Intercultural Exchange in Late Antique Historiography (Bibliotheque De Byzantion; Orientalia Lovaniensia analecta, 23/288) 9042939753, 9789042939752

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O R I E N TA L I A L OVA N I E N S I A A N A L E C TA Intercultural Exchange in Late Antique Historiography

edited by MARIA CONTERNO and MARIANNA MAZZOLA

P E E T ERS

INTERCULTURAL EXCHANGE IN LATE ANTIQUE HISTORIOGRAPHY

ORIENTALIA LOVANIENSIA ANALECTA ————— 288 —————

BIBLIOTHÈQUE DE BYZANTION

23

INTERCULTURAL EXCHANGE IN LATE ANTIQUE HISTORIOGRAPHY

edited by

MARIA CONTERNO and MARIANNA MAZZOLA

PEETERS LEUVEN – PARIS – BRISTOL, CT 2020

A catalogue record for this book is available from the Library of Congress. © 2020, Peeters Publishers, Bondgenotenlaan 153, B-3000 Leuven/Louvain (Belgium) All rights reserved, including the rights to translate or to reproduce this book or parts thereof in any form. ISBN 978-90-429-3975-2 eISBN 978-90-429-3976-9 D/2020/0602/63

TABLE OF CONTENTS ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS .

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H. INGLEBERT Intercultural Exchanges in Greek and Latin Histories and Chronicles

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S. ROBBE – C. NOCE Translating Eusebius’ “Church History” in the West and in the East: Rufinus and his Contemporary Syriac Colleague . . . . . . .

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A. CAMPLANI Transmitting and Being Transmitted. The Spread and Reception of the History of the Episcopate of Alexandria in Carthage and Aksum .

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S. RAPP Caucasian Historical Literature, the Iranian Epic, and the Diversity of Late Antiquity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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A. HILKENS “A Wise Indian Astronomer Called Gandoubarios”: Malalas and the Legend of Yoniṭon . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 M. CONTERNO Found in Translation: Agapius, the Septuagint, and the “Falsified” Torah of the Jews . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The present volume saw the light of day in the context of the ERC project ‘Memory of Empire: the Post-Imperial Historiography of Late Antiquity’1 led by Peter Van Nuffelen at Ghent University from 2012 to 2017. The main collective endeavour of the project team was the production of a bibliographical clavis of all the historiographical works of Late Antiquity, which will be published shortly by Brepols in the series Corpus Christianorum Claves, with the title Clavis Historicorum Antiquitatis Posterioris. An abridged version will be also available online as a searchable database, at: http://www.late-antique-historiography.ugent. be/database. Within the framework of the MEPIHLA project an international workshop on intercultural exchange in late antique historiography was held on 16-18 September 2015. We wish to express our gratitude to all the participants for contributing to a compelling discussion and to the authors who readily accepted the invitation to write their contributions to this volume. A special thanks goes to all the members of Ghent University’s ‘Late Antiquity Research Group’ who actively took part in the workshop: Panagiotis Manafis, Lorenzo Focanti, Emerance Delacenserie, Raf Praet, whose presence and help were likewise invaluable. They also provided constant support and feedback during the preparation of the volume, making the best colleagues and office-mates one could ever ask for. We are grateful to Tine Scheijnen and Lotte Van Olmen for their most efficient contribution to the editing of the manuscript. To Peter Van Nuffelen and Lieve Van Hoof goes our deepest gratitude for choosing us as their collaborators and for giving us this, as well as many other chances of professional and personal development.

1 The project was funded by the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007-2013) / ERC Grant, agreement n. 313153.

INTRODUCTION Maria CONTERNO

This volume was born in the context of the ERC project ‘Memory of Empire: the Post-Imperial Historiography of Late Antiquity’ (MEPIHLA) led by Peter Van Nuffelen at Ghent University from 2012 to 2017. The project addressed late antique historiographical production as a whole, with the double purpose of a) creating the back then still missing reference framework for the critical approach of these texts as historical sources, and b) studying and interpreting late antique historiography as a cultural phenomenon in and of itself. The main collective endeavour of the project team was the production of a bibliographical clavis of all the historiographical works of Late Antiquity, which will be published shortly by Brepols in the series Corpus Christianorum Claves, with the title Clavis Historicorum Antiquitatis Posterioris. An abridged version is also available online as a searchable database, at: http://www.late-antique-historiography.ugent. be/database. A focus on the cross-cultural dimension of late antique historiography was a crucial feature of the project from its very beginning; one of its aims being precisely to overcome the disciplinary divides that had so far hampered a full and cohesive understanding of historical writing in the transitional period from Antiquity to the Middle Ages. The most innovative aspect of the Clavis Historicorum Antiquitatis Posterioris is that it encompasses all the historiographical traditions that emerged alongside the Greek and the Latin ones from the 4th century on, providing information and bibliographical references for works in eleven languages: Arabic, Armenian, Coptic, Ethiopian (or Ge‘ez), Georgian, Greek, Hebrew, Jewish Aramaic, Latin, Middle Persian, and Syriac. Equally important was to take into account the impact of religion on post-classical historical writing, a consideration which led to the inclusion of pagan, Jewish, Manichean, Chaldaean and Zoroastrian authors besides authors belonging to more than fifteen different Christian denominations (Apollinarians, Arians, Armenian Orthodox, Byzantine Orthodox, Syrian Orthodox, Catholics, Chalcedonians, Maronites, Melkites, Copts, Donatists, East Syrians, Miaphysites, Nicene, Novatians, ...). If Islam was left out — for purely practical reasons1 — the MEPIHLA team did nonetheless cross paths with, and seek the collaboration 1 Early Islamic historiography would require its own dedicated clavis. Moreover, it presents very specific methodological challenges that could provide enough work for a whole new ERC project.

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of, scholars of Islam and specialists in Islamic historiography, since ChristianMuslim relationships could by no means be left out of the picture when dealing with Christian traditions in Syriac and Arabic. Last but not least: opening up the study of historiography to the multi-cultural landscape of Late Antiquity inevitably called for a critical reconsideration of historiographical genres, as will be explained more in detail below. In plotting late antique historiographical production over such a broad, multicultural, map, the members of the MEPIHLA team greatly benefited from the expertise, feedback, and input of colleagues from different disciplines, not only in the realisation of the Clavis Historicorum Antiquitatis Posterioris, but also in their individual research. Among the most useful occasions for such an interdisciplinary exchange were undoubtedly the workshops organised within the framework of the project. In September 2015 I myself organised an international workshop specifically focussed on intercultural exchange in late antique historiography. The papers that were presented at this workshop led to fruitful discussions, raising compelling questions on the subject and pointing out common lines of enquiry in different fields. Three of the papers given at this workshop (those by Carla Noce and Sabrina Robbe, Alberto Camplani, Stephen Rapp) appear here, expanded and revised. We are most grateful to Hervé Inglebert and Andy Hilkens for accepting our invitation and contributing to the volume with two specially written articles. My own chapter issues from my personal research on the origins of Christian Arabic historiography, first within the ERC project, and then as FWO (Fonds Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek) postdoctoral fellow at Ghent University. As will become clear in the following chapters, the subject proved a very challenging one, both from the methodological and conceptual points of view. Despite its apparent simplicity, the title of the workshop — which has now become the title of this volume — was in fact composed of four terms that are all somehow problematic. The word ‘intercultural’ conjures up images of border crossing. Speaking of anything ‘intercultural’ implies that there are borders between cultures, that these borders can be crossed (by people, objects, ideas, or texts), and therefore that they can be somehow drawn. It also suggests that one has a clear idea of what cultures are, and how they are to be defined and circumscribed. There is an inherent risk of depicting cultures as monolithic entities that can be straightforwardly located in space and time, and seeing only their interaction as interesting and dynamic. Yet, the concept of ‘culture’ proves to be vexingly elusive and multifaceted: so much so that it may be easier to assume an intuitive understanding of the term.2 In addition, defining cultures becomes even more problematic when 2 See for example, R. ABDELLATIF – Y. BENHIMA – D. KÖNIG – E. RUCHAUD (eds), Acteurs des transferts culturels en Méditerranée médiévale, München, 2012; R. ABDELLATIF – Y. BENHIMA –

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more attention is paid to their interaction.3 Finally, all of the questions raised by the word ‘inter-cultural’ go hand in hand with those raised by the word ‘intracultural’. Being complex, multi-layered entities, cultures have internal borders as well, and their definition is not without importance for the study of cross-cultural dynamics. Once examined in depth, intracultural borders can become intercultural: a set of Chinese boxes that is virtually never-ending. ‘Exchange’ can look like the easiest, and safest, way to label any form of interaction among cultures. However, in juxtaposition with other terms used in the literature pertaining to intercultural studies, one realises that ‘exchange’ is far from the generic and neutral designation it seems at first. Exchange, transfer, contact, interaction, transmission, reception, import, appropriation, acculturation, hybridisation: all of these terms represent different shades of a wide spectrum, even if some of them happen to be used interchangeably, have been used differently in different contexts, or have received different definitions from different scholars. Such a terminological fluidity, arising from the fact that this field of research is still relatively young, has already brought about calls for greater clarity and accuracy, and attempts at producing a standardised vocabulary.4 Some early studies of intercultural exchange lamented the lack of a methodological reflection on the subject, and the absence of a theoretical framework to approach it. The last few decades, however, have seen a proliferation of contributions to this topic, and we can now say that the opposite is true: it is difficult to keep track of all the methodological reflections that have been proposed in the literature addressing intercultural exchange in different contexts and historical periods.5 D. KÖNIG – E. RUCHAUD (eds), Construire la Méditerranée, penser les transferts culturels. Approches historiographiques et perspectives de recherche, München, 2013. 3 See C. ULF, Eine Typologie von Kulturelle Kontaktzone (“Fernverhältnissen” — Middle grounds — Dichte kontaktzonen’) oder: Rethinking Cultural Contacts auf dem Prüfstand’, in R. ROLLINGER – K. SCHNEGG (eds), Kulturkontakte in antiken Welten: vom Denkmodell zum Fallbeispiel, Leuven, 2014, pp. 469-504; B. JOYEUX-PRUNEL, Les transferts culturels. Un discours de la méthode, in Hypothèses, 1 (2003), pp. 153-159. 4 See for example, M. MIDDEL, Von der Wechselseitigkeit der Kulturen im Austausch. Das Konzept des Kulturtransfers in verschiedenen Forschungskontexten, in A. LANGER – G. MICHELS (eds), Metropolen und Kulturtransfer im 15./16. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart, 2001, pp. 15-51; F. HARTMAN – K. RAHN, Kulturtransfer — Akkulturation — Kulturvergleich. Reflexionen über hybride Konzepte, in Quellen und Forschungen aus italienishen Archiven und Bibliotheken, 1190 (2010), pp. 470-492; R. ABDELLATIF – Y. BENHIMA – D. KÖNIG – E. RUCHAUD (eds.), Acteurs des transferts culturels [see note 2]. 5 A few examples: J. H. BENTLEY, Old World Encounters: Cross-cultural Contacts and Exchanges in Pre-modern Times, Oxford, 1993; JOYEUX – PRUNEL, Les transferts culturels [see note 3]; H. KAELBLE, Die interdisziplinären Debatten über Vergleich und Transfer, in H. KAELBLE – J. SCHRIEWER (eds), Vergleich und Tranfer. Komparatistik in den Sozial-, Geschichts-, und Kulturwissenschaften, Frankfurt – New York, 2003, pp. 469-493; H. KUGLER, Che cosa significa Kulturtransfer nel Medioevo Europeo?, in H. HOUBEN – B. VETERE (eds), Pellegrinaggio e Kulturtransfer nel Medioevo europeo. Atti del primo seminario di studio dei Dottorati di ricerca di ambito medievistico delle Università di Lecce e di Erlangen, Galatina, 2006; F. CHAUBET, La notion de transfert culturel dans l’histoire culturelle, in B. PELLISTRANDI – J.-F. SIRINELLI (eds), L’histoire culturelle en France et en Espagne, Madrid, 2008; M. WERNER, Zum theoretischen Rahmen und historischen Ort der Kulturtransferforschung, in M. NORTH (ed.), Kultureller Austausch in der Frühen Neuzeit. Bilanz und Perspektiven der Frühneuzeitforschung, Cologne – Weimar – Vienne, 2009;

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Such works do not always take account of each other, or they limit their synthesis to a specific field without taking into consideration the conceptual frameworks that have been elaborated in other fields (ancient history vs. medieval history, for instance, or history vs. art history). Late Antiquity is a chronological definition that also implies a geographical one. Radiating from a centre — chronologically the 4th-6th centuries, geographically the Mediterranean — both definitions have been extended, or redefined, ever since the renewed attention to the period brought about by the success of Peter Brown’s work coalesced into an independent research field. The world of Late Antiquity seems to have no external borders, reaching out to Britain and Ireland, Ethiopia, the Caucasus and even China. Chronologically, the fall of the Western Roman Empire is no longer seen as a rigid break and the span of Late Antiquity has been expanded to cover a period dating from before Constantine the Great to the Islamic conquests or after. From a linguistic point of view, the Latin-Greek polarisation of Classical Antiquity fades away and many other literary languages need to be taken into account: Persian, Syriac, Coptic, Ethiopic, Hebrew, Arabic, Aramaic, Armenian, and Georgian, for example. The seeming religious uniformity brought about by Christianity breaks down if one looks at the many distinctions present in Christianity itself (Eastern Christianity and Western Christianity, orthodoxies and heterodoxies, official dogma and every-day religiosity, ...), or at how much Christian spirituality and theology are indebted to their Semitic background and to Greek philosophy. Finally, the political fragmentation of the West after 476 is somehow echoed in the multi-ethnic, polyglot and culturally polycentric Byzantine Empire in the East. Indeed, Late Antiquity looks like a sort of ‘golden age’ of intercultural encounters, but its definition has been stretched and squeezed over and over again, to the point where it has almost become subjective, like a sort of historiographical box in which anyone can (or feels entitled to) put whatever they like; there is, then, a risk of giving the impression that we have willingly left the box open. After the ‘explosion’ of late antique studies and a first wave of criticism,6 at least one commentator has come to wonder whether it really is a M. P. CANEPA (ed.), Theorizing Cross-cultural Interaction among the Ancient and Early-medieval Mediterranean, Near-East and Asia, Washington, 2010; C. BOLGIA – R. MCKITTERICK – J. OSBORNE (eds), Rome across Time and Space: Cultural Transmissions and the Exchange of Ideas, c. 5001400, Cambridge, 2011, “Introduction”; R. ABDELLATIF – Y. BENHIMA – D. KÖNIG – E. RUCHAUD (eds.), Acteurs des transferts culturels [see note 2]; A. FISCHER – I. WOOD (eds), Western Perspectives on the Mediterranean: Cultural Transfer in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, 400-800 AD, London, 2014, “Introduction”; ULF, Eine Typologie von Kulturelle Kontaktzone [see note 3]. 6 See for instance A. GIARDINA, Esplosione di tardoantico, in Studi Storici, 40 (1999), pp. 1-23, English translation in A. CAMERON (ed.), Late Antiquity on the Eve of Islam, Farnham – London – Burlington, VT, 2005, and the monographic section entitled “Gli ‘Spazi’ del Tardo Antico” in the 2004 issue of the journal Studi Storici (45.1, pp. 5-48), with replies by Elio Lo Cascio, Lelia Cracco Ruggini, Glen Bowersock, Arnaldo Marcone, and Aldo Schiavone; see also B. WARDPERKINS, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization, Oxford, 2005.

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field of study in its own right, or if it will remain one for much longer.7 Since it is tempting to use the term to allude to rather than to define, a wise reader will wonder what it is that we intend to put inside the box. Even ‘historiography’, a term that looks unquestionable, ends up raising issues of definition in this context. Late antique historiography has only recently begun to be studied in its own right.8 The Clavis Historicorum Antiquitatis Posterioris and the related online database have adopted a broad concept of historiography.9 They have included letters, patria, panegyrics and astronomical treatises, as long as a clear intention of transmitting a record of the past can be detected in them. Labelling texts by their genre can be challenging, however, since besides a core of clearly identifiable works there are others that do not really fit into a neat category: genres are, at times, almost as hard to define and circumscribe as cultures, presenting similar problems of overlap, blurred lines and internal borders. And although many late antique historiographers show a full awareness of the historiographical tradition in which they place themselves,10 detecting an author’s historiographical attitude is not always a straightforward practice: besides being rather subjective, such attempts bring with them the risk of projecting modern notions of history and historiography on to ancient works, and, thereby, of producing qualitative judgements. A typical case is the thin line between historiography and hagiography, the latter being not just a modern term, but a modern construct. A bidirectional flow of material is attested between hagiographical and historiographical traditions, and scholars are by now aware that they must take into account the hagiographical slant of ancient historians and the historiographical mind-set of hagiographers.11 7 A. CAMERON, The “Long” Late Antiquity: A Late twentieth-century model, in T. WISEMAN (ed.), Classics in progress: Essays on Ancient Greece and Rome, Oxford, 2002. 8 See the syntheses made in G. MARASCO (ed.), Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity, Fourth to Sixth Centuries AD, Leiden, 2003; D. WOODS, Late Antique Historiography: A Brief History of Time, in P. A. ROUSSEAU (ed.), Companion to Late Antiquity, Malden, MA – Oxford, 2009; B. CROKE, Uncovering Byzantium’s Historiographical Audience, in R. MACRIDES (ed.), History as Literature in Byzantium: Papers from the Fortieth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, University of Birmingham, April 2007, London, 2010, pp. 25-53. 9 P. VAN NUFFELEN – L. VAN HOOF (eds), Clavis Historicorum Antiquitatis Posterioris, Turnhout, 2019, a bibliographical guide to the entirety of historiographical material from Late Antiquity (350-850 AD). 10 On the issue of historiographical genres and of the conscious choices that authors made in this regard, see the introduction to the forthcoming Clavis Historicorum Tardae Antiquitatis. 11 See for instance M. VAN UYTFANGHE, Die Vita im Spannungsfeld von Legende, Biographik und Geschichte. Mit Anwendung auf einen Abschnitt aus der Vita Amandi prima, in A. SCHARER – G. SCHEIBELREITER (eds), Historiographie im frühen Mittelalter, Wien, 1994; M. VAN UYTFANGHE, La biographie classique et l’hagiographie chrétienne antique tardive, in Hagiographica, 12 (2005), pp. 23-248; J. DUMMER – V. MEINOLF (eds), Zwischen Historiographie und Hagiographie: ausgewählte Beiträge zur Erforschung der Spätantike, Stuttgart, 2010; A. PAPACOSTANTINOU (ed.), Writing ‘True Stories’: Historians and Hagiographers in the Late Antique and Medieval Near East, Leiden, 2010; M. VAN UYTFANGHE, Les origines et les ingrédients du discours hagiographique, in SE, 50 (2011), pp. 35-70.

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Thus, the simple title chosen for this volume seems to signal a minefield rather than a field of research. Yet, whatever its nature, this is an area into which scholars must venture, precisely because it has not yet been systematically explored. Conspicuous traces of an intercultural ‘traffic’ of historical material in Late Antiquity have been unearthed by recent studies,12 but the extent of this phenomenon, the historical circumstances that fostered it, the social contexts in which it took place, and the concrete ways in which it happened still need to be assessed and conceptualised. It is by now clear that we need to look more deeply into all of this in order to reach a better understanding of late antique historiography, which is, in turn, crucial to our understanding of Late Antiquity. Studies of intercultural exchange became popular at the end of the last century.13 Before then, scholarship tended to neglect, or to address only in a tangential way, the issue of intercultural exchanges, particularly in the ancient past. Although they were well aware of contacts and exchanges between different cultures in Antiquity and the Middle Ages, most scholars saw these as rather negative features, or as not essential for understanding a given society. With some notorious exceptions — such as the works of Max Müller, Hermann Usener, Franz Cumont — intercultural exchange was not often studied as a specific topic. Moreover, although used by Aby Warburg at the beginning of the twentieth century,14 the very phrase ‘cultural exchange’ is a relatively new addition to the lexicon of cultural history. This long neglect was largely due to the resilience of a positivistic mindset that interpreted the past in terms of the rise, decline, and fall of empires and dominant cultures. But such a monolithic view was also encouraged by the self-representation that ancient cultures offer us through the sources: just think of the ancient Greeks’ claim of not having inherited nor borrowed anything from the ‘barbarians’, the triumphal march of Christianity over paganism depicted in the ecclesiastical histories, or the purported immutability of Byzantium, which allegedly preserved the essence of the Roman 12 For such links in Greek, Syriac, Arabic, and Latin chronicles, see, for example: see R. HOYLAND, Arabic, Syriac and Greek Historiography in the First Abassid Century: An Inquiry into Intercultural Traffic, in Aram, 3 (1991), pp. 211-233; IDEM, Theophilus of Edessa’s Chronicle and the circulation of historical knowledge in late antiquity and early Islam, Liverpool, 2011; M. CONTERNO, La ‘descrizione dei tempi’ all’alba della conquista islamica. Un’indagine sulla storiografia greca, siriaca e araba fra VII e VIII secolo, Berlin – Boston, 2014; M. CONTERNO, “Storytelling” and ‘“History writing” in Seventh-Century Near East” (Working Papers de la Fondation Maison Sciences de l’homme), 2014, online: https://halshs.archives-ouvertes.fr/FMSH-WP/halshs-01063730; M. DEBIÉ, L’écriture de l’histoire en syriaque. Transmissions interculturelles et constructions identitaires entre héllenisme et islam, Leuven, 2015. 13 Trailblazers in this area were Michel Espagne’s studies on the French-German intercultural relations in the eighteenth-nineteenth centuries, cf. M. ESPAGNE – M. WERNER (eds), Transferts, les relations interculturelles dans l’espace franco-allemand: XVIIIe et XIXe siècle, Paris, 1988; M. ESPAGNE, Les transferts culturels franco-allemands, Paris, 1999; IDEM, L’Histoire de l’art comme transfert culturel: l’itinéraire d’Anton Springer, Paris, 2009. 14 In the 1905 essay entitled “Austausch künstlerische Kultur zwischen Norden und Süden”, reprinted in A. WARBURG, Gesammelte Schriften, Leipzig, 1932, pp. 179-184.

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Empire in the East. The increase of interest in intercultural encounters ran parallel to the fading of the ‘golden age – decline’ paradigm, with its, sometimes, judgmental attitude toward historical developments. It was certainly fostered by the rediscovery of cultural history in the 1970s, particularly the turn in the field labelled ‘New Cultural History’. As Peter Burke has observed, it also mirrors the ‘age of cultural globalization’ we currently live in.15 It is, therefore, undeniably to be linked to the post-colonial shift that has brought about a positive evaluation, be it genuine or merely ‘radical chic’, of cultural plurality and diversity. In the case of ancient and medieval history, however, the increased attention paid to intercultural encounters is also due to a more critical approach to the sources — deeper hermeneutical reading, firmer awareness of writing conventions and rhetorical codes — that has led to the debunking of some major historiographical myths advocated by the sources themselves, and the production of more nuanced pictures of ancient and medieval societies and cultures.16 The colourful image of Late Antiquity as a ‘cultural melting pot’ that emerges from Peter Brown’s books is also to be put into perspective, to be critically approached and at times even challenged, through comparisons with what came before and after, and through further research on intercultural exchange in Late Antiquity itself. In fact, although Late Antiquity, a period distinguished by its cultural plurality, seems to be a land of plenty for researchers interested in interculturality, so far very few studies have been made that specifically address intercultural exchange in Late Antiquity: rather Late Antiquity tends to be included as an afterthought in works on intercultural exchange in antiquity, (early) middle-ages, Byzantium, or on interculturality in general.17 During the 2015 workshop held at Ghent University, a deep awareness of conceptual and terminological issues, as well as of possible methodological pitfalls, emerged, and these problems were again felt during the preparation of P. BURKE, Cultural Hybridity, Cambridge, 2009, p. 9. For instance, a more critical analysis of the process of “hellenisation” was first made by A. MOMIGLIANO, Alien Wisdom: the Limites of Hellenization, Cambridge, 1975, and then by G. W. BOWERSOCK, Hellenism in Late Antiquity, Ann Arbor, 1990. Elsewhere, the thorny question of the influence that neighbouring peoples exerted on the birth and early development of Islamic civilisation was tackled in controversial studies by P. CRONE – M. COOK, Hagarism: The Making of the Islamic World, Cambridge, 1977; J. WANSBROUGH, The Sectarian Milieu: Content and Composition of Islamic Salvation History, Oxford, 1979; and, more recently, A. AL-AZMEH, The Emergence of Islam in Late Antiquity. Allah and his People, Cambridge, 2014. 17 BENTLEY, Old World Encounters [see note 5]; R. FOLZ, Religions of the Silk Road: Overland Trade and Cultural Exchange from Antiquity to the Fifteenth century, Basingstoke, 1999; U. HARTMANN, Wege des Wissens. Formen des Gedankenaustauschs und der kulturellen Beeinflüssung zwischen dem spätantiken Rom und dem Sasanidendreich, in R. ROLLINGER (ed.), Getrennte Wege? Kommunikation, Raum und Wahrnehmung in der alten Welt, Frankfurt, 2007; CANEPA, Theorizing Cross-cultural Interaction [see note 5]; BOLGIA – MCKITTERICK – OSBORNE, Rome across Time and Space [see note 5]; S. TORALLAS TOVAR – J. P. MONFERRER-SALA (eds), Cultures in Contact. Transfer of Knowledge in the Mediterranean Context (Series Syro-Arabica, 1) Cordoba – Beirut, 2013; A. FISCHER – I. WOOD (eds), Western Perspectives on the Mediterranean: Cultural Transfer in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, 400-800 AD, London, 2014. 15

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the present volume.18 Providing a comprehensive theoretical reflection goes beyond its purposes, and it certainly will not settle all the questions raised by the expressions used in its title. It may, in fact, end up triggering more, thus blurring the picture even further. Rather, this volume aims to enrich the palette by presenting six case studies that will help to elucidate the specificities of Late Antiquity on the one hand, and of historiography on the other, in the matter of intercultural exchanges. To this end, the authors have been asked to approach late antique historiographical texts with two sets of questions in mind. In the study of intercultural exchange, historiographical texts bear a twofold relevance: they testify to intercultural contacts in their narratives (revealing them or concealing them, boasting or disapproving of them) but they were also conditioned, sometimes even deeply shaped, by cross-cultural influences, borrowings, and appropriations. They therefore provide invaluable material for the study of intercultural exchange in late antiquity, notably for our understanding on the one hand of how it worked, and on the other of how it was perceived/ represented. From the geographical point of view, the six chapters focus on the Mediterranean and Western Asia, from Carthage to Iran and the Caucasus, stretching south to Ethiopia. Chronologically, they range from the 4th to the 10th-11th centuries, following the cross-cultural path of late antique materials into early medieval texts. A large portion, if not the entirety, of the linguistic landscape of Late Antiquity is represented: Latin, Greek, Gǝ῾ǝz, Syriac, Arabic, Persian, Armenian, and Georgian. And the same is true of the religious landscape: Christianity takes (inevitably) the lion’s share, but four of the six chapters dig into its interplay with Zoroastrianism, (various forms of) paganism, Judaism, and Islam. If some of the texts under discussion can be easily identified as ecclesiastical histories (Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica and its translations, the Historia Episcopatu Alexandriae), classicising histories (Ammianus Marcellinus), or universal chronicles (Eusebius’ Chronicle and its translations, but also John Malalas, Agapius of Mabbug), others, like the Caucasian histories that are the subject of Stephen Rapp’s essay, are more difficult to label according to the traditional terminology based on Greco-Roman materials. Moreover, other kinds of texts — such as hagiography, epic, ethnography, apocalypse, canon law, 18 Three of the essays contained in this volume (S. ROBBE – C. NOCE, Translating Eusebius’ ‘Church History’ in the West and in the East: Rufinus and his contemporary Syriac colleague, in M. CONTERNO – M. MAZZOLA [eds], Intercultural Exchange in Late Antique Historiography, Leuven, 2020, pp. 29-63; A. CAMPLANI, Transmitting and Being Transmitted. The Spread and Reception of the History of the Episcopate of Alexandria in Carthage and Aksum, in EAEDEM, Intercultural Exchange, pp. 65-94; S. RAPP, Caucasian Historical Literature, the Iranian Epic, and the Diversity of Late Antiquity, in EAEDEM, Intercultural Exchange, pp. 95-118 represent a development of papers presented and discussed at this workshop). For an overview of this workshop see M. CONTERNO, Intercultural exchange in Late Antique historiography. An international workshop, Ghent University, 16-18 September 2015, in Adamantius, 21 (2015), pp. 567569.

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apologetic/polemical treatises, ... — will be considered and the (not always clear) dividing line between them and historiography will therefore come into play. The first contribution, by Hervé Inglebert, is focused on the Greco-Roman tradition, but it also provides a theoretical and methodological introduction to the volume. It starts out with some considerations on the modern interest in ‘interculturality’, which lead to certain methodological caveats. It then addresses key features of the shift from Antiquity to Late Antiquity (the relativisation of Rome’s position in the world, the reshuffling of cultural hierarchies brought about by Christianity, ...) and its implications for Greco-Roman views of, and approaches to, ‘the Other’. Inglebert also proposes a classification of cultural interactions, distinguishing ‘intercultural contacts’, ‘intercultural exchanges’, and ‘intercultural transfers’. This is meant to clarify the nature of the cases examined in the chapter itself, but, taken as terminological reference for the entire volume, highlights the exceptions, and draws out the ‘in-between’ phenomena, the more nuanced situations the reader will meet in the other studies. Following the twofold approach mentioned above, Inglebert first sets out a series of examples of how ‘otherness’ was presented in late antique Greek and Latin historiography, from purely ‘described otherness’ to ‘deformed otherness’ (Rufinus of Aquileia’s account of the conversion of the Iberians) and ‘transposed otherness’ (Ammianus Marcellinus’ description of the Persian kingdom). Finally, he discusses a case of ‘cultural import’, namely Jerome’s translation and adaptation of Eusebius’ Chronicle. In his conclusions he stresses how the attitude of cultural superiority, and therefore apparent cultural impermeability, that characterised Greco-Roman culture in ancient times persisted in late antique Greek and Latin historiography, being solidly anchored to the education system and representing an element of continuity in a context of cultural change. The second contribution, co-authored by Sabrina Robbe and Carla Noce, links up with the last part of Inglebert’s chapter with an analysis of Rufinus’ Latin translation of Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History. This also provides a springboard to the Middle-East, as the paper discusses Rufinus’ version in parallel with the Syriac translation of the same work. The translation of a text is undeniably the most conspicuous form of ‘cross-cultural transfer’, since every translation implies a passage not only from one language to another but also from one culture to another. On this account every translation presents a certain, more or less conscious, degree of adaptation to the context of reception. The Latin vertere and the Syriac so-called ‘reader-oriented’ translations present two examples of such adaptation, and their differences and similarities are thoroughly illustrated by Robbe and Noce. The Latin version of the Ecclesiastical History shares with Jerome’s translation of Eusebius’ Chronicle the imprint of Roman paideia, but Rufinus has also something in common with the Syriac translator:

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namely, theological concerns dictated by a changing orthodoxy and a look on monastic life different from Eusebius’. All three translators appear to have adjusted the text they were translating so that it would be easily accessible (and more palatable) to a new audience, but they also fashioned their translations according to their own specific moral, ideological, and cultural agenda. The third chapter is likewise centred on two translations of a text originally written in Greek, but in this case it is the reasons for and the material contexts of their transfer that are investigated. Alberto Camplani presents the Latin and Gǝ῾ǝz fragments of the now lost Historia episcopatus Alexandriae (4th century), looking at both sides of the story of this text: its ‘transmitting’ and its ‘being transmitted’. The Historia episcopatus Alexandriae contained earlier material related to canon law, and was handed down to different cultural contexts embedded in canonical collections. From the study of its reception it would appear that historiography was used in Late Antiquity as a vehicle of ‘intercultural propaganda’. Indeed, the Latin and the Ethiopic versions of this text conveyed the selfpromotion of the see of Alexandria as the ecclesiastical beacon of Christianity into other cultural spheres. But this specific case of intercultural transfer also sheds light on one of the concrete ways in which historiography would cross cultural borders in Late Antiquity. The fact that portions of the Historia episcopatus Alexandriae travelled to Italy and to Ethiopia hand in hand with canon law shows how the potential normative authority of historiographical accounts formed a deep connection between the two genres, and also reveals an awareness of the diachronic evolution of canon law in Late Antiquity. Stephen Rapp’s fourth chapter, on Caucasian historiography and Iranian epic, raises compelling questions about inter- and intraculturality, about commonwealths and overlapping cultural areas, about cultural transfers and shared ‘cultural capital’. Rapp argues that the presence of figures, themes, and topoi of the Persian epic tradition in Caucasian historiographical texts cannot be explained away as a simple case of intercultural transfer or influence. What he illustrates is a complex mosaic of inter- and intracultural borders, a case of multi-layered cultural interaction that is not easily classifiable as either ‘contact’, ‘exchange’, or ‘transfer’. In spite of their different languages and distinct historiographical traditions, Armenia, Iberia and Albania together represent a kaleidoscopic cultural area — at the crossroads of the Iranian-Zoroastrian and the Byzantine-Christian commonwealths — whose cohesiveness was enhanced, rather than disproved, by the cross-cultural interplay seen in the sources. Iranian lore was already an integral part of the Caucasus’ shared cultural patrimony when the region converted to Christianity and was thereby pulled closer to Byzantium. Historiographical texts attest to the variety of outcomes generated by the interaction of these two major gravitational pulls, from the tension between a Christian present and a diehard Iranian pagan past visible in the work of Moses Khorenatsi to the Persian features resurfacing in the symbolism of Caucasian kingship.

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In the fifth chapter, Andy Hilkens analyses the components of the account on the origin of astronomy in John Malalas’ Epitome Chronicle. He explores the metamorphosis undergone by (pseudo)biblical figures and stories such as those of Enoch, Seth, Cainan, and Yoniton, as they travelled from text to text and from one cultural/religious context to another. In his study, Malalas’ narrative emerges as a complex mosaic of echoes and voluntary appropriations of items from a wide array of traditions: Jewish, Syriac Christian, Greek pagan, ... As in the case of the Caucasian and Iranian lore presented by Rapp, here it is difficult to draw a line between intercultural exchange, transfer, and contact, or even to label each case straightforwardly. This is largely because of the role played by oral transmission: a process that is now difficult to grasp but was undoubtedly crucial to the development of these narratives. As a Syrian historian writing in Greek between Antioch and Constantinople, Malalas perfectly embodied the cultural pluralism of late antiquity and, through his historiographical work, became himself a vehicle of intercultural transmission. Furthermore, his composite account on the origin of astronomy demonstrates an unbiased view of foreign cultures, with the Indian Gandoubarios’ assuming the positive features of the Christian Yoniton and being presented as the first astronomer on earth. Translation comes to the fore once again in the sixth and last contribution, authored by myself. Here, however, the focus is not on the analysis of a translation, but rather on the issues raised by the translation of sacred texts. I discuss a passage of Agapius of Mabbug’s Melkite Arabic chronicle that reflects both a competition between the Greek and the Syriac translations of the Bible in 10th century Syria, and a tension within the arabicised Melkite community: a tension springing from the group’s dual Greek/Syriac heritage, in which the former was exalted, the latter rejected. The source-critical analysis of the text brings out the indebtedness of Agapius to multiple late antique traditions, as well as his awareness of burning issues in Christian-Jewish and Christian-Muslim polemics. It shows how some narrative materials concerning the Septuagint and Constantine the Great travelled across languages, religions, and centuries. Moreover, Agapius’ explicit statements in favour of the Greek and against the Syriac translations of the Sacred Scriptures invite reflection as to how the delicate operation of intercultural transfer that is the translation of a sacred text may have been regarded in Late Antiquity: the translation of the Scriptures into Greek is presented as a providential act of God to preserve the original biblical text, which will later be corrupted by the Jews and handed down in an altered form to Syriac Christians. This implicitly sets Greek-speaking Christians as the legitimate custodians of the Word of God and of Christian wisdom, giving us an example of how the representation of intercultural transfers in late antique historiography could become a tool to shape the identity of religious communities and steer their cultural allegiance.

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Throughout these six chapters some common threads can be detected, crucial aspects that all research on intercultural exchange in late antiquity will somehow encounter. The diachronic dimension, for example, is unavoidable, and not only because all six studies examine historiographical texts. Even the Latin and Syriac translations of Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History, which were carried out less than a hundred years after the composition of the original work, bear the signs of a cultural adjustment but also of an updating rendered necessary by the changes that occurred within that relatively short time span (e.g., the description of monastic movements). Hartley’s proverbial quote — ‘The past is a foreign country: they do things differently there’ — sounds most fitting. Further, in the long Late Antiquity the past appears to be instrumental in the representation of the intercultural dynamics of the present. When approaching late antique texts, and especially historiographical texts, the study of intercultural transfers is hardly separable from the study of reception. Translations perfectly encapsulate these two dimensions, and expose two more intertwined threads: if a translation is also a cultural adaptation of the text, it will, in turn, impact on the context of its reception. Some famous examples of this sort of impact are Livius Andronicus’ translations from Greek, which launched literary production in Latin; the long travel of Aristotle’s works from Greek to Syriac to Arabic to Latin and the impact of these translations on Medieval philosophy across the Mediterranean; and the cultural and linguistic consequences of the various translations of the Bible over the centuries.19 If the ultimate consequences of the production and circulation of a translated text are often unintended, late antique translators sometimes envisaged a specific agency for their work, and this of course influenced the process of translation/adaptation itself. Translations, and cross-cultural imports in general, can indeed be part of ideological strategies and serve specific cultural, religious, or even political agendas. What, then, is specific to Late Antiquity, and to historiography, when it comes to intercultural exchange? What emerges from the six studies collected in this volume is a scenario of cultures not just in contact, but often in competition, well aware of each other and presenting pictures of the ‘other’ that served definite purposes. Cultures also animated by inner tensions, and therefore engaged in an inwards/outwards dialectic of self-definition and self-positioning. This dialectic seems to be the distinctive trait of Late Antiquity, and the six chapters presented here demonstrate that historiography was instrumental in it. 19 These remarks may sound like a truism, yet translation studies have only recently seen what has been called a “cultural turn” and begun to combine the more technical and linguistic aspects of research into the history of translations with deeper questions about the cultural meanings and consequences of the act of translating (see for instance S. BASSNETT, Translation, History, and Culture, London – New York, 1990; S. BASSNETT, The Translator as Cross-cultural Mediator, in K. MALMKJAER – K. WINDLE (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Translation Studies, Oxford, 2011.

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The texts analysed in them offer an insight into how cultural otherness was received, perceived, represented, and used, as well as into the role played in all this by the past, be it shared, divided, denied, or reworked. The cultural plurality of Late Antiquity was challenging: with its unprecedented degree of versatility and permeability, late antique historiography was the place where the diachronic and the cross-cultural dimensions of this diversity were combined in order to face up to the challenge.

INTERCULTURAL EXCHANGES IN GREEK AND LATIN HISTORIES AND CHRONICLES Hervé INGLEBERT (Université Paris Nanterre, UMR ArScAn-THEMAM)

INTRODUCTION Intercultural exchanges in Antiquity represent a complex question, one which brings our contemporary views into play. Scholars in the human sciences are, socially speaking, ‘intellectual workers’ that belong to a bourgeois, internationalised upper-middle class, and, for a number of reasons, they deem intercultural exchanges as a priori positive. First and foremost, they think that knowing many languages and being curious about other ways of thought allow us better to understand the world by getting to know different points of view. Secondly, they connect these intercultural exchanges to contemporary values that are seen as politically correct, democratic (dialogue, respect for the other, ...), or aesthetically pleasing (love of travel and for exotic cuisines, ...). Finally, they have a professional interest in them. Humanities scholars dwell in the République des Lettres — where, since the Renaissance, and despite the successive predominance of Latin, French, and English, reflections and speculations cannot be based on one language only — and in a globalised world — where international careers imply geographical mobility and the knowledge of more than one language. Such social conditions cannot but bring about a valorisation of the theme of intercultural exchanges, which is an essential element of the scholarly class’ self-representation and justification. One more important aspect to consider is the directions taken by research in the last generation. Since the end of the nineteenth century, work in the field of ancient and medieval intercultural exchanges focused on the impact of Hellenisation, Romanisation, Christianisation, and Islamisation. But most often those who study these phenomena confuse the process with the result, and forget to take into account ancient or medieval mentalities. Thus, speaking Latin, being a Roman citizen, or the use of terra sigillata are all labelled as ‘Romanisation’, whereas in antiquity people would not have conflated these things.1 We find the same thematic confusion in the analysis of Hellenisation or Christianisation.2 H. INGLEBERT, Histoire de la civilisation romaine, Paris, 2005, pp. 421-449. H. INGLEBERT, Introduction, in H. INGLEBERT – B. DUMÉZIL – S. DESTEPHEN (eds), Le problème de la christianisation du monde antique, Paris, 2010, pp. 7-17. 1 2

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Such methodological problems go hand in hand with more ideological questions. In fact, these notions are much debated because they have been accused, and rightly so, of being too much affected by the values of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries: national identities, colonialism, eurocentrism, or a centreperiphery vision. Today, therefore, we prefer to replace them with new approaches that give priority to the notions of intercultural exchanges,3 ‘metissage’, hybridization, cross-cultural studies.4 Although it is right to criticise the ideological preconceptions of our predecessors, it is absurd, to say the least, to believe that our contemporary representations are any better grounded. Starting with present phenomena linked to globalisation and hoping they will allow us to understand late antique intercultural exchanges better than last century’s colonial or nationalistic patterns is not only an illusion but an anachronism as well. Nowadays we may dislike empires in the name of the principle of self-determination of people, and an assumed cultural superiority over and against the ‘barbarians’ may well clash with our idea of human rights, just like certain traditional interpretations proper to monotheist religious systems may collide with our concept of freedom of conscience. But the existence of such realities was evident in the past, and intercultural exchanges could only exist within such asymmetrical frameworks. Forgetting this is a serious methodological mistake, because modern representations based on equality or respect did not concern ancient or late antique men of letters. Those were, in general, aristocrats who took part in the mechanisms of power; the only languages they needed to master were Greek and Latin, and normally they did not learn any others (Mithridates VI Eupator5 and Cleopatra VII of Egypt6 were exceptions, as was, later on, Jerome, vir trilinguis who knew Latin, Greek, and Hebrew). Furthermore, they did not care about what others might think, because, from the second century BC on, the general context of social, diplomatic, or cultural communication was asymmetrically in favour of Roman elites. Having thus accumulated political, social, and cultural superiorities, Greco-Roman men of letters had no reason to take an interest in peoples they considered barbaric. And yet, they did it nonetheless. In antiquity, the Greeks (and after them their cultural heirs, the Romans, the Latin, Byzantine, and oriental Christians, and the Muslims) and the Chinese seem to have been the only peoples who took an interest in others, and described their customs and 3 R. FOLZ, Religions of the Silk Road: Overland Trade and Cultural Exchange from Antiquity to the Fifteenth Century, Basingstoke, 1999. 4 J.H. BENTLEY, Old World Encounters: Cross-cultural Contacts and Exchanges in Pre-Modern Times, New York, 1993; A. ZOURNATZI – S.M.R. DARBANDI, Ancient Greece and Ancient Iran: Cross-cultural encounters, Athens, 2008; M.Y.L. HUANG (ed.), Beyond Boundaries: East and West Cross-cultural Encounters, Newcastle, 2011; K.F. ATTAR – L. SHUTTERS (eds), Teaching Medieval and Early Modern Cross-cultural Encounters, New York, 2014. 5 Pliny the Elder, Natural History, VII, 24. 6 Plutarch, Life of Antony, XXVII, 4-5.

