rome in obedience to a vision ​ 169, 169n32 –– and Mari ​232, 235 –– martyrdom of ​76, 140, 141 –– and prophecy ​59–60, 140 –– reaction to miracles ​98, 99–100 –– see also Acts of Peter Petronius ​157 –– Satyrica ​ 45 Philip –– in Palestine and Parthia ​166n21

Subject Index –– and XAN ​151, 152, 165, 170, 183, 185, 186, 197, 197n141 –– see also Acts of Philip Philippians ​88, 90 Philo ​19, 76 –– On Abraham ​45 –– In Flaccum ​208n9 Philostratus ​285n56, 285n61 –– In Honor of Apollonius (Apollonius) ​282 –– – chronological relationship to Aethiopika ​ 283–284 –– – dating of ​283–284 –– – description of Apollonius in ​285–286 –– – devaluation of non-elite voice in ​ 284–285 –– – emphasis on traditional Greek values ​ 288 –– – emphasis on traditional Greek values ​ 288 –– – significance of language use in ​ 284–285, 286, 287–288 –– – similarities to Aethiopika ​ 282–283, 285 –– Lives ​ 282 Phlegon of Thralles ​206, 221n46 –– Book of Marvels ​23 Pilate –– and death of Jesus ​206, 207, 208, 211, 212, 212n16, 236, 238 –– hostility toward Abgar ​208 –– pseudepigraphic correspondence with Tiberius ​227 –– wife of, and innocence of Jesus Christ ​143 Pisonian controversy ​76 pity ​83, 92, 254, 254n25 Platonic-Aristotelian model ​22 Platonism ​3 –– and Christianity ​3, 97, 125 –– influence on Aethiopika ​ 307–308, 316 –– Middle ​125 –– Neoplatonism ​8, 207–313, 311, 311n26, 317–318 Plato’s Academy ​307 Plotinus ​309–311, 321 –– on allegory and myth ​310–312 –– Enneads ​ 309–310 –– on fusion of philosophy and religion ​ 309–310 –– and Neoplatonists ​311, 311n26 Plutarch –– Life of Alexander ​47 –– Life of Marc Antony ​47 –– Περὶ ἀοργησίας / De cohibenda ira ​257 Polybios ​16

369

–– Histories ​ 83n36 polymorphism –– of Dionysus ​104 –– of Jesus ​102, 103, 104, 107 –– of Paul ​172 Polyxena –– of Basilian Menology ​199 –– eliminated from biography of Paul ​200 –– of “present Menaea,”  199–200 –– see also Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (AXPR);Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena, The (XAN) Pontifices Dei Solis ​284 Pontius –– Life of Cyprian ​143–144 popular history genre ​24–25 Porphyry ​289, 308, 308n16, 309, 317 –– Cave of the Nymphs (De antro Nympha­ 309, 311n26 rum) ​ postcolonial criticism ​19–20 prayer/praying –– in AXPR ​ 149, 155n34 –– in XAN ​ 162–163, 165, 180, 196, 197 pre-Christian Gnosticism ​124 Preuschen ​109n20 –– Zwei gnostische Hymnen ​109, 109n18 prisons ​32, 34, 90, 250n8, 258n40, 293, 295 Probus –– of companion life of Peter and Paul ​200 –– see also Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena, The (XAN); Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (AXPR) Procopius, lack of religious agenda in works of ​6, 240–241 prophecy –– about Jesus Christ by God ​138–139 –– deferred fulfilment in Christian fiction ​ 4–5, 136–140 –– – Achilles Tatius ​4 –– – Acts of Ignatius ​5 –– – classical precedent in Oedipus Rex ​4 –– – classical precedent in Oedipus Tyrannus ​ 136 –– – Clementine romances ​5,135 –– – Life of Cyprian ​4–5 –– Delphic ​289 –– end time ​56, 58, 60, 61–63, 66–69 –– in Gospel of Judas ​57–58 –– in Israeli history ​16 –– meaning of pagan oracles ​136–137 –– New Testament ​139–140 –– Old Testament ​137–139 –– pagan vs. Christian ​136–140