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their ways of life. To be sure, these descriptions were ethnocentric and essentially served the purpose of either better defining the writer’s own group through contrast (Hecateus of Miletus, Herodotus,7 Agatharchides of Cnidus, Tacitus, the Chinese Taoist tradition), or to affirm his cultural and political superiority (the main-stream Greco-Roman tradition, the dominant Confucian tradition). They did, however, exist, and today they allow us to raise the question of how intercultural exchanges unfolded in antiquity. 1 - TYPOLOGY OF

INTERCULTURAL EXCHANGES

Among such descriptions, one can distinguish cultural contact (noticing that the other/stranger is different), cultural exchange (implying an attempt at adopting the other’s/stranger’s point of view, which may or not be reciprocal), and cultural transfer (implying not only the circulation, but also the reinterpretation of a foreign element). The usage of these terms can be clarified as follows. Cultural contact is, in general, coupled with a value judgement based on differences of language, religion, customs, ways of life, et cetera. The observed difference can be judged negatively either from the point of view of civilisational values, by defining it as ‘barbaric’ as the Greeks did from the Persian wars on, followed later by the Romans; or from a religious point of view, as the Christians did in opposition to the ‘pagans’, and the Muslims in opposition to the ‘infidels’. From the sixteenth century onward the establishment of relationships of slavery or colonial exploitation to the advantage of Europeans in America and Africa founded a new interculturality. This, before becoming a theoretical problem for researchers in the human sciences, was interpreted on the basis of ancient categories,8 imposed on the colonised peoples as an asymmetric reality and proposed to the European colonisers as an actual, though hierarchical, form of cultural pluralism, one which established either a parallel coexistence or various hybridizations. The use of such modern categories to understand late antique texts, however, is not so straightforward. From the eighteenth century on, this alterity-inferiority appeared in a Northern European variant as well, and this gave rise to the idea first of the ‘exotic’, then of the ‘typical’ (meaning at the same time local, different, and inferior). It was at that moment that the other/stranger became less someone to meet in order to exchange worldviews than a spectacle to contemplate in order to confirm one’s high opinion of oneself. These labels, different from the norms of the industrial bourgeois civilisation, applied not only to the ‘noble savage’, the ‘colonies’, or the ‘Orient’, but even, in the nineteenth century, to Italian brigandage and Carmen’s Spain, 7 8

F. HARTOG, Le miroir d’Hérodote: essai sur la représentation de l’autre, Paris, 1991. F. HARTOG, Anciens, Modernes, Sauvages, Paris, 2005.

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something that would have been inconceivable three centuries before, during the Renaissance and the period of Habsburg rule in Madrid. Of course, difference can, contrariwise, also be deemed to be a priori positive (the idea of ‘exotic’ and ‘typical’ allows for this too), according to the politically correct criteria of the contemporary democratic ideology, which is multicultural and globalised, post-Auschwitz and post-colonial. But as a matter of fact, power relations and religious assumptions aside, it is interesting to observe that in times past, otherness was most often noticed as a plain fact without necessarily being seen as shocking or interesting. This holds true for most travelogues, from Herodotus’ ‘custom is king of all’ (III, 38) to the accounts of European merchants in Islamic lands (such as Jean-Baptiste Tavernier9) or in China (with the letters of the Jesuit fathers10) up to the year 1750, including Marco Polo in China11, Afanasy Nikitin in India12, and Bernal Diaz del Castillo in Mexico.13 Travellers noticed differences, and were at times astonished by them, but they did not presuppose that others were to become like them. Before the late affirmation of the existence of universal rights, everyone had his own custom, and remarking on the differences between groups was a way to look at oneself in a mirror in order to understand oneself better or, more rarely, to criticise certain aspects of one’s society, from Tacitus’ Germania to Montesquieu’s Persian Letters. The notion of cultural exchange implies not only a communication with the other, but also the will to understand him, or even to learn from him. But intentionality aside, the concrete ways and means of communication need to be studied. The first of these is knowledge of the other’s language; this could happen rather frequently among Greek or Romans soldiers and merchants, but it rarely occurred among the ancient elites who wrote and transmitted classical texts. For Greco-Roman men of learning knowledge of the other was mediated by two possible go-betweens. The first of these was the interpreter, who made direct communication possible while travelling; this was the case for Herodotus in Egypt, where ‘hearsay’ strengthened the ‘having seen’, since ‘autopsy’ alone, without any indigenous explanation, did not enable the traveller to comprehend. We find the opposite in commercial or diplomatic domains, where one could often do without an interpreter if the different parties spoke a lingua franca such as Aramean (in the Persian Achaemenid Empire) or Greek (between Romans and Carthaginians). The second was the translator, who made it possible to know what was written and, indeed, was willing to elucidate the thoughts of 9 J.B. TAVERNIER, Les Six Voyages de Jean Baptiste Tavernier, Écuyer, Baron d’Aubonne, en Turquie, en Perse, et aux Indes, Paris, 1675. 10 J.B. DU HALDE (ed.), Lettres édifiantes et curieuses des jésuites de Chine, 34 volumes, Paris, 1703-1776. 11 M. POLO, Book of the Marvels of the World, 1298. 12 Khozheniye za tri morya (The Journey Beyond Three Seas), c. 1472. 13 B. DÍAZ DEL CASTILLO, Historia verdadera de la conquista de la Nueva España, c. 1568.

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others: translations could, however, be rather free. But, for cultural, then political and religious reasons, there were few translations from barbaric languages into Greek and Latin,14 whereas there were very many between these two languages during the fifteen centuries of Classical Antiquity and the Middle Ages. In the three above-mentioned cases — interpreter, lingua franca, translation — the will to know could imply the wish to understand the other or to take an interest in his culture. But it was not necessarily so: one could just as well want to know the other for personal profit, or out of hostility, that is, in order to fight him better. The concept of cultural transfer was first developed in the study of the cultural relations, both intellectual and artistic,15 between France and Germany in the eighteenth-twentieth centuries,16 before being extended to other regions.17 This model focuses less on the origin and circulation of cultural materials than on their reinterpretation, and this has important consequences (e.g. a downplaying of the comparatist approach in favour of metissages and hybridizations, and a rejection of the notions of influence and centre).18 This kind of analysis is especially centred on the departure and reception contexts of a transfer, and on its vectors (people, objects). The theory of transfer often follows a linguistic model, regarding translations of literary, philosophical, juridical or epistemological works, or transfers of objects, works of art, archives or libraries. This kind of study is close to communication analysis, where an insistence on transmission and reception often overshadows the attention paid to the origin of the texts and to their contextual aspects (motivations, interests, domination).19 Such an approach can certainly be applied to the study of Antiquity: in Antiquity the transfer of cultural items, artistic in particular, was significant, and ancient studies are traditionally characterised by a valorisation of reception and by reflections on the re-interpretative dimension of translations (especially within the debates on Hellenisation, Romanisation, and Christianisation). This typology then, needs to be historicised. We observe, thus, that in almost all ancient texts the reported facts refer exclusively to cultural contacts and not A. MOMIGLIANO, Alien Wisdom: the Limits of Hellenization, Cambridge, 1975. M. ESPAGNE, L’Histoire de l’art comme transfert culturel: l’itinéraire d’Anton Springer, Paris, 2009. 16 M. ESPAGNE – M. WERNER (eds), Transferts, les relations interculturelles dans l’espace franco-allemand: XVIIIe et XIXe siècle, Paris, 1988; M. ESPAGNE, Les transferts culturels francoallemands, Paris, 1999; K. DMITRIEVA – M. ESPAGNE (eds), Transferts culturels triangulaires France-Allemagne-Russie, Paris, 1996. 17 H.H. AUBERT-NGUYEN – M. ESPAGNE, Le Vietnam: une histoire de transferts culturels, Paris, 2015; M. ESPAGNE et al., Asie centrale: transferts culturels le long de la route de la soie, Paris, 2016. 18 M. ESPAGNE, La notion de transfert culturel, in Revue Sciences/Lettres, 1 (2013), https://rsl. revues.org/219#text (last accessed: 10 October 2017). 19 B. JOYEUX-PRUNEL, Les transferts culturels. Un discours de la méthode, in Hypothèses 1 (2002), pp. 149-162. 14

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to cultural exchanges or transfers. This is perfectly normal should we consider, on one hand, the asymmetrical political context favourable to Greek or Latin and, on the other, the values of the Greco-Roman civic civilisation. The contemporary model of the translation of texts from one national language into another only works in regards to the translations from Greek into Latin and from Latin into Greek. The only external knowledge that might have interested the Greeks and Romans, and thereby justify a translation, was technical knowledge (the Babylonian astronomical tables used by Hipparchus, Mago’s Phoenician handbook of agriculture for the Romans) or religious knowledge (the Etruscan books on thunderbolts, prodigies, and haruspicy translated into Latin, the Babylonian myth of the Enuma Elish found in Damascius20). And in these cases, we must rather speak about cultural import, because any reinterpretation is minimal. Secondly, we must keep in mind that the hegemonic position of Greek and Latin, and especially of Greek in the domain of knowledge, implied that most of what we see as cultural exchanges were actually unidirectional propositions. The Egyptian priest Manetho and the Babylonian priest Berossus wrote the history of their region under the first successors of Alexander in Greek.21 That they produced these at the request of the Hellenistic kings, or to improve the image the Greeks had of Egypt and Mesopotamia (based on Herodotus and Ctesias), does not change the fact that they were not read by Greco-Roman elites, who continued to prefer Greek authors. It is difficult to present these works as a cultural exchange or transfer, except in the case of Jewish and Christian historians who, later on, were the only writers to quote them. The same goes for the Greek translation of the Bible, which did not raise anyone’s interest before the spread of Christianity. Finally, it is worth recalling how ancient multilingualism worked. In the Roman Empire, most of the people who were able to write did not write the language they spoke: in Gaul, Celts wrote in Latin; in the East, the Armenians wrote in Greek and the Nabatean Arabs in Aramaic. Likewise, the Romans could use Greek to write history or philosophy, and, conversely, the language of the army and of the law was Latin. Sometimes, as in North Africa, Latin was used in public life and Punic or Berber in private epitaphs. At the borders one could find soldiers, merchants, and defectors, who could as well act as interpreters. Furthermore, because the written form of each language was shaped by scholastic models, people did not, in general, write the same Latin or Greek that they spoke. Situations of linguistic and cultural contact, exchange, and transfer were, therefore, very ordinary; one may also occasionally see extreme examples of 20

Damascius, Quaestiones de primis principiis, p. 125. G. VERBRUGGHE – J.M. WICKERSHAM (tr. – comm.), Berossus and Manetho, Native Tradition in Ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt, Michigan, 1996. 21

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cultural coexistence occurring in a single person.22 In Roman bilingual LatinPalmyrene inscriptions, we find texts written side by side in honour of the same Gods and related to the same act of worship; but as a matter of fact, from the linguistic, onomastic, and ritual point of view, they represent two different discourses. Nevertheless, in the mind of the person who commissioned the inscription, they both evoked the very same religious reality. 2 - THE

NEW LATE ANTIQUE CONTEXT

In Late Antiquity, new political, religious, and cultural factors altered assumptions based on an ideological heritage which, since the end of the Republic, was grounded on the affirmation of the Roman political and cultural superiority. It almost looks as though the Romans were less certain of their supremacy than they were before. Of course, one may find much evidence to demonstrate that in the West the ancient assertion of the Urbs’ domination over the orbis endured until about the year AD 400, with the imperium of Rome allegedly extending as far as India.23 But at the same time after the terrible Germanic and Sassanid raids of the third century, the idea of an imperium sine fine in the geographical sense was not self-evident anymore. And even though the empire had successfully overcome the crisis, the constant difficulties on the Rhine, the Danube, and the Euphrates led some to think that Rome was but a part of the world. Around AD 359, the Expositio totius mundi insisted on the imperial frontiers. During the fifth century, the affirmation of the imperial universality became less and less credible as the empire gradually collapsed in the West. And despite Justinian’s conquests, the Romania of the sixth century was no longer the imperium Romanum of the early imperial period. The other major change in the fourth-century concept of the world was linked to the new status of Christianity; this first became the official religion of Armenia and then of the Emperor Constantine. The latter, after the conquest of the Roman East in AD 324, presented himself as the protector of Christians outside of the Roman Empire. As Christ’s empire was, according to the Christians, vaster than that of the Romans and stretched as far as the limits of the inhabited earth. Thus Christianity provided a way to reaffirm the universal 22 D. CAMPANILE – G.R. CARDONA – R. LAZZERONI, Bilinguismo e biculturalismo nel mondo antico. Atti del Colloquio interdisciplinare (Pisa, 28-29 settembre 1987), Pisa, 1988; J.N. ADAMS – M. JANSE – S. SWAIN, Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Text, Oxford, 2002; F. BIVILLE – J.-C. DECOURT – G. ROUGEMONT, Bilinguisme gréco-latin et épigraphie. Actes du colloque organisé à l’Université Lumière-Lyon 2, Maison de l’Orient et de la MéditerranéeJean Pouilloux, UMR 5189 Hisoma et JE 2409 Romanitas les 17, 18 et 19 mai 2004, Lyon, 2008; M.J. ESTARÁN TOLOSA, Epigrafía Bilingüe del Occidente Romano, Zaragoza, 2016. 23 See the texts collected in J. FILIOZAT – J. ANDRÉ, L’Inde vue de Rome: textes latins de l’Antiquité relatifs à l’Inde, Paris, 1986.

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supremacy of the Empire and to renew the ancient Roman ideology, particularly against the Sasanians, who claimed equality with Rome in the name of their past grandeur and present power.24 And so the conversion of peoples to Christianity became a diplomatic act in the Roman-Persian rivalry, one that was employed from the Caucasus to the Red Sea. In the fourth century, the conversions of the Iberians, of the Axoumites, of part of the Goths and of the Saracens also represented political achievements for the Roman Empire. The expansion of Christianity inside and outside the Roman Empire had a fundamental cultural consequence. The Bible was translated into Syriac, Armenian, and Gothic. Greek and Latin were no longer the only ecclesiastical languages. The extent of the civilised world was therefore redefined to make it coincide with the Christian world, which stretched beyond the Roman frontiers. Thereby, the Roman view of foreign peoples may have changed. Foreign customs may have stopped being barbaric habits that reasserted, by contrast, the superiority of the values of Greco-Roman civilisation, and become simply secondary, and indifferent, customs, as what became essential was a religious communion that confirmed equality in Christ. In fact, from a Christian point of view, there was ‘no Greek […] nor barbarian’ anymore,25 local customs were acceptable as long as they complied with the faith, and they no longer established a hierarchy of undisputable values. Besides, the Germans serving the Empire (or fighting it) in the West, and the Arab Saracen tribes doing the same in the East, were proud of their martial bravery, their Christianity, and their cultural traditions of oral poetry, and they did not necessarily feel inferior to the Roman civilian citizenry. But as a matter of fact, the distinction between Romans and barbarians did not disappear. Power games, religious opposition between pagans and Christians, and different interpretations of Christian orthodoxy gave rise, according to the circumstances, to a number of very different discourses. In certain rhetorical contexts, it was necessary to acknowledge that the barbarians were by this point much more present in the Roman world, and that they were often Christians. But the connection established between romanitas and Nicaean orthodoxy in opposition to the barbarians, who were often deemed heretics (“arians”), and the classicising tradition of ethnographic literature, weakened the impact of Christian ideas on the discourse on ‘the Other’. Some examples to the contrary can, however, be found in the ecclesiastical histories, as we will see below in Rufinus. It is precisely within this new late antique context26 that we must interpret the role of ethnographic accounts, ideal showcases for the description of cultural M. CANEPA, The Two Eyes of the Earth: art and ritual of kingship between Rome and Sasanian Iran, Berkeley, 2009. The Christians of Persia who, in the 5th century, called themselves the Church of the East (in opposition to the Roman Empire’s Church of the West) did not think differently. 25 Paul of Tarsus, Letter ot the Galatians 3.28. 26 For the historiographical context, see the Gabriele Marasco’s chapters in G. MARASCO (ed.), Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity. Fourth to Sixth Century A.D., Leiden, 2003. 24

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contacts. In Greco-Roman Antiquity, links between ethnographic accounts and historical texts were traditional from Herodotus on. The historical literary genre gathered writings concerning the present time or the immediate past. Geographic and ethnographic excursuses were included in most ancient histories, from Herodotus to Ammianus Marcellinus (Huns, Persians) or Theophylact Simocatta (Turks). These were usually placed before accounts of contacts due to wars or embassies. Likewise, one could find ethnographic descriptions of customs in works of geography, particularly when the political and military history of a nation was impossible to write because of a lack of sources. Such was the case for many peoples who were not organised into cities or kingdoms (as in Tacitus’ Germania) but it was also true of India. However, if today we make a distinction between intercultural exchanges among contemporaries and diachronic cultural transmissions, such a distinction was less clear-cut in the past. In fact, in modern times, the means of communication that Western scholars have at their disposal allow them to distinguish clearly between the transmission of information across space or across time; something demonstrated by the titles of contemporary works dedicated to cultural exchanges.27 This was not always the case in days past. Herodotus’ information about central Asia was never updated in the following centuries, and Marco Polo’s report on China was still the only one available at the time of Christopher Columbus. If we add to this the fact that in Antiquity geographers preferred information that was ancient, but guaranteed by serious informants such as generals or ambassadors, to recent data provided by people they did not trust, such as merchants, one understands why much of the knowledge that the literary tradition handed down about other peoples was generally obsolete. So it was that, for centuries people reported the India that they had read of in Megasthenes, and Latin literature on this country did essentially nothing but constantly transmit the same anecdotes about fights between elephants and boas, the description of some natural mirabilia and fictional dialogues between Alexander and the gymnosophists. And this even though dozens of ships sailed every year from the Red Sea to India, Indian embassies arrived regularly in Italy from the South of the subcontinent and from Ceylon, the horrea peperiana stood in Rome, and merchants wrote peripla such as that of the Erythrean Sea.28 It would have been relatively easy for a writer in Alexandria, Antioch or Rome to obtain recent information on far away peoples, kingdoms, or cults. But, exceptions aside — such as Marinus of Tyre on the Silk Road — Greco-Roman writers were not interested in that. This explains why the only ancient description of Indian beliefs we know of comes from a Christian text on different heretical 27 For instance, C. BOLGIA – R. MCKITTERICK – J. OSBORNE (eds), Rome across Time and Space: Cultural Transmissions and the Exchange of Ideas, c. 500-1400, Cambridge, 2011. 28 S. BELFIORE, Il periplo del Mare Erytreo di anonimo del I sec. D.C.: e altri testi sul commercio fra Roma e l’Oriente attraverso l’Oceano Indiano e la Via della Seta, Roma, 2004.

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movements, namely the Philosophoumena composed around AD 230 and ascribed to Hippolytus of Rome.29 As an ethnographic notice in an ancient text might point to an intracultural intertextual transmission rather than to an intercultural contextual exchange, we will focus here on cultural relations among contemporaries. Nevertheless, it is possible to distinguish two main scenarios. The late antique Latin and Greek texts we have attest to different situations, which allow us to draft a typology of cultural exchanges within historical sources. The first three types pertain to representations of other cultures by means of description or cultural imports, the last to cultural transmission by means of translations. 3 - ETHNOGRAPHIC OTHERNESSES IN LATE ANTIQUITY The most recurrent case in Late Antiquity is the ‘described otherness’ of barbaric groups or of foreign customs, a distinction often matching that made between general description of a people and description of more specific aspects, based on personal experience.30 In the first case one may quote the texts of Ammianus Marcellinus on the Huns or the Seres, the report on the Moors in Chorippus, or on the Turks in Theophylact Simocatta. In the second, we may think of Priscus’ account of his travel among the Huns or to the descriptions of Sasanian or Ethiopian court ceremonies.31 All these aspects have long been known and they have already been widely studied,32 both from the point of view of the realia — most difficult to grasp and appreciate — and of the construction of literary models of otherness aiming either to strengthen the self-definition of the late antique Roman society, or sometimes to criticise certain aspects of it. Given their ideological function, such descriptions are by no means confined to the genre of history. The literary practice of the ethnographic excursus disappeared after the seventh century, no doubt because it was impossible, in Byzantium, to think about a superior alterity, that of the triumphant Muslim Arabs.33 In these cases of cultural contacts, the label ‘cultural exchanges’ or ‘transfers’ should be avoided, because these accounts are based on an ethnocentric perspective, on precise literary models, and on a conventional rhetoric, with no real wish to understand the other for what it is. 29 G. DUCŒUR, Brahmanisme et encratisme à Rome au IIIe siècle ap. J.-C., Etude d’Elenchos 1.24.1-7, 8.20.1-3, Paris, 2002. 30 A. KALDELLIS, Le discours ethnographique à Byzance. Continuité et rupture, Paris, 2013, p. 10. 31 IDEM, pp. 11-39. 32 The main references can be found in K.E. MÜLLER, Geschichte der Antiken Ethnographie und Ethnologischen Theoriebildung. Teil II: Von den Anfängen bis auf die byzantinischen Historiographen, Wiesbaden, 1980. 33 KALDELLIS, Le discours ethnographique à Byzance [see note 30], pp. 94, 291.

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A second case is that of the ‘deformed otherness’, namely the integration of material coming from an external tradition, written or oral, into a Roman work, a process that entails a transformation of its original meaning. The problem is that, in the absence of precise sources, this original meaning is generally little known, and its reconstruction, even when methodologically well grounded, remains hypothetical. A good example is the conversion of the Iberians as portrayed in Rufinus of Aquileia. We know that Rufinus translated Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History around the year AD 402 at Aquileia.34 Eusebius’ work stopped in AD 324, and Rufinus continued it for the years AD 325-394, that is, from the Council of Nicaea to Theodosius I’s victory against Eugenius. One of the relevant aspects of the section authored by Rufinus is that in it he describes the conversion of populations outside the Roman empire, the Ethiopians of Axum, the Iberians of Georgia, the Saracen Arabs of the East, passages that were later reproduced in the Greek ecclesiastical histories of the fifth century. Rufinus’ additions allow us, in theory, to appreciate the weight of ethnography in a context different to that of classicising history, as the subjects here are the history of the Church and the Christian mission rather than wars or embassies. In practice, though, we learn very little because the customs of the pagan barbarians tend to disappear in the face of Christian rituals, and the core of these narratives is the very pious and rhetorical account of their conversion. Nevertheless, it is sometimes possible to go a bit further, and Françoise Thelamon has analysed the Rufinian account of the conversion of the Iberians as a cultural transfer, in very original and convincing way.35 Rufinus wrote that he received his information on the conversion of the Iberians from a very well informed source, an Iberian prince named Bacurius (Bacour), who was in the service of Rome and held important commands in the Roman army between AD 378 and AD 394, before becoming, so it seems, king of the Iberians around AD 400. Rufinus made his acquaintance when he was living in Jerusalem, between AD 380 and AD 397, and Bacurius was dux of the Palestinian limes, undoubtedly in the decade AD 380-390. From the point of view of ancient historiography, Bacurius was, on account of his social status, an absolutely reliable witness. Bacurius reported to Rufinus events that had taken place about half a century before. Rufinus’ text (or Bacurius’), presents itself as a Christian account, wherein a Cappadocian (and therefore Roman) woman, a captive, Christian and For an analysis of Rufinus’ translation, see H. INGLEBERT, Les Romains chrétiens face à l’histoire de Rome: histoire, christianisme et romanités en Occident dans l’Antiquité tardive (III eVe siècles), Paris, 1996, pp. 325-350, and Sabrina Robbe’s section in the second contribution of this volume. 35 F. THÉLAMON, Païens et chrétiens au IVe siècle: l’apport de l’Histoire ecclésiastique de Rufin d’Aquilée, Paris, 1981, pp. 85-122. 34

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ascetic, converted the queen of the Iberians to Christianity with her miracles and her preaching and the king was converted by means of a prodigy. The story may even be likely — as we know that in the third century Roman prisoners from Asia Minor carried off by the Goths on the other side of the Danube, converted some of their captors, and that the Armenians were in part evangelised by the Cappadocians — yet two points in particular remain obscure. The first is that the protagonist is a woman; the second is that she has no name (the name Noune or Nino only appears later in Georgian literature). This has led Françoise Thelamon to suppose that this story is actually the historicised and Christianised transposition of a traditional Georgian cult foundation myth. Comparing Rufinus’ text with the description of Iberian shamanic rituals attested in Strabo and to ethnographic accounts of Georgian pagans in the nineteenth century,36 she proposed the following structuralist analysis. In pagan Georgia, a woman was just as able to found a sanctuary as a man, if she was a kadaj, a shamanic figure considered a ‘captured person’ because she had been possessed by a god. The kadaj was consecrated to a divinity and followed precise dietary and sexual restrictions. Such a person could be interpreted in a Christian fashion as a real ‘captive’ leading an ascetic life. Or, conversely, Georgian pagans might interpret a pious Christian woman as a kadaj revealing a new divinity, Christ. The kadaj devoted his/herself to his/her divinity but also to his/her society to which he/she bestowed his/her revelations and power, which generally manifested itself through acts of healing. This is the case in Rufinus, where the ‘captive’ resuscitated a child before healing the dying queen, who then converted. The presence of an inspired kadaj revealing the name of his/her divinity, the rites of its worship and the shape of the temple that was to be dedicated to it, was customary in the foundation stories of new Georgian sanctuaries. On the other hand, in this religious system, if the kadaj founded a sanctuary, he/she was not to become its priest, a function that was always taken up by a member of the local clan. Likewise, in Rufinus’ account, if the ‘captive’ explained how to build a church then the king, acting as mh’adre, took care of the erection of the edifice. Another important aspect is the Caucasian social structure, which was founded on a strict separation of the sexes. This explains why neither the ‘captive’ nor the queen could convert the king; the feminine and the masculine spheres never met. Therefore, whereas the queen healed by the kadaj in the palace, converted after the miraculous healing and prayed out loud, the king witnessed a cosmic prodigy outdoors while hunting, and converted praying in a low voice. Likewise, the women converted following the queen, the men following the king. 36 G. CHARACHIDZÉ, Le système religieux de la Géorgie païenne: analyse structurale d’une civilisation, Paris, 1968.

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The last relevant point is the foundation of the sanctuary, which, according to an architectural tradition peculiar to Georgia, had an external and an internal plan. Furthermore, at the moment of the construction, the ‘captive’ straightened up a tilted column, which undoubtedly refers to the drosha, the tilted ritual staff that the mh’adre drove into the ground during the foundation ritual. Thanks to the ‘captive’s’ miracle, the sanctuary was transformed and could be employed for Christian use. The origin of Rufinus’ text can be explained in two ways that are not at odds with one another. It may be that around AD 380, Bacurius christianised a Georgian foundation myth to explain the conversion of the Iberians to the learned monk Rufinus. But it is equally possible that this account had been already circulating orally for half a century; it would thus represent the interpretation given to the institution of a new cult by Georgian pagans who were converting to Christianity, and who understood the latter through their own explanatory patterns. In both cases, this is a remarkable example of late antique cultural transfer. ‘Transposed otherness’ is the integration of material coming from an external tradition, written or oral, into a Roman work. It implies the conscious acknowledgment of a difference, which is then preserved. As in the previous case, the major difficulty here is the lack of sources on which to base any such comparison and, therefore, the hypothetical character of our reconstructions. Just before narrating Julian’s Persian expedition Ammianus Marcellinus described the Persian kingdom. He essentially based his account on Claudius Ptolemy’s Geography (which he could probably only use indirectly), from which he took the general order of both his regional descriptions and his city lists. He made the most alterations to the order of the western Persian regions on the Roman border, which he personally knew, being a native of Antioch and having fought as a Roman officer at Amida (today’s Diyarbakir) in AD 359. But this description, announced at 26.6.14 and developed in 26.6.15-73, is at odds with the introduction made at 26.6.13. The latter, in fact, describes the borders of the Persian Empire in a circular, counter clockwise order — North-West-SouthEast. On the contrary, the description of the regions begins with the West and the South (following a winding course) and then presents the regions of the North, and then the East, following a rectilinear, clockwise, course. The issue here is the inconsistency between the description of the borders and that of the provinces. We can suppose that this is a convention of geographical literature, like the habit of describing the oikoumene by a pair of maritime circumnavigations, an internal circuit of the Mediterranean, and an external circuit of the exterior Ocean, which could be done in opposite directions, as it was in Pomponius Mela. We would have here a double ‘land periplus’, an external circuit of the borders of the Persian empire, describing the neighbouring peoples, and an internal circuit within the empire (this is perceptible in the North and in

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the East, but the Ptolemaic description was based on a general West-East axis and did not take into account the political borders). However, it has been also suggested37 that Ammianus might have known a Persian organisation pattern, for example, via the satrap of Gordyene who had studied with him in Antioch. Darius I’s inscription at Naqsh-i-Rustam does in fact list subjugated populations, naming those closest to the centre of the empire in a clockwise order, and those further away in the opposite way. In his presentation of Persia, Ammianus would therefore have juxtaposed two descriptions, one external and the other internal, in opposite order, and then filled up this Iranian cosmological structure with information drawn from the Greek Ptolemaean knowledge of rivers, mountains, and cities. If we accept such a hypothesis we are confronted with a very interesting case of late antique cultural exchange. Ammianus, by taking over an Iranian pattern to describe the Sasanian Empire, would have accepted to understand others from their own point of view. Such a choice, thanks to the alienating effect it must have had on the late fourth-century reader, could strengthen the idea that the Persian Empire was a different but coherent world, a foreign space that the Romans should not have tried to conquer. 4 - CULTURAL EXCHANGES IN TRANSLATIONS After analysing different attitudes towards the ethnographic alterity, we can now look at questions of intercultural exchanges in the context of text transmission and translation. In this case we have a large number of sources that allow us to verify our hypotheses. When it comes to the transmission of information, however, we are confronted with a puzzling scenario. Universal histories or chronicles should, in principle, be the literary form in which ‘the others’ are most likely to be found; even more so since their universal dimension is supposed to enhance an essential aspect of history writing, namely the claimed impartiality of the author, who, since Herodotus, provided the reader with the points of view of his various protagonists. In actuality, for reasons dictated by the available documents and by the interest of erudite readers, we mostly find accounts based on a single perspective, where ‘others’ appear only in ethnographic excursuses that shape the ‘otherness’ of the enemy. As regards the hypothetical speeches put in the mouth of the ‘others’, they are most often a pretext for great rhetorical pieces reproducing, pro et contra, discussions on the classic values of Greece and Rome. Again, we find in these another form of cultural contacts as described above.

37 By Lionel Mary, in his unpublished dissertation (L. MARY, Les représentations de l’espace chez Ammien Marcellin [Unpublished PhD Thesis], pp. 614-619).

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Syncretic accounts such those of Castor of Rhodes, Diodorus Siculus, Nicholas of Damascus, or, later, John Malalas’, and the original Greek version of Barbarus Scaligeri, insisted on the human condition, which boils down to the principles of the Hellenistic and Roman political and material culture, in Late Antiquity sometimes integrated with the Christian religious dimension. In fact, Greek and Latin universal histories and chronicles were a stage for the integration of alterities to the shared Greco-Roman model rather than the acceptance of cultural differences; this was because the external material was integrated into a Roman or Christian unifying perspective wherein their originality disappeared. The presence of alterity did not imply an acknowledgement of plurality, and the universality of the historians was actually the generalisation of their values, a habit that was not peculiar to Late Antiquity.38 Therefore, the development of late antique Christian universal chronicles and the appearance of a scripturally based ethnographic theory39 did not bring about a greater interest in cultural diversity. The only exception was the acceptance of a greater number of cultural languages, which were primarily ecclesiastical languages. Nevertheless, intercultural questions are not absent from the repertory of late antique histories or universal chronicles. Syriac texts like the Composite Mesopotamian Chronicle of 63640 could integrate Aramean and Greek biblical elements in an original synthesis.41 Translations generally went hand in hand with cultural additions. In the Armenian translation of the Chronicle of Hippolytus of Rome, made towards the end of the seventh century, the Sasanian king lists were added to the Macedonian and the Roman ones. Likewise, in the Latin translation of the same chronicle known as Liber generationis I (fifth century) the addition of the bishops of Rome was envisaged. These translations, then, took into account the cultural context of reception and adapted their source to it in order to make it more pertinent.42 To develop this point further, we will now look closer at the Latin translation made by Jerome of Stridon in AD 380381 (at Caesarea of Palestine or in Constantinople) of the second part of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Chronicle, the Canon, that is, the synoptic chronological tables. H. INGLEBERT, Le Monde, l’Histoire. Essai sur les histoires universelles, Paris, 2014. H. INGLEBERT, Interpretatio Christiana. Les mutations des savoirs (cosmographie, géographie, ethnographie, histoire) dans l’Antiquité chrétienne (30-630 après J.-C.), Paris, 2001, pp. 125189. 40 Also known as Composite Chronicle of 640, cf. M. DEBIÉ, L’écriture de l’histoire en syriaque: transmissions interculturelles et constructions identitaires entre hellénisme et islam. Avec des répertoires des textes historiographiques en annexe (Late Antique History and Religion 12), Leuven, 2015, pp. 543-545. 41 This is already the case in the AD 330s with Aphraat, in a totally different literary genre, the mimro, see H. INGLEBERT, Aphraate, le “sage persan”: la première historiographie syriaque, in Syria, 78 (2001), pp. 179-208; and likewise in the version of the Cave of Treasures dating to the early sixth century, see H. INGLEBERT, Interpretatio Christiana [see note 39], pp. 501-502. 42 IDEM, p. 503. 38 39

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A - Jerome’ Chronicle: political and military additions In his preface Jerome specified that ‘from Ninus and Abraham [i.e. from the beginning of the Chronicle] to the taking of Troy [i.e. 1183 years before Jesus Christ according to ancient chronology] it [i.e. Jerome’s Chronicle] is a pure translation from Greek; from Troy to the twentieth year of Constantine [AD 324] many things were added and corrected, which I excerpted carefully from Tranquillus [Suetonius] and other illustrious historians; then, from the abovementioned year of Constantine to the sixth consulate of the Augustus Valens and the second of the Augustus Valentinian [AD 378] everything has been written by me’.43 To approach the issue of cultural transfers through an analysis of this translation, we have to focus mainly on Jerome’s additions to the Eusebian text. However, we only have a few fragments of the Greek text of Eusebius’ Chronicle and our only witness to the whole work (Chronography and Canon) is an Armenian version44 edited and translated into German at the beginning of the twentieth century, which stops in AD 303, whereas the Eusebian texts went up to AD 324. Comparing the two texts we can understand how Jerome transformed Eusebius’ Chronicle with his additions in order to make it more readable to Latin-speaking readers.45 Besides this cultural dimension, we certainly need to take into account also the religious aspects, because after half a century of theological struggles among Christians, of civil wars between emperors, and of barbaric attacks on the borders, the monk Jerome did not share the optimistic conception of the Eusebian history, culminating with the Christian Roman Empire desired by God. This critical distance, and other features (insistence on the barbaric threat, theological issues, the emperors’ interference in ecclesiastic or monastic life), are especially conspicuous in the section authored by Jerome (from AD 325 to AD 378) which does not directly concern us here46. 43 Itaque a Nino et Abraham usque ad Troiae captiuitatem, pura graeca translatio est. A Troia usque ad uicesimum Constantini annum nunc addita nunc admixta sunt plurima, quae de Tranquillo et ceteris inlustribus historicis curiossissime excerpi. A Constantini autem supra dicto anno usque ad consulatum augustorum Valentis sexies et Valentiniani iterum totum meum est. 44 On the manuscript tradition of the Armenian translation, which was made from Syriac and Greek texts between the sixth and the eighth centuries, see J. KARST, Die Chronik des Eusebius, aus dem armenischen übersetz, Leipzig, 1911, pp. XLIII-LIV. 45 Alfred Schoene (A. SCHOENE, Die Weltchronik des Eusebius in ihrer Bearbeitung durch Hieronymus, Berlin, 1900, pp. 181-201) had already noticed that some of these additions were significant. He studied the traditions regarding Pope Victor, showing that Jerome’s presentation of the debate on the date of Easter was more favourable to the bishop of Rome than Eusebius’. Elsewhere (IDEM, pp. 96-105) he observed that Jerome cast Probus in a very positive light. A full philological analysis of these additions has been carried out by Giorgio Brignoli (G. BRIGNOLI, Curiosissimus excerptor: gli “Additamenta” di Girolamo ai “Chronica” di Eusebio, Pisa, 1995). A thorough historical analysis of Jerome’s translation of Eusebius’ Canon has been carried out by Inglebert (INGLEBERT, Les Romains chrétiens [see note 34], pp. 217-276), where further bibliographical references can be found. 46 For a translation and commentary of this part of the Chronicle, see M.D. DONALSON, A Translation of Jerome’s Chronicon with Historical Commentary, Lewiston, 1996; B. JEANJEAN –

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Jerome’s additions can be divided in two chronological sections: before and after the establishment of the imperial monarchy, according to Eusebius founded by Julius Caesar in 48 BC (Year of Abraham: 1969). This corresponds to the battle of Pharsalus, Pompey’s defeat and death being interpreted by Eusebius, and following him Jerome, as the beginning of personal rule, which makes of Julius Caesar’s dictatorship the reign of the first emperor. Eusebius’ Roman chronology was therefore divided in two phases: from Aeneas’ arrival in Italy to the end of the Republic, 1183-48 BC; and the imperial age, from Caesar to Constantine. In regards the latter, what matters is the judgment made of each emperor; we need to understand what determines such judgements, verify whether Eusebius’ and Jerome’s are the same, and if not, explain why. Jerome’s additions to Eusebius’ text primarily concern Roman history. He made them because he thought that Eusebius had intentionally neglected certain aspects for cultural reasons,47 whereas on the contrary, to Jerome the political and military history of the Republic and Latin cultural history were essential. It is remarkable that these two aspects were overlooked by Eusebius, the first only partially, the second entirely. We have to keep in mind that even though the fourth century was undoubtedly the period when the Greek-speaking elites most forcefully experienced the unity of the Roman Empire,48 the Greeks cultural superiority complex was still largely dominant.49 That Eusebius totally overlooked Latin culture came therefore as no surprise, but it was annoying for a Latin in whose opinion Cicero and Virgil were just as good as Demosthenes and Homer. On the other hand, the overshadowing of republican history by imperial history in Eusebius’ view of the Roman past, was normal for two reasons. The first was religious: Christ was born under Augustus, so only that which came after was essential to Church history. The second was political and cultural, and here the notion of ‘Romanness’ plays a role. ‘Being Roman’ was an expression that could be understood in various ways. Even after the Constitutio Antoniniana, B. LANÇON, Saint Jérôme, Chronique, Continuation de la Chronique d’Eusèbe, années 326-378, Rennes, 2004. 47 Chronicon, Preface: ‘...the Roman history, which Eusebius did not ignore, given that he was a learned man, but deemed of little importance to his readers, given that he wrote in Greek’ (Romana historia quam Eusebius [...] non tam ignorasse ut eruditus sed ut graece scribens parum suis necessariam). 48 This was the time of the foundation of the New Rome, and Constantinople was indeed initially conceived of as an instrument to romanise the East. It is also the time when the learned men of the East (like Ammianus Marcellinus or Claudian) accepted the use of Latin. Finally it was also at this time that Libanius complained because his students would quit the study of Greek rhetoric in Antioch to go study Roman law, in Latin, in Beirut. On such issues see M. JONES, The Greeks under the Roman Empire, in Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 17 (1963), pp. 3-19. 49 Plutarch’s Parallel lives, if they consented to put Greeks and Romans on the same level, they only did so in the political and military field, where Roman success was undisputable. But in the fourth century, in some Greek-speaking circles (ecclesiastical milieu included), people still thought that Latin was a barbaric language, inadequate to express the subtle nuances of Greek theology concerning Trinitarian questions (see for instance Basil of Caesarea, Letter 214).

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which had granted Roman citizenship to more or less all the free inhabitants of the empire in AD 212, one could feel Roman in various ways. In particular, Greek-speaking and Latin-speaking elites did not have the same definition of ‘Roman history’. For Eusebius, the political meaning prevailed, but the culture remained Greek, be it pagan or Christian; even a pagan like Libanius could feel culturally Greek and politically Roman. And for these Greeks who had become Romans, their Roman history began with Augustus, with the end of the wars and conquests in the East, and with the participation of eastern elites in Roman rule. What came before, the republican history of Rome, the history of Rome’s conquests and pillages, was a foreign history of which they were the object rather than the subject. Conversely, for Jerome and for every Latin, the definition of ‘Romanness’ could not be limited to Roman citizenship, and Roman history could not begin with Caesar or Augustus. They had to take into account the entirety of the Roman inheritance, from Aeneas to Cicero, from Romulus to Pompey. To be sure, the Romans of the Urbs, and even of the Italian peninsula, tended to glorify more strongly the end of the Republic from an ‘urban’ perspective, whereas the Romans of the western provinces made a clear distinction, from a Latin perspective, between the Republic of the first centuries, virtuous and exemplary, and, after 200 BC, a corrupt and imperialist Republic. But Eusebius’ partial presentation of Roman republican history — which was not his history but the history of a distant and barbaric city — must have looked outrageous to Jerome.50 How was it possible not to link the Empire to the Urbs? How was it possible to talk about the latter while overlooking the Rome of the past? And how was it possible to evoke it without mentioning all the heroic qualities and virtutes that brought Roman grandeur into being and that were always extolled in the schools, where Sallustius, Virgil, and Livy were commented upon? The question of the sources of Jerome’s additions was investigated by Mommsen a century ago, and then by Rudolf Helm,51 and the results of their Quellenforschung are on the whole acceptable (mainly Suetonius’ De viris illustribus for cultural information, and Eutropius’ Breviarium historiae romanae for the large amount of political and military data), although quotes from identified 50 On the different ways (urban, Latin and Greek) of conceiving Roman history and the consequently different ways of self-definition as ‘Roman’ within the Empire, for Christians and for pagans alike, see INGLEBERT, Les Romains chrétiens [see note 34], pp. 43-54. 51 See R. HELM, Die Chronik des Hieronymus, Zweiter Teil, Lesarten der Handschriften und Quellenkritischer Apparat zur Chronik, Leipzig, 1926, to which two articles commenting upon the philological research are to be added: R. HELM, Hieronymus Zusätze in Eusebius Chronik, in Phil. Suppl. 21.2 (1929), mostly a list of Jerome’s cultural additions based on Suetonius; R. HELM, Hieronymus und Eutrop, in Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 76 (1927), pp. 138-170, where the author attempts, following Mommsen, to solve puzzle of Jerome’ sources. To complete the picture see G. PUCCIONI, Il problema delle fonti storiche di S. Girolamo, in Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa XXV, III-IV (1956), pp. 191-212.

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works (among which Festus’ Breviarium rerum gestarum populi romani and some summarised excerpts from Livy) do not represent the entirety of Jerome’s additions.52 Eutropius, the most quoted, was the most exhaustive abridger, covering the period from Romulus to Jovian. We might also believe that he, together with Festus, was the most easily accessible Latin source, because the two works had been written in Constantinople and were dedicated to Valens around AD 370. Because these were written after the Roman loss to the Persians and the ceding of Nisibis in AD 363, using them led Jerome to distance himself from Eusebius’ Christian and pacifist perspective and to assume instead a senatorial, and martial point of view. Another hypothesis on Jerome’s sources has been proposed more recently by Richard Burgess, according to whom Jerome used: an annotated consular list (the Descriptio consulum, corresponding to the Consolaria Constantinopolitana published by Mommsen); the Enmannsche Kaizergeschichte (EKG), which would cover the period from Augustus up until 357; a biographical list of authors of the Constantinian period; and some patriarchal lists of Rome, Alexandria, Antioch and Jerusalem, the last two coming from a hypothetical Continuatio Antiochiensis Eusebii (325-350) of which Burgess has proposed a reconstruction. The use of the EKG would imply chronological modifications to the eusebian text. The EKG is now lost, but its existence is commonly accepted; it is acknowledged as one of the sources used by Eutropius and Festus (and others), and its authors belonged to the same conservative and pagan senatorial milieu. That fact that Jerome used it, rather than Eutropius, does not change much from the point of view of the ideological conclusions that we may draw from his text. The patriarchal lists are limited to the period 325-378, which does not concern us here, and likewise the hypotheses regarding the existence and content of the Continuatio bear no relevance for my argument. On the other hand, the idea the Jerome used these sources to fill the gaps Eusebius left in his text (Burgess, p. 90) looks doubtful when one analyses the ideological tone of these additions. Beside secular sources we must also take into account ecclesiastical sources that these German scholars failed to detect. To the Christian Greek-speaking authors quoted by Eusebius Jerome added pieces of information on Tertullian,53 52 From Aeneas to Diocletian, the number of quotes Jerome added to the eusebian version is in the region of 325 according to Helm, and 450 according to Brugnoli (who identifies quotations differently). Some are, however, questionable because of the gap from 303 to 325 in the Armenian text. Political or military additions are more numerous (66% according to Helm, 75% according to Brugnoli) than cultural additions. But the sources of the latter are easier to identify (82% versus 65%). On average, three quarters of the sources of the additions have been identified both in the section concerning the Republic and in the section concerning the Principate. 53 Chronicle, Abraham 2224, mentions his celebrity under Septimius Severus.

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on the life of Cyprian of Carthage,54 on Arnobius,55 and on Lactantius.56 Thus, with his secular and ecclesiastical additions, Jerome wanted to show that the history and culture of the Latin West, either classical or Christian, were not inferior to those of the Greek East. Over the period of Roman origins and of the Roman Kingdom, Jerome’s political and military additions are few in number. We find some additional information on the Alban and Roman kings,57 whom Eusebius had only mentioned, and a list of Latin kings predating Aeneas’ arrival in Italy, starting with Janus, who, following a common euhemeristic practice, is presented as a king. In this way Jerome asserted the antiquity and originality of an Italian history that was not reducible to an aspect of Greek culture. Likewise, Jerome was particularly keen on questions of Roman toponymy and to the vestiges ascribable to the ancient kings of Rome, insisting on local information that for a Greek belonged to the genre of the patria. Also to be noted is the tradition58 he reports regarding the origin of the gens Julia, clearly justified by the Eusebian decision (accepted by Jerome) to cast Julius Caesar as the first emperor. Jerome added numerous details about the republican period, addressing the creation of new institutions — dictatorship, military tribunes — and the heroic virtues, especially in time of war — Coriolanus, the death of the Fabii, Cincinnatus, and Titus Manlius who had his son executed. He also included events holding an important place in Roman collective memory — Hannibal’s death, Marius’ victory against the Cimbri, the social war — or annexations that Eusebius had forgotten — Cyrenaica, Libya. The final result is a more patriotic history, one that enhances both the military virtues and the Republic. To Eusebius, Roman history was first and foremost the history of the Roman Empire, an entity necessary for God’s plan for the propagation of the Gospel. Its internal 54 He reports the visit to Rome of Novatus, one of Cyprian’s priests, at the time of the dispute concerning the lapsi (Chronicle, Abraham 2269); the martyrdom of Cyprian, rhetorician, then priest and finally bishop of Carthage (Chronicle, Abraham 2273; Cyprian’s letters to Pope Cornelius (Chronicle, Abraham 2268), and Pope Stephen (Chronicle, Abraham 2270); finally, the composition of the De mortalitate, with regard to the pestilence during the reign of Gallus (Chronicle, Abraham 2269). 55 Chronicle, Abraham 2243, says that he wrote excellent books against the ‘previous religion’. 56 Chronicle, Abraham 2233, specifies that he was the private tutor of Crispus, Constantine’s son. 57 Jerome has a particular focus on Romulus. He borrows the legend of the twins from Livy, quotes Sallustius, Catilina 6.6, defining the senators as patres curae (Abraham 1290) and cites a source close to the De uiris illustribus 2.13 for Romulus’ death (Abraham 1301). 58 Jerome (Chronicle, Abraham 875) writes that Julius, son of Ascanius, is the progenitor of the familia Juliorum, a detail included by Eusebius (J. KARST, Die Chronik des Eusebius, aus dem Armenischen übersetzt, Leipzig, 1911, pp. XLIII-LIV, pp. 137-138) quoting Diodorus, VII, 6, who in turn took the information from Fabius Pictor. Elsewhere, Jerome (Chronicle, Abraham 1145), says that Julius, grandfather of Julius Proclus, forefather of the gens Julia, was the son of Aremulus Silvius, a detail which is missing both in Eusebius and Diodorus. The Origo gentis romanae XV, 5 said, following Livy, I, 3, that the familia Julia derived from Ascanius, who was nicknamed Julo.

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aspects, such as its institutions or the virtues of the local peoples, did not interest him at all. Contrariwise, to Jerome the glorious history of the Republic was the history that one learned at school and that was used as a cultural code for mutual social recognition, as shown by the allusions made in his letters. Furthermore, Jerome was personally linked to the city of Rome, where he studied and completed his Christian education. Roman history could not boil down to sheer imperialism, because the conquests were to him a consequence of the military and civic virtues of the Romans. Jerome’s point of view is therefore clearly marked by an ‘urban’ conception of Romanness. However, even though Jerome noted with satisfaction the expansion of Roman dominion, he also failed to add some wars that Eusebius had not mentioned. The second Punic war is thus summarised with the capture of Syracuse and Hannibal’s subsequent death. The wars against Pyrrhus, the capture of Corinth, the war in Spain against Viriathes, and the wars against Mithridates are all forgotten, as is the civil war between Marius and Sulla. Unlike the pagans, and Eutropius in particular, Jerome does not eulogise war itself. This is not a uniquely Christian feature, because Aurelius Victor and Florus had a similar take. Such oversights contribute to a less negative image of the imperialism of the late Republic. It may be that Jerome, sensible to the ‘Latin’ criticism of this late-republican age of conquests and internal wars in Florus, Tertullian, or Lactantius, wanted to offer an acceptable image of Rome, not through a critique of the late Republic, but rather by passing over some of it in silence. Jerome’s senatorial bias can be pointed out by studying the great figures of the late Republic. Jerome speaks about Marius only in connection to his victory against the Germans, and concerning Sulla and Caesar he limits himself to translating what he finds in Eusebius. On the other hand, he gives us very precise details about Pompey the Great: his birth, his rhetorical education, his very glorious triumph, the subjugation of Iberia-Spain, the consecration of Daphne, near Antioch, and his assassination in Alexandria. These details, which form a little biography,59 can only be explained by the fact that Pompey was the leader of the senatorial party against Caesar: four centuries later his memory was still alive in certain aristocratic circles which looked back with nostalgia to the time of Cicero and the Republic. In this tradition, the pious, cultivated, and victorious Pompey, rather than Caesar, was considered to be the model for Augustus. Jerome made the most additions to the imperial period. His additions are even more important in that they point to an approach totally different from that of Eusebius. According to the latter, the empire began with Julius Caesar ‘who brought it to its apogee’ (Jerome did not translate this particular phrase). The Roman Empire was then accomplished and its proper history was over. 59 Only three characters have a ‘scattered biography’ in Jerome’s version of the Canons: Pompey, Cicero, and Virgil. In this Jerome could hardly be more traditional.

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From then on, the emperors only serve as chronological references and the empire as a geographic stage; these spatial and temporal coordinates permit comprehension of the unfolding of what is essentially an ecclesiastical history, together with bishop lists and mentions of Christian authors. In Eusebius, the Christian religious criterion was essential. To him good emperors were those who fulfilled the divine plan by punishing the Jews (Vespasian, Titus, Hadrian), protecting the Christians (Tiberius, Trajan, Antoninus, Marcus Aurelius, Philip, Gallienus, Constantius Chlorus), or those whose reign had a particular theological meaning (Julius Caesar, because of the ‘monarchy’, Augustus, because of the Incarnation, Constantine, because of his conversion). The bad emperors were mostly the obdurate persecutors. Eusebius did not express any judgement on the others, whose usefulness was merely chronological. At times Eusebius’ theological conception led him to distance himself from traditional senatorial evaluations: he praised Tiberius for protecting the Christians, an evaluation which comes from Tertullian, and Gallienus for bringing back peace in the Church, a judgement drawn from Dionysius of Alexandria. However, the religious criterion is not the only one, and Eusebius acknowledges that the good or bad fame an emperor had in the senatorial tradition was generally also to be taken into account: so it is for Pertinax, who refused honours to his family; Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, persecutors by mistake; and Nerva, deified by the Senate for his virtues. Contrariwise, Eusebius judged Caligula or Commodus negatively for traditional reasons such as tyranny or debauchery, factors which also further degraded the persecutors Nero and Domitian. In general, Eusebius classified emperors on the basis of their attitude towards Christianity, but in certain cases he also took into account the senatorial tradition, although this perspective remains secondary in comparison. Eusebius was already writing ecclesiastical history in the Chronicle. To supplement Eusebius, Jerome used the Latin senatorial tradition, whose values were political and military. Thus, at times he happens to be very far from Eusebius, who thought as both a Christian and a Greek. Because Jerome translated the Chronicle scrupulously, he kept Eusebius’ religious framework, but he added another to it, that of the senatorial judgement of an emperor based on his habits — dissolute or not — which mirror his relations — good or bad — with the Senate. These two evaluation grids did not always overlap, and there are imbalances between Eusebius’ religious conception and the secular, political, and moral point of view of the senatorial tradition. One more particular element plays a role, namely military affairs. Jerome did not, in fact, accept Eusebius’ theory according to which the Roman Empire was completed with the ascent of Julius Caesar. To Eusebius, Christ’s advent coincided with the messianic peace on earth, and the monarchy meant the end of the age of the civil wars. But Jerome, who was writing in a dramatic time for the Empire (after Valens’ defeat against the Goths at Adrianople in AD 378) looked back with nostalgia

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to the times when the Roman eagles caused the enemy to retreat and the borders of the Empire moved forward. Furthermore, for the Latins, war and the expansion of the Empire were normal, even righteous, because they were a consequence of Roman virtus, so Jerome made note of wars and changes in borders. Of course, such an appraisal of military affairs was not totally independent of those regarding customs and politics, as the virtues of the prince were supposed to be as evident on the battlefield as they were in his relations with the Curia. If Jerome took up Eusebius’ Christian religious judgement, the senatorial criteria account for certain differences. Thus, the political criterion of the emperor’s relations with the Senate explains the classification of Gordian III and Pertinax among the good emperors and the placement of Tiberius and Gallienus among the bad ones. Territorial expansions grant a positive mention to Claudius,60 Trajan, and Septimius Severus. War in the East, in particular, is a determining factor for Severus Alexander, Gordian, Aurelian and Carus, and war against the Germans for Claudius II and Probus. On the contrary, a withdrawal of the Roman army is an evident sign of the weakness of an emperor, and is immediately associated with dissolute habits, as it is in the case of Gallienus, but also of Hadrian. Aurelian is one of the most remarkable cases, because his being a persecutor is counterbalanced by his great military ability; he thus joins Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, and Jerome did not hesitate to compare him, in his habits, to Valentinian I, an energetic Nicaean emperor. This pre-eminence of the military over the political distinguishes Jerome from Eusebius. Gallienus who (from a senatorial point of view) had bad habits and was ineffective in warfare, is for Jerome the worst emperor among those who did not persecute the Christians. The Empire had a political and military life separate from the religious history of its relations with the Christians. History was not only ecclesiastical history, because the classical criteria that traditionally defined the field of history keep their relevance. Jerome, therefore, used senatorial criteria and this led him at times to be closer to the Latin pagan historians of the fourth century, to Eutropius or to the Historia Augusta, than to Eusebius. He reproached Diocletian with being the son of a scribe and having his own person worshipped like a God, thus abandoning the tradition of the ancient emperors: these are the rebukes of pagan senators, not of persecuted Christians. Jerome thus developed a conception of history different from that of Eusebius’. He gave up neither the exaltation of the exploits of the Romans under the Republic, nor the praise of the great emperors. On his own initiative he took up the Augustan senatorial position, where admiration for the Republic did not go hand in hand with a denigration of the Empire.

60 Such a judgement will be confirmed below, in the study of the literary additions. It comes from Jerome, but not from Eutropius, who wrote, VII, 13: Claudius medie imperauit.

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Does this mean that the Christian religious criterion is absent in Jerome? Saying so would be incorrect, but it is only present from Constantine on, toward the endpoint of the Eusebian Chronicle, and in a different way from that seen in Eusebius. For the period from AD 325 to AD 378 Jerome focused not on the opposition between pro-Christian and anti-Christian emperors, but on the antagonism between Nicaean and “Arian” emperors. Furthermore, unlike Eusebius, he gives a very lukewarm evaluation of Constantine, one in which Catholic reproach is mixed with senatorial reservations: his mother was nothing but a concubine,61 he sentenced his wife and his son to death, he robbed the other cities to build Constantinople, and he received baptism from Eusebius of Nicomedia, who was considered an ‘Arian’ (the Council of Nicaea is not mentioned by Jerome). B - Jerome’ Chronicle: cultural additions Jerome’s cultural additions likewise reflect the Latin senatorial tradition, especially Suetonius’ De viris illustribus (the only ‘historian’ quoted in Jerome’s preface), which covered the period from Ennius to Pliny the Younger. Cultural material addressing the second and third centuries is scarce, and only becomes more abundant in the fourth century, on the basis of Eutropius (or EKG), the Christian tradition, and Jerome’s own recollections of his studies. Only the political and the military domains define history in the classical way. Jerome made no innovation when he integrated these with cultural history, Eusebius had already shown him the path, but he extended this approach in favour of the Latins. Jerome seems to have almost entirely copied the lists of poets, rhetors, and orators found in his Suetonian source, but he made choices among the grammarians, the historians, and the philosophers, whom are only mentioned for the imperial age. He made particular use of cultural additions to exalt good princes and to castigate bad ones, the distinction being based on the political and military criteria discussed above. The portrait of an emperor whose habits were good, who was reverent towards the Senate, and who expanded the Empire, was necessarily completed by the image of a prince who fostered culture, and whose beneficial influence favoured the emergence of talented men; an implicit reference to the idealised image of Augustus. On the contrary, the absence of men of letters was an additional reason to blame condemnable emperors. This hypothesis of a political use of Latin cultural commentary in Jerome applies to the list of rhetors, but this time both at the end of the Republic — in favour of Pompey and Augustus, and against Antony — and under the Julio-Claudian emperors. 61

Jerome, Chronicle, Abraham 2321.

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Jerome’s two sets of additions, politico-military and cultural, which are independent from one another both as regards their subjects and their origins, were methodically used to complete Eusebius’ Chronicle, not only to adapt it to Latin mentalities, but also to give it a particular political orientation. The result is a political, military, and cultural portrait of the ideal emperor according to Augustan propaganda: victorious, friendly toward the Senate, and a patron of men of letters. A very good example of this is the treatment of Severus Alexander, who is presented as an excellent emperor according to the senatorial tradition, in opposition to his predecessor Elagabalus. While Eusebius is silent about him, Jerome says that he was amiable in every respect (Abraham 2242), that he defeated Persians, that he restored military discipline (Abraham 2242) and that Ulpian, the renowned jurist, lived during his reign (Abraham 2242). In general, Jerome’s cultural additions confirm Eusebius’ judgements: Augustus’ positive profile, for instance, or Nero’s negative one. However, in at least two cases Jerome used the cultural criterion to distance himself from Eusebius: Tiberius, portrayed positively by Eusebius, is definitely a negative character for Jerome, as his reign was marked by the exile or death of cultivated men. Conversely, Claudius was portrayed neutrally by Eusebius, but, because famous men of letters, rhetors, grammarians, and orators lived during his reign, favourably by Jerome. This dovetails with the additional political and military information that Jerome attached to these emperors and confirms their character. Two Christian cultural additions can also be spotted: the mention of Tertullian under Septimius Severus, and the mention of the death of Cyprian — whom we read was a rhetor before becoming bishop — under Valerian; both of these fit perfectly into the general framework hypothesised above, wherein the flourishing or vanishing of culture is traced back to the qualities of the emperor himself. Jerome’s intention is consistent and he thus produces a list of imperial evaluations very different to Eusebius’, because it is much closer to the Latin senatorial tradition. Later on, after a long absence, cultural additions reappear in the fourth century, in the contituation of the Chronicle authored by Jerome, which is marked by debates of a different nature, and where the religious cultural elements have the upper hand over the secular ones. We may strengthen this analysis of the transformation of the cultural meaning of Eusebius’ Chronicle through its adaptation to the Latin world by looking at the potential addressees of the work. Jerome’s additions, whether they are of a political, military, or cultural nature, and be they related to the age of the kings, or of the Republic, or of the Empire, come from sources that belong to the Latin senatorial tradition. Jerome used them in order to support his presentation of the Roman history and his judgements of the emperors, which differed from those made by Eusebius. Such differences mirrored both Jerome’s education and the aim behind his translation; in both cases, Jerome’s additions to the Chronicle mirrored positions that were close to those of the Nicaean

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Roman senators. By doing this, Jerome was being twice faithful to Rome, city of the Senate and of the Apostles, and accomplished a synthesis of Latin culture and the Christian culture that he deemed orthodox, against ancient paganism and eastern Homeism. Jerome’s travel in the East went through three phases: his monastic experience in Syria, his study under the guidance of the great eastern theologians and bishops (Evagrius, Apollinaris of Laodicea, and Gregory of Nazianzus), and then his translations (of Origen and Eusebius) in Caesarea and Constantinople. Coming back to Rome as a monk, exegete, and translator, as well as a friend of the great oriental bishops, Jerome could aim at a prestigious ecclesiastical career. Gregory of Nazianzus and Basil of Caesarea had both been monks before becoming theologians and bishops and they were outstanding models for Jerome. After the Council of Constantinople in AD 381, Jerome consented to follow Paulinus of Antioch and Epiphanius of Salamis to the synod of Rome in AD 382 as interpreter; he did not hesitate to prepare some translations that would demonstrate his worth in Rome. The adaptation of the Chronicle to his new Latin audience was his own initiative, not a request. He considered the work to be important and he wanted to make it known in the West. His personal attachment to the Urbs, to its Latin culture, and its Christian faith made Roman history, as Eusebius saw it, seem very incomplete to him. Wanting to adapt it to the Roman audience, he completed and continued the Canons in a senatorial, Nicaean, and ascetic perspective. He dedicated his work to some religious friends who, as they were going to Rome with him, could attest to the importance of the translated work. Back in Rome, Jerome became the secretary of Damasus, the bishop of the city. He had every right to high hopes. Around AD 381, the Urbs was the main object of Jerome’s concerns, and in the Chronicle he did not forget to pay tribute to his teachers of rhetoric — actual or alleged (if he was not actually a student of Donatus) — thus reminding his readers of his classical education; likewise, he presented Pope Victor in a favourable light in his dispute with the Quartodecimans about Easter, he mentioned the bishops who defended the Nicaean creed, Damasus’ episcopal election, and Ursinus’ eviction; he even added a mention of Petrus episcopus missing in Eusebius (according to whom the Apostles were no bishops) and he tampered slightly with the chronology in order to give Rome a higher and preeminent place in the episcopal lists. In the hope of pleasing everyone, senators, clerks, monks, Jerome did not leave anyone out of his Chronicle. In this perspective, the choice of Eutropius (or EKG) as principal source alongside Suetonius seemed natural. He was the most senatorial, the most imperialist, and the most patriotic historian available. Jerome took up a work of imperial propaganda to complete and redirect the meaning of Eusebius’ Chronicle, intentionally adopting a senatorial and Nicaean point of view. This reflected his past as a man of letters and a monk, and his projects concerning Christian senators

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and the Roman clergy. The senatorial tradition was not only a scholarly heritage and the nostalgia for an idealised past. In fourth-century Rome the Senate was still a powerful and prestigious institution, and more and more Senators were Christian. In order to be accepted in these circles, and to become influential within them, he had first of all to adopt their social and cultural values. Jerome, just like Ammianus Marcellinus, was fascinated by the Roman senatorial milieu. He thus added to Eusebius’ Chronicle Latin historical and cultural memory, the exempla of Roman education and rhetoric; the conceptual landscape of every Latin man of letters. Jerome’s translation of Eusebius’ Canons is therefore a very refined example of cultural and biographical transfer. The intellectual translation of the work, from one language into the other and from one age to another, paralleled Jerome’s actual travel from the East to Rome via Constantinople. The combination of the senatorial historical tradition and the ascetic faith of the Christian monks aimed to satisfy Roman social and ecclesiastical elites, among whom Jerome was hoping to play a relevant role. To conclude, if cultural exchange implies equality and debate, we may doubt that it ever happened in Antiquity; in this period we observe unbalanced situations (Greeks and Romans against the barbarians) and, at best, the coexistence of separate realities (Greeks and Latins, or Greek-speakers and Syriac-speakers). However, multilingualism was frequent, though mostly in favour of Greek and Latin, the languages of the administration and of culture in both the secular and in the religious domain. To be sure, Late Antiquity saw a more marked interest in Latin on the part of Greek-speaking people, the development of new ecclesiastical cultures (mostly in Syriac, where a philosophical culture is also attested from the sixth century on), and a wide circulation of persons and information. But in the domain of history, intercultural transmission remained feeble because of the weight of the classical traditions and of the cultural references linked to Roman power and to the model of the paideia. Little external material was integrated into the Greco-Roman tradition, besides the ethnographic excursuses of the classicising historians and some mission accounts in the ecclesiastical histories, which attest rather to cultural contacts than cultural exchanges or transfers. On the other hand, the latter are well attested, particularly in the case of translations of Christian chronicles and ecclesiastical histories. Finally, the clearest indication of cultural exchanges in the fourth century is the existence of pagan Greek-speaking men of letters who chose the Latin language to express themselves, such as the Syrian Ammianus Marcellinus or the Egyptian Claudianus.

TRANSLATING EUSEBIUS’ “CHURCH HISTORY” IN THE WEST AND IN THE EAST: RUFINUS AND HIS CONTEMPORARY SYRIAC COLLEAGUE S.A. ROBBE – C. NOCE

Translation as a complex activity, comprising the transposition of concepts, ideas and categories from one culture to another, is an object of increasing interest in a number of disciplines, adopting a variety of approaches, with the result that today we may speak in the plural of ‘Translation studies’.1 Among the most important acquisitions in this prolific branch of studies is, first of all, the awareness of the fact that every translation must also be considered as a work of literature in its own right, not merely used as a source for the philological reconstruction of its own Vorlage. The aim of the present contribution is to analyse some aspects of the Latin and Syriac translations of Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica (H.E.),2 two very ancient versions and, as such, inserted by E. Schwartz in the critical apparatus of his edition.3 They are, in fact, not only precious witnesses of an ancient phase of the Eusebian text, but, considered from the point of view of the techniques and the linguistic and conceptual strategies of translation, they are also inestimable sources for reconstructing the main features of the cultural and theological contexts in which they were produced and intended for circulation. For this purpose, we will draw attention to some passages in which the Latin and Syriac translations show remarkable discrepancies with Eusebius’ text. RUFINUS’

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Rufinus made his translation of Eusebius’ H.E. at Aquileia, probably between late AD 401 and early AD 402,4 at the request of bishop Chromatius, who 1 ‘Translation studies’ has become an academic discipline characterised by a complex web of themes and approaches, whose theoretical speculations have contributed to a renewal of interest in the study of translation from different perspectives. 2 This contribution consists of two parts: one about Rufinus’ translation, by Sabrina Antonella Robbe (pp. 29-44), the other about the Syriac translation, by Carla Noce (pp. 44-60); the Introduction and the Conclusions are co-authored. 3 S. TODA, The Syriac Version of Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History Revisited, in Studia Patristica, 46 (2010), pp. 333-338 (p. 337), analyses Schwartz’s use of the Syriac version in his apparatus and concludes that Schwartz’s edition is not above criticism, thereby inviting a re-appraisal of the relationship between the Greek original and the Syriac version. 4 C.P. HAMMOND BAMMEL, The last ten years of Rufinus’s life and the date of his move South from Aquileia, in Journal of Theological Studies, 28 (1977), pp. 372-429 (pp. 373, 392, 428). At

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aimed at providing an edifying distraction and a ‘medicine’ for Christians in his diocese during the grievous invasion of Italy by the Goths.5 The work, which also contains two additional books composed with the purpose of carrying on Eusebius’ narrative up to Theodosius’ death (AD 395),6 was the first ecclesiastical history written in Latin: it was immediately and widely circulated in the West, where it acted as an intermediary for the knowledge of early Christian history for centuries, and soon became a model for later historiographers.7 Rufinus’ work has long been criticised by scholars. In regards to the books he translated from Greek, many academics have criticised the freedom with which he omitted, abbreviated, transposed, expanded and corrected the original text: his version was often regarded as a free paraphrase, sometimes inaccurate and written in a careless style.8 Likewise, in the additional section, critics have pointed out chronological inexactitudes and condemned the great emphasis on miracles and the lack of interest in citing sources, due to which Rufinus’ work looks less scientific in comparison to Eusebius’.9 However, in the light of the most recent criticism, the Latin rendition of H.E. should be re-evaluated and included in the long-lasting tradition of Latin translations and its artistic and literary peculiarities.10 Moreover, some variants, which that time, very few people in the West understood Greek and translation was the only way to make Eastern literature accessible to them. Rufinus, who was one of the most prolific Latin translators, followed the typical strategies of the Latin vertere; see C. LO CICERO, Tradurre i Greci nel IV secolo. Rufino di Aquileia e le Omelie di Basilio, Rome, 2008; A. GRAPPONE, Omelie origeniane nella traduzione di Rufino: un confronto con i testi greci, Rome, 2007; S.A. ROBBE, I martiri Marino e Asterio di Cesarea: dalla Historia Ecclesiastica di Eusebio di Cesarea ai martirologi occidentali attraverso Rufino di Concordia, in Sanctorum, 10 (2013), pp. 247-266. 5 See the preface to H.E. in E. SCHWARTZ – TH. MOMMSEN (eds), Eusebius Kirchengeschichte, herausgegeben im Auftrage der Kirchenväter-Commission der Konigl. preussichen Akademie der Wissenschaften von Eduard Schwartz, Die lateinische Übersetzung des Rufinus bearbeitet im gleichen Auftrage von Theodor Mommsen, Leipzig, 1903-1909, II, pp. 951-952. 6 F. THELAMON, Païens et chrétiens au IVe siècle. L’apport de l’Histoire ecclésiastique de Rufin d’Aquilée, Paris, 1981. 7 P.F. BEATRICE, De Rufin à Cassiodore. La Réception des Histoires ecclésiastiques grecques dans l’Occident Latin, in B. POUDERON – Y.M.DUVAL (eds), L’historiographie de l’église des premiers siècles, Paris, 2001, pp. 237-257; L.CICCOLINI – S. MORLET, La version latine de l’Histoire ecclésiastique, in S. MORLET – L. PERRONE (eds), Histoire ecclésiastique. Commentaire. Tome I: Études d’introduction, Paris, 2012, pp. 243-266 (pp. 244-248); F. THELAMON, Rufin: l’Histoire ecclésiastique et les lecteurs occidentaux, in M. GIROLAMI (ed.), L’Oriente in Occidente. L’opera di Rufino di Concordia [colloque de Portogruaro, 6-7 dicembre 2013] (Supplementa Adamantius, IV), Brescia, 2014, pp. 163-178. 8 E. KIMMEL, De Rufino Eusebii interprete, Gerae, 1838; SCHWARTZ – MOMMSEN (eds), Eusebius Kirchengeschichte [see note 5] I, p. ccli; J.E.L. OULTON, Rufinus’ translation of the Church History of Eusebius, in Journal of Theological Studies, 30 (1929), pp. 150-174; H. HOPPE, Rufin als Übersetzer, in A. GEMELLI (ed.), Studi dedicati alla memoria di Paolo Ubaldi, Milano, 1937, pp. 133-150. 9 M. HUMPHRIES, Rufinus’s Eusebius: translation, continuation, and edition in the Latin Ecclesiastical History, in Journal of Early Christian Studies, 16 (2008), pp. 143-164. 10 L. CICCOLINI – S. MORLET, La version latine [see note 7], pp. 256-260; S.A. ROBBE, Ecclesiasticam historiam in Latinum vertere. Rufino traduttore di Eusebio di Cesarea: persecuzioni e martiri,

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are not to be ascribed to Rufinus’ interpretative choices, can help to restore a drafting phase of Eusebius’ original work, a phase which seems to be rather ancient but is not traceable in manuscripts.11 This kind of variation is not examined in this paper, which focuses on what Rufinus voluntarily changed when translating H.E. Changes of a theological character H.E. contains two passages dealing with theological questions: the introduction with which Eusebius prefaced his work (I.1-4) and the panegyric at Tyre (X.4.1), which is not in the Latin version. In these passages, the author develops a trinitarian and christological doctrine that looks very close to subordinationism.12 In I.1-4 he theorises a vertical hierarchy within the Holy Trinity, in which the Son occupies a lower position than the Father, as the ‘second cause’ (δεύτερον αἴτιον, I.2.3; I.2.5; I.2.8; I.2.11) and ‘second Lord’ (δεύτερον κύριον, I.2.9) after the Father; in his opinion, the Father’s nature is non-generated and eternal, whereas the Son’s one is generated and not eternal, for He has existed since the creation and before it (ὁ προὼν ... λόγος, I.2.8; οὐσία τις προκόσμιος, I.2.14; προῆν, I.2.16; τοῦτ᾿ ἐστὶν πρὸ τῆς τοῦ κόσμου συστάσεως, I.3.18; θεοῦ λόγον προόντα καὶ πρὸ αἰώνων ἁπάντων οὐσιωμένον, I.3.19); moreover, the Son is regarded as the only being directly generated by the Father (τοῦ θεοῦ γέννημα, I.2.3; ἡ πρωτόγονος καὶ πρωτόκτιστος τοῦ θεοῦ, I.2.21), whereas all the other beings were created by the Father and the Son together. When translating these chapters, Rufinus amended the text by eliminating or correcting heterodox statements. First of all, he omitted words concerning some kind of hierarchy between the Father and the Son (I.2.3; I.2.5; I.2.8; I.2.11) or replaced them with expressions stressing the eternity of the Son (lux aeterna et ante mundi initium semper fuisse praedicatur; qui ... semper fuisse et initio iam fuisse ex ipso patre natus et cum patre sempiternus extitisse, I.2.3) and the divine nature which He shares with the Father (ut hoc ipsum sit ille qui natus est, quod est ille qui genuit, I.3.18). Sometimes the translator highlighted the generation (not creation) of the Son from the Father (ex ipso patre natus, I.2.3) Brescia, 2016. The traditional process of translation into Latin (Latin vertere) has specific features: see for e.g. S. MARIOTTI, Livio Andronico e la traduzione artistica. Saggio critico ed edizione dei frammenti dell’Odyssea (Pubblicazioni dell’Università di Urbino, Serie di Lettere e Filosofia, 1), Milano, 1952; P. SERRA ZANETTI, Sul criterio e il valore della traduzione in Cicerone e Gerolamo, in Atti del I Congresso Internazionale di Studi Ciceroniani (Roma aprile 1959), Roma, 1961, vol. II, pp. 355-405; A. TRAINA, Vortit barbare. Le traduzioni poetiche da Livio Andronico a Cicerone, Roma, 1970. 11 CICCOLINI – MORLET, La version latine [see note 7], pp. 260-266. 12 According to subordinationism, the Son and the Holy Spirit are subordinate to God the Father. This solution, which was very close to the Arianism, was in opposition to the NiceneConstantinopolitan formula concerning the Holy Trinity.

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and the equal role they had in creating the world (cum patre omnia quae sunt creasse et condidisse, I.2.3; creator omnium cum patre filius, I.2.6; verbum dei et deus et dominus et creator omnium cum patre filius, I.2.14). Finally he introduced terms dealing with His individual substance (sapientia substantialis and substitisse are added in I.2.3, substantialiter in I.2.14), which theologians specifically applied to the Trinity.13 In a similar way, Rufinus corrected I.2.1, where Eusebius seems to be very close to Apollinaris’ Logos-sarx model,14 by stressing that divine and human natures are perfectly combined in Jesus Christ and neither of them is predominant (et divina in eo pariter atque humana natura plenitudinem tenet).15 As Rufinus aimed at improving the orthodox character of his text, he sometimes added some new considerations which perfectly fit in with the Nicaean and Constantinopolitan creed: e.g. he underscores the role of the Holy Spirit as the One who inspired the prophets and the Bible (in his voluminibus, quae divino spiritu conscripta creduntur; Iohannes ... spiritu dei repletus, I.2.3) and who anointed the Christ (qui non olei liquore, sed virtute caelestis spiritus consecretur; et non oleo humano, sed paterno spiritu perunctus, I.3.18). One of the most evident changes is in I.3.18, where Rufinus offers a spiritual exegesis of Ps. 110.3 quoted by Eusebius with the purpose of confirming that the Son existed before the other creatures (πρὸ ἑωσφόρου μέν, τοῦτ᾿ ἐστὶν πρὸ τῆς τοῦ κόσμου συστάσεως). As the Psalmist describes God in an anthropomorphic language (de ventre ante luciferum genui te), which may seem inappropriate for the invisible and incorporeal God, Rufinus explains that the text, when ‘figuratively and mystically’ (tropicis ac mysticis legibus) interpreted, shows that the Father and the Son share the same perfect, incorporeal and divine nature.16 Furthermore, the allegorical explanation of the Psalm excludes heterodox 13 M. MARTINEZ PASTOR, Algunas particularidades del latín cristiano de Rufino de Aquileia, in Durius, 1 (1973), pp. 63-75 (pp. 74-75). Rufinus uses substantia and subsistentia to translate ὑπόστασις in Periarchon (e.g. I.1.3; I.2.2; I.2.8); see M. SIMONETTI (ed.), I Principi di Origene, Turin, 1968, p. 130 n. 14, p. 143 n. 9, p. 153 n. 47 and references therein. 14 Apollinaris, who was the bishop of Laodicea (ca 310-390) and an opponent of Arianism, in order to emphasize the divinity of Jesus, stated that Christ had a spiritualized form of humanity. Rufinus condamned Apollinaris and his theory in Expositio Symboli 11 (probably written in 401) and in Historia ecclesiastica II.20. 15 See C. NOCE, Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica in Syriac and Latin: A First Comparison, in Aramaic Studies, 14 (2016), pp. 98-117 (pp. 111-112). 16 ‘Figuratively and mystically it is stated that not from outside and from elsewhere the Father appointed heir (substituerit) the Son, but from himself (ex semet ipso) and, if I may say so, from his entrails (de interioribus suis), so that the One who was born is the same as the One who generated (hoc ipsum sit ille qui natus est, quod est ille qui genuit), and He does not seem to be taken from outside by a law of adoption (ne adoptionis lege extrinsecus videatur adsumptus), but (...) He is thought to be emitted from the inside (intrinsecus editus) respecting the principle of incorporeity and the truth of nature (salva reverentia incorporalitatis ... veritate naturae)’. The English translations of Rufinus’ H.E. are my own.

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theories, such as adoptionism,17 which Rufinus explicitly mentions (ne adoptionis lege extrinsecus videatur adsumptus), and anthropomorphism, which is evidently involved in this passage and from which Rufinus had already distanced himself.18 Thus Rufinus talks about the same Psalm, but provides an interpretation different from Eusebius’. Looking at these changes, it may be surprising that Rufinus was not equally cautious in omitting or dampening some other passages which were involved in the Arian or the Origenist controversies:19 Prov. 8.22 ff.,20 for example, is quoted in I.2.14-15 without even avoiding the verb creavit.21 In correcting Eusebius’ exposition, Rufinus seems to have taken the same approach he took when translating Origen’s De Principiis,22 but with a different purpose: there he wanted to prove the orthodoxy of his ‘teacher’,23 whereas here he aimed at defending himself from accusations and confirming his perfect orthodoxy.24 Besides this, Rufinus seems to have pursued pastoral aims in providing a very orthodox text, avoiding doctrines that may have aroused doubts in his readers or made them interested in positions that the Church expressly condemns. The educational purpose, which is distinctive of Rufinus’ translations,25 17 Adoptionists believed that Jesus was a man, who was adopted as the Son of God at his baptism, resurrection or ascension. 18 Apologia contra Hieronymum I.16-20. 19 The Origenist controversy troubled the Church between the end of the fourth century and the beginning of the fifth (R. ALCIATI – F. FATTI [eds], La controversia origenista: un affare mediterraneo, in Adamantius, 19 [2013], pp. 7-202); it involved Rufinus, who had translated some of Origen’s works into Latin and sometimes defended the theologian’s reputation: see F.X. MURPHY, Rufinus of Aquileia (345-411). His Life and Works, Washington, pp. 138-153). 20 Arians found in this text the confirmation of the Son’s creation; see M. SIMONETTI, Sull’interpretazione patristica di Proverbi 8,22, in M. SIMONETTI, Studi sull’Arianesimo (Verba Seniorum, 5), Rome, 1965, pp. 9-87. 21 Dominus creavit me (gr. Κύριος ἔκτισέν με) initium viarum suarum in opera sua, ante saecula fundavit me (gr. ἐθεμελίωσέν με), in initio priusquam terram faceret, antequam prodirent fontes aquarum, priusquam montes fundarentur, ante omnes autem colles generavit me (gr. γεννᾷ με). 22 See A. GRAPPONE, Omelie origeniane nella traduzione di Rufino: un confronto con i testi greci, Rome, 2007; S. FERNÁNDEZ, Gli interventi dottrinali di Rufino nel De Principiis di Origene, in M. GIROLAMI (ed.), L’Oriente in Occidente. L’Opera di Rufino di Concordia, Atti del Convegno Internazionale promosso dalla Facoltà Teologica del Triveneto e dal Gruppo Italiano di Ricerca su Origene e la Tradizione Alessandrina (Portogruaro, 6-7 dicembre 2013) (Supplementi di Adamantius, IV), Brescia, 2014, pp. 27-44. 23 F.X. MURPHY, Magistros meos nec muto nec accuso: Rufinus on Origen, in Augustinianum, 26 (1986), pp 241-249. 24 During the Origenist controversy, Rufinus was suspected of heresy and had to demonstrate his complete adherence to the Catholic faith; see MURPHY, Rufinus of Aquileia (345-411) [see note 19], pp. 138-153; M. SIMONETTI, L’attività letteraria di Rufino negli anni della controversia origeniana, in Storia ed esegesi in Rufino di Concordia, Atti del II Convegno Internazionale di Studi. Concordia-Portogruaro-Sesto al Reghena, 18-20 May 1990, Udine, 1992, pp. 89-107. 25 In the prefaces to his works, Rufinus frequently stresses the profectus legentium, that is the spiritual progress and the confirmation in the true faith he wishes to give to his readers (see LO CICERO, Tradurre i Greci nel IV secolo [see note 4], pp. 118-120 and references therein).

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fits in with Chromatius’ aims,26 and it was probably also the influence of Chromatius that caused Rufinus to resort to spiritual exegesis.27 Terms concerning ascetic life and continence Very few references to asceticism appear in H.E., and these are mostly quoted from De vita contemplativa of Philo, who talks about men and women leading some kind of ascetic life in Egypt in his time. Rufinus seems to have been aware of the differences between this type of asceticism and the one he experienced in the East,28 as he twice specifies that ‘now’ people lead an ascetic life ‘in churches and in monasteries’ (qui nunc in ecclesiis vel in monasteriis degunt, II.17.3; quae a nobis vel in ecclesiis vel in monasteriis exercentur, II.17.4). Nevertheless, Rufinus often added more details and introduced new interpretations, which do not fit very well with the original description and sometimes seem to have arisen from anachronistic misunderstandings. For instance, when Philo mentions isolated rooms, called σεμνεῖον or μοναστήριον, where ascetics used to stay alone (μονούμενοι) in their houses (II.17.9), Rufinus, who knew a different kind of monasterium (not a room, but a building, like the one where he lived in Jerusalem with other monks), talks about ‘houses devoted to prayer’ (consecrata orationi domus) located in several places (in singulis locis). He also suggests that ‘σεμνεῖον in our language probably means a little company of virtuous men (honestorum conventiculum)’ who lead a separate honest and continent life (secedentes ... honestae et castae vitae) strengthened through continuous spiritual exercises (in ... disciplinis atque exercitiis ... studiis iugibus). Rufinus is inclined to accentuate the praise of the ascetic virtues, such as continence and chastity: he puts emphasis on those who did not take food for many days, as they were ‘more hungry for wisdom’ (II.17.17) and praises the 26 Chromatius devoted his life to the defence of orthodoxy, struggled against Arianism, which he helped to eject from the North of Italy, and engaged in educating the believers of his diocese in theological and moral matters; on Sermones see R. MCEACHNIE, A History of Heresy Past: The Sermons of Chromatius of Aquileia, 388-407, in Church History, 83.2 (2014), pp. 273-296. As Rufinus says in the preface to H.E., Chromatius asked him for a ‘medicine’ against the pestifer morbus brought by the Goths, who were not only cruel and violent, but also Arian. 27 Rufinus prefaced the works dedicated to Chromatius with spiritual explanations of biblical texts (H.E. and Origens’ Homilies on Joshua); this attitude suggests that he shared the same interests as his client (C. LO CICERO, Cromazio committente di traduzioni, in P.F. BEATRICE – A. PERŠIČ [eds], Chromatius of Aquileia and His Age, Turnhout, 2011, pp. 227-252). The exesegis of Ps. 110.3 also recalls Origen, who suggested that the anthropomorphic language in the Bible should be interpreted in a figurative sense (Periarchon II.8.5). 28 F.X. MURPHY, Rufinus of Aquileia (345-411) [see note 19], pp. 28-58; F. THELAMON, Modèles de monachisme oriental selon Rufin d’Aquilée, in Aquileia e l’Oriente mediterraneo. Udine, 1977, pp. 323-352. Rufinus also translated Basil’s Instituta monachorum (K. ZELZER [ed.], Basili Regula a Rufino Latine versa [CSEL, 86], Vienna, 1986) and the Historia monachorum (E. SCHULZ-FLÜGEL [ed.], Tyrannius Rufinus. Historia monachorum sive de vita sanctorum patrum, Berlin, 1990).

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sacred virgins by comparing their bodies, which they rescued from lust, to a ‘vase destined to catch wisdom’ (vas ad capiendam sapientiam, II.17.19). Probably the praise of ascetic virtues concerns those confessors, who in Lyon humbly refused the title of martyr (V.2.4): Rufinus states that they were ‘humble towards brothers, proud towards persecutors, mild with friends, contemptuous with enemies, submissive to Christ, proud to the devil’, ascribing to them distinctive monastic qualities, first of all humilitas. Moreover, in the Latin version of H.E., some martyrs are similar to monks and ascetics, because they lived in chastity and practised spiritual exercises before suffering martyrdom (e.g. Lucian of Antioch, VIII.13.2).29 Above all, Rufinus seems to be interested in female asceticism and exalts women who defended their purity to the death, as the case of a matron in Rome who divorced her husband who refused to lead a chaste life with her (IV.17.2-8), or a mother who committed suicide with her daughters in Antioch in order to preserve their chastity (VIII.12.3-4), or a noble woman who rejected Maximinus’ courtship in Alexandria (VIII.14.15): in the Latin text she becomes a sacred virgin (virgo deo sacrata) and a model for other ascetics and martyrs (VIII.14.16).30 The translation of documents quoted by Eusebius Eusebius frequently cites passages from other authors (mostly belonging to Greek literature, with the most important exception of Tertullian) and preexistent documents (such as epistles and imperial rescripts, mostly translated from Latin originals). As for literary works, Rufinus sometimes seems to have had the original texts at his disposal, since he completes or corrects Eusebius: scholars believe that he knew Clement of Alexandria’s Hypotyposeis31 and Flavius Josephus’ Bellum Iudaicum and Antiquitates Iudaicae.32 Rufinus had Tertullian’s Apologeticum 29 For further examples see S.A. ROBBE, ‘Martiri’ e ‘confessori’ nella Storia ecclesiastica di Rufino di Concordia: un confronto con Eusebio, in Latinitas, 4 (2016), pp. 41-70 (pp. 67-68). 30 S.A. ROBBE, Non solum pro pietate, verum etiam pro castitate. Martirio e castità nella Storia ecclesiastica di Rufino di Concordia, in Adamantius, 22 (2016), pp. 231-248. 31 J.E.L. OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 8], pp. 159-60. Rufinus specifies the books in which Clement talks about Cefas (in quarto Dispositionum libro, I.12.2) and alludes to his teacher Panteno (in septimo Dispositionum libro, V.11.2). We can not verify the accuaracy of this information, since Clement’s works are lost, but we can assume that Rufinus knew them from what he says in De adulteratione librorum Origenis; see B. SCHWARTZ, Unzeitgemäße Beobachtungen zu den Clementinen, in Zeitschrift für die Neutestamentliche Wissenschaft und die Kunde der Älteren Kirche, 31 (1932), pp. 151-199 (pp. 169-170). 32 OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 8], pp. 158-159. Rufinus completed the passages quoted in I.8.4 and I.8.15, where Eusebius refers to the crimes committed by Herod the Great against his family. However he did not use the Latin translations of Josephus’ works, but translated them directly from Eusebius (SCHWARTZ – MOMMSEN [eds], Eusebius Kirchengeschichte, III, p. CCLII; M. VILLAIN, Rufin d’Aquilée et l’Histoire ecclésiastique, in Recherches de Science Religieuse, 33 (1946), pp. 164-210 (pp. 179-180).