370

Subject Index

–– and Peter ​59–60, 140 prophetic foreshadowing ​3, 56, 58–63, 60n21 –– in Gospel of Judas ​60–62 –– in Gospel of Mark ​59–60 prose, technical (Fachprosa) ​13–14, 14n6, 15, 16, 21 prose narrative, rise of ​1–2 –– in Greece ​13–14 –– in Israel ​14, 15 Proto-feminism, in AXPR ​152n23 Ps. Dionysius the Areopagite ​7 Psalms ​139, 168 Pseudo-Clementine ​179n54 –– Recognitions ​ 192 pseudo-documentarism ​86–87 Pseudo-Lucius –– The Ass ​ 23 Qur’an ​48 rape motif ​170, 186, 186n93, 191, 263 rationalistic history ​22 reader-response theory ​59n16 readers –– believing reader ​3, 59–60, 62, 69 –– readers-turned-authors ​3, 64–66 readership –– of Acts of Thecla as primarily female ​ 147n3 –– of ancient novels ​36, 40, 41–42, 158 realism in literature ​1–2, 13–14 Rebecca –– of Basilian Menology ​199 –– of “present Menaea,”  200 –– see also Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena, The (XAN); Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (AXPR) Redeemer myth ​124 Religionsgeschichtliche Schule ​107, 123, 124 renunciation ​126, 155–156 repentance ​40, 50, 62, 62n27, 68, 115, 180n57 resurrection ​55, 56n5, 59, 61, 63, 67, 139, 142, 192, 206, 235, 236, 322 resuscitation ​191–192, 236, 280 retribution –– in early Christian female virgin martyr accounts ​258–260 –– in later ancient Greek novels ​265–266 reunion theme –– in Achilles ​264–265

–– in Callirhoe / Kallirhoe ​ 179n54, 192, 251–252 –– in Greek literature ​249 –– in Heliodorus’s Charicleia ​263–264, 265 –– in martyr accounts ​249, 256, 258 –– in Pseudo-Clementine romances ​179n54 –– in XAN ​ 179n54, 188, 191–192 –– in Xenophon ​179n54, 251–252 revelatory content ​3, 55, 57–58, 61, 62–63, 69, 152, 187, 193 –– see also dreams; prophecy rhetoric –– in Greek historical writing ​16, 17–18 –– rhetorical character sketches (ēthopoiia) ​80 –– use in historiography by Cicero ​82–85 ritual mutilation, prohibition of ​218 robbery motif ​5, 164, 190 Roman Catholic Church, suppression of cult of Thecla by ​119n145 Roman citizenship ​90, 275 Roman historical writing, themes in ​85, 87–88, 93–94 Roman novel writing, categorization of ​23 romantic novels –– female readership of ​183n71 –– love motif in ​191, 198–199 –– love-sickness theme ​179–181, 180n56 –– marriage motif in ​193 –– parallels with ancient novels ​5, 179–180, 188–189, 190–191, 193, 194, 195–196, 201 –– robbery motif in ​164, 190 –– similarities to Apocryphal Acts ​190–191 –– similarities / differences with Acts of the Apostles ​226n53 –– suicide motif in ​188 –– as “there and back” stories ​176, 179n54 –– see also individual works Rome ​19 –– becomes patriarchate ​232 –– building of temple to Sol in ​283–284 –– Christians and Jews accused of starting fire in ​77 –– conversions of elite in ​229 –– Doctrina Addai connection with ​226, 228 –– evangelization of ​232 –– historical themes in ​85 –– Mari’s connection with ​232, 235 –– Paul in ​80, 149, 170, 171, 176, 179, 181 –– vision sends Peter to ​169, 169n32 Sabellianism (monarchianism) ​162–163 salvation –– and Abgar ​216–217, 218