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at his disposal, as he generally preferred to reproduce the original text rather than translate it back into Latin (II.2.5-6 and II.25.4 = Apologeticum V.1-2 and V.3). But there are exceptions. In III.20.7 the text quoted by Rufinus is different from both Apologeticum V.4 and Eusebius’ rendering of it.33 The translator had already quoted this passage from the original in II.25.4, but replacing qua et homo with quasi homo, which he probably read in his manuscript: he seems here to have translated Eusebius’ rendering into Latin,34 but to have done so remembering the expression quasi homo that he had used before. In addition, Rufinus did not translate III.33.3 (Apologeticum II.6-7), where Tertullian refers to the correspondence between Pliny the Younger and Trajan, nor V.5.7 (Apologeticum V.7), where the author criticises Roman laws against the Christians and stresses that some emperors did not apply them. Villain thought that he omitted the first passage deeming it a well-known text;35 one could also think that he wanted to eliminate something superfluous or uncertain (in V.5.7 Eusebius concludes the quotation saying ‘but everyone should take these things as he wants’). In any case, these examples suggest that Rufinus did not follow a consistent philological criteria when re-translating Latin documents. Official texts, such as edicts and epistles with which emperors established how to behave towards the Christians, are rendered by Rufinus directly from Eusebius, without recourse to the Latin originals. Corruptions shared by Eusebius and Rufinus confirm this: for example, in the rescript of the Emperor Hadrian to Minucius Fundanus36 (IV.9) both call Serennius Granianus the man who preceded Minucius in his role.37 Rufinus explicitly declares that he had translated Galerius’ edict38 (VIII.17.6-10) from the Greek (‘these things, which have been translated from Latin into Greek, I rendered again in Latin’, VIII.17.11).39 Villain remarked that, in translating these rescripts, Rufinus stressed the emperors’ liberal instructions 33 Tertullian: Temptaverat et Domitianus, portio Neronis de crudelitate, sed qua et homo, facile coeptum repressit, restitutis etiam quos relegaverat. Eusebius: Πεπειράκει ποτὲ καὶ Δομετιανὸς ταὐτὸ ποιεῖν ἐκείνῳ, μέρος ὢν τῆς Νέρωνος ὡμότητος. Ἀλλ᾿, οἶμαι, ἅτε ἔχων τι συνέσεως, τάχιστα ἐπαύσατο, ἀνακαλεσάμενος καὶ οὓς ἐξηλάκει. Rufinus: Temptavit aliquando et Domitianus simile aliquid, portio Neronis de crudelitate, sed quasi homo cito destitit, ita ut etiam eos, quos in exilium miserat, revocaret. 34 Rufinus’ text contains some words which are not in Tertullian but do appear in Eusebius, such as aliquando (ποτὲ), cito (τάχιστα), simile aliquid (ταὐτὸ ... ἐκείνῳ), and quasi (maybe οἶμαι). 35 VILLAIN, Rufin d’Aquilée [see note 32], p. 181. 36 Gaius Minicius Fundanus, Roman senator, held several offices in the Emperor’s service, including the proconsulship of Asia, in which capacity he received Hadrian’s rescript. 37 His true name was Licinius Granianus. According to Eusebius, the original Latin document was quoted in the First Apology of Justin (LXVIII.6.10); it was afterwards replaced by a Greek translation (VILLAIN, Rufin d’Aquilée [see note 32], p. 181). 38 Through the Edict of Serdica (311), also called the Edict of Toleration, Galerius put an end to the Diocletianic persecution of Christianity in the East, by legalizing Christianity, which was, thenceforth, implicitly considered religio licita. 39 This edict was also known to Lactantius (De mortibus persecutorum 37), who seems to have the original text (VILLAIN, Rufin d’Aquilée [see note 32], p. 182 n. 2).

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and the wickedness of the slanderers, writing a more prolix and precise version of the texts.40 For instance, he makes a free paraphrase of the rescript of Antoninus Pius41 (IV.13) as it is interpreted by a Christian who rejoices at the emperor’s words ordering the end of the unfair persecutions: he highlights the heroism of the martyrs, who accuse the pagans of being ‘impious and godless’ (impios et sine deos, IV.13.3) and face death with courage; he accentuates the reproaching tone of the emperor, who gives the governors a ‘fair admonishment’ (iusta commonitione, IV.13.4), blames the pagans for converting ‘the common misfortunes in hostility’ against the Christians (ad illorum invidiam communes casus transfertis, IV.13.4) and for sending them to death ‘without a crime committed’ (absque ullo crimine, IV.13.7), and allots to the fake informers the same punishment which is usually assigned for the crime they have ‘alleged as an excuse’ (obiecit, IV.13.7). Rufinus also stresses the ‘moderation’ of the emperors (pari moderatione, IV.13.6), who did not allow the persecution of innocent people. The way Rufinus translated the two rescripts of Maximinus42 (IX.7.1-13; IX.9a.1-9) is even more interesting, for he did not render the whole texts, but produced a synthesis of them, keeping only the main points and introducing some new considerations. In the case of the first rescript, Rufinus minimised the thanks given by the emperor to the pagan gods for the prosperity they brought to the empire, and stressed the cruelty of the Roman religion, which welcomed Christian victims (acceptabiles victimae, IX.7.12), the wickedness of the persecutors and the bad intentions of the emperor, who wrote his laws in bronze tables to make them ‘last forever’ (velut in aeternum mansuras, IX.7.1). As for the second document, Rufinus probably thought it sufficient to give the readers only the main outlines of the decisions taken against the Christians; in this text he also accentuated the iniquity of the emperor, who wanted to destroy those who rejected the pagan idols (gentem tamquam deorum cultui adversam penitus esse delendam, IX.9a.1-9) and to prevent the increasing spread of Christianity through the empire. I do not agree with the idea that Rufinus gave less importance to official documents than Eusebius.43 Rather, I am convinced that he was more interested in showing the victory of religious toleration and the conversion of the wicked emperors, as the examples examined above suggest. This tendency reflects a VILLAIN, Rufin d’Aquilée [see note 32], pp. 180-182. Antoninus Pius’ rescript to the Council of Asia suggested that they had to follow Hadrian’s recommendations regarding the Christians and to report them only if they committed a crime, not for their religion alone. 42 In his rescripts, the Emperor Maximinus encouraged a return to paganism and authorised some urban authorities to expel Christians in order to regain the favour of pagan gods. 43 F. HEIM, Constantine dans l’«Histoire ecclésiastique» de Rufin: fidélités et infidélités à Eusèbe, in Euphrosyne, 29 (2001), pp. 201-210 (p. 204). 40 41

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peculiar view of history, one that looked for the evidence of God’s action in history and emphasised the triumph of the Christian religion: a view which Rufinus shared with many believers living in the fourth and fifth centuries.44 Biblical quotations This paper will not analyse the biblical quotations in H.E. in order to define the canon accepted by Rufinus. Scholars, who have already tackled this matter45 have shown that Rufinus aimed at eliminating any remarks of Eusebius’ which cast doubts upon the canonicity of some books (e.g. Letter to Hebrews, VI.22.15, Book of Wisdom and Proverbs, IV.22.9). I wish here to examine instead how Rufinus took useful texts from the Scriptures in order to improve and corroborate his reasoning, especially when trinitarian matters were involved. Thus, for instance, he quotes Ps. 32.6 to confirm that the Son took part in the creation (I.2.4) and often remarks that this truth can be inferred in many other biblical testimonies (plurimis vocibus sparsim per divina volumina creator omnium cum patre filius declaretur, I.2.6; claruit igitur ex his omnibus, quod verbum dei et deus et dominus et creator omnium cum patre filius designatus est, I.2.14). Elsewhere he stresses that the Scriptures were inspired by the Holy Spirit (in his voluminibus, quae divino spiritu conscripta creduntur, I.2.3), as it was assumed in Constantinople,46 and require a spiritual interpretation to be understood (mystica ... eloquia, I.2.3; mysticis ac sacratis ... eloquiis, I.2.4; mysticis vocibus, I.2.14; sabbata quaedam mystica, I.2.22; mystice institutus, I.3.5; compositione quadam mystica, I.3.9; intellectu mystico, I.3.15; tropicis ac mysticis legibus, I.3.18).47 Rufinus also finds in the Bible the correct interpretation of events. For example, he declares that the Christians in Caesarea accused themselves and became martyrs because they wanted to obey the Gospel saying ‘the Reign of God is to be captured by violence’ (VII.12; cf. Mt. 11.12 and Lk. 16.16); similarly he finds in Mt. 28.20 (‘I am with you always, to the very end of the age’) the reason why the beasts in the arena did not attack the martyrs (VIII.7.1). 44 Miracles are often remarked upon in H.E. as signs of the Divine presence: see THELAMON, Païens et chrétiens au IVe siècle [see note 36], pp. 329-452; L. DATTRINO, Rufino di Concordia agiografo, in Rufino di Concordia e il suo tempo, Atti del II Convegno Internazionale di Studi (ConcordiaPortogruaro, 18-21 Settembre 1986), Udine, 1987, vol. 1, pp. 125-167. 45 OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], pp. 156-158; Y.M. DUVAL, Rufin et le Canon de l’Ancien Testament. Fondements doctrinaux et arrière-plan pastoral de la controverse avec Jérôme sur la Bible des chrétiens, in Storia ed esegesi in Rufino di Concordia [see note 24], pp. 45-76 (pp. 69-74); E.L. GALLAGHER, Origen via Rufinus on the New Testament Canon, in New Testament Studies, 62 (2016), pp. 461-476. 46 The First Council of Constantinople (381 AD) confirmed and expanded the Nicene Creed by adding two articles regarding the Holy Spirit, the Church, baptism and the resurrection of the dead. 47 In his rendering of Periarchon, Rufinus calls mysticus the third level of the biblical exegesis; see M. SIMONETTI, Scrittura Sacra, in A. MONACI CASTAGNO (ed.), Origene. Dizionario: la cultura, il pensiero, le opere, Roma, 2000, pp. 424-437 (p. 436).

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Moral aims drove Rufinus to the point that he sometimes changed some words and distorted a quotation with the aim of confirming his statements. For instance, he states that Basilides’ conversion48 after he had helped the virgin Potamiena against her unchaste persecutors fulfilled Jesus’ promise that ‘the one who receives the martyr, will gain the martyr’s prize’ (qui recipit martyrem, mercedem martyris consequatur, VI.5.6): these words echo Mt. 10.40-41, where Jesus promises that those who receive prophets and righteous people shall receive the same rewards as those they receive. Yet Rufinus replaced the words propheta and iustus with the term martyr so as to connect the quotation to the case of Basilides, who, he implies, was rewarded as a martyr for having received the martyr Potamiena. Changes concerning martyrdoms and different interpretations of persecutions Persecutions and martyrdoms are one of the most important subjects in H.E.:49 Eusebius refers to the Christians who suffered torture and died for their faith all over the Roman Empire, but his narrative is particularly detailed when talking about the persecution of Diocletian and its consequences in Egypt and in the East. Rufinus frequently changed Eusebius’ account by introducing more information or episodes which are not in the original, giving a new interpretation to the stories or stressing the martyrs’ characteristics through stereotypes (e.g. constancy, firmness, superhuman endurance, contempt of torture, pagan gods and persecutors) which were typical of contemporary hagiography.50 Looking at these changes, one might think that Rufinus knew something more about these stories than what he had read in Eusebius: sometimes this may have been true, but in many cases it seems as though he used Eusebius’ account as a plot to be developed into a more detailed and captivating tale. For instance, in VIII.9.8 Rufinus emphasised the bravery and the endurance of bishop Phileas by inserting the speech that Philoromus51 is supposed to have pronounced during his interrogation:52 scholars believed that he quoted Philoromus’ speech verbally 48 Basilides was a soldier who excorted the virgin Potamiena to her place of execution and defended her from those who were bothering and insulting her; shortly after, he confessed to being a Christian and suffered martyrdom (H.E. VI.5). 49 T. O’LOUGHLIN, Eusebius of Caesarea’s conceptions of the persecution as a key of reading his Historia ecclesiastica, in V. TWOMEY – M. HUMPHRIES (eds), The Great Persecution: The Proceedings of the Fifth Patristic Conference, Maynooth, Dublin/Portland, 2009, pp. 91-105. 50 Many examples in ROBBE, Ecclesiasticam historiam [see note 10]. 51 Phileas, bishop of Thmuis, well known for erudition and public offices, and Philoromus, who held an important military position in Alexandria, suffered martyrdom in Egypt during the persecution of Diocletian (H.E. VIII.9.6-7). 52 ‘Why in vain and gratuitously do you put to the test the consistency of this man? Why do you want to make unfaithful he who retains faith in God? Why do you force him to deny God, in order to go along with the men? Do you not see that his ears do not hear your words? That his eyes do not see your tears? How can one whose eyes contemplate the glory of heaven be bowed by earthly tears?’.

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from the Acts of Phileas and Philoromus,53 but more recently Kortekaas has clearly shown that it is actually the other way round.54 Similarly, in the Latin version of VIII.12.3-4, a mother makes a long discourse with the purpose of convincing her two daughters to pre-empt the persecutors and commit suicide in Antioch by diving into the river:55 I have found no possible sources for this speech, and it is, therefore, highly likely that Rufinus composed it himself by reworking Eusebius’ account, exploiting some hints already contained in it but also inventing details which were close to his interests, such as the praise of chastity, the care in avoiding sensual pleasures, and the need to preserve corporal purity against perverted men and every kind of turpitude and impurity.56 Sometimes Rufinus’ changes look very evident and arbitrary: for instance, when talking about Dionysius of Alexandria57 (VI.40), who asked his saviours to thwart his executioners by cutting off his head, Rufinus completely rewrote the passage, so that the bishop scornfully suggests his persecutors to strike off his head and take it as a great gift to the tyrant (donum magnum ad tyrannum referte). The story has been totally altered: Dionysius, who had to defend himself from the accusation of cowardice, becomes, in Rufinus’ tale, a hero and a brave martyr.58 Portraits of prominent political figures and of Origen In Eusebius’ thinking, God rewards those who support the Christian faith with success and prosperity, but punishes those who persecute it or cause harm to orthodoxy by ruin, illness and misfortune raining down on them.59 Rufinus 53 H. DELEHAYE, Les martyrs d’Égypte, in Analecta Bollandiana, 40 (1922) pp. 5-154 (p. 7); OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], p. 171; F. HALKIN, L’“Apologie” du martyr Philéas de Thmuis (Papyrus Bodmer, XX) et les Actes Latins de Philéas et Philoromus, in Analecta Bollandiana, 81 (1963), pp. 5-27; T. CHRISTENSEN, Rufinus of Aquileia and the Historia ecclesiastica, lib. VIII-IX, of Eusebius, Copenhagen, 1989, pp. 65-75. 54 G.A.A. KORTEKAAS – G. LANATA (eds), ‘Acta Phileae’, in BASTIAENSEN et al. (eds), Atti e passioni dei martiri, Milano, 1987, pp. 247-337 (pp. 249-277). 55 The martyrdom of these three women is also recounted by Eusebius of Emesa (Oratio 6 de martyribus), Ambrosius of Milan (De virginibus III.7.33), John Chrysostomus (Homilia de ss. Bernice et Prosdoce and Homilia in quatriduanum Lazarum et de ss. martyribus Domnina, Bernice et Prosdoce) and Augustine (De civitate dei I.26). 56 For a more detailed analysis of this passage, see ROBBE, Ecclesiasticam historiam [see note 10], pp. 237-242. 57 Dionysius was bishop of Alexandria in the third century. Eusebius transmitted some of his writings and tells us that he risked his life because of his faith, during the persecutions. 58 S.A. ROBBE, Finalità e tecniche della traduzione della Historia ecclesiastica. Alcuni esempi, in M. GIROLAMI (ed.), L’Oriente in Occidente: l’opera di Rufino di Concordia, Brescia, 2014, pp. 179-200 (pp. 194-196). See also the case of the martyrs Marinus and Asterius of Caesarea in S.A. ROBBE, I martiri Marino e Asterio di Cesarea [see note 4]. 59 J.W. TROMPF, The logic of Retribution in Eusebius of Caesarea, in B. CROKE – A. EMMETT (eds), History and Historians in Late Antiquity, Sydney, 1983, pp. 132-146.

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shared a similar interpretation of human history;60 indeed, he seems to have been even more interested in portraying the defeat of the depraved emperors and the triumph of those who have been propitious to the Christians. For example, when describing Galerius’ illness61 (VIII.16.2-17.1), he underlines the more disgusting aspects of the disease (such as worms, purulent ulcers and the smell of putrefaction) and accentuates the moralistic nature of the narration by stressing Galerius’ pride (superbus) and associating it with the sins of gluttony (laetis ac saginatis carnibus) and luxury (carnes satis laetae et omni luxuria nutritae). He then talks about a doctor who, while waiting to be killed with those who had not been able to save the emperor, revealed the godly origin of his illness to Galerius and deplored his faults against God and the Christians.62 As Rufinus seems to be the only historian to relate this anecdote63, he probably invented it in order to correct Eusebius’s statement ‘the suffering of those evils made him understand what he has dared to inflict on God’s worshipers’ (VIII.17.1); he probably did not share the idea that Galerius could understand the truth about his life and about God’s presence in history on his own, so he made someone else, someone who was heavenly inspired, explain to him how the logic of retribution works. On the other hand, Rufinus attributes to the Christian emperors Constantine and Theodosius the characteristics of the religiosus princeps:64 they are pious, they receive election from God, they cause orthodoxy to triumph over paganism and heresies and consequently they are rewarded by heaven with prosperity and military victories. Furthermore, Rufinus tends to describe them in a hagiographical light:65 the portraits he traces show signs of the process of stylisation which had already modified the protagonists’ images by Rufinus’ time. For example, where talking about the Battle of the Milvian Bridge (IX.9), Rufinus adds a 60 J.W. TROMPF, Rufinus and the Logic of Retribution in Post-Eusebian Church Histories, in Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 43 (1992), pp. 351-371. 61 According to Eusebius (H.E. VIII.17.1), Galerius interpreted his illness as a punishment sent by the Christian god: for this reason he issued the edict of Serdica (311) which put an end to the persecution. 62 ‘Why, Emperor, do you err and believe that what God sends can be revoked by men? This disease is not human nor is cured by doctors. But remember how many things you have done against the servants of God and how much you have been impious and sacrilegious to the divine religion, and understand where you must seek remedy. In fact, I surely can die with the others, but you will not be cured by doctors’. 63 There is no trace of this episode in Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum XXXIII, Eutropius, Breviarium X.4, Aurelius Victor, De Caesaribus XL.4. Orosius’ account in Historiae adversus paganos VII.28, looks very similar to Rufinus’ H.E. VIII.13.11, from which it evidently derives. 64 F. THELAMON, Costantin religiosus princeps. La construction d’un modèle dans l’Histoire ecclésiastique de Rufin d’Aquilée, in G. CUSCITO (ed.), Costantino il Grande a 1700 anni dall’“Editto di Milano”: XLIV Settimane Aquileiesi, Aquileia, 30 maggio - 1 giugno 2013, Trieste, 2014, pp. 81-93. 65 DATTRINO, Rufino di Concordia agiografo [see note 44], pp. 140-146, 148-151.

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long passage, where he first describes Constantine, worried about the result of the war against Maxentius, ‘frequently raising his eyes to heaven (ad caelum saepius oculos elevaret) and praying for divine help’; then he refers to the dream (per soporem) in which ‘he saw in the eastern part of the sky the sign of the Cross shining with a fiery glow ... and angels standing next to him saying: “Constantine, τούτῳ νίκα”, that is “in this you win”’. This account shares some details with other sources, such as Lactantius (De mortibus persecutorum 44-46) in the connection between the battle of the Milvian Bridge and the vision of the cross, and Eusebius (Vita Constantini 1.28) in Constantine’s emotions and behaviour before the battle.66 But many aspects are markedly different and are probably the result of Rufinus’ interpretation,67 which evidently aimed at describing Constantine as the perfect Christian emperor and reflects imperial propaganda.68 Eusebius devoted a fair portion of book VI to Origen’s life and works.69 Rufinus frequently offers a more detailed report, which is probably due to an independent knowledge of the facts concerning the theologian (e.g. his journey to Greece through Palestine, VI.23.4), his school (e.g. the martyrs of Alexandria, VI.3.4) and to a personal study of his works (see e.g. the more precise description of Hexapla, VI.16 and the summary of the letter to Africanus, VI.31.1).70 It has been noted that, as Eusebius’ narration on Origen is very cautious and does not treat very controversial matters, Rufinus was therefore not compelled to censor or deeply modify the original text: so he mostly confined himself to improving the efficacy and the clarity of the writing, without strongly changing Eusebius’ interpretation.71

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Both state that Constantine was anxious and uncertain about the results of the campaign against Maxentius and describe him while he is praying and asking for God’s help; both consider the vision of the Cross as the divine answer to reassure the emperor about his imminent victory; both say that Constantine, after having seen the brilliant sign in the sky, was struck with amazement and was troubled. 67 For instance, Eusebius left Constantine in ignorance of the nature of the Christian God, whereas Rufinus informs us that he was already his devout follower, although he had not yet been baptized; in what follows, Rufinus states that, after the vision, the emperor traced the sign of the cross that he had seen in the sky on his forehead, just as if he were administering the sacrament that he had not yet received to himself. 68 The eyes raised to the sky seem to be distinctive of Constantine (see the coins struck after AD 325), and the cross ‘finely worked in gold’, which, according to Rufinus, the emperor used to hold in his right hand, probably recalls the imperial iconography (see C. WALTER, The iconography of Constantine the Great, Emperor and Saint, with associated studies, Leiden, 2006). 69 Origen, scholar and theologian, ran his school in Alexandria in the third century; his teachings spread throughout the Mediterranean, finding many followers and opponents, especially during the fourth-fifth century, when the Origenist Controversy arose. Both Eusebius and Rufinus were his admirers. 70 OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], pp. 160-164. 71 E. BONA, Origene nella versione di Rufino del VI libro dell’Historia ecclesiastica di Eusebio: interventi e differenti accentuazioni, in M. MONACI CASTAGNO (ed.), La biografia di Origene fra storia e agiografia, Villa Verucchio, 2004, pp. 289-310.

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Other additions or changes Since Rufinus had travelled both in the East and in the West, it is possible that he sometimes inserted into Eusebius’ text information that he had acquired by experience and culled from local traditions. Sometimes he seems to have a personal knowledge of what places mentioned by Eusebius looked like at the end of the fourth century. For example, where Eusebius remembers the ‘celebrated steles’ (στῆλαι διαφανεῖς, II.12.3) of Helena Queen of Adiabene, which at his time (εἰς ἔτι νῦν) were to be seen ‘in the suburbs of Aelia’ (ἐν προσατείοις ... τῆς νῦν Αἰλίας), Rufinus talks about a ‘noble tomb’ (sepulchrum nobile), perhaps a monumental burying-place, located ‘in front of the doors of Jerusalem’ (pro portis Hierosolymorum).72 Similarly, when Eusebius mentions the ‘cemeteries’ (κοιμητρίων, II.25.5) in Rome to which the names of Peter and Paul were attached ‘until now’ (εἰς δεῦρο), Rufinus talks about the ‘magnificent monuments’ (splendidissima monumenta) existing at his time (in hodiernum): he is evidently referring to the basilicas that Constantine had built in Rome in honour of the apostles over their original burial sites, which were enlarged and beautified by Valentinian II and Theodosius I.73 Soon after, Eusebius, quoting Gaius,74 states that the trophies of the apostles mentioned above were reachable ‘proceeding to the Vatican or along the Ostian way’ (II.25.7); now Rufinus talks about a via regalis leading to the Vatican (quae ad Vaticanum ducit) and a via Ostiensis: he seems to refer to the street that Jerome calls via triumphalis, which may have borne this alternative name.75 Through his journeys, Rufinus also seems to have acquired a deeper knowledge of some historical and cultural details. Several examples have been produced,76 but, in my opinion, not all of them come from local traditions. For instance, when Eusebius mentions some martyrs in Antioch who ‘had rather put their hands on fire than sacrifice’ to the pagan idols (VII.12.2), Rufinus introduces a detailed account of how they accepted the punishment and stood firm in the fire.77 Rufinus could have simply invented this story without knowing anything more about this affair, just by starting from Eusebius’ sentence and taking inspiration from Latin literature: in fact, the noble deed of the young martyrs closely resembles an anecdote about Mucius Scaevola78, which was OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], pp. 164-165. OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], p. 165. 74 Roman writer, who lived between the second and the third centuries. 75 OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], p. 165. 76 OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], pp. 166-167. 77 ‘After they have been captured, as they were forced to sacrifice to the idols, they said: “Lead us to the altar”. And when they were taken there, while placing their hands on the blazing fire, they claimed: “If we will remove them, do as if we had sacrificed”. And until all the meat dripped into the fire, they resisted immovable (immobiliter perdurarunt)’. 78 Mucius Scaevola was one of the greatest heroes in Roman history. According to Livius (Ab urbe condita libri CXLII 2.12.2), when he was captured by the Etruscan king Porsena, he showed his bravery by thrusting his right hand into a fire. 72 73

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well known to the Roman audience.79 This may reveal that Rufinus was not only indebted to the Latin tradition but also to Roman classical education: in Roman schools students used to practise ethopoeia, that is the ability to produce speeches suitable for particular characters in specific situations, and it is precisely this kind of exercise that probably helped Rufinus to create new monologues based on an existing core of truth, such as those attached to Philoromus and the women in Antioch mentioned above. A more ambiguous example is the case of the herb which, according to Eusebius, used to grow close to the statue of Christ and the woman with the issue of blood, which he had seen in Caesarea Philippi, and ‘climbed up to the fringe of the double cloak of brass and acted as an antidote to all kinds of diseases’ (VII.18.2): when translating this passage, Rufinus added that the herb acquired power by touching Jesus’ dress and could be used as a medicine when moistened.80 Rufinus could have derived this detail from local traditions81 or he could have invented it with the intention of explaining how the herb could become healthful both by miracle and chemistry; in any case, the detail is closely associated with the Gospel, where it is stated that the woman was healed by contact with the extremity of Jesus’s dress (Mt. 9.20-22). Similarly, when talking about the noble woman and the matron whom Maximinus and Maxentius tried to seduce in Alexandria and in Rome respectively (VIII.14.14-17), Rufinus adds their names: Dorothea and Sophronia. It is possible that he learned them while passing through those places; but he could also have invented them as ‘speaking names’, which seem to allude to the women’s virtues: Dorothea is a sacred virgin full of gifts (doron) from Heaven (theou), while Sophronia evidently possesses the virtue of sophrosyne, which makes her prefer suicide to being surrounded by the luxury of the emperor.82 THE SYRIAC TRANSLATION OF EUSEBIUS’ ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY The textual transmission The main witnesses for the Syriac translation of Eusebius’ H.E. are two manuscripts from the Nitrian Convent of St. Mary Deipara in Egypt. The oldest surviving Syriac manuscript (now preserved in the St. Petersburg Library, 79 63 See e.g. Cicero, Pro P. Sestio oratio 48; Seneca, Epistula 24.5-6; Tertullianus, Apologeticum 50.5. 80 ‘When the herb, growing up, has touched it from the highest point, it acquires the power of driving away all kind of diseases and weakness, so that every kind of bodily illness, whatever it is, is driven away by a tiny draught of the moistened healthful herb (haustu exiguo madefacti salutaris gramina), which has not any power if it is picked before it has touched the extremity of the fringe of bronze by growing up’. 81 OULTON, Rufinus’ translation [see note 32], p. 168. 82 V. NERI, Massenzio e Massimino coppia di tiranni (Eus., H.E VIII.14), in Adamantius, 14 (2014), pp. 207-217 (pp. 209-210 n. 17).

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Nouv. Ser. 1 = A), according to Wright,83 probably originates from Edessa. It was copied in AD 462 by one Isaac, for a person whose name has been erased in the colophon (f. 95), together with the date and other details.84 The other surviving Syriac manuscript (now preserved in the British Library, BL Add 14,639 = B), containing only the first five books of Eusebius’ H.E., can be dated on palaeographical grounds to the sixth century: Wright, describing its colophon (fol. 123b) affirms that ‘the name of the town where it was written has also been effaced, but may have been Edessa’. 85 Both manuscripts contain corruptions, which allow us to say that ‘the text presented by these MSS has evidently passed through the hands of several successive scribes.’86 A few extracts of the H.E. are extant in some other manuscripts preserved in the British Library and briefly described in Wright and McLean’s preface to their edition:87 the most important of them is that contained in BL Add 14620, fol. 5 f., which reports chapters 16.17 and 25 from the sixth book, completely missing in the main witnesses. In accordance with a tendency noted by Butts in a consideration of the transmission of the Hymns of Ephrem,88 our work has been transmitted as a whole in manuscripts from the fifth to sixth centuries, and in extracts from the eighth century on. A complete translation of Eusebius’ H.E. from Syriac into the Armenian language was made by an anonymous translator at a very early point, probably within the first half of the fifth century. According to the statement of Moses of Chorene,89 the Holy Mastoc (who died in AD 442) was the patron of this translation, which was carried out in Edessa in the AD 430s.90 This translation is very important for the reconstruction of the oldest stage of the Syriac version. In conclusion: – our terminus post quem is the first quarter of the fourth century, when the original Greek was written; 83 W. WRIGHT – N. MCLEAN (eds), The Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius in Syriac, Cambridge, 1898, p. VI. 84 A description of the manuscript can be found in WRIGHT – MCLEAN (eds), The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], pp. V-VI and in N.V. PIGULEVSKAYA, Katalog siriyskikh rukopisey Leningrada, in Palestinskiy sbornik, 6 (1960), pp. 3-196 (p. 49). 85 W. WRIGHT, Catalogue of the Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum, Acquired Since the Year 1838, London, 1872, III, p. XI. 86 Wright’s words reported by McLean in WRIGHT – MCLEAN (eds), The Ecclesiastical History, p. VII. 87 WRIGHT – MCLEAN (eds), The Ecclesiastical History, p. VII. 88 A.M. BUTTS, Manuscript Transmission as Reception History: the Case of Ephrem the Syrian (d. 373), in Journal of Early Christian Studies, 25.2 (2017), pp. 281-306. 89 History of the Armenians II.10. Moses claims that he was a pupil of the Holy Mastoc but no reference to him is to be found before the tenth century. 90 For an overview of the Armenian translation see J.P. MAHÉ, La version arménienne de l’Histoire ecclésiastique d’Eusèbe, in S. MORLET – L. PERRONE (eds), Histoire ecclésiastique. Commentaire. Tome I: Études d’introduction, Paris, 2012, pp. 277-284.

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– our certain terminus ante quem is AD 462, when manuscript A was copied, but the corruptions noticed in the textual witnesses suggest that the translation must have been carried out several years before: the AD 430s as the possible date of the Armenian translation, based on the Syriac version, might be a more precise terminus ante quem, but this date depends on the rather questionable account of Moses of Chorene; – we do not have any certain indication of the identity of the author of the Syriac translation or of the place where the translation was made; – although the Edessene origin of the mss A and B is highly probable, nevertheless, without reference to any known figure who might have commissioned the translation or its copy, we have no clear evidence that it originates from Edessa. The Syriac translation of Eusebius’ H.E. can be rightly classified, to use S. Brock’s terminology,91 among the reader-oriented free translations, with the focus being on the reader rather than on the text of departure; on the one hand, it is expositional, since the translator employed appropriate cultural equivalents, on the other tendentious, since the translator sought to impose his own views, especially with respect to theology. If there is a general agreement about the main characteristics of our translation and its most significant translation strategies,92 an investigation aiming to define the cultural milieux that produced this translation is still missing. In a recent contribution93 addressing both the Latin and the Syriac versions of the H.E., I have made some conclusive, albeit provisional remarks, suggesting that the 91 S.P. BROCK, Towards a History of Syriac Translation Technique, in A. LAVENANT (ed.), III Symposium Syriacum 1980 (OCA, 221), Rome, 1983, pp. 1-14 (pp. 10-11). 92 A first evaluation of the literary value of our translation, which freely renders the original text without losing the general sense, has been given by McLean in his Introduction to the edition and is based on a series of notes supplied to Dr. Wright by Dr. Field. Eberhard Nestle (E. NESTLE, Die Kirchengeschichte des Eusebius aus dem Syrischen übersetzt (TU, 6.2), Leipzig, 1901) has made a German translation of the Syriac version and in the preface has described its most significant characters. A more in-depth analysis of the Syriac translation has been provided by L. VAN ROMPAY, Some preliminary remarks on the origins of classical Syriac as a standard language. The Syriac version of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Ecclesiastical History, in G. GOLDENBERG – S. RAZ (eds), Semitic and Cushitic Studies, Wiesbaden, 1994, pp. 70-89; J.P. LYON, Syriac Gospel translations: a comparison of the language and translation method used in the Old Syriac, the Diathessaron and the Peshitto (CSCO Subsidia, 88), Leuven, 1994. While tracing an overview of Greek-Syriac translation practices, King (D. KING, The Syriac versions of the writings of Cyril of Alexandria. A study in Translation Technique [CSCO Subsidia, 123], Leuven, 2008, pp. 19-20) has presented the version of Eusebius’ H.E., whereas Toda (TODA, The Syriac Version [see note 3]) has focused his attention on the importance of the Syriac version for the reconstruction of the Greek text, underlying some criticism in Schwartz’s apparatus. Debié (M. DEBIÉ, La version syriaque de l’Histoire ecclésiastique d’Eusèbe, in S. MORLET – L. PERRONE (eds), Histoire ecclésiastique [see note 90], pp. 271-275) has provided an overview of the main questions and an introduction to the essential bibliography. 93 NOCE, Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica [see note 15], pp. 115-117.

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Syriac translation, characterised by a strict Nicene faith,94 a belief in a probably rather divisive Christology95 and a disregard for sophisticated allegorical exegesis, could find its natural Sitz im Leben in scholarly activities centred in schools and monasteries influenced by Theodore of Mopsuestia.96 In the present article I shall investigate further portions of the Syriac version in order to better define its possible background. Changes of a theological character97 The analysis of the following sections confirms the anti-Arian theological concerns of our translator, and provides us with additional clues that allow us to place his ideas within the framework of theological debates developed between the end of the fourth and the beginning of the fifth centuries.98 I will, therefore, analyse some use of the terms employed to define the Son. Describing the Son: only begotten and first begotten Among the modifications provided with a clear anti-Arian function, that is, those aiming to correct subordinationist statements contained in Eusebius’ text, a few are particularly interesting because they employ some words which played an important role in theological and Christological debates. The first passage to be analysed concerns the impossibility of expressing the origin, dignity, essence and nature of Christ in the human language: 94 Some passages of Eusebius’ text are tinged with subordinationism (i.e. the Son is regarded as subordinate to the Father) and so both Rufinus and the Syriac translator tried to correct them according to the Nicene Creed (325), which maintained the consubstantiality between the Father and the Son. The Syriac translator seems to have been more careful than Rufinus in avoiding any expression of subordinationism. 95 Namely, a theological view that emphasizes the separation between Christ’s human and divine natures. 96 Theodore of Mopsuestia (d. 428) was the most prominent interpreter of the Scriptures in the Antiochene theological tradition: strongly influenced by Diodore of Tarsus, both Nestorius and Theodoret of Cyrrhus were probably among his pupils. Although he died before the christological controversies of fifth-century arose, he was condemned posthumously as one of the originators of Nestorianism. Theodore and his works were anathematized as heretical in the Edict of the Three Chapters (443-444), issued by the Emperor Justinian and at the Second Council of Constantinople (553), under the same Emperor. 97 In this paragraph I shall summarise some of the results of my previous study, adding new arguments: this topic has been accorded greater significance because of its relevance to the investigation of the cultural background of the translator. 98 An interesting comparative example is puth forth by Fiano (E. FIANO, From ‘Why’ to ‘Why not’: Clem. Recogn. III 2-11, fourth-century Trinitarian debates, and the Syrian Christian-Jewish continuum, in Adamantius, 20 (2014), pp. 343-365, who, considering the Syriac translation of some passages from section III.2-11 of Pseudo-Clement’s Recognitiones, has convincingly affirmed that the translator offered a version of the text in a Homoiousian, broadly pro-Nicene, direction.

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H.E. I.2.2 Γένους μὲν οὖν καὶ ἀξίας αὐτῆς τε z{ĀÙsxÁüúÙs{èÙxÁËàÎãâï οὐσίας τοῦ Χριστοῦ καὶ φύσεως οὔτις ἂν ¿úóéx ÀĀáã ĀÙs ¿ćà ¿ÑÚþãx ÎÚïĀþäà εἰς ἔκφρασιν αὐτάρκης γένοιτο λόγος (Schwartz – Mommsen 1903-1908, p. 10) (Wright – McLean 1898, p. 7) No treatise, indeed, could be sufficient No word exists able to express the origin for a statement of the origin and dignity, and dignity of the essence of Christ. the very being and nature of Christ. (Lake, p. 13)

The Syriac omits the word ‘nature’ (φύσις), probably because the translator perceived the two Greek words as synonymous.99 In any case, the most important clue to the theological mindset of the Syriac translator is the use of the term À{ĀÙs (īthūthā) for rendering the Greek οὐσία. According to R.H. Connolly “īthūthā in theological (as distinct from philosophical) language can only represent οὐσία when applied to the Divinity. A Syrian might translate οὐσία, meaning the Divine οὐσία, by īthūthā, but — I speak under correction — he would not dream of using such an expression as ‘the īthūthā of the humanity’ in Christ, although οὐσία is frequently so used (e.g. by Nestorius)”.100 In another passage, the translator introduced a clause, which does not have any equivalent in the Greek of Eusebius, in order to explain better the relationship between the Father and the Son. H.E. I.2.3 τὸν τῶν γενητῶν ἁπάντων κύριον καὶ ÀÍàs{ÁüãâÝâï€z{ĀÙsx{z> ? ? ÌãÁËÐßÙsx¿Þáã{ θεὸν καὶ βασιλέα τὸ κῦρος ὁμοῦ καὶ τὸ ¿çÔàÎý{À{ κράτος αὐτῇ θεότητι καὶ δυνάμει καὶ èã ÁüúÙs{ À{Íàs{ ¿ćáÚÐ åï .ÍàĀÙs¿ÂsxÀ{ĀÙsx¿çÚÝ τιμῇ παρὰ τοῦ πατρὸς ὑποδεδεγμένον ... (Wright – McLean 1898, p. 8) (Schwartz – Mommsen 1903-1908, I, p. 12) The Lord and God and King of all begotten, who has received lordship and might, together with deity itself, and power and honour from the Father ... (Lake 1926, p. 13)

Him, who is Lord and God and King over all, has at once lordships and mights together with power, divinity and dignity from the nature of the essence of the Father ...

99 King (KING, The Syriac versions [see note 92], p. 137) underlines, for instance, that for Cyril and for his Syriac translator the word οὐσία, was synonymous with φύσις, both generally translated by ¿çÚÝ(kyānā). 100 R.H. CONNOLLY, ‘Appendix’, in J.F. BETHUNE BAKER, Nestorius and his Teachings: A Fresh Examination of the Evidence, Cambridge, 1908, p. 216.

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The word ¿çÚÝ(kyānā) means ‘nature’, and ‘is capable of all the shades of meaning in which we use ‘nature’’,101 rendering both the first and second Aristotelian substance,102 as well as the Greek οὐσία and φύσις. The most ancient and common term to translate the Greek homoousios is, in fact, kyānā preceded by the construct state bar- ‘Son of the kyānā of the Father’.103 A. de Halleux has clearly explained that this term was replaced about the year AD 500 by the expression ‘Son of the īthūthā of the Father’.104 In this sentence, the translator was likely to stress that all of the divine attributes of the Son come from His divine nature (kyānā meaning φύσις), distinct from the human and connected to the divine essence (īthūthā meaning οὐσία) of the Father. In another section, but in a very similar conceptual context, the Son is said to have received the honour of worship from the Father ‘according to the nature’: H.E. I.3.19 Καί ἐπὶ πᾶσι τούτοις οἷα θεοῦ λόγον ÀĀáã€z{ĀÙsxèÙÍáÝèÚàzåï{ > „Ëù èã Ëáُsx ÀÍàs προόντα καὶ πρὸ αἰώνων ἁπάντων οὐσι- ¿ćäáï ωμένον τήν τε σεβάσμιον τιμὴν παρὰ ÍàĀÙsÀËÆéxÁüúÙs{k…{ÍáÝ œ τοῦ πατρὸς ὑπειηφότα. Καὶ προσκυνεῖ- ËÅĀêã{ :ĀÙ¾çÚÝ€zÎÂsÎàèã èã €z{ĀÙs ÁüþÂx ÀÍàs ßÙs σθαι ὡς θεόν. A > .ÀÍàsÁüþ€z{ĀÙsx{z (Schwartz – Mommsen 1903-1908, I, (Wright – McLean 1898, p. 22) p. 36) And (he is glorified) above all, as the Logos of God, pre-existent, having his being before all ages, and having received the right of reverence from the Father, and that he is worshipped as God. (Lake 1926, p. 39)

And all together, (he is glorified) as the Logos God, who is begotten before all worlds, and who has the right of reverence from his Father according to the nature, and is worshipped as God, who truly is from who is truly God.

The addition of the adverbial form ĀÙ¾çÚÝ (kyānā’īth) suggests that the Logos God shares with the Father the right of reverence ‘according to the nature’ and 101 CONNOLLY, ‘Appendix’ [see note 100], p. 217; A. DE HALLEUX, La philoxénienne du symbole, in F. GRAFFIN – A. GUILLAUMONT (eds), Symposium Syriacum célebré du 13 au 17 Septembre 1976 au Centre Culturel “Les Fontaines” de Chantilly (France) (OCA, 205), Rome, 1978, pp. 295315 (pp. 301-302). 102 See S. GERBER, Theodor von Mopsuestia und das Nicänum. Studien zu den katechetischen Homilien (Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, 51), Leiden, 2000, p. 164. 103 Connolly, ‘Appendix’ [see note 100], p. 217. 104 This is the normal rendering of the Greek term after the revision of the old version of the Nicene Creed: see DE HALLEUX, La philoxénienne du symbole [see note 101], p. 301 ff., pp. 306-315; A. DE HALLEUX, Le symbole des évêques perses su synode de Séleucie-Ctésiphon (410), in G. WIESSNER (ed.), Erkenntisse und Meinungen II, Wiesbaden, 1978, pp. 161-190 (p. 179). In the Nicene Creed there is also the expression ‘He (the Son) is from the substance (īthūtā) of the Father’ À{ĀÙsèã ¿Âsx(F. SCHULTHESS, Die syrischen Kanones der Synoden von Nicaea bis Chalcedon nebst einiger zugehörigen Dokumenten [Abhandlungen der Königlichen Gesellschaft der Wissenschaften zu Göttingen, Philologisch-historische Klasse, N.F, X.2], Berlin, 1908, p. 2.17.

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not ‘accidentally’. The term seems to be reminiscent of the Arian debate, during which it had been discussed whether Christ had to be called Son of God φύσει or θέσει (or κατὰ χάριν).105 He has, therefore, a divine nature, which allows him to be worshipped as God. The modification ‘who is begotten before all worlds’ instead of ‘having his being before all ages’ is reminiscent of the clause contained in the Constantinopolitan Creed, whereas the addition ‘who truly comes from who is truly God’ is very similar to a clause present both in the Nicene and Constantinopolitan Creed:106 the latter aims to establish an equivalence between Nature and Truth.107 It is possible to observe another major tendency in the Syriac translation: the elimination of references to the Logos and the Wisdom as ‘the first begotten’. This concern is clearly seen in the rendition of the following sentence: H.E. I.2.3 Τὸ τε φῶς τὸ προκόσμιον καὶ τὴν .¿ćäáï „Ëù èãx üÚÅ ÁzÎçà πρὸ αἰώνων νοερὰν καὶ οὐσιώδην ¿Úáäþã ¿ćãÎçùx ÀĀäÞÑà{ Ÿ .¿ÚÐÀÍàsÀĀáäà{ σοφίαν τόν τε ζῶντα καὶ ἐν ἀρχῆ παρὰ €z{ĀÙsx{z τῳ πατρὶ τυγχάνοντα θεὸν λόγον τίς ἂν Îçã .€zÎÂs Îà ĀÚýü èã À{z πλὴν τοῦ πατρὸς καθαρῶς ἐννοήσειεν, ¿ćàs .ĀÙsüÚúÙ €zÎÚïĀæx Àøã πρὸ πάσης κτίσεως καὶ δημιουργίας ÁËáÙ €z{xÎÑá ÎÙ{zx ̇{Íà .¿Âs ? èÙÍáÞà åÙËùx .À{Íàsx ὁρωμένης τε καὶ ἀοράτου τὸ πρῶτον καὶ ÀĀÙÌ ? ? .èÙÏÐĀã¿ćàx{èÙÏ ÐĀãx μόνον τοῦ θεοῦ γέννημα (Wright – Mc Lean 1898, p. 7) (Schwartz – Mommsen 1903-1908, I, p. 10) And who except the Father would ever clearly conceive the ante-mundane light, and that wisdom which was intellectual and real before the ages, the living Logos who was, in the beginning, God by the side of the Father, the first and only offspring of God, before all creation and fabrication, both visible and invisible ... (Lake 1926, p. 13)

And who, except the Father, would ever worthily conceive the ante-mundane light and the Wisdom of the perfect hypostasis and the living Logos God, who was from the beginning by the side of the Father, the only begotten/child of Divinity, before all visible and invisible creatures.

105 The divinity of the Son according the nature was sustained not only by a Nicene like Athanasius (see e.g. Epistula ad Serapionem 2.6) but also by the so-called Ekthesis Makrostichos dating from AD 345 (text in M. SIMONETTI, Il Cristo, vol. II. Testi teologici e spirituali in lingua greca dal IV al VII secolo, Milan, 1985, p. 146.5). The same argument was developed, among others, by Theodore of Mopsuestia (see e.g. Homiliae Catecheticae 4.10). 106 We read in the Constantinopolitan Creed (381), according to the ancient Syriac version contained in the Antiochene canonical collection: ‘Who was begotten from the Father before all ? worlds’¿äáï… {ÍáÝ „Ëùèã¿Âsèã Ëáُsx(SCHULTHESS [ed.], Die syrischen Kanones [see note 104], p. 3.12-p. 3.l1); and in both the Nicene Symbol (325) and the Constantinopolitan Symbol (381): ‘very God from very God’ ÁüÙüý ÀzÍàs èã(x) ÁüÙüý ÀÍàs (SCHULTHESS [ed.], Die syrischen Kanones [see note 104], pp. 2.17-18, 3.l1-12). 107 For the same idea in Theodore of Mopsuestia see S. GERBER, Theodor von Mopsuestia und das Nicänum [see note 102], pp. 164-165.

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The translator probably tried to translate the adjective οὐσιώδην as ¿ćãÎçùx ¿Úáäþã(dqnūmā mšamliā). I have attempted to render this rather enigmatic Syriac expression as ‘the Wisdom of the perfect hypostasis’, as, for a fifthcentury Syriac Christian, qnūmā represented the common translation of the Greek hypostasis.108 The translator aimed to make it clear that the Wisdom was a perfect hypostasis existing before the world: it is noteworthy that even Rufinus translated it as sapientia substantialis, using the verb substitisse.109 The same expression ‘of the perfect hypostasis’ can be found in I.2.14, where it is said that the subject of the epiphanies of the Old Testament was ‘the living Essence’ (À{ĀÙsÀĀÚÐḥaithā īthūthā ) existing before the world, Ÿ which is perfect in its hypostasis (ÍãÎçú¿Úáäþãmšamliā bqnūmā), which partook with the Father and God of All in the construction of all created things, which was called ‘Word of God and Wisdom’:110 Rufinus translated this as substantialiter. Coming back to our section (I.2.3), it must be noted that the Syriac translation of τὸ πρῶτον καὶ μόνον τοῦ θεοῦ γέννημα has omitted any reference to the Wisdom as ‘first generation of God’, preserving only the concept of ‘only begotten’. The same omission of the title πρωτόγονος, attached on the one hand to the Logos111 and on the other to the Wisdom112 can also be observed in subsequent sections. The idea that the pre-existing Wisdom is the first begotten is to be connected, as is known, with the interpretation of Prov. 8.22-26 and especially of 8.25, with its reference to the generation of the Wisdom before all the created things.113 The correct exegesis of this verse and of the Christological epithets ‘only begotten’ (μονογενὴς θεὸς according to Jn. 1.18) and ‘first begotten’ (πρωτότοκος πάσης κτίσεως, Col. 1.1) was central to the exegetical and theological debates of the fourth century.114 Marcellus of Ancyra115 and, subsequently, with some differences, Athanasius116 imposed a strict distinction between the two Christological epithets, referring ‘first begotten’ only to Christ 108 CONNOLLY, ‘Appendix’ [see note 100], p. 226; KING, The Syriac versions [see note 92], pp. 148-149. 109 See above, Robbe, §2.1. 110 See also H.E. I.2.21: ‘The Wisdom of God, who is always the Logos, appeared in the form of a man’. 111 H.E. I.2.4 (SCHWARTZ – MOMMSEN [eds], Eusebius Kirchengeschichte, I [see note 5], p. 12; see Syriac text, WRIGHT – MCLEAN [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 8). 112 H.E. I.2.21 (SCHWARTZ – MOMMSEN [eds], Eusebius Kirchengeschichte, I [see note 5], pp. 22-24; see Syriac text, WRIGHT – MCLEAN [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 13). 113 Beginning with Marcellus of Ancyra, the Greek exegetes generally interpreted this verse as referring to the generation of Christ qua deus, whereas 8.22 referred to the incarnation: see SIMONETTI, Sull’interpretazione patristica [see note 20], p. 70. 114 Eusebius used the adjective πρωτόγονος, which early Christian writers commonly associated with the Son: see G.W.H. LAMPE, A Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford, 1961, p. 1199. 115 Marcellus of Ancyra (284-374) was a strong opponent of Arianism and he was condemned several times because he was accused of adopting Sabellianism (from Sabellus, third century), a doctrine that states that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit are not truly distinct but merely aspects of one divine being. 116 Athanasius of Alexandria (293-373) was the chief defender of Nicene orthodoxy against Arianism. During his life, he was exiled five times because of theological and politcal accusations.

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incarnate, and ‘only begotten’ to the pre-existing Christ. The same conception was shared by Theodore of Mopsuestia, who regarded the titles ‘first begotten’ and ‘only begotten’ as incompatible and, therefore, applied the former to the human nature of Christ and the second to the divine.117 It is, therefore, against the background of such an exegetical and theological tradition that the omission of the epithet πρωτόγονος and thereby the ideas bound up in this term, need to be set. Furthermore, our translator completely omitted the extended quotations from Prov. 8.22-26, mentioned by Eusebius some paragraphs further on to demonstrate that Wisdom is pre-existing; Rufinus, however, translated all of these quotations.118 Omitting the entire passage, the Syriac translator was probably following an exegetical tradition that refused to apply Prov. 8.22 to the pre-existent Logos, preferring to connect it to the incarnate Christ.119 It is also possible that he followed an even more sceptical interpretation, one which simply identified the Wisdom of Prov 8.22 with an attribute of the Divinity, which is speaking through the rhetorical figure of prosopopoeia. It is probably because of the natural association of the Christological title of Wisdom with the highly debated passage of Prov. 8.22-26 that omissions of references to the pre-existing Wisdom are very common throughout the Syriac translation.120 Furthermore, the rendering of the sentence ‘before all creation and fabrication’, both visible and invisible (singular), with ‘before all visible and invisible creatures’, is reminiscent of the first article of the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed, where the Father is said to be the Creator ‘of all visible and invisible creatures’.121 117 See Homilae Catecheticae 2.7-9.16 and 3.10-16 and S. GERBER, Theodor von Mopsuestia und das Nicänum [see note 102], p. 236. 118 H.E. I.2.14-16 (WRIGHT – MCLEAN [eds], The Ecclesiastical History, p. 8). About the difference between Rufinus and the Syriac translator in this very subject see above n. 18 and NOCE, Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica [see note 15]. 119 This largely shared tradition goes back to Marcellus of Ancyra and was continued, with some variation, by Athanasius, Gregory of Nazianzus, Gregory of Nissa, Dydimus, Epiphanius, Cyril, Ambrose and Augustine. The first to question the identification of the Wisdom of Prov. 8.22-26 with Christ was Gregory of Nazianzus. See SIMONETTI, Sull’interpretazione patristica, esp. pp. 69-72 and 86-87, with an in-depth analysis of the different exegesis. See also F. YOUNG, Proverbs 8 in Interpretation (2): Wisdom Personified. Fourth-Century Christian Readings: Assumption and Debates, in D.F. FORD – G. STANTON (eds), Reading Texts, Seeking Wisdom, London, 2003, pp. 102-115. 120 See H.E. I.2.11: omission of the Christological titles ‘Power’ and ‘Wisdom of God’ coming from 1 Cor. 15.24, a passage frequently used during the Arian controversy and beyond; I.2.14: omission of the quotations from Prov. 8.22-26; I.2-21: omission of the expression ‘the first begotten and first created Wisdom of God’; III.27.3: omission of the expression ‘pre-existing Wisdom’ beside ‘pre-existing Logos God’; III.32.8: the expression ‘Wisdom of God’, referring to the teaching of Jesus, is preserved; X.4.26: bishop Paulinus is bearing in his own soul the Image of Christ, that means Logos, ‘Wisdom of God’ and Light: the expression has been maintained. 121 The sentence according to the ancient Syriac version contained in the Antiochene canonical ? ? collection soundsÁxÎÃï èÙÏÐĀã¿ćàx{èÙÏ ÐĀãxèÙÍáÝ (SCHULTHESS [ed.], Die syrischen Kanones [see note 104], p. 2.15, p. 3.10-11).

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The language relating to the Incarnation As regards the language concerning the Incarnation, the translator was consistent in translating body as pagrā122 and in using the verb lbeš, either associated with the same pagrā123 or with nāšūthā (humanity):124 the archaic image of ‘clothing himself with a body’ or ‘with humanity’ was, in fact, standard before the sixth century.125 But our translator also employed the even rarer nalbeš barnāšā, which, as Brock observes, is first found in the Syriac version of Theodore of Mopsuestia’s Catechetical Homilies (3.5). The sentence is the following: ‘God (according to the prophets) will put on a man (¿þæü ÿÃáæ, nalbeš barnāšā) will come into the world (¿ćäáðà Íà À¾æ, ni’tē leh l‘ālmā) Unfortunately, the reading is not certain as there is an erasure in A, where a later hand has substituted À{zxdhwā ‘who is/who becomes’. In Wright-McLean’s apparatus it is specified: ‘the word appears to have been ÿÃáæ (from lbeš), for traces of the letter ƒ are visible in the second place. So the Armenian version (which has { before À¾æ).126 If the reconstruction of the erased text is correct, this is probably the first use of this image, a sort of innovation of the Antiochene Christological tradition,127 which would turn up only in East Syrian writers.128 This hint of Nestorianism would easily explain the need for a correction by a later reader. Once again, the theological vocabulary suggests a possible link with a milieu influenced by the Antiochene school, in particular, by the teachings of Theodore of Mopsuestia.

122

See H.E. I.1.8; I.2.23; I.5.1; I.7.11. H.E. I.2.23. 124 H.E. I.2.26; II.1.1. 125 See DE HALLEUX, La philoxénienne du symbole [see note 101], pp. 302-308. The significance of this terminology has been studied by S.P. BROCK, Christians in the Sassanian Empire: A Case of Divided Loyalties, in S. MEWS (ed.), Religious and National Identity: Papers Read at the Nineteenth Summer Meeting and the Twentieth Winter Meeting of the Ecclesiastical History Society (Studies in Church History, 18), Oxford, 1982, pp. 22-23. This terminology was favoured by Theodore of Mopsuestia: see J.W. CHILDERS, Studies in the Syriac versions of St. John Chrisostom’s Homilies on the New Testament with special reference to Homilies 6,20,22,23,37,62,83, and 84 on John, vol. I, Studies and Translation, Oxford, 1996 (Unpublished D.Phil.Thesis), pp. 246247. 126 WRIGHT – MCLEAN (eds), The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 14 n. 5. 127 The so called Antiochene School stressed the literal interpretation of the Bible and the integrity of Christ’s humanity, aiming to bring out the distinction between the divinity and humanity in Jesus Christ, in opposition to the School of Alexandria. Among its most significant theologians were Diodore of Tarsus, Theodore of Mopsuestia, John Chrysostom, Theodoret of Cyrrhus and Nestorius 128 BROCK, Christians in the Sassanian Empire [see note 125], pp. 16-17 observes that while the object of the expression ‘put on humanity’ is generic, in the phrase ‘put on man’ what is put on can be understood as a specific man. This peculiar phraseology seems to have led some theologians of the Alexandrinian theological tradition to become suspicious of any use of the clothing metaphor in connection with the Incarnation. Brock (p. 25) provides several examples of this use by the East Syrian writers. 123

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Terms concerning ascetical life and monasticism Quoting Philo’s passage about the ascetic life of the Therapeutae, Eusebius interprets them as proto-Christians, but not yet as monks, an interpretation at odds with that made by many readers of Eusebius’ text, from Jerome to modern scholars, including our Syriac translator.129 Nestle,130 considering the monastic terminology adopted by the Syriac translator in this section, underlines the richness of the Syriac vocabulary in comparison with the Greek. The Syriac translation ? ? 131 calls the ἀσκηταί ‘mourners’ (¿ćáÚÂs᾽abīlē); elsewhere ‘penitents’ (¿ÙÎçï   ? Ùiḥidāyē)133 Vööbus134 repeats ‘anwāyē),132 and several times ‘solitaries’ (¿ÙËÚÑ Nestle’s remark but in a misleading way, for he says: ‘At that time the ancient Syrian translator was dissatisfied with but one single Greek word μόναχος, which he found in the Greek original and replaced it with terms current among Syrians. The Syriac terminology at that time reveals a great richness in shade and breath of meaning so that one Greek term was rendered by no less than three Syriac terms: iḥidāye“solitaries”, ‘anuyē “hermits” and ᾽abīlē “mourners”. In view of this, we do not have the slightest hesitation in believing that the need for specialisation in the ascetic endeavours of primitive monasticism had left a deep imprint even upon this early stage of its history’. Apart from the fact that Eusebius’ original text does not contain the word μόναχοι but rather the term ἀσκηταί, Vööbus’ argument is based on the presupposition that our translation can be dated before the middle of the fourth century. This specialisation, instead, seems to be typical of a later stage of the ascetic life, dating to the fifth century, an age in which there was a coexistence of proto-monastic and new monastic ways of life. The term iḥidāyē belongs to the vocabulary of the ascetic-proto-monastic stage of Syriac Christianity,135 losing its original meaning over time to become almost synonymous with ‘monk’; the term abīlē, indicating mourners, can be used to refer to all monks, but has also a restrictive sense, indicating a special group ‘distinguished from the other 129 For detailed references see S. INOWLOCKI, Eusebius of Caesarea’s Interpretatio Christiana of Philo’s De vita contemplativa, in Harvard Theological Review, 97.3 (2004), pp. 305-328 (p. 307 n. 12). 130 E. NESTLE, Zur syrischen Übersetzung der Kirchengeschichte des Eusebius, in Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft, 56 (1902), pp. 559-564, pp. 560-562. 131 Tit. II (WRIGHT – MCLEAN [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 58). 132 H.E. II.16.1 (IIDEM [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 86). 133 H.E. II.17.2 (IIDEM [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 86); H.E. II.17.3 (IIDEM [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 86); H.E. II.17.6 (IIDEM [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 88). 134 A. VÖÖBUS, History of Ascetism in the Syrian Orient: a contribution to the history of culture in the Near East (CSCO Subsidia, 14, 17, 81), Louvain, II, pp. 34-35: he does not quote Nestle in the passage. 135 See S.P. BROCK, Eusebius and Syriac Christianity, in H.W. ATTRIDGE – G. HATA (eds), Eusebius, Christianity, and Judaism, Detroit, 1992, pp. 212-234.

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monks both by their dress and by their hair’.136 The third word, ‘anwāyē, can indicate either an ascetic or a monk.137 From the end of the fourth century, and especially during the fifth, all three words become common terms for monks, although each preserved something of its distinctive meaning. Regarding the dwellings of the ascetics, Eusebius introduces the term Churches (ἐκκλήσιαι)138 and, quoting from Philo, says that each house of the Therapeutae had a sacred dwelling, which was named a sacred oratory and monastery (σεμνεῖον καὶ μοναστήριον), where the Therapeutae, secluded and isolated, celebrated the sacred mysteries.139 The second Greek term, as is well known, would become technical and used to define a coenobitic dwelling. The Syriac translation modified the phrase, omitting the reference to the different buildings and simply saying that the author has described the dwelling of the ascetic (singular), which is similar to the Churches present everywhere: therefore, they have a sanctuary (¿þÙËùÀĀÚÂbaytā qadišā), which has been named a ‘house of chastity of solitude’ (ÀÎÙËÚÑÙxÀÎóÞæĀÚÂbeth nakhpūthā d-iḥidyuthā, tr. Nestle: A ‘Haus der Reinheit der Einsiedelei’, ‘where they use to live alone’  ĀÙsËÚÑÙ  īḥīdā’īth). This complex expression translates the above mentioned σεμνεῖον καὶ μοναστήριον: chaste is, in fact, one possible meaning of the adjective σεμνόςhence σεμνεῖον. Noteworthy is the emphasis on this theme, which became central to Syriac monastic spirituality; the idea of solitude, on the other hand, comes, of course, from μοναστήριον. It is interesting that the translator did not insert Greek loanwords but strove for semantic equivalence in his rendering; on the other hand, avoiding any mention of the numerous dwellings of the ascetics, he suggests that the Therapeutae lived in a single building: this modification could echo some criticism of different patterns of ascetical (e.g. Sons of Covenants) or monastic life (laurae; itinerant monasticism). The translation of documents quoted by Eusebius: the Abgar-Jesus correspondence At the very end of the first Book of his H.E. Eusebius introduces the narrative of how Abgar, the King of Edessa, suffering from a terrible disease, sent a letter to Christ in order to be healed; Jesus wrote a letter in reply, promising See A. PALMER, Monk and Mason on the Tigris Frontier: the early History of Tur’Abdin (University of Cambridge Oriental Publications, 39), Cambridge, 1990, pp. 85-88, esp. p. 86; together with the solitaries, they are the subject of a memra on solitaries, desert dwellers and monks which can be considered to be one of Ephrem’s spurious works and probably dates to the fifth century: the text is reproduced in G. MÖSINGER (ed.), Monumenta syriaca de romanis codicibus collecta, vol. II, Innsbruck, 1878, pp. 4-12. 137 See R. PAYNE SMITH, Thesaurus Syriacus, Oxford, 1879-1901, col. 3928. 138 According to Inowlocki (INOWLOCKI, Eusebius of Caesarea’s Interpretatio [see note 129], p. 315) the fact that Eusebius identified the buildings of the Therapeuthae as Churches means that ‘he is not at all determined to relate VC to Christian monasticism’. 139 H.E. II.17.9. 136

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to send one of His Apostles instead of himself. After Christ’s Resurrection and Ascension, the Apostle Thomas sent Thaddaeus, one of the Seventy, who healed Abgar and converted him, along with all the people of Edessa, to Christianity. Eusebius claims that he used a Syriac document preserved in the public archives of Edessa, which contained a detailed narrative of the facts and reproduced the correspondence between Abgar and Christ. Eusebius refers to this correspondence while summarising the tale and claims that he translated it from Syriac into Greek. It is unlikely that Eusebius himself made the translation into Greek:140 he probably read a translation of a Syriac text which we know in a more extended form, the Doctrina Addai, dated to the fifth century.141 According to Drijvers ‘there must have been a Syriac original of which at the same time a Greek version was known, as was quite normal in this bilingual area where a Syriac and a Greek version of most writings existed side by side’.142 Did the Syriac translator make any modifications of the Greek text, revealing a direct knowledge of the Syriac source on which the Greek account is based? Did he introduce some additional information or detail into the translation? He does not seem to have had the original text at his disposal, for he faithfully translates even Eusebius’ claim that he was translating the document from Syriac into Greek.143 The translation is very faithful with regard to content, with some minimal differences. For example, while describing the healing accomplished by Jesus without drugs and herbs, the Syriac translator specifies that BROCK, Eusebius and Syriac Christianity [see note 135], p. 213. BROCK (BROCK, Eusebius and Syriac Christianity [see note 135], p. 227) has precisely listed all of the additional material in the Doctrina Addai, concluding that the work can be considered as the product of the group which in the late third to early fourth century emerged as ‘orthodox’, in order ‘to provide themselves not only with a respectable apostolic origin, but also with a direct link to Jesus himself’. Drijvers has underlined the anti-Manichaean aim of the first stage of the work, whereas Camplani (A. CAMPLANI, Traditions of Christian Foundation in Edessa, in A. CAMPLANI – A. SAGGIORO [eds], Città pagana — città cristiana. Tradizioni di fondazione [Studi e Materiali di Storia delle Religioni, 75], Brescia, 2009, pp. 273-278) has rather underscored its anti-Bardesanite context; on the other hand, Mirkovic (A. MIRKOVIC, Prelude to Constantine: the Abgar Tradition in Early Christianity, Frankfurt, 2004), has convincingly inserted the tale of the healed king within the tradition of court tales. 142 H.J.W. DRIJVERS, Facts and Problems in Early Syriac Speaking Christianity, in The Second Century, 2 (1982), pp. 157-175 (p. 160). In his view, the present version of the Doctrina Addai, the text of Eusebius and a few Greek papyrus fragments all go back to a Syriac original, which originates from the second half of the third century. For a lucid reconstruction of the phenomenon of bilingualism in Late Antique Syria, see D.G.K. TAYLOR, Bilingualism and Diglossia in Late Antique Syria and Mesopotamia, in J.N ADAMS – M. JANSE – S. SWAIN (eds), Bilingualism in Ancient Society: Language Contact and the Written Texts, Oxford, 2002, pp. 298-331; S.F. JOHNSON (ed.), Languages and Cultures of Eastern Christianity: Greek, Worlds of Eastern Christianity, 3001500, Farnham – Burlington, 2015, pp. 1-122, who speaks of the ‘given’ status of Greek in Near East; with special regard to Edessa see F. MILLAR, Greek and Syriac in Edessa: from Ephrem to Rabbula (CE 363-435), in Semitica et Classica, 4 (2011), pp. 99-114. 143 H.E. I.13.5. In I.13.11 Eusebius, after having reproduced the Abgar-Jesus correspondence, refers to the narrative in Syriac, which he summarises in his account. 140

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? they were performed ‘with your hands’ (ßÙËپ b-’īdayk)144 while Rufinus has verbo tantum. The most significant change in the whole of Abgar’s section is the frequent use in manuscript A of the name Addai — the common form in the Doctrina Addai — for Thaddeus. 145 The use of the proper name Addai by the translator (or, at least, by the copyist of the manuscript A) shows that he must have been acquainted with the Addai tradition: a story that was becoming popular at about the same time through the Doctrina Addai. But was he reading a Syriac document that allowed him to check Eusebius’ translation? A selective linguistic analysis of the portion of text containing the Abgar-Jesus correspondence carried out by Lucas Van Rompay, has led to this conclusion: in particular, the use of the root šlḥ for ‘sending a person’, which is well attested to in the Old Syriac Gospels, has been regarded by this scholar as a relic of the earliest stratum of the Syriac literary language.146 It is noteworthy that in the rest of the Syriac H.E., the expression ‘to send a person’ has usually been rendered by the verb šdr.147 One could suppose that, at least for the letter exchange, the translator was depending on an old Syriac document, but in absence of an exhaustive linguistic analysis of the whole translation it is better not to go any further. In fact, in the same article, van Rompay underlines a general tendency of our translator to preserve orthographic features, words and expressions, which would subsequently disappear. The Syriac translator used Urhai instead of Edessa and Hannan instead of Ananias, and employed different terms to define both Abgar and Ananias, the messenger/archivist of the King: in fact, he renders the Greek toparch (τοπάρχης) H.E. I.13.6 (WRIGHT – MCLEAN [eds], The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 52). Drijvers (H.J.W. DRIJVERS, The Abgar Legend, in W. SCHNEEMELCHER – R. MCLACHLAN WILSON (eds), New Testament Apocrypha, Louisville, 1992, pp. 492-499 [p. 494] and H.J.W. DRIJVERS, Helena Augusta: The Mother of Constantine the Great and the Legend of her Finding of the True Cross, Leiden, 1992, p. 160) explains that ‘an apostle of Jesus with the name of Addai is completely unknown before the time of Eusebius. The name was so strange to the church historian that he transformed it into Thaddaeus, one of the Seventy, although the semitic name Addai occurs in Greek as Adda(s), Addaios or Addai’. In fact, the name Addai appears only in later Edessene traditions that go back to the Doctrina Addai. Van Esbroeck (M. VAN ESBROECK, Le roi Sanatrouk et l’apôtre Thaddée, in Revue des Études Arméniennes, 9 [1972], pp. 241-283), on the other hand, has shown that the Armenian version of this tale attests to the most ancient phase of the Syriac legend, originally belonging to the region around Hamidya on the Syrian coast and to Beirut and Arwad, without any connection with Edessa. For an overview of Thaddaeus’ missionary tradition see C. JULLIEN – F. JULLIEN, Apôtres des confins. Processus missionaires chrétiens dans l’Empire Iranien (Res Orientales, 15), Bures-sur-Yvette, 2002, pp. 67-71. 146 Van Rompay (VAN ROMPAY, Some preliminary remarks [see note 92], pp. 78-82), investigating the distribution of the roots šlḥ and šdr in the Syriac Eusebius and in the Doctrina Addai, has observed that in the former the root šlḥ occurs both with the meaning ‘to send a message’ and ‘to send a person’, whereas in the Doctrina Addai a more precise distinction was made between šlḥ meaning ‘to send a message’ and šdr, ‘to send a person’. 147 VAN ROMPAY, Some preliminary remarks [see note 92], p. 81 n. 46. 144 145

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once as ‘king’ and elsewhere as ‘toparch’ while he qualifies Ananias, the messenger (ταχύδρομος) of the Eusebian version, as thablārā, that is, tabellarius, the Latin analogue of the Greek technical term. The Doctrina Addai does not use the epithet toparch while describing Hannan as a tabularius, ‘archivist’: it is likely that this last divergence from the eusebian text is the result of a different vocalization of two terms that are almost identical in Syriac (thablārā = messenger and thablārā = archivist).148 Another point of interest is a change of a theological character.149 In H.E. 1.13.20, Addai declares that he was sent to preach the Word (Logos) and enumerates the subjects on which he is going to preach before an assembly of all the citizens of Edessa. Amongst other things, he will speak ‘concerning his lowliness and humiliation, and how he humbled himself and put aside and made little his divinity (ἐσμίκρυνεν ἀυτοὺ τὴν θεότητα)’.150 The Syriac translation apparently modified the latter expression, substituting ‘himself’ for ‘his divinity’: ‘concerning his lowliness and humiliation and how he humbled himself and spoiled himself and made little himself’ (Íþóæ üï|s{ w-’az‘ar napše). In a similar way the Doctrina Addai states: ‘and he made himself small (üï|s Íþóæ’az‘ar napše) and humbled his exalted divinity (ÀĀäÙüãz{Íàs ’alāhūtheh mrayamtā) in the body [var. humanity] which he had assumed ÁüÆó > À{zâ úýxbpagrā dšaqqel hwā)’.151 œ 152 The image, which is rather common in the ancient Christian writers, can be seen as problematic after the Arian debate of the fourth century and the Christological controversies of the fifth century. The statement could, therefore, have been present in the original Syriac document, receiving a different evaluation from Eusebius on the one hand and from his Syriac translator and the Doctrina Addai on the other. In conclusion, we have no clear evidence to demonstrate that the Syriac translator had an original Syriac source for Abgar’s tale at his disposal. Apart from the knowledge of the name Addai and the peculiar use — especially in this section of the H.E. — of the root šlḥ, an archaic form which may suggest that the translator was here using the original ancient Syriac source instead of the Eusebian translation, all of the modifications can be explained within the framework of his normal translation practice.

148 See M. ILLERT [ed.], Doctrina Addai. De imagine Edessena. Die Abgarlegende. Das Christusbild von Edessa, Turnhout, 2007, pp. 32-33. 149 See NOCE, Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica [see note 15], pp. 114-115. 150 K. LAKE, Eusebius, Ecclesiastical history, vol. 1, London – New York, 1926, p. 95. 151 Doctrina Addai (G. PHILLIPS, The Doctrine of Addai, the Apostle, now first edited in a Complete Form from the Original Syriac, with an English Translation and Notes by George Phillips, London, 1876), transl. in BROCK, Eusebius and Syriac Christianity [see note 135], p. 220. 152 BROCK, Eusebius and Syriac Christianity [see note 135], p. 231 n. 18.

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Exegesis One of the most consistent omissions of the Syriac translation is in the tenth Book of the H.E. (chapter 4 §§ 62 to 68), a section of the panegyric delivered by Eusebius on the rebuilding of the church at Tyre (X.4). Rufinus has omitted the entire panegyric from his translation, most likely for editorial reasons, namely, in order better to introduce his additional books. The Syriac translator, who translated the passage faithfully — apart from some changes aimed at modifying or suppress expressions tinged with subordinationism and Platonic language — seems to have intentionally omitted the exegesis of Isa. 54.11-14. There are, in fact, two important issues that may have worried the translator: the insistence on the superiority of the spiritual sense over the literal; and the strong subordinationism, especially marked in §. 68, where Christ is told to worship His Father. According to Eusebius, Constantine is the God-beloved Ruler who divides the souls committed to his charge according to their strenghts and then uses them for building the Christian oikoumene/Temple. The different parts of the temple correspond, in his exegesis, to the different categories of faithful, from the simplest to the perfect.153 In what follows, Eusebius develops his theological subordinationism, representing the divine and cosmological hierarchy through the image of the temple. An allegorical exegesis of this passage was common among the ancient Christian writers and can be found even in as moderate an exponent of the Antiochene exegesis as Theodoret of Cyrrhus:154 he, in fact, interpreted the various stones and buildings of the town in a figurative sense, as images of the different virtues of the saints and of the hierarchy present in the Church. What convinced our translator to omit the entire exegetic passage was, most likely, the development of a hierarchy in which both the literal sense of the Scripture and the Son (besides the Holy Spirit) are placed at the lowest level. 153 Among them there are those whom he ‘supported with the first outer pillars that are about the quadrangular courtyard, bringing them to their first acquaintance with the letter of the four Gospels (ταῖς πρώταις τῶν τεττάρων εὐαγγελίων τοῦ γράμματος προσβολαῖς ἐμβιβάζων); others he joineth closely to the royal house on either side, still indeed under instruction and in the stage of progressing and advancing, yet not far off nor greatly separated from the faithful who possess the divine vision of that which is innermost (οὐ μὴν πόρρω που καὶ μακρὰν τῆς τῶν ἐνδοτάτω θεοπτίας τῶν πιστῶν διεζευγμένους); taking from the number of these last the pure souls that have been cleansed like gold by the divine washing, he then supporteth some of them with pillars much greater than the outermost, from the innermost mystic teachings of the Scriptures (τῶν ... μυστικῶν τῆς γραφῆς δογμάτων), while others he illumineth with apertures towards the light’ (OULTON, Rufinus’ translation, II [see note 32], p. 439). 154 See Theodoret of Cyrrhus, In Isaiam (J.N. GUINOT [ed. – tr.], Théodoret de Cyr, commentaire sur Isaïe, introduction, texte critique, traduction et notes par Jean-Noël Guinot [Sources Chrétiennes, 315], Paris, 1984, pp. 170-174). Jerome, Cyril and John Chrisostom were among those who supported of a spiritual interpretation of this passage.

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Apart from the aforementioned case of Prov. 8.22-26, there is at least one more place where the translator, motivated by both exegetical and theological conviction, has omitted a biblical interpretation made by Eusebius. This occurs in the exegesis of Ps. 32.9,155 quoted by Eusebius in order to explain how the Son, existing before the world, helped the Father to make all created things: ‘Another of the prophets confirms this saying, ascribing divinity to him in one place in hymns, “He spoke, and they were made, he commanded and they were created” (Ps. 32.9 = 148.5). On the one hand he introduces the Father and Maker as a universal sovereign, commanding by his royal nod, and on the other the divine Logos — no other than him who is proclaimed by us — as secondary to him and ministering to his Father’s commands’.156 The Syriac version of the passage altered Eusebius’ text substantially: ‘for he (David) associates the Son and the Father in his will (i.e. in the Father’s will ? (€zÎçÚÂøÂ bṣebyānaw).157 The translator’s first concern was eliminating the open subordinationism of the sentence through the idea that the Son’s will is identical to the Father’s.158 But it is likely that he has also changed the passage because of exegetical concerns: the most important representatives of the Antiochene exegesis refused to associate Ps. 32.6 (‘By the word of the Lord the heavens were made, by the breath of his mouth all the heavenly powers’) with the Logos, rather, associating it, with the will of God by which the heavens were made.159 There were, therefore, no reasons for interpreting the following passage from Ps. 32.9 (‘He spoke and they were made, he commanded and they were created’), as a dialogue between the Father and the Son. Because it seems to have driven his translation strategies, the Syriac translator had to have been acquainted with this exegetical tradition.160 Concluding remarks At the end of this analysis of our translations, it is possible to make some concluding remarks. 155 For a more detailed analysis of the passage see NOCE, Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica [see note 15], pp. 103-106. 156 LAKE, Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, I [see note 150], p. 15. 157 H.E. I.2.6 (WRIGHT – MCLEAN, The Ecclesiastical History [see note 83], p. 8). 158 The Arians, instead, affirmed that the Son’s will was completely dependent on the Father’s will. In their opinion the Son was begotten by the Father’s will and he was, therefore, the image of his Father’s will: e.g. see Arius, Epistula Ad Eusebium, 4-5. 159 See, for instance, the exegesis of Ps. 32.6 and 32.9 by Diodore of Tarsus (R.C. HILL, Diodore of Tarsus, Commentary on Psalms 1-51, translated with an introduction and notes by Robert Hill [Writings from the Graeco-Roman World, 9], Atlanta, 2005, pp. 101-102) and Theodore of Mopsuestia (R.C. HILL, Theodore of Mopsuestia, Commentary on Psalms 1-81, Leiden – Boston, 2006, pp. 292-296, 300); in his commentary Theodoret of Cyrrhus (R.C. HILL, Theodoret of Cyrus, Commentary on the Psalms [Fathers of the Church, 101-102], Washington, 2000-2001, pp. 203205) accepted a reference to the Son and the Holy Spirit for 32.6. 160 Within the Greek textual tradition, the manuscript E shares the theological concerns of our translation, eliminating every reference to the subordination of the Son to the Father.

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First, the different linguistic contexts in which the two translations were made needs to be highlighted: indeed, even if multilingualism was common in Mediterranean cultures, by the end of the fourth century and the beginning of the fifth the knowledge of literary Greek in the West was declining notably, even among the upper classes; on the other hand, many Syriac Christian authors of the fourth-fifth centuries were not only bilingual, but also choose to write in Greek rather than in Syriac: the example of Eusebius of Emesa is enlightening in this regard. This difference between the two linguistic and cultural areas considered here must have determined a much more limited circulation of the original Greek text in the West than in the East: the two translations, therefore, probably had a different diffusion and impact. Furthermore, Rufinus produced not only a translation, but also, by adding two books, a new Church History: therefore, he must be regarded not only as a translator but also as an author, one who was emulating his Greek model according the tradition of the Latin vertere.161 Although very different in terms of style and goals, both translations attest to the high theological awareness of the translators. Working around the beginning of fifth century, both Rufinus and the Syriac translator were very careful to avoid any expression tinged with heresy by amending or omitting suspicious statements — especially when Origenism or Arianism were involved —, and sometimes, chiefly in the Latin text, the Nicene-Constantinopolitan Creed is recalled with orthodox features which were not in the original. The most likely scenario for the context of production and circulation of the Syriac translation is a milieu influenced by the theological and exegetical views of the so-called ‘Antiochene school’, whose most prominent leader was Theodore of Mopsuestia. The most likely context for such a theological and cultural horizon would be, therefore, the School of the Persians in Edessa162 where the works of Theodore of Mopsuestia were translated from Greek into Syriac at an early point: the allusions to the Constantinopolitan Creed suggests AD 381 as the terminus post quem, whereas the account of Moses of Chorene suggests a date before AD 442. It follows that the translation is likely to have been made in the first decades of the fifth century: if the process of translation took place in Edessa, it may have been when the School of Persians was under the direction of Ibas of Edessa; this date fits in well with the theological and ascetic vocabulary used. On the other hand, it is not impossible that amendments concerning sensitive theological and exegetical aspects had already On the continuity of this classical tradition in Christian literature see now LO CICERO, Tradurre i Greci [see note 4]. 162 Concerning the School of the Persians in Edessa see A. VÖÖBUS, History of the School of Nisibis (CSCO Subsidia, 26), Louvain, 1965, p. 7, and A.H. BECKER, Fear of God and the beginning of wisdom: the School of Nisibis and Christian scholastic culture in late antique Mesopotamia, Divinations: rereading late ancient religion, Philadelphia, 2006, p. 41. 161

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taken place in the Greek version, at the hands of a group influenced by the ‘Antiochene school’.163 Both translators knew a more recent kind of ascetism and monasticism than the one described by Eusebius. They both interpreted the ascetic life of Therapeutae in the light of the practices of their own time and replaced the Greek terminology with terms recalling ascetics, monks, places and realities that were more familiar to them and to their readers. In addition, Rufinus’ monastic mentality made him accentuate the praise of the ascetic virtues — in primis continence and chastity — even in someone who had not joined the ascetic way of life, such as those who had confessed their faith in Lyon. As for other literary and official documents, the translators apparently treated the sources quoted by Eusebius in different ways. With reference to the only case analysed here — e.g. the Abgar-Jesus correspondence, which Eusebius claims to have translated from Syriac into Greek — the Syriac translator seems to have rendered the text quite faithfully. The few differences between the two versions, which concern matters of onomastics and theology, can be explained, in my opinion, as changes freely inserted by the translator in order to make the text more understandable and orthodox rather than as corrections due to the recourse to the original document. Rufinus seems to have simply translated the text quoted by Eusebius without having recourse to originals (with the probable exception of Tertullian), but he frequently changed the text by introducing his own interpretation and by stressing something interesting to him. Examples quoted above show that he even seems to have freely changed the Scriptures to support his viewpoint. Further case studies taken from the Latin H.E. demonstrate that Rufinus’ translation needs to be seen against the backdrop of the ancient tradition of the Latin vertere, which had no equivalent in Syriac literary culture. Although both the Latin and the Syriac translations were free in rendering the original, Rufinus was much more creative and aimed both to write a literary translation and, at the same time — through the insertion of two new books — to undertake a continuation of Eusebius’ work and to thus emulate his Greek model. He often modified Eusebius’ text by introducing more details, giving a new interpretation of the stories and developing them into more involving tales: his language presents many similarities with the hagiographical literature, and his narrative includes many topographical, hagiographical and folkloristic details that he probably learned during his journeys, or simply thanks to his readings. The Syriac translator, on the other hand, is a good example of the ancient reader-oriented Syriac translation, rather free in rendering the Greek original — especially where there 163 This hypothesis is based on the interpretation of Fiano (FIANO, From ‘Why’ to ‘Why not’ [see note 98], p. 356), who suggests the same for the alterations inserted in the section of Recogn. III.2-11 and indicates comparable phenomena in the Greek-speaking centres of Antiochia.

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is a lack of equivalent, as in the case of Greek participles — characterised by a widespread replacement of Greek hypotaxis by parataxis and by the introduction of cultural equivalents. Both translations, being reader-oriented, tried to render the text more accessible to their Latin or Syriac readers by simplifying concepts that might appear too difficult or even dangerous, by inserting an explanation when necessary and by frequently abandoning formal equivalence for the sake of a more dynamic rendering: from this point of view, both of them can be regarded as sophisticated works of cultural exchange and cultural mediation, but only Rufinus strove to seriously emulate his Greek model. Finally, both are witnesses to an early stage of the Eusebian text: a further investigation of possible common readings between the two translations could shed new light on the history of the transmission of Eusebius’ Historia Ecclesiastica.

TRANSMITTING AND BEING TRANSMITTED. THE SPREAD AND RECEPTION OF THE HISTORY OF THE EPISCOPATE OF ALEXANDRIA IN CARTHAGE AND AKSUM Alberto CAMPLANI

This chapter focuses on a history recently edited under the title Historia episcopatus Alexandriae (=HEpA).1 Originally written in Greek but preserved in a variety of ancient languages, located on the border between different literary genres, and transmitted within canonical collections while itself transmitting canons and official documents, the HEpA is an example of an institutional text that builds the identity of the church in which it finds its raison d’être by blending narratives and documents of its own history and outlining its role within both Egypt and the international church network in the Eastern empire. I will detail this premise through three points. Firstly, the HEpA, which was originally written in Greek, is preserved in two languages as distant from one another as Latin and Gǝ῾ǝz (i.e. ancient Ethiopic), while minor fragments and quotations survive in Greek and Syriac. The Ethiopic version is preserved within a codex (siglum Σ), dating from the thirteenth century at the latest, containing a canonical-liturgical collection composed of translations from Greek which appear to belong to the Aksumite period (fifth to seventh centuries AD). The Latin version has been known since the time of Scipione Maffei (1738) through an old Latin uncial codex held by the Biblioteca Capitolare in Verona (seventh-eighth century, Codex Veronensis LX [58], siglum V). The two tomes of this codex contain documents concerning the Church of Africa and a rich and varied canonical and synodical collection composed of items attributable to the archives of the bishoprics of Alexandria and Antioch, published more than once in the last two centuries.2 The reasons for the existence 1 A. BAUSI – A. CAMPLANI, The History of the Episcopate of Alexandria (HEpA): Editio minor of the Fragments Preserved in the Aksumite Collection and in the Codex Veronensis LX (58), in Adamantius, 22 (2016), pp. 249-302, with a rich and updated bibliography. See also the presentation and analysis of the material in A. BAUSI – A. CAMPLANI, New Ethiopic Documents for the History of Christian Egypt, in Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum, 17 (2013), pp. 215-247. The following abbreviations will be used in this contribution: HEpA = History of the Episcopate of Alexandria LP = Liber pontificalis Σ = Ms Tǝgrāy, ‘Urā Masqal, Ethio-SPaRe UM-039 (manuscript in Gǝ῾ǝz). V = Codex Veronensis LX (58), Verona, Biblioteca capitolare. 2 First published by S. MAFFEI, Frammento insigne di storia ecclesiastica del quarto secolo, in IDEM, Osservazioni letterarie che possono servir di continuazione al Giornal de’ letterati d’Italia, Verona, 1738, and later by C.H. TURNER, Ecclesiae Occidentalis Monumenta Iuris Antiquissima.

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of the Latin and Gǝ῾ǝz translations are not explicit, but may be reconstructed by supposing different contexts and kinds of agency in each case. On the one hand, there was the request addressed by the Church of Carthage (AD 418-419) to the main Eastern patriarchates (Alexandria, Antioch, and Constantinople) for copies of the canons promulgated by the Council of Nicaea (AD 325), in order to verify the existence of items establishing the supposed rights of the episcopate of Rome to intervene in transmarine dioceses. To this request the three sees replied by sending the Nicene canons along with documents concerning their own history. On the other hand, the spread of Egyptian documents in Ethiopia likely occurred between the fourth and the sixth centuries, with the aim of outlining the glorious past of the Church of Alexandria to an Aksumite audience, giving Ethiopic Christianity the basis to build its own identity and making it more uniform with that of Egypt. Secondly, the HEpA has a very peculiar style of representing history; it mingles short narratives and portraits of ecclesiastical leaders with documents proving Alexandria’s ecclesiastical primacy in the Orient (the case of Constantine’s letters is particularly illuminating).3 The brief portraits of patriarchs recall a Roman ecclesiastical style of representing the past, while the short narratives are based on information drawn from ephemerides, as was the case with the commentaria drafted by Roman officials.4 This is similar to the style we find in the Roman Liber Pontificalis, a history of the Popes of Rome, and its sources. Thirdly, on the one hand (‘transmitting’), by narrating the episcopate’s history, the text gives documents supporting both the leading role of Alexandria’s patriarchate in the universal Church and its jurisdiction over Egyptian bishops; on the other (‘being transmitted’), it is preserved within two canonical / Canonum et conciliorum graecorum interpretationes latinae. Tomi prioris fasciculi alterius pars quarta: Supplementum Nicaeno-alexandrinum sive Conciliorum Nicaeni et Serdicensis Sylloge a Theodosio Diacono [Carthaginensi] adservata secundum codicem unicum veronensem bibliothecae capitularis LX (58) saec. VII-VIII, Opus postumum, Oxford, 1939. For edition of individual texts, see infra. 3 The epistles from Constantine are quoted in both V and Σ: see A. BAUSI, The Accidents of Transmission: On a Surprising Multilingual Manuscript Leaf. With the Edition of the Ethiopic Version of Two Constantinian Epistles (CPG 8517, Epistula Constantini imperatoris ad ecclesiam Alexandrinam, and CPG 2041 = 8519, Lex lata Constantini Augusti de Arii damnatione), in Adamantius, 22 (2016), pp. 303-322, (pp. 310-317). Their function within the two collections, far from being political, is mainly ecclesiastical: they are exhibited to underline Alexandria’s political role in the Empire, the condemnation of Alexandria’s doctrinal enemies by the political authority, and in particular the closeness of Constantine, conceived of as a new Moses, to the vicissitudes of the Alexandrian episcopate. 4 Ephemerides were a sort of public diary, in which were recorded events of an ecclesiastical, political, or natural character that had occurred in Alexandria or Egypt; the Commentaria were a kind of diary in which a Roman official reported major events and data concerning the sphere of his activity. For a bibliography, see A. CAMPLANI, The Religious Identity of Alexandria in Some Ecclesiastical Histories of Late Antique Egypt, in P. BLAUDEAU – P. VAN NUFFELEN (eds), L’historiographie tardo-antique et la transmission des saviors, Berlin, 2015, pp. 85-119 (pp. 89, 99-100).