Subject Index –– and Gospel of Judas ​3, 55–56, 57, 61n26–62n26, 64, 66–68 –– and Gospel of Mark ​3, 62, 67 –– universal ​291 –– and XAN ​172, 180–181 same-sex desire ​156n39, 161 satire ​45, 50 seafaring and travel motif –– in AXPR ​ 5, 151, 157, 157n42 –– in Hellenic romances ​39 –– in XAN ​ 165, 166, 183–184, 187–188, 197–198 seashore trope ​165n20 Second Sophistic ​4, 80, 89, 252, 260, 260n47 secondary character disposal motif ​154n32 secret apophasis, in Gospel of Judas ​60, 67 Secundus ​ 23 self-control (enkrateia) ​7, 88, 257 Semitic Doppeldreier ​ 110, 110n23 senatus consultum, and Abgar-Tiberius correspondence ​236–237, 238 Seneca –– De Ira ​257 –– legend of conversion to Christianity ​ 212–213 –– “On Verbosity,”  78 –– Tertullian on ​76 –– Troades ​ 196 –– see also Letters of Paul and Seneca separation of protagonists motif ​39, 152, 192, 265, 313 Septuagint, Greek version of Daniel in ​41 Seventy ​217, 223, 223n50 sexual abstinence motif ​151 sexual purity motif ​156 –– see also virginity motif sexual renunciation motif ​155–156 shipwreck motif ​39, 164–165, 183–184, 184n79, 187 Simon Peter. see Peter (Simon Peter) Sirinçe ​90 Sitz im Leben ​121 slaves –– Christian writings on ​93 –– conversion through agency of ​180 –– see also Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena, The (XAN), Rebecca social memory ​15n8, 21 social status –– in Aethiopika ​ 321–322 –– conversions of high-status persons ​ 292–294

371

–– language as prime marker of ​7–8, 275–276, 278–281, 284–285, 286, 287–288 –– multi-status Christian community ​294 –– and violence ​182, 182n70 Song of Songs ​254 Sophocles –– Oedipus Rex ​4 –– Oedipus Tyrannus ​136 sorcerers ​40, 292 spectacle –– in early ancient Greek novels ​251–252 –– in early Christian female virgin martyr accounts ​255–257 –– as history of the possible ​87–88 –– in later ancient Greek novels ​263–264 Stoics/stoicism ​76, 76n9, 88, 257, 286 struggle motif ​168n29, 178–179, 314 suasoriae (imaginative deliberative themes) ​ 85 subversive biography –– Alexander Romance as ​46–47 –– vs. civic biography ​46 –– Testament of Abraham as ​46, 50–51 suffering ​7 –– in Acta Theclae ​147 –– in early Christian fiction ​139,143, 144 –– in Gospel of Mark ​60, 62, 66 –– in later ancient Greek novels ​260–261, 262 –– in virgin martyr accounts ​252n13, 258–259, 260–261 –– in XAN ​ 187, 196 suicide ​76, 188, 268 sun –– cult of Helios ​304n5, 308, 308n16, 320 –– references in Aethiopika ​ 277, 278, 279, 289, 320 supernatural elements, wild beasts as ​5, 151–152, 171n38, 174, 184–185, 187, 193 suspended endings ​3, 56, 63–70 –– and dissuasion ​64, 64n31 –– in Gospel of Judas ​62, 66–68 –– in Gospel of Mark ​58–59, 67 –– and notion of authorship ​3, 64–66 –– and prophetic foreshadowing ​3, 56, 58–63 Syene, siege of ​284, 304n5, 321 symbolism –– of sleeping with one’s own mother ​4 –– topographic ​306, 307–308, 309 –– water as symbol for wisdom ​197 sympathetic magic ​195n129 Symposium ​ 26, 197 synairein ​ 311