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synodical collections, probably because it was conceived of as a collection of canons and customs dealing with episcopal governance and hierarchy. More generally, I would like to suggest that the first canonical collections and some specific kinds of historiography share some features. The former may occasionally be considered as a form of representing history, while the latter may be read, or may at least have been read by ancient readers, as containing directions about ecclesiastical customs that evolve over time. In certain ancient canonical collections the organization of textual materials often follows a chronological order — a thematic order would be imposed later by the author of the Collection of the Sixty Titles (between AD 535 and 545) and by John the Scholastic, in the mid-sixth century.5 In these collections true historical notes occur, which serve the purpose of justifying the events that have led to certain canonical decisions, or the peculiarities of a cited document.6 On the other hand, a particular kind of history such as the HEpA may have had canonical purposes, especially when the historical vicissitudes of a patriarchate offered the basis for promoting the particular position of the church of Alexandria in the eastern Mediterranean — a sort of geo-politics applied to ecclesiastical affairs, which could be labelled ‘geo-ecclesiology’.7 In dealing with Alexandria and Egypt but concerning itself also with Antioch and Constantinople, the HEpA intended to provide the reader with a clear evaluation of the position of the Alexandrian church within the Empire. THE HISTORY OF THE EPISCOPATE

OF

ALEXANDRIA AND ITS CANONICAL CONTEXT

Analysis of the HEpA is perfectly appropriate to research approaching late antique historiography as a post-imperial phenomenon: here the HEpA will be viewed as both a testimony to intercultural contacts and a cultural product shaped by cross-cultural interferences. This means that particular attention will be paid to the exchange of historiographical materials across cultural borders: 5 See S. TROIANOS, Byzantine Canon Law to 1100, in W. HARTMANN – K. PENNINGTON (eds), The History of Byzantine and Eastern Canon Law, Washington, 2012, pp. 115-169 (pp. 117-120). 6 This can be contextualized by a comparison to the collections of Imperial Constitutions (Gregorian and Hermogenes), as has been remarked by S. WESSEL, The Formation of Ecclesiastical Law, in W. HARTMANN – K. PENNINGTON (eds), The History of Byzantine and Eastern Canon Law [see note 5], pp. 1-23 (p. 20): ‘The existence of such collections implied not merely an antiquarian interest in prior legislation, but a new interest in making that imperial past authoritative in the present. By this process earlier imperial decrees steadily acquired the force of legitimate law. There is no reason to doubt that lawyers from the time of Constantine onward, equipped with this new repository of imperial legislation, used these collections, as they were meant to be used, as a source of binding legal precedent’. 7 See the discussion of this notion in P. BLAUDEAU, What is Geo-Ecclesiology: Defining Elements Applied to Late Antiquity (Fourth–Sixth Centuries), in R. LIZZI TESTA (ed.), Late Antiquity in Contemporary Debate, Newcastle, 2017, pp. 156-173.

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our focus will be on the phenomenon of translations of historiographical materials, as well as on that of their adaptation to diverse cultural contexts.8 This paper is intended as a continuation of research contained in other contributions addressing Egyptian texts connected to the patriarchal institution:9 while those essays focused on the identity of the Egyptian Church, here the focus will be on both the conditions of the transmission of this work, characterized by the contiguity between canonical literature and episcopal historiography, and on the intercultural influences detectable in both its contents and the history of its transmission. A methodological reflection will be offered here on the two possible paths for a scholar faced with this kind of documentation, defined by Alessandro Bausi as ‘looking backwards / looking forwards’. The HEpA has a complicated relationship, on the one hand, (and looking backwards) with its sources, to which it is a witness, and on the other hand, (looking forwards) with its later reworkings, which are textual witnesses to it.10 Therefore, we should be aware of the fact that the anonymous author of the HEpA inserted documents or information drawn from the Alexandrian archives, which in turn deserve a philological reconstruction as individual textual items. We should also take it into account that the HEpA has been quoted and reworked in different textual contexts and according to different literary genres. The HEpA: the structure and the selection of documents in the Latin and Ethiopic collections The HEpA, partially preserved by the two manuscripts mentioned above, one in Gǝ῾ǝz (Σ) and the other in Latin (V), as well as by quotations in Greek, Latin, Syriac, and Arabic, is an original work distinct from both the Coptic History of the Church11 and the Arabic History of the Patriarchs.12 It was originally 8 See M. CONTERNO, Intercultural Exchange in Late Antique Historiography. An International Workshop, Ghent University, 16-18 September 2015, in Adamantius, 21 (2015), pp. 567-569. 9 A. CAMPLANI, Fourth-Century Synods in Latin and Syriac Canonical Collections and their Preservation in the Antiochene Archives (Serdica 343 CE – Antioch 325 CE), in S. TORALLAS TOVAR – J.P. MONFERRER-SALA (eds), Cultures in Contact. Transfer of Knowledge in the Mediterranean Context (Series Syro-Arabica, 1), Cordoba – Beyrouth, 2013, pp. 61-72; A. CAMPLANI, The Religious Identity of Alexandria [see note 4], pp. 85-119. 10 A. BAUSI, The Aksumite Collection. Ethiopic Multiple Text Manuscripts, in A. BAUSI (ed.), Comparative Oriental Manuscript Studies: An Introduction, Hamburg, 2015, pp. 367-370 (pp. 368-369). 11 Edited by T. ORLANDI, Storia della Chiesa di Alessandria, I-II (Testi e documenti per lo studio dell’antichità, 17, 31), Milano – Varese, 1968-1970 and IDEM, Nuovi frammenti della Historia Ecclesiastica copta, in S.F. BONDÍ – S. PERNIGOTTI – F. SERRA – A. VIVIAN (eds), Studi in onore di Edda Bresciani, Pisa, 1985, pp. 363-384, D.W. JOHNSON, Further Fragments of a Coptic History of the Church. Cambridge Or. 1699R, in Enchoria, 6 (1976), pp. 7-18. See now Orlandi’s comprehensive edition available online at Corpus dei manoscritti copti letterari (http://www. cmcl.it, last accessed: 10 October 2017). 12 On this text see the complete presentation of manuscripts, editions and critical issues in J. DEN HEIJER, Mawhūb ibn Manṣūr ibn Mufarriǧ et l’historiographie copto-arabe. Étude sur la composition de l’Histoire des Patriarches d’Alexandrie (CSCO, 513, Subsidia, 83), Leuven, 1989.

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composed in Greek, probably at the end of the fourth century or the beginning of the fifth century, based on narratives and documents concerning the history of the Church of Alexandria between the second and fourth centuries. Modern scholarship has already identified the scattered remnants of the HEpA within a group of textual pieces of V, as well as in other historiographical and hagiographical sources.13 These remnants include the Historia acephala (or Historia Athanasii), which is a detailed narrative of Athanasius’ episcopate,14 the documents and narratives related to the birth and initial development of the movement of ecclesial protest against the Alexandrian patriarchate known as the Melitian schism (from Melitius, bishop of Lykopolis), the documents of the Council of Nicaea, and those generated by the later Council of Serdica, an unsuccessful attempt by the emperors to restore ecclesial peace.15 The HEpA was well known in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages: Cyril of Alexandria calls it ‘the history of the Church’ (ecclesiastica historia),16 and traces of its presence and use can be found in Constantinople, Carthage, Naples, and Rome. Besides the two codices, other sources are useful to the reconstruction 13 It is only gradually that the documents of the Codex Veronensis LX (58) came to be perceived as part of a larger historical compilation. See the early bibliography in W. TELFER, The Codex Verona LX (58), in Harvard Theological Review, 36 (1943), pp. 169-246, and A. CAMPLANI, A Syriac Fragment from the Liber historiarum by Timothy Aelurus (CPG 5486), the Coptic Church History, and the Archives of the bishopric of Alexandria, in P. BUZI – A. CAMPLANI (eds), Christianity in Egypt: Literary Production and Intellectual Trends. Studies in Honor of Tito Orlandi (Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum, 125), Rome, 2011, pp. 205-226. Important contributions to the history of studies on the subject are, beside C.H. Turner’s editorial activity (TURNER [ed.], Ecclesiae Occidentalis Monumenta [see note 2]), P. BATIFFOL, Le Synodikon de S. Athanase, in Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 10 (1901), pp. 128-143, E. SCHWARTZ, Über die Sammlung des Cod. Veronensis LX, in Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, 35 (1936), pp. 1-23, and E. SCHWARTZ, Die Kanonessammlungen der alten Reichkirche, in Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte. Kanonistische Abteilung, 25 (1936), pp. 1-114; T. ORLANDI, Ricerche su una storia ecclesiastica alessandrina del IV secolo, in Vetera Christianorum, 11 (1974), pp. 269312; A. MARTIN – M. ALBERT (eds), Histoire «acéphale» et index syriaque des lettres festales d’Athanase d’Alexandrie (Sources chrétiennes, 317), Paris, 1985; A. CAMPLANI, L’autorappresentazione dell’episcopato di Alessandria tra IV e V secolo: questioni di metodo, in Annali di storia dell’esegesi, 21 (2004), pp. 147-185; A. CAMPLANI, Lettere episcopali, storiografia patriarcale e letteratura canonica: a proposito del Codex veronensis LX (58), in Rivista di storia del cristianesimo, 3 (2006), pp. 117-164; A. CAMPLANI, L’identità del patriarcato alessandrino, tra storia e rappresentazione storiografica, in Adamantius, 12 (2006), pp. 8-42 and A. CAMPLANI, The religious identity of Alexandria [see note 4]. 14 Edited in A. MARTIN – M. ALBERT (eds), Histoire «acéphale» [see note 13]. 15 These items have been published by TURNER (ed.), Ecclesiae Occidentalis Monumenta [see note 2]; F.H. KETTLER, Der melitianische Streit in Ägypten, in Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, 35 (1936), pp. 155-193; L.L. FIELD, On the Communion of Damasus and Meletius: Fourth-Century Synodal Formulae in the Codex Veronensis LX, with Critical Edition and Translation, Toronto, 2004, H.C. BRENNECKE – U. HEIL – A. VON STOCKHAUSEN – A. WINTJES (eds), Athanasius Werke. Dritter Band, Erster Teil: Dokumente zur Geschichte des arianischen Streites, 3. Lieferung: Bis zur Ekthesis makrostichos, Berlin – New York, 2007, pp. 186-250 (the texts connected to the Council of Serdica); BAUSI – CAMPLANI, The History of the Episcopate of Alexandria [see note 1]; BAUSI, The accidents of transmission [see note 3]. 16 C. MUNIER, Concilia Africae A. 345 – A. 525 (Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina, 149), Turnhout, 1974, p. 162.

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of the HEpA: 1) Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica 1,15, regarding the schismatic Melitius of Lykopolis and the heretic priest Arius of Alexandria, and other passages which are drawn from the section of the HEpA concerning the Council of Serdica and the life of Athanasius bishop of Alexandria (4,9,6-9; 4,10,8-12; 5,7,2-3; 6,5,1-4; 6,12,5-6);17 2) a Syriac fragment from the Liber historiarum written by the anti-Chalcedonian bishop Timothy Aelurus († 477), again concerning Melitius and the young Arius;18 3) the introduction written by the hagiographer Guarimpotus (active at Naples in the second half of the ninth century) to his Latin translation of the Martyrdom of Peter of Alexandria;19 4) a hagiographical text in Ethiopic, entitled The Martyrdom of St. Peter Archbishop of Alexandria, which in fact proves to be nothing else but a collage of excerpts from a portion of the HEpA, as preserved in the recension of Σ.20 The discovery of a new, previously unknown, manuscript (i.e. Σ) by Jacques Mercier in 1999 and the identification of its contents by Alessandro Bausi have added an important witness to those already discussed: its significance is so extraordinary that can only be comparable to that of V.21 To help our discussion, it seems appropriate to give a brief summary of the story: The initial section of the text, preserved only by Σ, contains the account of the evangelization of Alexandria and the establishment of the patriarchate. There the record of the rule concerning the election of the patriarchs, given by the evangelist Mark, plays a central role: it regulates the choice of the new patriarch by the Alexandrian presbyters, until the reform of the system enacted after Peter, according to which the bishops consecrated the

(I)

See J. BIDEZ – G.C. HANSEN, Sozomenus Kirchengeschichte, 2nd edition (GCS Neue Folge, 4), Berlin, 1995, pp. 32-33, 149-150, 151-152, 202, 242, 252. To be added to these excerpts is a strange hagiographical text published by Pio Franchi de’ Cavalieri (P. FRANCHI DE’ CAVALIERI, Una pagina di storia bizantina del IV secolo, il martirio dei santi notari, in Analecta Bollandiana, 64 (1946), pp. 132-175), which confirms the connection in HEpA between the beginning of Historia Athanasii and the previous documentation about the Council of Serdica preserved in V and connected with Athanasius. 18 A. CAMPLANI, A Syriac Fragment from the Liber historiarum [see note 13]. 19 See Bibliotheca Hagiographica Latina 6692-6693. Latin text to be reconstructed on the basis of PG 18, 453-460 and the ‘Florilegium cassinense’, in Bibliotheca Casinensis, III, 187-191. On Guarimpotus’s works of hagiography, and in particular his translations from Greek, see P. DEVOS, L’œuvre de Guarimpotus, hagiographe napolitain, in Analecta Bollandiana, 76 (1958), pp. 151187. 20 G. HAILE, The Martyrdom of St. Peter Archbishop of Alexandria (EMML 1763, ff. 79r-80v), in Analecta Bollandiana, 98 (1980), pp. 85-92. This work should be distinguished from the wellknown Martyrium Petri Alexandrini, on which see A. CAMPLANI, Pietro di Alessandria tra documentazione d’archivio e agiografia popolare, in H. GRIESER – A. MERKT (eds), Volksglaube im antiken Christentum. Prof. Dr. Theofried Baumeister OFM zur Emeritierung, Darmstadt, 2009, pp. 138-156. 21 BAUSI – CAMPLANI, The History of the Episcopate of Alexandria [see note 1], pp. 254255. 17

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patriarch (d. AD 311). Then the early Alexandrian patriarchs are introduced sequentially, and for each of them the text gives information about the length of their office, the date of their death, and other details of their tenure. (II) There follows an account of the schism of Melitius of Lycopolis (ca AD 304305), quoting three documents: (1) the letter that four bishop-martyrs wrote to Melitius to invite him to cease his irregular ordinations of clerics (CPG 1667); (2) the historical narrative describing Melitius’ arrival in Alexandria and his alliance with two lay persons, Isidore and Arius (CPG 1668); (3) the letter written by Peter to the Alexandrians in which Melitius is temporarily excommunicated (CPG 1641). (III) After this letter, while V temporarily suspends the selection of documents and narratives from the HEpA, Σ reports the rest of the first part of the work, with the account (partly paralleled by Sozomen, h.e. I 15, Timothy Aelurus, and Guarimpotus) of the acceptance of Arius, a former protector of the Melitians, into the Alexandrian clergy, followed by his later expulsion by the bishop Peter I because of his hidden and uninterrupted closeness to the schismatic movement, especially after Peter had invalidated the baptisms performed by the Melitian clergy. Then, the beginnings of the Arian heresy are briefly narrated through the vicissitudes of this same Arius,22 who was again accepted into the clergy by bishop Achillas, and promoted to the rank of presbyter by the bishop Alexander. An exhortation concludes the first part of the HEpA, in which the ecclesiastical tradition, founded on the episcopal succession, is passionately defended. (IV) The second part of the HEpA is missing in Σ, but preserved by V. This section of the work preserves two series of documents related to the councils of Nicaea (AD 325) and Serdica (AD 343), each preceded by a short historical introduction. They are followed by the account, supported by a number of documents (in part preserved and in part omitted by the scribal tradition), of the episcopal career of Athanasius between AD 343 and his death. The account ends with a very rapid reference to Athanasius’s successors, until the election of Theophilus of Alexandria (AD 385), the last historical figure to be mentioned. Recalling what we have said up to this point about the reconstructions of the HEpA, we have to reiterate that the two canonical collections in which it is contained present both shared and unique materials derived from that work. V and Σ have in common the epistle addressed to Melitius of Lycopolis by four martyr-bishops, the epistle from Peter of Alexandria to his church, and the short 22 Of course, this identification is what HEpA (and the Alexandrian archives on which it depends) wanted readers to believe. There are good historical reasons to doubt it (see A. CAMPLANI, L’identità del patriarcato alessandrino [see note 13], p. 31).

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historical narrative interposed between the two. The parallels between V and Σ include other documents as well, such as the two epistles sent by the emperor Constantine.23 On the other hand, each version contains unique material: in particular, the narrative of the early history of the Patriarchate of Alexandria, enriched by three lists of the Egyptian bishops appointed by this office (I), and the account of some episodes of the Melitian schism and the origin of the Arian heresy after Peter’s martyrdom are preserved only by Σ (III), while the Latin life of Athanasius (the so-called Historia acephala),24 as well as the letters sent by him from the Council of Serdica (CPG 2111, 2112),25 are preserved only by V (IV). These differences in the selection of documents and narratives drawn from the HEpA could be explained by the different situations and aims of the two ecclesiastical milieus in which the Ethiopic and Latin translations circulated: the recently established Aksumite Church was more interested in basic documentation concerning the origins and the forms of the religious authority on which it depended than in the vicissitudes of the Arian crisis; the Carthaginian see, with a rich ecclesiastical history behind it, was more sensitive to the episodes of the Mediterranean religious crisis, with its complex interactions between empire and churches, and to the geo-ecclesiology of the most important Mediterranean episcopal sees, and, in particular, of Athanasius’ Alexandria. We will come back to the differences between V and Σ when exploring the role of the HEpA within the two collections and the contexts of their reception. The HEpA: its relation to historiographical genres As is evident from these pieces, the HEpA was apparently a mixture of different elements: ecclesiastical and civil documents; short polemical narratives written by compilers who were probably members of the Alexandrian clergy; as well as historical data such as lists of bishops and information concerning buildings and natural events, which could be drawn from the Alexandrian archives. We do not know how this compilation grew over time. The main core (the Melitian schism, the vicissitudes of Athanasius’ episcopal career, and the councils of Nicaea and Serdica) was most likely composed in the last quarter of the fourth century, during the episcopate of Theophilus (AD 385-412), and certainly before both the activity of the historian Sozomen, who quotes some passages from it, and HEpA’s transmission to the see of Carthage by Cyril of Alexandria. Other parts could be attributed either to this same hand, or, as it will be shown below, to a later one. See BAUSI, The Accidents of Transmission [see note 3], pp. 310-317. MARTIN – ALBERT (eds), Histoire «acéphale» [see note 13]. 25 BRENNECKE – HEIL – VON STOCKHAUSEN – WINTJES, Athanasius Werke [see note 15], pp. 186-250. 23 24

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The main ideological elements include the primacy of Alexandria over other patriarchal sees in the Eastern empire, a close relationship with the imperial power, the value of orthodoxy as expressed in the Council of Nicaea, and its connection with martyrdom and persecution. The foundations of the Alexandrian church are the evangelist Mark and the bishop Peter: the latter, destined to be martyr, removed the future heresiarch Arius from the clergy precisely because he foresaw the Arian heresy and condemned it twenty years before the Council of Nicaea took place. Simply stated, Peter unites in his person martyrdom, ecclesiastical rigour, the defence of canonical rules, and orthodox faith. The same is true for Athanasius. Such an ensemble of elements is fundamental to the ideology of the Alexandrian episcopate, it is what differentiates Alexandria from the other eastern sees, especially Constantinople, thereby making Alexandria the candidate most suited to provide religious leadership for the eastern Roman empire. The period in which this identification occurred is easily established: the episcopate of Theophilus (Ad 385-412). It was then that all those ideological elements that were subsequently deployed by Cyril, Dioscorus, Timothy Aelurus, and Peter Mongos came into existence. We should now evaluate how the HEpA relates to literary genres transmitting history. Cyril of Alexandria refers to this work as ecclesiastica historia,26 so a connection between the HEpA and historical writing is undeniable. However, which historiographical genre is closest to its style and could be considered as a model for its composition, at least in some phases of its composition? The answer is not univocal. First of all, we have to acknowledge the founding act that produced this text, namely the selection of materials drawn from the Alexandrian episcopal archives, their sorting, and their glossing. These documents were mixed with notes about local events, buildings, natural phenomena, and rites, probably preserved in the ephemerides. We know that one of the features of Eusebius’s historiographical activity was the inclusion of documents.27 However, it is commonly recognized that the compilation of documents was a feature of other local ecclesiastical histories too, as well as of other genres connected to history.28 Therefore, if we cannot exclude that the authors of the HEpA might have had some awareness of the Eusebian history, one of their models would have been the works written by C. MUNIER, Concilia Africae [see note 16], p. 162. E. PRINZIVALLI, Le genre historiographique de l’Histoire ecclésiastique, in S. MORLET – L. PERRONE (eds), Eusèbe de Césarée. Histoire ecclésiastique. Commentaire. Tome I. Études d’introductions, Paris, 2012, pp. 83-111. 28 See P. VAN NUFFELEN, Un héritage de paix et de piété. Étude sur les histoires ecclésiastiques de Socrate et de Sozomène (OLA, 142), Louvain – Paris – Dudely/MA, 2004, p. 163 who shows that ecclesiastical history took a variety of forms, including the collection of documents: ‘la compilation, la monographie restreinte, ou l’histoire ecclésiastique locale’. 26

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Athanasius for his personal defence or his attacks against Constantius, such as the Apologia secunda contra Arianos and the Historia Arianorum, which interweaved of documents and polemical passages.29 By expanding their chronological scope as well as the social milieu they covered (identified with the entire Alexandrian church), it was easy to turn such personal defences of an individual bishop into an apology for an entire church tradition. The result was a work that is actually closer to the ecclesiastical histories than it is to its original model, the apology. However, we should also search for other models of cataloguing the data of the past.30 After the introduction, which addresses the system used for the election of patriarchs, the HEpA offers a list of Alexandrian bishops with each entry arranged according to the following scheme: – length of their episcopate; – date of death; – participation in corporations, philosophical groups or city-wards (when applicable); – ordination of bishops in Egypt;31 – information about buildings or events. These brief paragraphs, which refer in some cases to ‘documents’ preserved in the Alexandrian archives, could indeed be the product of the same compilers responsible for the main narrative and the documents about Melitius and Arius, but could just as easily be attributed to a later stage in the development of the text (be that in the fifth-sixth centuries, during or after the episcopacy of Timothy Aelurus, or in the seventh-eighth centuries, under Arab rule). In any case, they cannot be later than the Neapolitan hagiographer Guarimpotus (second half of the ninth century), who apparently knew the complete form of the text.32 Should 29 W. PORTMANN, Apologia secunda contra Arianos, in P. GEMEINHARDT (ed.), Athanasius Handbuch, Tübingen, 2011, pp. 179-184; W. PORTMANN, Historia arianorum, in P. GEMEINHARDT (ed.), Athanasius Handbuch, Tübingen, 2011, pp. 184-188. 30 Ancient historians’ antiquarian interests, as well as the attention paid to local peculiarities typical of the so-called ktiseis, could have been additional sources of inspiration for some sections of the HEpA, in particular the first part, which concerns the early patriarchs. In reading some passages of the HEpA a comparison with the style of Commentaria becomes unavoidable; these were written by office-holders, and were informed by antiquarian erudition dealing with myths of foundation, which were an important part of the ancient (Greek and Roman) city’s self-representation. See CAMPLANI, The Religious Identity of Alexandria [see note 4], pp. 99-100. 31 These lists of bishops have a historical value that can be documented. Sources external to them enable their verification (papyri, the Nicene list and that by Melitius, etc.): see BAUSI – CAMPLANI, New Ethiopic Documents [see note 1], pp. 240-247. 32 This conjecture is based on the mere fact that Guarimpotus narrated the life of Peter combining some elements of HEpA drawn from both the short schema of Peter’s episcopate, written in the style of the first part of HEpA, and the longer narrative of his life, pastoral activity, and martyrdom, which seems to have been at least partially known to Sozomen: see PG 18, 453-455 and Bibliotheca casinensis, III, 187-190.

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one accept the hypothesis that these textual elements postdate the production of the narrative, a new issue would need to be discussed: do the brief initial paragraphs depend on the, at times, stylistically comparable patriarchal biographies of the History of the Patriarchs or vice versa? The answer is not simple. Though the HEpA tends to organize historical information around individual bishops, it should not be considered as a real succession of vitae like the Arabic History of the Patriarchs (or its lost Coptic sources).33 A comparison with other historical compilations may help our exploration. The scheme shows some similarities with that of the Roman Liber Pontificalis and, above all, with that of one of its sources, the catalogue of bishops used by the Chronographer of 354,34 to which R.W. Burgess has recently devoted a detailed study. The original contents of this collection were the following:35 I. II. III.1. III.2. IV. V. VI. VII. VIII. IX. X. XI. XII. XIII.

Dedication Four City Tyches Imperial Dedication Natales caesarum The Days of the Week Effectus XII signorum Calendar Consular Portraits Consular fasti Easter cycle Urban prefects Depositio episcoporum Depositio martirum Liberian Catalogue

Of those contents, only three are here relevant: no. XI:

Depositio episcoporum (Bishops’ Burials), a list giving the day of the month, the name of the bishop of Rome, and his burial place in calendrical order from 25 December to 24 December; no. XII: Depositio martirum (Martyrs’ Burials), a listing of martyrs and their burial places; no. XIII: Liberian Catalogue, a chronological list of the bishops of Rome between Peter and Liberius. Each entry presents the name of the bishop; the length of his episcopate in years, months, and days; the name of the contemporary emperor(s); and the names of the consuls CAMPLANI, The Religious Identity of Alexandria [see note 4], p. 94. L. DUCHESNE (ed.), Le Liber Pontificalis. Texte, introduction et commentaire, Paris, 18861892, pp. 1-12. 35 See R.W. BURGESS, The Chronograph of 354: Its Manuscripts, Contents, and History, in Journal of Late Antiquity, 5 (2013), pp. 345-396, Table 5 p. 388, mss LSV. 33 34

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at the beginning and end of his office. According to Burgess, ‘this is the earliest known biographical compilation of popes and in the early sixth century the source text, not the text from the Chronograph of 354, was used as the foundation for the first edition of the Liber pontificalis.’36 At the beginning of the last text, after the mention of the date of Christ’s death and ascension and of Peter’s episcopate, we find a declaration about the method the compiler will follow: ‘from that time according to the succession (of ordinations) is presented who was bishop, how many years he presided, or under which emperor’ (ex quo tempore per successionem dispositum, quis episcopus quot annis prefuit uel quo imperante).37 I quote the following two entries just to give an example of similarities and differences in relation to the HEpA’s list: Antheros 1 month, 10 days. He slept on the third day before the nones of January, Maximus and Africanus being consuls. Fabius 14 years, 1 month, 10 days. He lived at the time of Maximinus and Gordian and Philip, from the consulate of Maximinus and Africanus to that of Decius for the 2nd time and Gratus. He passed away on the 12th day before the kalends of February. At this time he divided the regiones among the deacons and ordered that much building work should be done throughout the cemeteries. After his martyrdom the presbyters Moses and Maximus and the deacon Nicostratus were arrested and sent into prison. At the same time Novatus came from Africa and separated Novatian and some of these confessors from the church, afterwards Moses died in prison, after he had been there for 11 months and 11 days.38

The first entry follows the simplest form, while the second provides the reader with additional information about administrative divisions, the building of cemeteries, and ecclesiastical issues. Both kinds of entry also occur in the HEpA, as can be argued from the following example: 18. Ma]ximus (was) the fourteenth papas of Alexandria for eighteen years and he appointed 29 bishops; the blessed man passed away on the fourteenth of Məyāzyā; and these are the names of those he appointed: (...)19. And until 36 BURGESS, The Chronograph of 354 [see note 35], p. 349: see also table 1, p. 353; table 2, p. 355; table 3, p. 361; table 4, p. 372. 37 DUCHESNE, Le Liber Pontificalis [see note 34], p. 2; T. MOMMSEN (ed.), Chronographus anni CCCLIIII, in Chronica Minora saec. IV. V. VI. VII (Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctorum antiquissimorum, 9/1), Berlin, 1892, p. 71. 38 DUCHESNE, Le Liber Pontificalis [see note 34], pp. 4-5; MOMMSEN, Chronographus anni CCCLIIII [see note 37], pp. 71-72: ‘Antheros m. uno dies. X. Dormit III non. ian. Maximo et Africano cons. Fabius ann. XIIII m. I d. X. Fuit temporibus Maximini et Cordiani et Filippi, a cons. Maximini et Africani usque Decio II et Grato. Passus XII kal. feb. Hic regiones divisit diaconibus et multas fabricas per cimiteria fieri iussit. Post passionem eius Moyses et Maximus presbyteri et Nicostratus diaconus comprehensi sunt et in carcerem sunt missi. Eodem tempore supervenit Novatus ex Africa et separavit de ecclesia Novatianum et quosdam confessores postquam Moyses in carcere defunctus est, qui fuit ibi m. XI d. XI’.

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him, their (the Christians) prayer was performed in their houses (and) in the (underground) caves of their cemeteries. 20. Theonas (was) the nineteenth bishop of Alexandria and was papas for 2 years; the blessed man passed away on the fourth of Ṭərr and thi[s that follows] (...) 22. During the term of the office of this papas a church and a cemetery were built.

Despite some differences concerning the dating system, I would suggest that it is possible that this Roman catalogue influenced the first part of the HEpA; although unlikely, nothing excludes an influence in the other direction. This means that a later date for this section of the HEpA is not sure, although it cannot be completely ruled out. Moreover, considering on the one hand the use of canon law, burgeoning in the HEpA and well developed in the LP, as we will see, and, on the other hand, the fact that the biographies seen in HEpA seem more elaborate than those appearing in the work of the Chronographer of 354, we may surmise that the HEpA — logically, but perhaps also chronologically — occupies a middle position between the source of the Chronographer of 354 and the earliest layers of the LP. THE HEPA, THE COLLECTIONS V AND Σ,

AND CANONICAL LITERATURE

If one looks beyond the HEpA and considers the sets of texts contained in the two manuscripts as well as at the collections with which it circulated, new conclusions can be drawn regarding the milieu in which it was read and used. To do this, we are in need of markers able to tell us something about the specific historical circumstances of the textual transmission, for example ecclesiastical events and cultural projects detectable in either the documents themselves or their juxtaposition — as we will see in the case of the Serdican material — or the linguistic character of the translations which — as in the case of the Alexandrian provenance of the material of Σ at the end of Late Antiquity — illuminate a phase of the tradition. For this purpose, the contents of the two manuscripts are to be taken into consideration. The Aksumite collection Below there is the list of the essential contents of Σ according to the reconstructed order offered by Alessandro Bausi: (1) (2)

Ecclesiastical Canons (ff. 1r-5r); The History of the Episcopate of Alexandria (ff. 5r-13v), including: a. The epistle of the four martyrs to Melitius; b. The epistle of Peter to the community of Alexandria; c. Short narrative between the two epistles;

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(3) (4) (5) (6) (7) (8) (9) (10) (11) (12) (13) (14)

Epistle 70 of Cyprian of Carthage (ff. 13v-16v); The Apostolic Tradition (ff. 16v-29v); A parallel section to Apostolic Constitutions VIII (ff. 29v-35r); The treatise On the Charisms (ff. 35r-38v); A list of apostles and disciples (ff. 39r-40v); The names of the months (f. 40v); A baptismal ritual (ff. 41r-46r); Prayers (ff. 46r-62v); The 81 Apostolic Canons (ff. 63r-69v); The Council of Nicaea and the names of the fathers (ff. 69v-73v); The canons of the Council of Nicaea (ff. 73v-78v); The epistle of Constantine from Nicaea to the Alexandrians, CPG no. 8517 (ff. 78v-79v); (15) The epistle of Constantine against Arius, CPG nos 2041 = 8519 (ff. 79v-80r); (16) The epistle of Athanasius to Epictetus (ff. 80ra-88ra); (17) The treatise On the unity of God (ff. 88r-100r); (18) The Synod of Serdica and the names of the fathers (ff. 100r-102v); (19) The canons of the Synod of Serdica (ff. 102v-109v); (20) The canons of the Synod of Neocaesarea (ff. 109v-111r); (21) The canons of the Synod of Ancyra (ff. 111r-114v); (22) The canons of the Synod of Neocaesarea, partial (f. 114v); (23) The Synod of Gangra, acephalous (ff. 115r-116r); (24) The canons of the Synod of Gangra (ff. 116r-118r); (25) The Synod of Antioch (f. 118r-v); (26) The canons of the Synod of Antioch (ff. 118v-124r); (27) The Synod and canons of Laodicea (ff. 124r-128v); (28) The canons of the Council of Chalcedon (ff. 128v-133v); (29) The canons of the Council of Constantinople (ff. 133v-134v); (30) The Council of Ephesus (ff. 134v-135v); (31-35) Sylloge of Timotheus Aelurus (ff. 135v-160v): (31) The epistle to the Alexandrians (ff. 135v-145v); (32) The epistle to the Constantinopolitans (ff. 145v-150v); (33) The twelve chapters of Cyril of Alexandria (ff. 150v-152r); (34) The refutation of the Council of Chalcedon (ff. 152r-157v); (35) The treatises of Gregory of Nazianzus; (36) The canonical answers of Peter of Alexandria (actually of Timothy I) (ff. 160v-162v).39

39 See A. BAUSI, La versione etiopica delle Risposte canoniche di Timoteo I attribuite a Pietro di Alessandria (CPG II, nr. 2520), in Scrinium. Revue de patrologie, d’hagiographie critique et d’histoire ecclésiastique, 2 (2006), pp. 41-57.

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An original feature of Σ in comparison to V, is the archaic character of its language and consequently the antiquity of the tradition of the main part of its texts: some elements of the peculiar Ethiopic language in which they are written are the traces of an act of translation from a Greek collection which should be dated between the fifth and seventh centuries, although it is possible that some changes and insertions occurred both at the time of the translation and during the following centuries of textual tradition.40 In this regard, Σ is apparently different from V: while in the latter we can identify sub-groups of texts, whose provenance and date of formation are probably different one from another and remain object of speculation, in the former the corpus of texts has a late-antique Greek flavour and a probable Alexandrian provenance. As the reader will realize, in Σ, besides the occurrence of a form of the Collectio antiochena (nos. 20-27), much attention is paid to apostolic and synodical canons and liturgical texts (nos. 4-6, 9-10), which explains inter alia the presence of a so far unknown version of the Traditio apostolica (no. 4).41 The final section of Σ (no. 31-35) is connected to Timothy Aelurus († 477), both as an author of letters and as a collector of patristic florilegia. He is the last authority to be mentioned.42 Other texts are more traditional in manuscripts of canon law, such as the Ecclesiastical canons (no. 1), the Apostolic canons (no. 11), Athanasius’ Epistle to Epictetus (no. 16),43 and the canonical answers of Timothy I of Alexandria. Noteworthy is the inclusion of the names of the bishops present at the Council of Serdica (no. 18), of the canons of the same council (no. 19), those of the Council of Chalcedon (no. 28), without, of course, any mention of its Christological definition (which is criticized in the works of Timothy preserved in the final section of the codex), and of the Epistle 70 by Cyprian of Carthage (no. 3). However, these materials are also preserved in other anti-Chalcedonian traditions, for instance in Syriac ones.44 40 A. BAUSI, New Egyptian Texts in Ethiopia, in Adamantius, 8 (2002), pp. 146-151 (p. 148), and A. BAUSI, La Collezione aksumita canonico-liturgica, in Adamantius, 12 (2006), pp. 43-70 (pp. 47-49). 41 A. BAUSI, La ‘nuova’ versione etiopica della Traditio apostolica: edizione e traduzione preliminare, in P. BUZI – A. CAMPLANI (eds), Christianity in Egypt: Literary Production and Intellectual Trends: Studies in Honor of Tito Orlandi (Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum, 125), Roma, 2011, pp. 19-69. 42 On the historical importance of this bishop, see P. BLAUDEAU, Alexandrie et Constantinople (451-491). De l’histoire à la géo-ecclésiologie (Bibliothèque des Écoles Françaises d’Athène et de Rome, 327), Rome, 2006, pp. 150-176, 272-274. 43 The variant readings of the Ethiopic version of Σ have been registered in the apparatus of the new edition by K. SAVVIDIS (ed.), Athanasius Werke. Erster Band. Erster Teil. Die dogmatischen Schriften. 5. Lieferung. Epistulae dogmaticae minores, Berlin, 2016, pp. 634-635, 703-735. 44 See W. SELB, Orientalisches Kirchenrecht. Band II. Die Geschichte des Kirchenrechts der Westsyrer (von den Anäingen bis zur Mongolenzeit) (Osterreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Philosophisch-historische Klasse. Sitzungsberichte, 543), Wien, 1989, Synopsis III, nos 4, 7, p. 120.

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More peculiar is the occurrence of a theological tractate On the Unity of God (no. 17), hitherto completely unknown. An edition of this text is in progress. The Verona collection Below is the list of the contents of V:45 Tome 1 (Documents concerning only the African Church): (1) (2) (3) (4)

ff. 1r-30v Registri ecclesiae Carthaginensis excerpta ff. 30v-33r Epistula Concilii Carthaginensis ad Bonifatium papam (AD 419) ff. 33r-34r Rescripta Cyrilli Alexandrini et Attici Constantinopolitani (AD 419) ff. 34r-35r Epistula Concilii Carthaginensis ad Caelestinum papam (AD 424-425)

Tome 2 (archives of Alexandria and Antioch, collectio antiochena): (1)

The creed and canons of the Council of Nicaea (Caecilian’s version), with a narrative introduction (ff. 37r-42v); (2) The canons of the Synod of Neocaesarea, in a form of the Isidorian vulgate (ff. 42v-43v); (3) A letter addressed by a Roman synod under pope Damasus in AD 372 to the Eastern bishops, followed by three dogmatic passages by Damasus, followed in turn by a notice of adhesion by Meletius and his synod at Antioch in AD 379. The original is stated to be in the Roman archives (ff. 43v-47r); (4) The canons of Gangra, in a form of the Isidorian vulgate (ff. 47r-50v); (5) The canons of Laodicea in the Isidorian version (ff. 50v-54v); (6) The canons of Constantinople in the Isidorian version (ff. 54v-55v); (7) The canons of Ancyra in a form of the Isidorian vulgate (ff. 55v59r); (8) Part of the Chalcedonian Definitio fidei, with the final allocution of Marcian at the close of the Sixth Session, and the canons (ff. 59r64v); (8a) The epitome of the canons of Hippo, held in AD 393 (ff. 64v-68v); (8b) Ten canons passed by a council of Carthage in AD 421 (actually in Hippo in AD 327) (ff. 68v-70r); (9) An unattested Latin version of the synodical letter of the council of Nicaea to the churches of Egypt, without paschal section (ff. 70r71v); (10) Short notice about the convocation of the Synod of Serdica; 45

See TELFER, The Codex Verona LX (58) [see note 13], pp. 178-185.

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(11) The Apostolic Canons in the second version of Dionysius Exiguus; (12) The canons of the Synod of Antioch in the second version of Dionysius Exiguus (f. 71v + additional leaves); (13) The creed and anathemas of the Eastern bishops at the Synod of Serdica in a Latin version (ff. 78v-79v); (14) Another part of the same encyclical, otherwise unknown, proposing a paschal cycle or Easter calendar (ff. 79v-80v); (15) The letter of Hosius and Protogenes to Pope Julius retranslated from a Greek version, under a heading Definitiones aput Sardicam (ff. 80v81r); (16) The synodical letter of the Western Synod of Serdica retranslated from a Greek version, containing the definition of faith known only from Theodoret, h.e. II 8 (ff. 81r-88r); (17) The canons of the Western Synod of Serdica, retranslated from a Greek version (ff. 88r-94v); (18) The canons of the Western Synod of Serdica in the version of Dionysius Exiguus (in a later hand, written on palimpsest leaves, and on two new leaves, ff. 97, 98, inserted into the codex for this purpose (ff. 94v-98v); (19) An otherwise unattested epistle by Athanasius written from Serdica to the church of Alexandria (ff. 99v-102r); (20) An otherwise unattested epistle by some bishops present at the Western Synod of Serdica to the church of the Mareotis (ff. 102r-103r); (21) An otherwise unattested epistle written by Athanasius after the Synod of Serdica, addressed to the churches of the Mareotis (ff. 103r-105r); (22) Vita Athanasii from the year 345 (ff. 105r-112r); (23) Under the heading, Symbolus sanctae synodi Sardici, a form of baptismal renunciation followed by a Latin confession of faith similar to that of the Council of Constantinople (f. 112v); (24) An unattested Latin version of the epistle of Constantine from Nicaea to the Alexandrians, CPG no. 8517 (ff. 112v-113v), as in Σ; (25) (24) An unattested Latin version of the epistle of Constantine against Arius, CPG nos 2041 = 8519 (f. 113v), as in Σ; (26) Documents connected with the Melitian schism: – Epistle of the four martyrs to Melitius; – Epistle of Peter to the community of Alexandria; – A short intermediate narrative. There are clues in V that allow us to recognise a variety of collections as the sources of its materials. Three of these collections were, in turn, ultimately drawn from three different archives (those of Carthage, Alexandria, and Antioch) though we do not know through how many mediations or when. I have shown elsewhere that in its final form V looks like a kind of history of canonical law

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in Mediterranean Christian communities, composed with the aim of demonstrating the universality of certain ecclesiastical norms, as well as the history and prestige of the non-Roman churches.46 It is known that V is a composite manuscript containing two independent codicological units, which, being written by the same hand, are to be considered ‘monogenetic’.47 The documents concern events in the fourth and fifth centuries such as the Arian crisis,48 the activities of Athanasius of Alexandria,49 the Council of Serdica (AD 343),50 the conflicting views of the bishoprics of Carthage and Rome about the question of the African priest Apiarius, which resulted in a canonical confrontation between the two sees in the years AD 418425, the Vandal invasion of Africa in AD 430 and the rule of the Vandals up until Justinian’s reconquest. The first codicological unit contains the proceedings of the Council of Carthage — in particular the synodical letters sent to Boniface and Celestine — which in AD 419 collected the legislation of the African Church against the claim of Popes Zosimus and Boniface to the right of intervening in conflicts of ecclesiastical discipline initiated in Africa. The central event is the affair of Apiarius, a priest of the North African Church who, condemned by the bishop of his diocese, had appealed to Rome for help; he was consequently reinstated in his post by Pope Zosimus. This intervention was not appreciated in Carthage, but the Roman church justified it by reference to the canons, which, according to the papal legates, had been promulgated by the Council of Nicaea. At this point, Carthage asked other churches to provide their documentation concerning the Council of Nicaea, in order to verify the existence of the canons on which the Roman pope founded his right to intervene. On the basis of the documentation sent by Alexandria, Constantinople, and Antioch, the African bishops were able to establish that the two canons quoted by the Roman popes did not actually exist.51 We know, however, that they were not pure forgery, since they are among the canons of the Western Council of Serdica (AD 343).52 46 A. CAMPLANI, Lettere episcopali, storiografia patriarcale e letteratura canonica [see note 13], pp. 146-163. 47 J.P. GUMBERT, Codicological units: Towards a terminology for the Stratigraphy of the Non-Homogeneous Codex, in Segno e Testo, 2 (2004), pp. 17-42. 48 L. AYRES, Nicaea and its Legacy: An Approach to Fourth-Century Trinitarian Theology, Oxford, 2004. 49 A. MARTIN, Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte au IVe siècle (328-373) (Collection de l’École Française de Rome, 216), Rome, 1996; A. CAMPLANI, Atanasio di Alessandria: Lettere Festali Anonimo: Indice delle Lettere Festali, Milano, 2003. 50 L.W. BARNARD, The Council of Serdica, 343 A.D., Sofia, 1983. 51 C. PIETRI, Roma christiana. Recherches sur l’Église de Rome, son organisation, sa politique, son idéologie de Miltiade à Sixte III (311–440) (Bibliothèque des Écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome, 224), Rome, 1976, II, pp. 1288-1338. 52 H. HESS, The Early Development of Canon Law and the Council of Serdica, Oxford, 2002, p. 56.