372

Subject Index

synairesis ​ 311 synecdoche ​3, 56, 63, 170 Synoptic Gospels ​4, 97, 139 syntax ​117, 224 Syracusans ​251–252 Syrianized Israel ​19 Talmud, Alexander the Great in ​49 Tatian –– Diatessaron ​ 220–221, 223, 224n52 –– Oratio ad Graecos ​78 technical prose (Fachprosa) ​13–14, 14n6, 15, 16, 21 Tertullian ​80 –– on Acts of Paul ​73, 83, 94 –– on Acts of Paul and Thecla ​81, 83, 89, 92, 94 –– On Baptism ​73 –– De anima ​79 –– and death of Jesus ​206 –– on Seneca ​76 –– on women ​73, 92–93 Testament of Abraham ​2 –– as analogous to Alexander Romance ​ 49–51 –– literary context of ​45–46 –– as subversive biography ​46, 50–51 Testament of Job ​45 Testimonium Flavianum ​206–207, 212 Thecla –– conversion of ​170n37 –– cross-dressing by ​186n90 –– cult of ​147, 199n145 –– delayed baptism of ​174 –– in Iconium ​170n37, 171 –– love of Paul ​198 –– as model for XAN ​170–171, 171n41, 181, 186, 186n90, 187, 187n95, 189 –– shrines to ​89–90 –– and wild beasts ​147, 171, 171n38, 187 –– see also Acts of Paul and Thecla; Acts of Thecla theologically oriented history ​22 “there and back” narrative ​176, 179, 179n54, 183 theurgy ​8, 308–309, 318 Thomas (Judas Thomas), martyrdom of ​ 141–142 timeline ​20–22, 69 TLG survey ​112 topographic symbolism ​306, 307–308, 309 Transitus Mariae ​6, 209, 239

travel motif. see seafaring and travel motif trickster novel ​24–25, 24n31 Trinity ​157n44, 163, 163n13 Trojan War, false histories of ​23, 196–197 Twelve Patriarchs ​45 universal salvation ​291 University of Groningen ​127–129 Valentinianism ​215, 220 values –– Christian ​126 –– and civic biography ​46 –– Greek ​191, 287, 288 –– Jewish ​38 –– Roman ​191, 250, 254 –– in Xan as parallel to romantic novel ​191 Vetus Syra ​223–224 violence –– in Greek novels / Christian martyr accounts ​250n8, 260 –– parallel with religion in work of Heliodorus ​306, 314–320, 322 –– political ​79 –– and social status ​182, 182n70 –– see also spectacle virginity motif –– in ancient Greek novels ​261, 262–263, 266 –– in wider tradition of ancient novel ​5, 156n38 –– in XAN ​ 168n29, 186, 188, 191, 196, 198 vision motif –– and Acts of Paul ​172 –– and Acts of Peter ​140, 169, 169n32 –– and Aethiopika (Charicleia and Theagenes) ​ 317, 319 –– and AXPR ​ 150 –– and Callirhoe / Kallirhoe ​ 251 –– and Christian martyr accounts ​258 –– and XAN ​ 165, 169, 172, 183 –– see also dreams; prophecy wandering motif ​5, 190–191 –– see also seafaring and travel motif water, as symbol for wisdom ​197 whimsy and mischief, in works of Artapanus ​ 41–42 wild beasts, as supernatural element in ­ancient novels ​5, 151–152, 171n38, 171n41, 174, 184–185, 187, 193 wisdom –– in ancient novels ​285, 286 –– Eastern Hellenic ​282

Subject Index –– Egyptian ​307–308, 309–310, 321–322 –– Jewish ​49 –– water as symbol for ​197 Wisdom of Solomon ​144 women –– eroticism between ​198–199 –– male ideal of educated ​182–183 –– novel reading by ​183n71 –– Paul on ​73, 78, 89, 93, 93n76 –– Tertullian on ​73, 92–93 –– see also Greek novelistic heroines/Christian female martyrs, comparison of

373

Xanthippe –– of Acts of Peter ​197n140 –– of Basilian Menology ​199 –– of companion life of Peter and Paul ​200 –– of “present Menaea,”  199, ​200 –– see also Acts of Xanthippe and Polyxena, The (XAN); Acta Xanthippae, Polyxenae et Rebeccae (AXPR) Xenophon ​21, 179n54, 248, 267, 276 Zoroastrians ​253n15