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In the second codicological unit, in addition to various synodical canons, we find the symbol and canons of the Council of Nicaea; Egyptian and oriental documents related to the double council of Serdica of AD 343; narratives about the Melitian schism and Athanasius (that is to say, the HEpA); as well as epistles and other documents, including African documentation connected to the last phases of the Apiarian affair. The hypothesis which can at least partly explain the contents of the two codicological units is that the codex contains documentation of Alexandria’s and Antioch’s responses to the request of the Church of Carthage in AD 418-419: the two sees sent not only the authentic canons of the Council of Nicaea, but also documents belonging to their archives that proved both their glorious past and their authority in the context of Mediterranean Christianity. In other words, V preserves precious traces of the strategy of self-promotion carried out by the sees of Antioch and Alexandria, eager to make known their geo-ecclesiological significance to the Western churches. It is in this context that the HEpA was put into circulation and translated into Latin. In regards to the Alexandrian section of V, the mention of Theophilus as ‘pope’ at the end of the Vita Athanasii allows us to fix the terminus post quem for the last redaction of the HEpA after AD 385. In the Antiochene section it is possible to connect the component documents to a specific phase of the episcopate in the first quarter of the fifth century.53 This section,54 partially paralleled by a group of Syriac codices of canonical content and by documents quoted by Theodoret of Cyrrus, H.E. II 7,1-3 – 8,1-53, preserves side by side documents of different ideological orientations produced on the occasion of the double Council of Serdica (AD 343). These documents come from both sides of the controversy, the Eastern bishops (nos. 13-14) and the Western bishops (nos. 10, 15, 16, 17), and were composed in opposition to each other. We know that the unsuccessful attempt to organise an ecumenical council ended with a division into two councils (the Western and the Eastern): as a result the synodical acts produced two definitions of faith, two sets of conciliar decrees, and two sets of reciprocal excommunications — documents destined to be preserved separately by the two opposing congregations in Antioch, that of Meletius and that of Paulinus, heir of the anti-Arian Eustathius. Yet, the fact that these contradictory documents are carried together by such different witnesses can be explained only by arguing that they were preserved together in a single Greek 53 On the Antiochian canonical collections see now A. MARDIROSSIAN, La Collection canonique d’Antioche. Droit et hérésie à travers le premier recueil de législation ecclésiastique (IVe siècle) (Centre de recherche d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance. Monographie, 34), Paris, 2010 and E. SCHWARTZ, Die Kanonessammlungen der alten Reichkirche [see note 13], pp. 1114. 54 The complete edition of the texts is in TURNER, Ecclesiae Occidentalis Monumenta [see note 2]; see also BRENNECKE – HEIL – VON STOCKHAUSEN – WINTJES, Athanasius Werke [see note 15], pp. 186-250.

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authoritative archive. What are the historical circumstances that produced this strange merging of diverse sets of documents? Following Annick Martin’s analysis of Theodoret’s history,55 I have recently proposed that the two subcollections of Serdican materials were put together when the two Antiochene congregations, each connected with one of the two parties of the Council of Serdica, joined thanks to attempts to create peace between them: as reported by Theodoret, h.e. V 37, they came into communion under bishop Alexander (AD 413-423). We could attribute another text to this same archive, to which is appended an important (later?) indication of its presence in the Roman archives, i.e. the letter addressed by a Roman synod under Damasus in AD 372 to the Eastern bishops, followed by three dogmatic passages by Damasus, accompanied by a notice of adhesion by Meletius and his synod at Antioch in AD 379 (no. 3).56 Observations about the circulation of HEpA within canonical and synodical collections Alongside which texts did the HEpA circulate? It is obvious that not all the texts preserved by Σ and V were coexistent with the HEpA before the compilation of the two manuscripts, which in turn may reflect the conflation of a number of sub-collections, but may also be the result of a selection from a larger number of sub-collections unknown to us. In the two manuscripts in which it is preserved, the HEpA is intermingled with a kind of literature, such as the Collectio antiochena (i.e. the canonical legislation of fourth century synods collected in Antioch in second half of the same century), which, since the end of the fourth century, was reproduced in similar form on both sides of the Mediterranean sea. One should wonder from which textual archive and when the two different forms of Collectio antiochena (Latin and Ethiopic) preserved in Σ and V were taken. Determining this is a very difficult task, given that the collection was widely spread. We do not have clues about the activity of the compilers in the prehistory of V: did they draw their material directly from Antioch, where it originated? Did they, at some later point, work from copies of this sub-collection circulating among the episcopal sees of the Mediterranean For Martin’s analysis, see, inter alia, A. MARTIN – P. CANIVET – J. BOUFFARTIGUE – L. PIETRI – F. THELAMON (eds), Théodoret de Cyr, Histoire ecclésiastique (Sources chrétiennes, 501, 530), Paris 2006-2009, pp. 68-92. 56 L.L. FIELD, On the Communion of Damasus and Meletius: Fourth-Century Synodal Formulae in the Codex Veronensis LX, with Critical Edition and Translation, Toronto, 2004; see a discussion of Field’s volume in CAMPLANI, Lettere episcopali, storiografia patriarcale [see note 13], pp. 153156. About the Antiochian provenance of a number of items contained in V, see CAMPLANI, FourthCentury Synods [see note 9], pp. 63-66, 72; A. CAMPLANI, Tempo delle origini e tempo della storia nella percezione dell’episcopato di Alessandria durante la tarda antichità, in A. BAUSI – A. CAMPLANI – S. EMMEL (eds), Time and history in Africa / Tempo e storia in Africa, Milano, 2019, pp. 3-32. 55

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sea? Or did they, immediately before the codex itself was copied, use one of the Latin translations preserved in Western monasteries or bishoprics? Concerning Σ, on the basis of both the particular linguistic features which indicate a translation from Greek to Gǝ῾ǝz, and the existence of a Coptic translation of these textual materials, we are inclined to suppose that the synodical collection could have been taken from the archives of the Alexandrian Church.57 What about the other texts which could have circulated with the HEpA? In V, the HEpA seems to be connected to Antiochene material: this is easily explained by the fact that the two official responses to Carthage’s request about the Nicaean canons coming from Antioch and Alexandria were translated into Latin, probably soon after their arrival, and preserved together in the African archives, whence they migrated to Rome and then to Verona. More attention should be paid to the canonical-liturgical writings preserved in Σ, which find only partial correspondence in V, but are significantly paralleled by items in other ancient codices preserved in the Biblioteca Capitolare of Verona: the Canons of the Apostles (no. 11) and a section parallel to the Apostolic Constitutions VIII (no. 5) are contained in Codex veronensis LI (49), while the Ecclesiastical canons (no. 1) and the Apostolic Tradition (no. 5) are contained in the palimpsest Codex veronensis LIII (51), of the fifth century — two texts whose combination with the Latin Didascalia apostolorum has been defined as a tripartite collection.58 Two observations are in order about this striking parallelism: 1) the textual similarities of the Latin and Gǝ῾ǝz texts of the Apostolic Tradition attest to their common connection to the oldest layer of the textual transmission of this important work, a layer preceding the phase of reworking attested by both the Apostolic Constitutions and the forms of the text in the Coptic and Arabic tradition;59 2) the existence of Coptic translations or reworkings of both writings makes their circulation in Egypt and their derivation from an Alexandrian archive likely. This does not mean, of course, that they were originally created in Alexandria, but rather that they were preserved there, and were taken from there at different times, perhaps in different stages of textual evolution, and then followed different trajectories to such distant 57 H. KAUFHOLD, Sources of Canon Law in the Eastern Churches, in W. HARTMANN – K. PENNINGTON (eds), The History of Byzantine and Eastern Canon Law [see note 5], pp. 215-342, pp. 271-273; T. ORLANDI, Coptic Texts Relating to the Church Canons. An Overview, Rome, 2016, pp. 10, 30, 45. 58 See E. TIDNER, Didascaliae apostolorum, Canonum ecclesiasticorum, Traditionis apostolicae uersiones latinae (Texte und Untersuchungen, 75, V. Reihe, Bd. 19), Berlin, 1963. On Apostolic Tradition see A. NICOLOTTI, Che cos’è la Traditio apostolica di Ippolito? In margine ad una recente pubblicazione, in Rivista di storia del cristianesimo, 2 (2005), pp. 219-237. 59 This fact has been emphasized more than once by Bausi (A. BAUSI, San Clemente e le tradizioni clementine nella letteratura etiopica canonico-liturgica, in P. LUISIER [ed.], Studi su Clemente Romano. Atti degli incontri di Roma, 29 marzo e 22 novembre 2001 (Orientalia Christiana Analecta, 268), Roma, 2003, pp. 13-55 (pp. 17, 24, 29-34). See also the introduction and apparatus in Bausi’s edition (BAUSI, La ‘nuova’ versione etiopica [see note 41]).

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places as Carthage, Rome, Verona and Aksum. The parallelism between Σ and Codices veronenses LI (49), LIII (51), LX (58), based not only on the common works they preserve, but above all on the closeness of the textual forms of the works they contain, is consequently to be interpreted as a sign of their derivation from the same textual tradition and repository, to be located ultimately in Alexandria. In conclusion, when considering the significance of Σ for the HEpA, it is to be stressed that the codex attests to the circulation of the work along with a set of texts that were synodical, canonical and liturgical in character. Taken together these represented a large textual repository, which could be used and reworked to build a new church culture and identity. The contexts of reception: Carthage and Aksum It is clear from what has been said that the episcopate of Alexandria promoted a wide circulation of its historical materials in order to make known its history and the reasons for its primacy in the Eastern Empire. As a result, different intellectual circles developed an activity of translation of this material in a variety of languages, such as Latin and Gǝ῾ǝz. The transmission lines for the HEpA which we have dealt with here (others could be supposed, such as those in direction of Constantinople, Naples, Rome) are those heading towards northern Africa and the West, on the one hand, and south of Egypt, on the other; especially in the direction of those communities of the Aksumite kingdom which, in the fourth-seventh centuries AD, and in particular after the death of Timothy Aelurus (AD 477), were considered to be extensions of the Egyptian Church. As we have already seen, it is in the context of the Apiarian affair that the HEpA was put into circulation and translated into Latin, probably in Carthage itself. We must keep in mind that this documentation, to which that connected to the lost response of the see of Constantinople should also be added, gave the see of Carthage the strength and the cultural instruments to resist Roman interventionism and to enter into dialogue with the Roman see on equal terms. Not only were the Nicene canons translated, but also all the documents accompanying them, i.e. the HEpA and some other texts. They were found to be of great interest to enlarge the already wealthy archives of Carthage, as additional items to be used, when necessary, for reference in both jurisdictional controversies and historical reconstructions.60 We do not know the real impact of this documentation in the subsequent evolution of this episcopal see for the simple historical reason that in those years the Vandal invasion complicated church life and the circulation of texts. 60 On the archives in Carthage see L. DALMON, Un dossier de l’Épistolaire augustinien: la correspondance entre l’Afrique et Rome à propos de l’affaire pélagienne (416–418): traduction, commentaire et annotations (Studia patristica. Supplement, 3), Leuven, 2015.

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Concerning the Aksumite reception of Σ and the HEpA, the translation of historical, synodical and canonical documents is to be understood as an act of positive reception of Alexandrian propaganda by groups interested in deepening the historical and institutional foundations of their church, strictly dependent on the bishop of Alexandria, and eager to know new texts, canonical, liturgical, and theological in character, which could be appropriated, reworked, or put together to build a new identity.61 On the one hand, Alexandria promoted the spread of the HEpA and other official documents in order to offer the new Christian region the history of its mother church, its values, and its geo-ecclesiological position; on the other, this act of propaganda was accepted, reworked, and joined to other liturgical and canonical texts preserved in Alexandria, although not necessarily of Alexandrian origin. Allusions to the collection are detectable in the later Ethiopic tradition: the Homily on Sabbaths by Retu῾a Haymānot, ‘the orthodox’, refers to Timothy’ Answers (no. 36), the Laodicaean canons (no. 27), and the parallel section to Apostolic Constitutions VIII (no. 5). In the already mentioned Martyrdom of St. Peter Archbishop of Alexandria, a collage of excerpts from a portion of the HEpA, the HEpA, or the textual complex in which it was contained, is quoted as the ‘Synodicon of the Law’ (sanidos za-ḥegg). Moreover, Giyorgis of Saglā, the most important Ethiopic theologian of the medieval period, knew two of the texts contained in Σ. In his Book of the Mystery the mention of Melitius in a polemical context is surely due to his knowledge of the HEpA. In other words, the Aksumite collection and the HEpA were part of the textual heritage of the Aksumite period which could be used in church life.62

61 A. BAUSI, Ethiopic Literary Production Related to the Christian Egyptian Culture, in P. BUZI – A. CAMPLANI – F. CONTARDI (eds), Coptic society, literature and religion from late antiquity to modern times. Proceeding of the Tenth International Congress of Coptic Studies, Rome, September 17th-22th, 2012 and Plenary Reports of the Ninth International Congress of Coptic Studies, Cairo, September 15th-19th, 2008 (OLA, 247), Leuven, 2016, I, pp. 503-571, p. 505: ‘The enormous consequences of these institutional connections, dependence and subordination are the lack of cultural production and intellectual life of Ethiopian Christianity that was not deeply shaped, marked or influenced by Egyptian Christian culture (which does not mean that Ethiopian Christianity has not developed a culture of its own in the course of time). The obvious way in which this influence and dependence was expressed was by a number of translations of texts, in which at least two stages must be clearly distinguished between: translations carried out directly from the Greek dating to the Aksumite period from the fourth to the seventh century CE, limited to the Bible and a few other texts, and a second stage of massive translations from the Arabic starting from the post-Aksumite period’. 62 For more details about texts and editions, see BAUSI, La versione etiopica delle Risposte [see note 39], pp. 49-52, and A. BAUSI, The Aksumite background of the Ethiopic “Corpus canonum”, in S. UHLIG – M. BULAKH – D. NOSNITSIN – T. RAVE (eds), Proceedings of the XVth International Conference of Ethiopian Studies. Hamburg July 20-25, 2003 (Aethiopistische Forschungen, 65), Wiesbaden, 2006, pp. 532-541 (pp. 535-537).

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ANALYSIS OF THE TEXT AS A SOURCE

OF THE

EGYPTIAN CANONICAL CULTURE

The initial series of patriarchs, the lists of Egyptian bishops, the history of Melitius, and the letters concerning his rebellion, are all elements of the HEpA which function to define the orthodox church, the institution that had withstood persecutions and heresies: the true church is based on the correct election and ordination of its clergy. The question of the authorship of this History is strictly tied to this last issue. The compilation seems to be the result of the activities of two ‘authors’: the bishops of Alexandria, who set the theological and political agenda, and the members of the chancery, who arrayed both the communications of the bishops and the documents preserved in the archives, selected by the bishop and preserved by his assistants, who are to be identified with the presbyters so important in the HEpA.63 In what follows we will highlight those elements by which the outline of the true church of Alexandria is defined. Canonical elements in the HEpA The HEpA’s initial section is structured into two subunits: in the first there is an account of the institution of the patriarchate and the rules concerning the election of the Alexandrian bishops, the eventual change of these rules is recorded; in the second a list of the Alexandrian patriarchs (which we have already discussed) is offered up to Peter.64 The style of the HEpA’s narrative and the quoted documents have a canonical flavour, as can be seen in the following passages (§§ 1-5): 1. Mark Evangelist entered Alexandia on the seventh year of Nero he appointed 12 presbyters and seven deacons, and he gave them the following rule: 2. After the bishop of Alexandria has died, the presbyters will gather and they will lay their hands in the faith of God upon the one, among them, that they all will have selected, and thus they will appoint him as their bishop, at the presence of the corpse of the dead bishop. 3. This doctrine has remained for the bishops whom they elect among the presbyters, from Anianos until the blessed Petros, who is the sixteenth bishop of Alexandria. This happened, not because there was any preference for the juridical principle that the presbyters should — this had not been granted — yet because, on the contrary, a bishop had not yet been appointed for every region.65 See HEpA § 48 = II.1, ed. BAUSI – CAMPLANI, The History of the Episcopate of Alexandria [see note 1], p. 290 where a comparison with the Ethiopic version reveals a probable interpolation mentioning priests and deacons: omnibus autem his episcopis [presbyteris ac diaconibus Alexandriae] apud carcerem martyrium passis (brackets in the text are mine). With this expression the priests of Alexandrian wish to remind the readers that on account of their loyalty to the throne of Alexandria, they too were martyrs during the persecution. 64 For an analysis of the first section of HEpA from the point of view of its significance for the conception of time in the milieus of the patriarchate, see CAMPLANI, Tempo delle origini [see note 56]. 65 Translations are taken from the edition princeps, BAUSI – CAMPLANI, The History of the Episcopate of Alexandria [see note 1]. I have only normalized the orthography of proper names. 63

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The last sentence, which has a clear apologetic intent, is meant to answer objections to the legitimacy of the bishop’s ordination by presbyters who are hierarchically inferior to him. This objection is obviously anachronistic if referred to the period in which it is assumed that these patriarchs were in office, but acquires meaning if linked to the end of the fourth century, the period of the redaction of the HEpA, when the bishop’s consecration was perceived as a religious act that may be performed only by colleagues in ministry.66 The reform of this system is then made known by the text: 5. After the blessed Peṭros, it was established that the appointment of those to be appointed would be done by the bishops.

Thus, right away the reader of the HEpA learns of the peculiarities of the patriarch’s election and consecration, a unique custom in the Mediterranean world, and the reasons for its existence.67 It is interesting to note that not only is the custom described, but also its reformation after Peter of Alexandria (possibly under Alexander of Alexandria, or under Athanasius). That is to say: customs and rules have their own history, and changes are meant to adapt them to new ecclesial situations.68 In other sections of the text another general rule emerges through the quotation of documents, this concerns the rights of bishops regarding the consecration of clerics in dioceses that are not their own: 35. (=3) There is a law of the fathers and ancestors, that even you do not ignore, shaped according to the divine and ecclesiastical order — for all things are according to God’s good pleasure and the contention for the best —, by them has been established and fixed that it is not lawful for any bishop to celebrate ordinations in the dioceses of others: this law is exceptionally important and devised with prudence.

This seems quite an obvious rule, as can be seen for instance in Apostolic Canons 35, or in Breviarium hipponense, both preserved by V, and in other African canons.69 But here it is declared in connection to the glorious past of Alexandria, marked by the martyrdom of its most famous bishop. At the end of the same epistle, this law is referred to the particularly Egyptian system of autocratic church power, according to which the bishop of Alexandria 66 On this articulated and complex process see P.F. BRADSHAW, Rites of Ordination. Their History and Theology, London, 2014, pp. 39-63. 67 See E. WIPSZYCKA, The Alexandrian Church. People and Institution (The Journal of Juristic Papyrology, Supplement, 25), Warsaw, 2015, pp. 43-60. 68 See also A. CAMPLANI, Un’antica teoria della successione patriarcale in Alessandria, in P. BUZI – D. PICCHI – M. ZECCHI (eds), Aegyptiaca et Coptica. Studi in onore di Sergio Pernigotti, Oxford, 2011, pp. 138-156. 69 Canon C, see C. MUNIER, Concilia Africae [see note 16], p. 32; see also index rerum p. 386, where some passages of another work preserved in V, the Registri ecclesiae Carthaginensis excerpta, are mentioned.

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is the chief of the entire Egyptian Church concerning doctrinal and juridical matters, as well as being responsible for the consecration of all bishops (Latin text of V): 38. (=5) But you, neither caring about these arguments, nor taking into account what might happen and the law of our fathers, blessed and accepted in Christ in the course of the successions, nor the dignity of the great bishop and our father Peter, from whom we all depend for the hope we have in the Lord Jesus Christ, nor softened by our incarcerations and trials, and by the daily and multiplied outrages, and by the violence and distress (which have happened) to everyone, you have dared to subvert everything at once. (...) (=11) Besides all this, not even the word of the most blessed, solicitous one, clothed with Christ, Paul, the apostle of all of us, has persuaded you to stop and restrain willingly your purpose, he who, writing to the beloved son Timothy, says: ‘Do not put too quickly your hand upon anyone, neither take part in the sins of others’ (I Tim. 5,22).

If one compares these rules to the Nicene canons, especially the sixth, the connection between them becomes unavoidable. In other words, the enunciations we detect in the HEpA find their parallel in the canonical legislation quoted in the two collections in which it is preserved, V and Σ. Another episode in which a clear connection with canonical legislation emerges is that of bishop Peter’s excommunications of the Melitians and Arius’ expulsion from the clergy (§§ 63-64, text of Σ): (Peter) due to the iniquities, one upon the other, of the Melitians, excommunicated them so that they were foreign to the Church and to its rites. When Arius had heard this, that the Melitians were excommunicated, and their baptism, he was enraged.

This passage is also found in Sozomen, Historia ecclesiastica 1,15, when he outlines Arius’ career: Arius gave origin to these disputations, a presbyter of the church at Alexandria in Egypt. He was at first zealous about doctrine, and upheld the innovations of Melitius. Eventually, however, he abandoned this latter and was ordained deacon by Peter, bishop of Alexandria, who afterwards cast him out of the church, because, when Peter anathematized the zealots of Melitius and rejected their baptism, Arius assailed him for these acts and could not be restrained in quietness.70

70 J. BIDEZ – G.C. HANSEN, Sozomenus Kirchengeschichte [see note 17], pp. 32-33: ἦρξε δὲ τούτων τῶν λόγων Ἄρειος πρεσβύτερος τῆς κατ΄ Αἴγυπτον Ἀλεξανδρείας. ὃς ἐξ ἀρχῆς σπουδαῖος εἶναι περὶ τὸ δόγμα δόξας νεωτερίζοντι Μελιτίῳ συνέπραττε· καταλιπὼν δὲ τοῦτον ἐχειροτονήθη διάκονος παρὰ Πέτρου τοῦ Ἀλεξανδρέων ἐπισκόπου· καὶ πάλιν αὖ παρ΄ αὐτοῦ τῆς ἐκκλησίας ἐξεβλήθη͵ καθότι Πέτρου τοὺς Μελιτίου σπουδαστὰς ἀποκηρύξαντος καὶ τὸ αὐτῶν βάπτισμα μὴ προσιεμένου τοῖς γινομένοις ἐπέσκηπτε καὶ ἠρεμεῖν οὐκ ἠνείχετο.

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In sum, there existed a tradition, according to which Peter applied to every kind of dissenter, schismatic and heretic, the use of rebaptism,71 as Cyprian of Carthage had done fifty years before, as noted by his Epistle 70, a text quoted for this reason at the end of the HEpA in Σ.72 Also in this case customs may be different and change over time, since Peter’s and Cyprian’s attitude are different from the more moderate attitude of his predecessor Dionysius, as well as the more up-to-date decisions taken at the Council of Nicaea and explicitly mentioned in the HEpA (V, text no. 9), wherein no trace is found of the need to rebaptize Melitian believers or to ‘technically’ reordain73 the clergy chosen by Melitius. Concerning V, we should note that in the African canonical dispositions rebaptism is formally prohibited.74 Once again, customs and norms were perceived by the author(s) of HEpA, and the compilers of sub-collections, as things to be adapted to historical circumstances. Another look at Rome The HEpA, a historical work with canonical interests, closely recalls the Liber Pontificalis, a work dated to the first part of the sixth century.75 Although in this latter text the canons play a more prominent role than they do in the HEpA, the mentality of the Roman circles that produced the LP is not far from that of the deacons and priests who had written the Alexandrian history over one century earlier. Here I will not touch on the extremely complicated question of the multiple redactions of the LP. My modest intention is to make reference to those studies that have in recent years highlighted the meaning of the LP’s canonical interests. In this text, writing papal biographies and referring to canon law are two activities apparently connected to the representation of the past of the see, and both are meant to influence the present state of the Church. 71 See MARTIN, Athanase d’Alexandrie [see note 49], pp. 261-298; A. CAMPLANI, Melitianer, in Reallexicon für Antike und Christentum, 35, Stuttgart, 2012, pp. 629-639; H. HAUBEN, Studies on the Melitian Schism in Egypt (AD 306-335), P. VAN NUFFELEN (ed.) (Variorum Collected Studies Series, CS1001), Farnham – Burlington/VT, 2012. 72 On Cyprian in Ethiopic canonical collections see A. BAUSI, L’Epistola 70 di Cipriano di Cartagine in versione etiopica, in Aethiopica, 1 (1998), pp. 101-130 and A. BAUSI, Note aggiuntive sull’Epistola 70 di Cipriano: versione etiopica e versione siriaca, in M. BERNARDINI – N.L. TORNESELLO (eds), Scritti in onore di Giovanni M. d’Erme. Saggi di colleghi e amici in occasione del suo compleanno (Series minor, 67), Napoli, 2005, vol. I, pp. 99-109. 73 Cheirotonia mystikotera could mean a simple act of reconciliation, not involving a form of consecration. See MARTIN, Athanase d’Alexandrie [see note 49], pp. 257-258. 74 MUNIER, Concilia Africae [see note 16], p. 217. 75 See the long and still useful introduction by L. DUCHESNE, Le Liber Pontificalis. Texte, introduction et commentaire [see note 34] and H. GEERTMAN, Documenti, redattori e la formazione del Liber pontificalis e le biografie del Liber Pontificalis dal 311 al 535, in IDEM (ed.), Il Liber Pontificalis e la storia materiale, Assen, 2003, pp. 267-355.

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Quotations of canons occur frequently in the papal biographies of the LP, drawing their materials from a plurality of sources. At the same time, some copies of the LP are preserved in manuscripts containing, inter alia, canonical material — a situation very similar to the HEpA’s.76 The LP and the Collectio Avellana, which both originated in Rome in the first half of the sixth century, are to be considered ‘two different modes of narration of papal history’.77 Both were the product of a cultural and socio-economic context that attributed an important role to legal writing in the management of relationships within society and the ecclesiastical hierarchy. E. Schwartz’s and E. Wirbelauer’s studies have demonstrated that specific ecclesiastical episodes of the sixth century influenced both the formation of canonical collections — in many cases compiled to validate the ecclesiological and doctrinal positions of either party — and the production of new and original writings (publizistische Sammlungen).78 As a recent study has clarified, ‘in this latter case, the prevailing forms were mainly two: that of the narrative text which had the purpose of creating a historical and / or legal precedent (the two aspects often coincide) in order to endorse a certain practice; the most complete administrative and legal form, which meant at the same time setting contingent situations retrospectively and offering a “legitimate” reconstruction of the jurisdiction exercised or desired in certain fields by the authorities concerned’.79 The three recensions of the LP have the same function: we find in them a reconstruction of the institutional, juridical and liturgical history of the Roman church, which represents the authors’ expectations of the ecclesiological structures of the Roman see as already fulfilled. The project of the LP seems more organic than that of the canonical collections, because it is not linked to the immediate resolution of contingent issues, but ‘moves on a broader perspective, aiming not only to give legitimacy to particular ecclesiological positions, but also, and above all, to an organic reconstruction of the institution “Church of Rome”, of its various components and of their history’. In this operation, the legal dimension has a central role: if the basic chosen structure, that of the catalogue, has the task of creating a seamless continuum between Peter 76 DUCHESNE, Le Liber Pontificalis [see note 34], pp. CLXIV-CCVI; A.A. VERARDI, La memoria legittimante: il Liber Pontificalis e la chiesa di Roma nel secolo VI, Roma, 2015, pp. 3180. 77 A.A. VERARDI, Il Liber Pontificalis romano e le collezioni di diritto canonico altomedievali di area italica, in Cristianesimo nella storia, 39 (2018), pp. 39-116; R. LIZZI-TESTA, La Collectio Avellana e le collezioni canoniche romane e italiche del V-VI secolo: un progetto di ricerca, in Cristianesimo nella storia, 34 (2014), pp. 77-236. 78 E. SCHWARTZ, Publizistische Sammlungen zum acacianischen Schisma (Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften. Abhandlungen. Phil.-hist. Klasse. N.F., 10), München, 1934; E. WIRBELAUER, Zwei Päpste in Rom. Der Konflikt zwischen Laurentius und Symmachus (498-514), München, 1993. 79 VERARDI, La memoria legittimante [see note 76], pp. 83-234; IDEM, Il Liber Pontificalis romano [see note 77].

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and its successors, ‘the norms attributed to the individual pontiffs, which are the characterizing element of Felician editorial staff, represent the very framework on which the body of the town church is based, to which it is subjected, from the summit to the last faithful’.80 In the HEpA, this form of history and canon law writing appears in an inchoate and less developed form than in LP. It thereby appears to be conceptually, but perhaps, also chronologically, earlier. Therefore the HEpA and similar official writings coming from other patriarchal sees may have been among the LP’s sources of inspiration, and at the same time, may have been inspired by the sources of both the chronographer of 354 and the LP. The intense cultural and historical connections between the Roman and Alexandrian sees work in favour of this hypothesis. Canon Law and History in Σ and V: some conclusions It is impressive to see how much canon law is interconnected with the HEpA. On the one hand, this historical compilation is transmitted among canonical collections, on the other, it makes constant reference to a system of norms, either as a result of tradition and selection of various written sources, or as a report of conciliar decisions (Nicaea, Serdica, etc.). However, if we try to understand the overall meaning of Σ and V, we should ask ourselves why so much historical material is found in two multi-textual manuscripts that collect different canonical collections. The first reason is quite obvious: behind Σ and V there are historical events that encouraged this interconnection. A question like that of Apiarius, the recomposition of a schism like that which occurred in Antioch in the second half of the fourth century, a phenomenon like the formation of the Ethiopic church and the necessity to provide it with important ecclesiological documents and information about the origins of the Egyptian church, were good stimuli for the circulation of canons and historical narratives together. The latter ones have a founding function for both the canon law of a church and its position in the eastern ecclesiastical network. The other reason is that the older canonical collections were frequently provided with elements of historical presentation: the chronological sequence of the canons of synods, the selection of particular texts, the presence of notes of explanation,81 all these elements point to historiographical sensitivity as a guiding principle in the organization of the material. This occurs in a traditional collection VERARDI, Il Liber Pontificalis romano [see note 77]. A very interesting sequence of historical introductions or final annotations is found in the Syriac collections, based probably on a Greek Vorlage: F. SCHULTHESS (ed.), Die syrischen Kanones der Synoden von Nicaea bis Chalcedon, nebst einigen zugehörigen Dokumenten, Berlin, 1908, pp. 158-159, 162-163. Particularly complex is the situation of Coptic 80

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like the Collectio antiochena,82 in the forms attested by Σ and V, as well by other manuscript traditions, but becomes particularly true within the African collection of the first tome of V: the Registri ecclesiae Carthaginensis excerpta are full of para-textual elements that help the reader to place the canonical decisions in the history of the relationship between Rome and Carthage. Beside real canons, within these synodical excerpts one can find commentary on the Nicene canons and their authenticity, their connection with those of Serdica, the lack of knowledge about this same synod, the problem of the relationship between Carthage and the ‘transmarine’ dioceses.83 If one takes a more general view of Σ, he will notice that the codex opens with a certain historical perspective: the Ecclesiastical Canons, presented in an ‘apostolic’ fictional frame, precede the history of the episcopate, the HEpA, which deals with Mark’s successors. In general, it should be remarked that the attention to the chain of transmission of ecclesiastical norms is prominent in the canonical-liturgical literature preserved in Ethiopic and other traditions. History as canon law, canon law as history: this correlation is especially meaningful in the particular kind of historiography exemplified by the texts we have dealt with, a form which promotes the rights and the jurisdiction, as well as the geo-ecclesiological position, of the great episcopal sees (Alexandria, Antioch, Constantinople, Rome). In conclusion, the HEpA, the lost Antiochene history, and the LP turn out to be textual complexes provided with a canonical perspective, while the canonical collections with which they circulated exhibit historical interests. This feature ensured these texts a successful reception in Carthage and especially in Aksum, where the HEpA was the only historical text providing materials on which a new Christian identity could be built.

canonical literature, for which see now T. ORLANDI, Coptic Texts Relating to the Church Canons. An Overview, Roma, 2016. 82 See A. MARDIROSSIAN, La Collection canonique d’Antioche. Droit et hérésie à travers le premier recueil de législation ecclésiastique (IVe siècle) (Centre de recherche d’histoire et civilisation de Byzance. Monographie, 34), Paris, 2010. 83 MUNIER, Concilia Africae [see note 16], pp. 182-247.

CAUCASIAN HISTORICAL LITERATURE, THE IRANIAN EPIC, AND THE DIVERSITY OF LATE ANTIQUITY Stephen H. RAPP JR.

Despite the changing historiographical tide, the study of early Christendom remains anchored in a Romano-Byzantine sea. This tenacious approach has spawned significant distortion, not least of which for the history of western Asia and north-eastern Africa.1 While Christianization could enhance real and potential ties to Rome and Constantinople, affiliations with other cultural spheres often endured for centuries. Across the span of late antiquity thus thrived Christian communities whose societies were rooted principally in the Iranian world.2 Such is the case for the region named for the Caucasus Mountains and occupying the strategic isthmus bounded by the Black and Caspian Seas. By the Hellenistic age the political landscape of Caucasia was dominated by three dynastic kingdoms. Armenia Major,3 Kʻartʻli in eastern Georgia,4 and Albania5 were intensively Christianized over the course of the fourth and fifth centuries. Although later sources award a central role to the prestigious but distant Roman capitals, the initial phase of conversion was chiefly connected to Christians based in nearby Cappadocia and Syria. Collectively, Caucasia’s three Christianizing kingdoms were charter members of the Byzantine — or Eastern Christian — Commonwealth. At the same time, the peoples of Armenia, Kʻartʻli, and Albania maintained their long-term integration within the Iranian Commonwealth, a massive cross-cultural enterprise stretching from Central Asia to Anatolia and south to the Arabian peninsula.6 Archaeological and linguistic data confirm the emergence of 1 On “Near” and “Middle” East and the evolving dichotomy of “East” and “West,” see M.W. LEWIS – K.E. WIGEN, The Myth of Continents: a Critique of Metageography, Berkeley, 1997, pp. 65-67. 2 Including Syriac and other Christian peoples within Iran. See e.g.: S.P. BROCK, Christians in the Sasanian Empire: A case of divided loyalties, in S. MEWS (ed.), Religion and National Identity, Oxford, 1982, pp. 1-19; J.P. ASMUSSEN, Christians in Iran, in E. YARSHATER (ed.), The Cambridge History of Iran, vol. 3, Cambridge, 1983, pp. 924-948; and now R.E. PAYNE, A state of mixture: Christians, Zoroastrians, and Iranian political culture in Late Antiquity, Berkeley, 2015. 3 On the multiplicity of Armenias, see N. GARSOÏAN, Interregnum: introduction to a study on the formation of Armenian identity (ca 600-750) (CSCO, 640 – Subsidia, 127), Leuven, 2012, pp. 105120. 4 Kʻartʻli and other inland Georgian territories are designated Iberia in Graeco-Roman sources. On local and foreign terminology for “Georgia” (an exonym), see the essays in G. PAIČADZE (ed.), Sak‛art‛velosa da k‛art‛velebis aġmnišvneli uc‛xouri da k‛art‛uli terminologia, T‛bilisi, 1993. 5 Not to be confused with the later polity in the Balkans. 6 On commonwealths, see: D. OBOLENSKY, The Byzantine Commonwealth: Eastern Europe 5001453, New York, 1971, and G. FOWDEN, Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism

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an Irano-Caucasian web no later than the mid-first millennium BC, long before the advent of Christianity.7 Christianization did not unravel this transregional network, though the proliferation of Christian monotheism boosted its diversification and brought Caucasia simultaneously within the emergent Byzantine Commonwealth. Robust signatures of Caucasia’s Iranian heritage come into sharp resolution during the Arsacid and Sasanian empires.8 Consider, for example: Caucasia’s social organization along an Iranian pattern, according to which dynastic aristocratic houses (i.e. naxarars of Armenia and families led by eristʻavis in eastern Georgia) were nominally governed by a dynastic monarch;9 the widespread deployment of Iranian and especially Iranic10 modes of royal authority, including in Late Antiquity, Princeton, 1993. See also J. SHEPARD, Byzantium’s Overlapping Circles, in E. JEFFREYS (ed.), Proceedings of the 21st International Congress of Byzantine Studies, vol. 1, Aldershot, 2006, pp. 15-56. Yet more ancient connections with Mesopotamia and Anatolia existed, e.g. through Kura-Araxes culture. 7 S.H. RAPP JR., The Sasanian world through Georgian eyes: Caucasia and the Iranian Commonwealth in Late Antique Georgian literature, Farnham, 2014, for expanded coverage of the Irano-Caucasian nexus. On webs, see J.R. MCNEILL – W.H. MCNEILL, The Human Web: a Bird’seye View of World History, New York – London, 2003. 8 For the similarities and differences of Arsacid and Sasanian political ideology, see M.R. SHAYEGAN, Arsacids and Sasanians: Political Ideology in Post-Hellenistic and Late Antique Persia, Cambridge, 2011. 9 In medieval sources, high-ranking Georgian aristocrats are termed didebulis and aznauris. 10 Iranian-like and hybrid, in the same sense as Hellenistic. Persianate has been avoided because of its customary association with Islam.

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interlocked notions of xwarrah (divine radiance)11 and the hero-king; the blossoming of local and regional types of Zoroastrianism exhibiting remarkable mixture and synergy;12 and the interface of Middle Iranian and Caucasian languages, including — but by no means limited to — the dominance of an Iranian onomasticon among Caucasia’s élites.13 Aspects of these subjects have been examined by several talented pioneers, including Nicholas Adontz (Nikołayos Adoncʻ), Nikolai Marr, Cyril Toumanoff, Nina Garsoïan, Mzia Andronikašvili, James Russell, Rüdiger Schmitt, Roland Bielmeier, and Jost Gippert.14 But considerable work remains, particularly for the recovery of pan-regional perspectives. Another expression of the Irano-Caucasian nexus has eluded scholarly attention: the imprint of the Iranian epic on the historical works produced throughout late antique Caucasia.15 This is not simply a matter of “borrowing” or unidirectional diffusion. Rather, Armenians, eastern Georgians, and Albanians adapted aspects of the Iranian epic and actively contributed to its elaboration. This phenomenon is manifest in three principal ways: first, direct appropriation and reflection of the Iranian epic; second, the deployment of motifs, symbols, 11 These were deliberately abandoned under the “Byzantinizing” Bagratids, whose rule in Georgian lands commenced in the ninth century: S.H. RAPP JR., From Bumberazi to Basileus: Writing cultural synthesis and dynastic change in medieval Georgia (K‛art‛li), in A. EASTMOND (ed.), Eastern Approaches to Byzantium: Papers from the Thirty-third Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, University of Warwick, Coventry, March 1999, Aldershot, 2001, pp. 101-116. 12 RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], esp. pp. 147-160. See also A. DE JONG, Armenian and Georgian Zoroastrianism, in M. STAUSBERG – Y. SOHRAB-DINSHAW VEVAINA (eds), The Wiley Blackwell Companion to Zoroastrianism, Chichester, 2015, pp. 119128. For Armenia see the trailblazing study by J.R. RUSSELL, Zoroastrianism in Armenia, Cambridge/MA, 1987. 13 J. GIPPERT, Iranica Armeno-Iberica: Studien zu den iranischen Lehnwörtern im Armenischen und Georgischen (Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften philosophisch-historische Klasse, Sitzungberichte, 606), Wien, 1993. 14 E.g.: N. ADONTZ – N.G. GARSOÏAN, Armenia in the Period of Justinian: the political Conditions based on the Naxarar System, Lisbon, 1970; N.I. MARR, Bogi iazycheskoi Gruzii po drevne-gruzinskim istochnikam, in Zapiski vostochnago Otdeleniia imperatorskago russkago arkheologicheskago Obshchestva, 14.1 (1902), pp. 1-29; C. TOUMANOFF, Studies in Christian Caucasian History, Washington, 1963; N.G. GARSOÏAN, Armenia between Byzantium and the Sasanians, London, 1985; N.G. GARSOÏAN, Church and Culture in Early Medieval Armenia, Aldershot, 1999; M. ANDRONIKAŠVILI, Narkvevebi iranul-k‛art‛uli enobrivi urt‛iert‛obidan, 2 vols. T‛bilisi, 1966-1996, with English summary; J.R. RUSSELL, Armenia and Iranian Studies, Cambridge/ MA, 2004; R. SCHMITT, Iranisches Lehngut im Armenischen, in REArm, 17 (1983), pp. 73-112; R. BIELMEIER, On Iranian Influences in Old Georgian, in H.I. ARONSON (ed.), Non-Slavic Languages of the USSR: Papers from the fourth Conference, Columbus, 1994, pp. 34-43; GIPPERT, Iranica Armeno-Iberica [see note 13]. See also T. GREENWOOD, Sasanian Echoes and Apocalyptic Expectations: a Reevaluation of the Armenian History attributed to Sebeos, in Le Muséon 115.3-4 (2002), pp. 323-397 and T. GREENWOOD, Sasanian Reflections in Armenian Sources, in e-Sasanika, 5 (2008), Available online: www.sasanika.org/wp-content/uploads/e-sasanika3-Greenwood.pdf (last accessed: 19 May 2016). 15 The Armenian case is relatively well known though it is normally treated in isolation from the rest of Caucasia.

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and vocabulary shared with, inspired by, and paralleling the Iranian epic; and third, the creative mimicking, adaptation, and extension of the Iranian epic as the primary model for writing local, regional, and “world” history. THE LIVING, CROSS-CULTURAL IRANIAN/IRANIC EPIC From the outset, the participatory nature of the Iranian Commonwealth16 and the agency of Caucasia’s inhabitants must be stressed. It was in this dynamic environment that the diverse peoples of the region, including the pastoralists of Northern Caucasia,17 actively selected, filtered, modified, and created new facets of the Iranian epic tradition. By no means were the communities residing between the Black and Caspian Seas passive consumers of imperial culture; they did not simply regurgitate the epic as it existed Iran or elsewhere in the commonwealth. This dynamic activity intensified with the permanent resettlement of Parthian nobles throughout Caucasia’s southern tier. Arriving individually and in groups, Parthian newcomers tended to acculturate swiftly to Caucasian society as they reinvigorated Iranian and Iranic culture. Enhancing their noble status, scions of the Parthian Arsacid and Mihrānid houses permeated the upper echelons of Caucasian politics and achieved a monopoly over royal authority. Acculturating Arsacid kings in Armenia Major and Albania, and a Mihrānid one in eastern Georgia, were the first monarchs in Caucasia to embrace Christianity — and were among the first to do so anywhere in the world. As we can perceive it, the Iranian epic was codified under the later Sasanians. Pre-Islamic redactions of this tradition, known as the Xwadāy-nāmag, have not come down to us; their residue is preserved mainly in Islamic-era Persian and Arabic sources, including Ferdowsī’s Šāhnāma of the eleventh century. To this corpus must be added the Caucasian literature explored here. Regardless of language, the received texts are fragmentary and are transmitted through an assortment of later filters. Not surprisingly, the lost Xwadāy-nāmag’s precise origin and nature are fiercely contested.18 It is clear, however, that the Iranian 16 This participatory mechanism may be traced to the Achaemenids, e.g.: M. COOL ROOT, The king and kingship in Achaemenid art: essays on the creation of an iconography of empire (Acta Iranica, 19), Leuven, 1979; and L. KHATCHADOURIAN, An archaeology of hegemony: The Achaemenid Empire and the Remaking of the Fortress in the Armenian Highlands, in G.E. ARESHIAN (ed.), Empires of Diversity: on the Crossroads of Archaeology, Anthropology, and History, Los Angeles, 2013, pp. 108-145. 17 The ties of Northern Caucasia’s pastoralists to the Iranian world are frequently neglected See P.B. GOLDEN, The Turkic Peoples and Caucasia, in R.G. SUNY (ed.), Transcaucasia, Nationalism, and Social Change: Essays in the History of Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia, Ann Arbor, 1996, pp. 45-67. 18 Literature on the lost Iranian epic is voluminous but see: E. YARSHATER, Iranian National History, in IDEM (ed.), The Cambridge History of Iran [see note 2], pp. 359-480; P. HUYSE, Late Sasanian Society between Orality and Literacy, in V.S. CURTIS – S. STEWART (eds), The Sasanian

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epic was a central pillar of élite identity not just in Iran but across the Iranian Commonwealth.19 The original intention of the Middle Persian Xwadāy-nāmag was to eulogize the Sasanians against the backdrop of the long and glorious Iranian past. Yet from an early time, the Xwadāy-nāmag was an organic and flexible tradition. It was elaborated in multiple oral and written versions, and there are abundant signs of it having been edited, revised, and enlarged by Sasanian and nonSasanian constituencies.20 Chief among the latter were Parthian aristocrats clustered near the Caspian Sea as well as the nobility of Caucasia, whose ranks were punctuated by acculturated Parthian expatriates. Because Sasanian-era versions of the Xwadāy-nāmag have not come down to us, evidence transmitted in early Caucasian historical literature sheds valuable light not only on Caucasia but also Iran and the interlocked Iranian and Byzantine worlds. And whereas scholarship has sometimes acknowledged the value of Armenian materials,21 only now is the depth of Georgian historiographical sources coming into view. DIRECT REFLECTIONS AND APPROPRIATIONS OF THE IRANIAN/IRANIC EPIC The most clear-cut index of the Iranian epic in the historical literature of late antique Caucasia entails direct reflection and appropriation.22 Despite its fairly easy detection, this is the most infrequently encountered of the classifications. With few exceptions, such Iranian material involves mythical epochs preceding and dovetailing into the Achaemenid Empire. These remote times are engaged by The Life of the Kings, the longest extant Georgian history addressing the pre-Christian period. Based on earlier oral and written sources, the anonymous narrative was composed at the turn of the eighth/ninth centuries.23 Having set Era, London, 2008, pp. 140-155; A. SHAHPUR SHAHBAZI, On the Xwadāy-nāmag, in D. AMIN – M. KASHEFF – A.S. SHAHBAZI (eds), Iranica Varia. Papers in Honor of Professor Ehsan Yarshater (Acta Iranica, 30), Leuven, 1990, pp. 208-229; M. MACUCH, Pahlavi Literature, in R.E. EMMERRICK – M. MACUCH (eds), The Literature of pre-Islamic Iran: Companion volume I to a History of Persian literature, London, 2009, pp. 172-181. See also M. OMIDSALAR, Poetics and Politics of Iran’s National Epic, the Shahnameh, New York, 2011 and P. POURSHARIATI, Decline and Fall of the Sasanian Empire: The Sasanian-Parthian Confederacy and the Arab Conquest of Iran, London, 2008. 19 On the cohesion of polycultural élites under Achaemenid rule, see E.R.M. DUSINBERRE, Empire, Authority, and Autonomy in Achaemenid Anatolia, Cambridge, 2013. 20 Minstrels played an important role: M. BOYCE, The Parthian Gōsān and the Iranian Minstrel Tradition, in JAS (1957), pp. 10-45. For Christian contributions, in addition to those discussed below, see P. WOOD, The Christian Reception of the Xwadāy-Nāmag: Hormizd IV, Khusrau II and Their Successors, in Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 26.3 (2016), pp. 407-422. 21 E.g. POURSHARIATI, Decline and Fall of the Sasanian Empire [see note 18]. 22 On “the inclusions of sections” of the Xwadāy-nāmag in a Christian Syriac source, P. WOOD, The Chronicle of Seert: christian historical Imagination in Late Antique Iraq, Oxford, 2013, pp. 172-174. 23 As we shall see, The Life of the Kings is based on earlier sources. The standard interpretation credits The Life of the Kings to the eleventh-century archbishop Leonti Mroveli. This date

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the genesis of the Kʻartʻvelians and their neighbors within a modified biblical tabula populorum, The Life of the Kings subsequently deploys a conspicuous Iranian framework for pre-Christian Caucasian history. In several instances the text evokes dramatis personae from Iran’s mythical beginnings, including Farīdūn (Georgian Apʻridon), Bēvarasp (Bevraspʻ)/Zaḥḥāk, Ardawān (Ardam), Key Kāvus (Kʻekapos), and Siyāwaxš (Šioš).24 These primeval characters were featured in the Iranian Xwadāy-nāmag and dependent works like the Šāhnāma. The Life of the Kings indicates the Iranian provenance of this information by citing Cʻxo[v]rebay sparstʻasa (ცხო[ვ]რებაჲ სპარსთასა), The Life of the Iranians,25 a generic name for the oral and written traditions associated with the Xwadāy-nāmag.26 The mythical story of Bēvarasp, the demonic “lord of serpents,” detained by King Farīdūn, circulated throughout late antique Caucasia. Variants are incorporated into the Georgian Life of the Kings and the History of the Armenians attributed to Movsēs Xorenacʻi (Moses Khorenatsi, “of Chorene”). The compact account in The Life of the Kings relates: From then on the Iranians, descendants of Nimrod [Geo. Nebrotʻ], gained strength on the east. And a certain hero [gmiri, გძირი]27 named Farīdūn became pre-eminent among the descendants of Nimrod,28 “who tied with a chain Bēvarasp, lord of serpents, and fastened him on a mountain which is inaccessible for men.” Such is written in The Life of the Iranians. Farīdūn ruled over the whole land of the Iranians. To some lands he dispatched eristʻavis [i.e. governors/generals], his henchmen, and some lands he made tributary. He sent off with a large army his eristʻavi who was called Ardawān, a descendant of Nimrod. He came to Kʻartʻli, destroyed all the cities has led many scholars to trace the origins of Georgian “secular” literature to the eleventh century, e.g. R.P. BLAKE, Georgian secular Literature: Epic, Romance, and Lyric (1000-1800), in Harvard Studies and Notes in Philology and Literature, 15 (1933), pp. 25-48. Here Blake relies on the research of Korneli Kekeliże (Kekelidze); see especially K. KEKELIŻE, K‛art‛uli literaturis istoria, vol. 1, T‛bilisi, 1960. 24 Although The Life of the Kings is overwhelmingly a literary expression of the Iranian Commonwealth, its opening passages — which might not belong to the original (lost) version — draw upon the expanded biblical tabula populorum found in the Armenian adaptation of Hippolytus’ Chronicle. See RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], pp. 187-188. But even here, the epic conflict of eponymous ancestors of Caucasia’s peoples and Togarmah (Tʻargamos) are embedded in an Iranian framework. Thus, “[a] fierce battle took place between them, which resembled a violent [storm] in the air. For the dust of their feet was like a thick cloud; the flashing of their armour was like the lightning of the sky; the sound of their voices was like the sound of thunder. The multitude of arrows and their throwing of stones were like dense hail; and the shedding of their blood was like a stream of torrents…” (Life of the Kings: text in S. QAUXČ‛IŠVILI [ed.], K‛art‛lis c‛xovreba [Life of Georgia], vol. 1, T‛bilisi, 1955, pp. 62373; English translation in R.W. THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian History: the Medieval Armenian Adaptation of the Georgian Chronicles: the Original Georgian Texts and the Armenian Adaptation, Oxford, 1996, pp. 7-8. 25 Cʻxorebay, according to late antique orthography. 26 RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], pp. 191-198. 27 Gmiri < “Gimmirai, Cimmerian”: RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], p. 235. 28 See below for Nimrod as the initiator of earthly and Iranian kingship.

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and fortresses of Kʻartʻli, and killed as many Khazars29 as he found in Kʻartʻli. This eristʻavi Ardawān built a city at the Pass of the Sea30 and he named it Daruband,31 which means “the gate he shut.” He also enclosed [the future Kʻartʻvelian royal] city of Mcʻxetʻa with [a] mortared stone [wall]…32

The Life of the Kings’s inclusion of a direct quotation — “who tied with a chain Bēvarasp, lord of serpents, and fastened him on a mountain which is inaccessible for men” — implies its appropriation (directly?) from an oral or written rendition of the Iranian epic.33 The other Caucasian tradition of Bēvarasp is embedded in Xorenacʻi’s History of the Armenians, whose received form took shape in the eighth or ninth century.34 This rich narrative exhibits a stout distaste for Iran and Armenia’s connections to it. Nevertheless, the talented author could not completely muffle Armenia’s deep Iranian heritage. If nothing else, Xorenacʻi’s antiquarian obsessions necessitated an engagement with periods when Caucasia was tightly integrated into the Iranian Commonwealth. For example, before the triumph of Christianity, regional varieties of Zoroastrianism had flourished throughout the isthmus. In addition, the social and political structures of Caucasia had been part and parcel of the Iranian world since the Arsacid Empire, if not much earlier. Though it was not his intention, Xorenacʻi’s history is one of the most sumptuous repositories of Iranian material in Caucasian literature. Still, Xorenacʻi does not hesitate to disparage facets of Armenia’s culture striking him as overtly Iranian, especially when they smacked of discordance with Christianity. Xorenacʻi thus distinguishes his tale of Biurasp Aždahak with the condescending caption Ի Պարսից առասպելաց (i Parsicʻ aṙaspelacʻ), “From the fables of the Persians.”35 29 Xazarni, “Khazars,” are a blatant anachronism. However, they are commonly met in the Iranian epic. GOLDEN, The Turkic Peoples [see note 17], p. 49 notes that “it is not until the midseventh century [AD] that we can trace the outlines of Khazar involvement in Transcaucasian affairs with any degree of clarity. Prior to this, they operated in close concert with their Türkic overlords.” 30 Or “Sea Gate,” for which see The Lives of the Georgian Kings (= Life of the Kings), English translation by Dmitri Gamq’reliże in R. METREVELI (ed.), Kartlis Tskhovreba: A History of Georgia, T‛bilisi, 2014, p. 1818. 31 Darband, Derbent. For this strategic site in northeastern Caucasia, see M.S. GADZHIEV, Derbent — pamiatnik mirovoi istorii i kul’tury, in Vestnik Instituta istorii, arkheologii i etnografii, 41.1 (2015), pp. 5-20. 32 Life of the Kings, Qauxčʻišvili, Life of Georgia [see note 24], pp. 1223-1311; trans. THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian History [see note 24], pp. 16-17 (slightly modified). 33 In the later Šāhnāma, Farīdūn “imprisoned [Zaḥḥāk/Bēvarasp] in Mount Damāvand, loading chains on him, and confining him to a narrow cave that seemed to have no end…”: Abolqasem FERDOWSI, Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings, trans. D. DAVIS, Ferdowsi. Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings, New York, 2007, p. 27. 34 The received text claims a fifth-century provenance. For the later date, see e.g. Robert Thomson’s introduction to his translation of Movsēs Xorenacʻi’s History of the Armenians (R.W. THOMSON [tr.], Moses Khorenats‛i. History of the Armenians, Cambridge/MA, 1987). 35 Movsēs Xorenacʻi: M. ABEŁEAN – S. YARUT‛IWNEAN (eds), Movsēs Xorenac‛i. Patmut‛iwn Hayoc‛, Tiflis, 1913; repr. Delmar/NY, 1981, pp. 89-92 = THOMSON, Moses Khorenats‛i [see note 34],

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He begins by admonishing his fellow Armenians: “But what then is your delight in the obscene and ridiculous fables of Biurasp Aždahak: and why do you trouble us for those absurd and incoherent Persian stories, notorious for their imbecility?”36 By preserving the story in toto Xorenacʻi inadvertently corroborates Caucasia’s ancient membership in the Iranian world. And his admission of the ongoing thirst for such stories is an indication of Christian Armenia’s enduring membership in that commonwealth. As noted by Russell, “the survival of these ancient epics in the Christian milieu is striking testimony to Arm[enian] cultural tenacity and conservatism…”37 Xorenacʻi’s tour de force is a monument of the post-Sasanian age, though it transmits considerable information from earlier times.38 A similar situation surrounds the Georgian Life of the Kings. But unlike Xorenacʻi and any other known Armenian historian of late antiquity, the contemporaneous author of The Life of the Kings adapted the Iranian epic as the primary framework for Caucasian history. Further, Xorenacʻi’s overtly negative assessment of things Iranian contrasts sharply with its Georgian counterpart. It should be borne in mind that both authors were Christians who lived at a time when Christianity prevailed in Caucasia. Scripts for the Armenian, Georgian, and Albanian languages are Christian inventions; Caucasian literature is therefore a Christian one.39 Despite common involvement in the Iranian world, the presentation of Caucasia’s inclusion in that commonwealth as well as attitudes towards Iran could fluctuate substantially among the region’s peoples and even within a given community. Not all direct reflections of the Iranian epic in Caucasia’s historical literature concern the remote pre-Achaemenid past. The Parthian romance of Ardawān (Arm. Artavan)40 and Ardaxšīr (Artašir) was inserted wholesale into the Laurentiana MS of the Greek “Ag” redaction of Agatʻangełos, the reputed writer associated with a cycle of texts about the royal conversion of Armenia Major.41 pp. 126-128 (emphasis added). See also B.L. Č‛UGASZYAN, Byuraspi Aždahaki aṙaspelə əst Movsēs Xorenac‛u, in Tełekagir, 1 (1958), pp. 67-84. 36 Movsēs Xorenacʻi: ABEŁEAN – YARUTʻIWNEAN, Movsēs Xorenac‛i [see note 15], pp. 893-5; THOMSON, Moses Khorenats‛i [see note 34], p. 126. 37 J.R. RUSSELL, Some Iranian Images of Kingship in the Armenian Artaxiad Epic, in REArm, 20 (1986-1987), p. 255; repr. in J.R. RUSSELL, Armenia and Iranian Studies, Cambridge/MA, 2004, p. 159. 38 RUSSELL, Some Iranian Images [see note 37], including the Songs of Gołtʻn. The epic tales of Sasun (Sasnay cṙer) were also transmitted well into Christian times. See also J.R. RUSSELL, Epic in the Armeno-Iranian Marchlands: the Metamorphoses of a Genre, in Journal of Armenian Studies, 7.1 (2002-2003), pp. 3-20. Repr. in RUSSELL, Armenian and Iranian Studies [see note 37], pp. 1347-1364. 39 However, these emerged within the context of the creation of other scripts in the Arsacid and Sasanian Empires: C.G. HÄBERL, Iranian Scripts for Aramaic Languages: the Origin of the Mandaic Script, in BASOR, 341 (2006), pp. 53-62. 40 This is not the same figure (Geo. Ardam) mentioned above in The Life of the Kings. 41 Agatʻangełos Ag §§2-9: R.W. THOMSON (tr.), The Lives of Saint Gregory: The Armenian, Greek, Arabic, and Syriac Versions of the History attributed to Agathangelos, Ann Arbor/MI,

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The late antique account launches with a declaration of the Parthians having “enjoyed the greatest success” and a sketch of Parthia’s political organization.42 Attention then shifts to the demise of the Arsacid Empire. The Sasanian Ardaxšīr is said to have fallen in love with a female servant of Ardawān, the last Parthian king. Ardawān’s dream of the rise of a new dynasty came to pass, and the monarch confronted Ardaxšīr in a drawn-out battle. After four months the Sasanian claimed victory and married the daughter of his vanquished foe. As noted by Robert Thomson, the Armeno-Parthian romance of Ardawān and Ardaxšīr exhibits parallels to the Kārnāmag ī Ardaxšīr ī Pāpagān, The Book of the Deeds of Ardaxšīr, Son of Pāpag, a Middle Persian text composed towards the end of the Sasanian regime.43 But this is neither a straightforward translation nor abridgement. Further, the Armenian story, probably deriving from the fifth century, has a clear Parthian stamp: Parthians, and royal Arsacids in particular, are painted in favorable colors. And we should remember that the tale of Ardawān and Ardaxšīr is preserved in a recension of the central narrative devoted to the Christianization of King Trdat, a scion of the Armenian branch of the Parthian Arsacid (Aršakuni) family. PARALLELS TO AND ADAPTATIONS OF THE IRANIAN/IRANIC EPIC The second manifestation of the Iranian epic in the historical literature of late antique Caucasia is the most common: the application of vocabulary, symbolism, and motifs paralleling, inspired by, or adapted from the Xwadāy-nāmag. This category principally involves a variety of heroes, including the eponymous Armenian ancestor Hayk, who in Xorenacʻi’s History defeated the giant Bēl/ Nimrod, as well as the semi-mythical first king of the Kʻartʻvelians Pʻarnavaz (r. 299-234 BC), whose reign is celebrated in The Life of the Kings. Such imagery also adorns Christian heroes like the Kʻartʻvelian monarch Vaxtang (Vakhtang) Gorgasali and the Armenian noble Babik of Siwnikʻ. Vaxtang is extolled in a royal biography composed by an anonymous author around the year 800; Babik appears in the Armenian-language History of the Albanians credited to Movsēs Dasxurancʻi (Kałankatuacʻi). 2010, pp. 123-126, and p. 95 for the passage and the dating of the MS. See also G. MURADYAN – A. TOPCHYAN, The Romance of Artaban and Artašir in Agathangelos’ History, in e-Sasanika, 4 (2008), also available online at http://sasanika.org/esasanika/the-romance-of-artaban-and-artasir-inagathangelos-history-2/ (last accessed 20 July 2018). This short study is devoted to an abridged version found in Symeon Metaphrastes’ tenth-century Menologion. 42 Agatʻangełos Ag §2: THOMSON, The Lives of Saint Gregory [see note 41], p. 123. Immediately after the inserted Parthian romance, the Armenian author laments the rise of the Sasanians. 43 THOMSON, The Lives of Saint Gregory [see note 41], p. 123, fn. 1. For the text of the Kārnāmag, see F. GRENET (ed. and tr.), La geste d’Ardashir fils de Pâbag: Kārnāmag ī Ardaxšēr ī Pābagān, Die, 2003, modern Georgian translation T‛EO Č‛XEIŻE (tr.), Ardašir papakis żis sak‛met‛a cigni, T‛bilisi, 1975.

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These and numerous other figures — from antiquity to the early medieval era — are clothed in the vocabulary applied to Iranian epic heroes. Of particular note are Caucasian hero-kings, both “pagan” and Christian, whose representation is remarkably consistent with Sasanian šāhan šāhs (shahanshahs). Kʻartʻvelian, Armenian, and Albanian royal heroes excel in single combat and are distinguished by their possession of xwarrah (farnah, farr), the sacral radiance marking legitimate rulers throughout the Iranian Commonwealth. In Classical Armenian xwarrah is rendered by the transcribed փառք (pʻaṙkʻ) whereas the received Georgian term დიდებაჲ (didebay < didi, “great”) literally denotes “greatness” and hence “glory.”44 Perhaps the remnant of an extinct Georgian word, the root ფარ- (pʻar-) is the basis of several old Kʻartʻvelian names, including Pʻarnavaz, Pʻarsman, and Pʻarnajob.45 Identical terminology — pʻaṙkʻ and didebay — is used for the xwarrah applied to the Christian kings of Caucasia. Visual representations of Christianized xwarrah are found throughout the region, though its sacral basis has shifted. In Iran, the “spread wings” motif signifying royal xwarrah is a common decorative element of Sasanian crowns and frequently occurs on Sasanian coinage and stucco.46 The uplifting symbol was co-opted by Christians in Caucasia to express the glory emanating from the Christian God and specifically adorns painted, inscribed, and sculpted crosses (see figures 1 and 2).47 So far as we can tell, this hybrid visual imagery was deployed in ecclesiastical settings and was not applied directly to Christian Caucasian monarchs. Though its core traditions are considerably older, The Life of the Kings’s treatment of pre-Christian history has been favored in Georgian literary circles since the zenith of the medieval Bagratid kingdom in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. No later than this time, and probably long before, the prioritisation of Pʻarnavaz had become a mainstay of Georgian historiography. The tale enshrined in the ca. 800 Life of the Kings styles Pʻarnavaz as first monarch of the Kʻartʻvelians.48 Moreover, this crucial figure’s portrayal as an Iranic hero-king sets the tone for subsequent eastern Georgian rulers through the ascendancy of the Bagratid dynasty in the ninth century. According to The Life of the Kings, Pʻarnavaz acquired power as a result of the disruptions arising 44

Didebay is regularly employed in Christian texts in the sense of Christian sacral glory. For a longer discussion of didebay and pʻar-, see RAPP, The Sasanian world through Georgian eyes [see note 7], pp. 151, 228-229. 46 M. P. CANEPA, Inscriptions, royal spaces and Iranian Identity: epigraphic Practices in Persia and the ancient Iranian World, in A. EASTMOND (ed.), Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, Cambridge, 2015, pp. 28-29. 47 M. COMPARETI, The Spread Wings Motif on Armenian Steles: its Meaning and Parallels in Sasanian Art, in Iran and the Caucasus, 14 (2010), pp. 201-232. For extended consideration of Georgia and the pan-Caucasian context, see RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], pp. 249-258. 48 A related but divergent account is transmitted in the pre-Christian section of the ecclesiastical compilation Mokʻcʻevay kʻartʻlisay, where Azoy is the first king to rule from the city of Mcʻxetʻa. 45

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Figure 1. Cromi (Tsromi), eastern Georgia, early seventh century.

Figure 2. Aruč (Aruch), Armenia, mid-seventh century.

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from Alexander’s conquest of Achaemenid Persia. To be sure, the text’s claim of Alexander having invaded eastern Georgia is a fantastic one. However, the world-conqueror’s reported installation of his Macedonian kinsman Azon to administer Kʻartʻli is consistent — at least in broad strokes — with his actual deeds elsewhere, including Armenia. Such activity did not require Alexander’s physical presence. Ultimately, Azon strayed from the civilising path blazed by his suzerain, and it was Pʻarnavaz who was destined to shatter Azon’s tyranny. Earlier, during Alexander’s supposed attack, Pʻarnavaz’s father and uncle (the custodian, or mamasaxlisi, of the future royal seat Mcʻxetʻa [Mtskheta]) had been killed. Accordingly, the young boy withdrew to the safe haven of the Caucasus Mountains. There Pʻarnavaz’s aptitude for hunting became the stuff of legend and, at a pivotal moment, the king-to-be dreamt of anointing himself with the Sun.49 Pʻarnavaz’s fate was sealed when he discovered immense riches hidden in a cave. Thereafter, Pʻarnavaz unleashed a successful uprising against Azon, thus achieving vengeance for his family and the oppressed Kʻartʻvelians. The enthroned Pʻarnavaz is depicted as a foundational king in accord with the Iranian epic. In Ferdowsī’s Šāhnāma, for example, Hušang discovered fire, invented blacksmithery, and domesticated animals.50 Likewise the xwarrahenshrouded Pʻarnavaz supposedly introduced kingship (mepʻobay, ძეფობაჲ < mepʻe, “king, ruler/monarch”) to the eastern Georgians and devised the administrative apparatus based on eristʻavis that functioned until the early modern period. Pʻarnavaz consciously modelled his government upon the Achaemenid Empire.51 He also crafted religious life by raising an idol above Mcʻxetʻa and naming it after himself. But this is a false etymology. In name and concept Armaz is actually a local manifestation of Ahura Mazdā.52 According to The Life of the Kings and hagiographical narratives about the conversion of Mirian, Kʻartʻli’s first Christian king, Armaz stood atop the Kʻartʻvelian polytheistic ladder until Christianity’s displacement of Zoroastrianism in the fourth century. Finally, Pʻarnavaz promoted the Georgian (kʻartʻuli, “Kʻartʻvelian”) language and fashioned a script.53 While the oldest known Georgian script, asomtʻavruli, 49 Life of the Kings: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 21; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian history [see note 24], pp. 29-30. 50 Šāhnāma: D. DAVIS (tr.), Ferdowsi. Shahnameh: The Persian Book of Kings, New York, 2007, pp. 3-4. 51 Life of the Kings: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 25; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian history [see note 24], p. 35. 52 Life of the Kings: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 25; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian History [see note 24], p. 36. On Armaz, see RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], pp. 144-154. For religious variety within Zoroastrianism, including idolatry, see: P. CRONE, The Nativist Prophets of Early Islamic Iran: Rural Revolt and Local Zoroastrianism, Cambridge, 2012; and M. SHENKAR, Intangible Spirits and graven Images: the Iconography of Deities in the Pre-Islamic Iranian World, in Magical and Religious Literature of Late Antiquity, vol. 4. Leiden, 2014, pp. 22-26 for Georgian sources. 53 Life of the Kings: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 26; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian history [see note 24], pp. 37-38.

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was created by Christians at the turn of the fourth and fifth centuries,54 its ascription to Pʻarnavaz is consistent with the primordial Iranian king Tahmures learning the secret of writing from demons.55 Besides the archetypical Pʻarnavaz, the most outstanding Kʻartʻvelian example of a non-Christian hero-king is Pʻarsman II Kʻueli, “the Valiant.”56 In this passage from The Life of the Kings, Pʻarsman (r. AD 116-132) grapples with an Iranian champion in single combat:57 There was at that time among the Iranians a gigantic [goliatʻi, გოლიათი] man by the name of Jumber,58 who had caught a lion with his hands. He challenged King Pʻarsman to single combat. King Pʻarsman happily armed himself and went forth. They shouted out with a great cry and rushed on each other. They began to fight with sabres, and the noise of their combat resembled the sound of crashing thunder. Pʻarsman rose up, threw [Jumber], and slew him. He turned back towards his own army and shouted out in a loud voice: “Aha, ferocious lions, the sheep [are] beaten down by hail.” Then the Kʻartʻvelians and Armenians rushed on the Iranians, put them to flight, and destroyed them; numberless were taken captive…59

CHRISTIAN APPLICATIONS OF THE IRANIAN/IRANIC EPIC In Caucasian literature this kind of heroic presentation is by no means restricted to “pagans,” viz. Zoroastrians.60 The Albanian history ascribed to Movsēs Dasxurancʻi, a compilation chiefly of the tenth century (though based on earlier materials and with later additions), describes the single combat of the Christian Babik of Siwnikʻ and “Honagur,” a titan among the Huns.

T. GAMKRELIDZE, Alphabetic Writing and the Old Georgian Script: a Typology and Provenience of Alphabetic Writing Systems, Delmar, 1994; IDEM, Ceris anbanuri sistema da żveli k‛art‛uli damcerloba: anbanuri ceris tipologia da carmomavloba, T‛bilisi, 1989. For the possibility of an earlier Georgian script, see especially L. ČILAŠVILI, Nekresis użvelesi k‛art‛uli carcerebi da k‛art‛uli damcerlobis istoriis sakit‛xebi, T‛bilisi, 2004 (with English summary, pp. 128-131). Recent discoveries at Grakliani Hill in central Georgia do not necessarily represent a (proto-)Georgian script or writing at all. I wish to thank Dr. Vaxtang Ličʻeli for the opportunity to visit this important site in July 2016. 55 Šāhnāma: DAVIS, Ferdowsi. Shahnameh [see note 50], p. 5. 56 For the conceptual linkage of kʻueli (ქუელი, modern kʻveli) and xwarrah, see RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian eyes [see note 7], pp. 229-230. 57 Kʻartʻvelian/Georgian royal chronology prior to the Bagratids is notoriously difficult. Toumanoff’s overall scheme remains the most sensible despite certain limitations. For Pʻarsman II, see C. TOUMANOFF, Les dynasties de la Caucasie chrétienne de l’Antiquité jusqu’au XIXe siècle, Rome, 1990, p. 523. 58 Perhaps a corruption of Juanšer: S.H. RAPP JR., The Sasanian world through Georgian eyes: Caucasia and the Iranian Commonwealth in Late Antique Georgian literature, Farnham, 2014, p. 235, n. 265. 59 Life of the Kings: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], pp. 521-9; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian history [see note 24], p. 62. 60 For Armenia, see the various works of Garsoïan, and RUSSELL, Epic in the Armeno-Iranian Marchlands [see note 37], esp. pp. 7-9. 54

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... [Babik] longed for his native soil — for our own provinces are as dear to us as those who gave us birth — and went to the court of Šapuh, king of Persia... He performed great feats of bravery in the Persian Olympics, but no one recognized him. Then from [the land of] the Huns a Hun arose called Honagur, who, having plundered the kingdom of Persia, sent to King Šapuh and said: “Why all this bloodshed? Come, you and I shall fight it out.” Now this same Hun had clad his tall, broad body in coats of mail fifty layers thick, and he covered his monstrous head with a studded helmet and his forehead, which was three spans wide, with a slab of copper; grasping his gigantic lance made from a tall forest tree and his gleaming sword, he terrified all who saw him. It was then that Babik’s name was proposed to the king as the one who might fight the duel… [Babik] accepted the king’s commission, and trusting to God to help him, he called out: “O churches of Siwnikʻ, help me!” Then his took up his own sturdy arms, clad his fine body in the king’s shining, pearl-studded armour, fastened his tiger-shaped helmet over his handsome head, girt his sword about his waist, slung his golden shield over his left shoulder, grasped his fine-tempered lance in his right hand, and mounting his black steed, galloped towards the foe. They rushed upon each other, and the thunderous roar of the blows exchanged by their lances continued from dawn until the ninth hour. The enormous giant was doomed, for the brave Babik vanquished the murderous beast and dispatched him with a stroke of his sword…61

Comparable imagery suffuses The Epic Histories, Buzandaran Patmutʻiwnkʻ, an Armenian work of the fifth century once ascribed to a certain Pʻawstos Buzand. It conveys, inter alia, the single combat pitting the Armenian Arsacid king Varazdat (r. 374-378) against the rebellious general (sparapet) Manuēl Mamikonean: Carrying lances [Varazdat and Manuēl]… came forward against each other as champions [axoyeankʻ, ախոյեանք].62 When King Varazdat… beheld the general Manuēl in the greatness of his stature, the splendor of his person, the extremely strong and impenetrable iron armor [that covered him] from head to foot, also the robustness of his person and the solidity of his armor-clad charger, also bearing indestructible trappings, he compared him in his mind to a tall and inaccessible mountain. He charged, even though he saw death in his mind, for there was no further hope of escape…63 Movsēs Dasxurancʻi, II.1: V. AṘAK‛ELYAN (ed.), Movsēs Dasxuranc‛i. Patmut‛iwn Ałuanic‛ ašxarhi, Erevan, 1983, pp. 109-110; and C.J.F. DOWSETT (tr.), The History of the Caucasian Albanians by Movsēs Dasxuranċi, Oxford, 1961, pp. 63-64 (at p. 63, n. 4, Dowsett identifies Honagur as “the name of a people [i.e. Ονόγουροι] rather than a person”). See also RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], pp. 297-298. 62 For axoyean, see below. 63 Epic Histories, V.xxxvii, 204; English translation N.G. GARSOÏAN (tr.), The Epic Histories Attributed to P‛awstos Buzand (Buzandaran Patmut‛iwnk‛), Cambridge/MA, 1989, p. 219. The earlier Armenian epic sources exploited by the author of The Epic Histories are discussed by GARSOÏAN, The Epic Histories Attributed to P‛awstos Buzand, pp. 30-35. See also T.M. VAN LINT, From reciting to Writing and Interpretation: Tendencies, Themes, and Demarcations of Armenian historical Writing, in S. FOOT – C.F. ROBINSON (eds), The Oxford History of Historical Writing, vol. 2, Oxford, 2012, p. 185. 61

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Another outstanding example is found in the seventh-century Armenian history attributed to Sebēos. The mutinous Smbat, a scion of the Bagratid house and a Christian, is described in this way:64 [Smbat] was a man gigantic in stature and handsome of appearance, strong and of solid body. He was a powerful warrior, who had demonstrated his valour [kʻaǰutʻiwn, քաջութիւն]65 and strength in many battles. Such was his power that when he passed through dense forests under strong trees on his big-limbed and powerful horse, grasping the branch of a tree he would hold it firmly, and forcefully tightening his thighs and legs around the horse’s middle he would raise it with his legs from the ground, so that when all the soldiers saw this they were awestruck and astonished. So they stripped [Smbat], dressed him in breeches, and threw him into the arena as prey for the wild beasts. They released a bear against him. Now it happened that when the bear attacked him, he shouted out loudly, ran on the bear, hit his forehead with his fist, and slew it on the spot. The next time they released a bull against [Smbat]. But he grasped the horns of the bull… raised a great shout… and when the bull grew weary in the struggle, he twisted its neck and broke both horns over its head. Losing strength, the bull retreated and turned to flee. But he ran after it, seized its tail, and held on to the hoof of one of its feet. He pulled off the hoof, which remained in his hand. The bull fled away from him, with one bare foot. The third time they released a lion against him. It happened that when the lion attacked him, he gained such a success from the Lord that taking hold of the lion’s ear, he mounted it. Then grasping its wind-pipe, he throttled the lion and killed it. The roar of the large crowd filled the land…66

These are not isolated images. As observed by Tim Greenwood, “it looks as though Armenian princely biographies regularly included such descriptions of single combat… [P]assages [like these] were used to establish and emphasize the personal courage and martial prowess of the particular Armenian prince.”67 But there is a larger context: Greenwood’s assessment pertains not only to Armenia but to the whole Caucasus region and beyond. The shared sense of heroic valour enhanced élite cohesiveness across Caucasia and the entire the Iranian Commonwealth, even after the decline of Zoroastrianism in places like Armenia and eastern Georgia.

For Smbat’s titles “Joy of Xusrō” and “Warrior of the Lords,” see S. MCDONOUGH, The ‘Warrior of the Lords’: Smbat Bagratuni at the Center and Periphery of Late Sasanian Iran, in Iranian Studies 49.2 (2016), pp. 233-245. 65 For kʻaǰutʻiwn, see GARSOÏAN, The Epic Histories [see note 63], pp. 534-535. 66 Sebeos, History, p. 20: G.V. ABGARYAN (ed.), Patmut‛iwn Sebēosi, Erevan, 1979, pp. 92-93; R.W. THOMSON (tr.) – J. HOWARD-JOHNSTON – T. GREENWOOD (comm.), The Armenian History Attributed to Sebeos, 1999, pp. 39-40. 67 GREENWOOD, Sasanian Echoes and apocalyptic Expectations [see note 14], p. 350. 64

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Caucasia’s Christianization did not lead to the immediate and wholesale abandonment of Iranic modes of kingship.68 Instead, its attendant concepts were creatively adapted to the Christian environment as is evident in the conversion tales attributed to Agatʻangełos. The underlying story features the missionary work of Gregory the Illuminator culminating in the baptism of the Armenian monarch Trdat in AD 314.69 Trdat is depicted as an Iranic hero-king throughout the Gregory Cycle. In one example, Diocletian leaned upon the Zoroastrian Trdat after the Roman had been challenged to single combat by the leader of the Goths. Trdat disguised himself as the emperor and soundly defeated his opponent. Diocletian rewarded Trdat with a diadem and imperial attire.70 The Armenian Arsacid king subsequently … spent the whole period of his reign devastating the land of the Persian [i.e. Sasanian] kingdom and the land of Asorestan. He plundered and caused terrible distress. Therefore this saying was adopted… “Like the haughty Trdat, who in his pride devastated the banks of rivers, and in his arrogance dried up the torrents of the seas.” For truly he was haughty in dress and endowed with great strength and vigour; he had solid bones and an enormous body; he was incredibly valiant [kʻaǰ] and warlike, tall and broad of stature. He spent his whole life in war and gained triumphs in combats. He acquired great renown for bravery and extended throughout the entire world the glorious splendour of his victories…71

Trdat’s subsequent conversion to Christianity hinged on his decision to martyr a group of displaced Christian holy women, including Hripʻsimē, who had sought refuge in Armenia during Diocletian’s persecution. Trdat resorted to violence when his attempts to seduce the future saint failed. The Zoroastrian hero-king, however, had met his match. Hripʻsimē was … strengthened by the Holy Spirit [and] struggled like a beast and fought like a man. They fought from the third hour until the tenth, and she vanquished the king who was renowned for his incredible strength. While he was in the Greek empire he had shown such bodily strength that he had amazed everyone; and in his own realm… he had shown there too many deeds of mighty valour [kʻaǰutʻiwn].72 So he, who was so famous in every respect, was now vanquished and worsted by a single girl through the will and power of Christ.73

68

Such is also the case for visual evidence. For Iranian/Iranic imagery incorporated into the program of the Armenian church of Ptłni, see C. MARANCI, Vigilant Powers: Three Churches of Early Medieval Armenia, Turnhout, 2015, pp. 201-254. 69 The conversion of Trdat, king of Armenia Major, probably occurred in AD 314: P. ANANIAN, La data e le circostanze della consecrazione di S. Gregorio Illuminatore, in Le Muséon, 74 (1961), pp. 43-73; pp. 319-360. 70 Life of Saint Gregory §§44-45: THOMSON, The Lives of Saint Gregory [see note 41], pp. 143-145. 71 Life of Saint Gregory §§123: THOMSON, The Lives of Saint Gregory [see note 41], p. 205. 72 Identical heroic vocabulary is used (e.g.) in the aforementioned description of Smbat Bagratuni. 73 Life of Saint Gregory §181: THOMSON, The Lives of Saint Gregory [see note 41], p. 247.

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The brutal performance of Trdat and Hripʻsimē is consistent with the single combat featured in Iranian and Caucasian epics. But in this case Christianity trumps “paganism” and, more precisely, Zoroastrianism. So as to accentuate the absolute superiority of Christianity, Trdat’s shame is sharply gendered. After his stunning defeat, the king ordered the executions of Hripʻsimē and her companions. Ultimately, however, Trdat would embrace Christianity through the travails of Gregory the Illuminator. VAXTANG GORGASALI: AN IRANIC CHRISTIAN HERO-KING The most extensive account of a Caucasian hero adorned in Iranic imagery involves Vaxtang I Gorgasali (r. 447-522), the first Kʻartʻvelian king to be commemorated in a dedicated historiographical work.74 Although the surviving text was composed ca. 800, The Life of Vaxtang — like The Life of the Kings — proceeds from an earlier Georgian-language narrative. As we shall see, this lost source deriving from the autumn of late antiquity mixed legend, myth, and history as we also detect in the Iranian Xwadāy-nāmag. The Life of Vaxtang and its source describe its central character as a magnificent hero-king resembling the Sasanian šāhan šāh with one conspicuous exception: Vaxtang was a Christian monarch who exuded Christianized xwarrah. Vaxtang’s status as an Iranic hero-king is reinforced by his command of a corps of bumberazis (ბუძბერაზნი), specialized champion warriors.75 He personally engaged in single combat as a virtual “super-bumberazi” before full-scale fighting erupted on the battlefield. Special attention is afforded to one-on-one contests pitting Vaxtang against Tʻarqʻan “the Khazar”; Baqʻatar the Alan (Ovsi); the Roman logothetes Polykarpos; and an unnamed monarch of Sind. None of these accounts has the Christian Vaxtang fighting against an Iranian opponent. The skirmish of Vaxtang and the Roman Polykarpos is presented in this way: Then King Vaxtang said: “A man is not strengthened by [his own] force, but God gives him strength. I trust in your strength, and like David I go forth with the sign of the cross. Give me strength, as [you did] to David against Goliath76…” [Vaxtang] drew his sword and touched the cross. Then he went among his warriors and said: “A lion does not fight with an ox, for I am a king and [Polykarpos] is a slave. Yet I have submitted humbly for the sake of this people, in order that they might 74 The royal biographies of Bagratids Davitʻ II Aġmašenebeli (r. 1089-1125) and Tʻamar (r. AD 1184-1213) were inspired by two literary models emanating from the pre-Bagratid epoch: the ca. 800 Life of Vaxtang and hagiographical vitae. 75 For bumberazi, see RAPP, The Sasanian world through Georgian eyes [see note 7], pp. 234237 and pp. 281-291. The nearest Armenian equivalent is axoyean (ախռյեան): I. ABULAŻE, Żvelk‛art‛uli-żvelsomxuri dokumentirebuli lek‛sikoni, T‛bilisi, 2014, p. 86. 76 Old Georgian goliatʻi designates “giant” and the proper name Goliath.

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believe in the strength of the cross.” Polykarpos rushed on him, but Vaxtang cautiously and deliberately approached. They both shouted out with a fearsome cry of warriors, and there was a noise like the sound of thunder, from which the ground shook. With his lance Polykarpos smote Vaxtang’s shield, which was of tiger-skin; it penetrated the shield about a cubit, for the thickness of the lance was that of a man’s arm. The king left his shield to the lance and rushed forward face-to-face. He struck his sword on [Polykarpos’] helmet and sliced his head in two down to his shoulder-blades. He put out his hand and took half of his head; placing it before the cross, [Vaxtang] said: “Let such be the lot of all who rebel against you.”77

Here it is worth noting that Christian sources from the Romano-Byzantine Empire sometimes refer to the Iranian custom of single combat. In his semilegendary report of the attack of Bahrām V Gōr in 421/2, a few decades before Vaxtang’s enthronement, John Malalas writes: When he was about to engage battle, the Persian emperor sent [his Roman counterpart] a message: “If your whole force has a man able to fight in single combat and to defeat a Persian selected by me, I shall immediately make a peace-treaty for fifty years with the customary provision of gifts.” When these terms had been agreed, the emperor of the Persians chose a Persian named Ardazanes from the division known as the Immortals, while the Romans selected Areobindus, a Gothic comes foederatorum. The two came out on horseback fully armed. Areobindus also carried a lasso, as it is the Gothic custom. The Persian charged at him first with his lance, but Areobindus, bending down to his right, lassoed him, brought him down off his horse and killed him. Thereupon the Persian emperor made a peace treaty…78

In contrast to Diocletian’s enlisting of Trdat’s aid against a Gothic foe, Theodosios II sent a Gothic ally into single combat against the Iranian Ardazanes. In another example from a Christian Roman source, Prokopios relates the contest of Andreas, a trainer at a Roman wrestling school, and a young Iranian solider who “riding up very close to the Roman army, began to challenge all of them…”79 The encounter between Vaxtang and Polykarpos precedes one of the narrative centerpieces of The Life of Vaxtang: the joint campaign of Vaxtang and the Sasanian šāhan šāh “Xuasro.”80 The campaign is set in far-away “exotic” 77 Life of Vaxtang: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], pp. 174-175; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian history [see note 24], pp. 192-193. 78 John Malalas, XIV.23: I. THURN (ed.), Ioannis Malalae Chronographia, Belin – Washington DC, 2000, p. 285. For the quoted English translation, see E. JEFFREYS – M. JEFFREYS – R. SCOTT (tr.), The Chronicle of John Malalas, Melbourne, 1986, p. 199. 79 Procopius, History of the Wars, I.xiii: H.B. DEWING (tr.), Procopius. History of the Wars, Cambridge/MA – London, 1914, pp. 108-111. The Roman historian Agathias incorporates considerable Iranian material. According to Greenwood (Sasanian echoes [see note 14], p. 332) “it seems more probable that Agathias had access to an incomplete, hostile summary of Sasanian dynastic history, reflecting Christian and Roman sympathies, which he then had to supplement with information derived from Procopius.” See also A. CAMERON, Agathias on the Sassanians, in DOP, 23-24 (1969), pp. 69-183. 80 Life of Vaxtang: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], pp. 187-195; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian History [see note 24], pp. 203-212. Vaxtang died no later than 522; Xusrō I came to the throne in 531.

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lands routinely conjured in the Iranian epic: India (Hindoetʻi), Sind (Sindetʻi), and Ethiopia/the Horn of Africa (Abašetʻi). To the itinerary is appended Gurgān (Jorjanetʻi; cf. Arabic Jurjān), a Parthian stronghold south of the Caspian Sea.81 Having little basis in fact, the campaign narrative emphasizes single combats conducted before the full engagement of rival armies. Vaxtang himself participated in one-on-one combats against numerous enemy bumberazis. The longest section of this account is devoted to the attack upon Sind and in particular to the contest waged between Vaxtang and its unnamed king. Why would Vaxtang, as presented, have agreed on his own volition to fight alongside the Zoroastrian ruler of Sasanian Iran? The answer lies in Vaxtang’s dual presentation as a mediator between the Iranian and Byzantine commonwealths and especially as a monarch whose legitimacy equaled the king of kings. Just as medieval Bagratids would conceive of themselves as basileis ruling “the East” in parity with Byzantine emperors, Vaxtang’s Chosroids envisioned themselves as šāhan šāhs of “the North” equal to the Sasanians.82 Vaxtang’s dynasty, founded by the first Christian Kʻartʻvelian king Mirian (Mihrān, an acculturating Parthian Mihrānid), assumed the collective name Xosroiani (“Chosroid”), “[the descendants] of Xusrō.” As in other languages, “Xosro” is the generic throne name for Sasanian šāhan šāhs. Mirian’s depiction in The Life of the Kings has been embellished so that he is a legitimate Sasanian prince and, more exactly, the displaced first-born heir to the Sasanian realm!83 In this way, the Chosroids purposefully set aside their Parthian heritage and laid full claim upon Sasanian sovereignty. Signals of the equivalent legitimacy of the Sasanians and Chosroids (= Sasanians!) are broadcast throughout The Life of Vaxtang. A supposed letter from Hormizd (III) is addressed to “Vaxtang, VaranXuasro-Tʻang, the [most] valiant king of the ten kings….”84 Vaxtang is literally a “king of kings.” In another instance, Vaxtang is made to declare his royal pedigree from the biblical Nimrod. In late antique Kʻartʻli, Nimrod’s memory was resculpted so that the ancient giant, an Iranian by birth, was a foundational king who instituted the world’s first monarchy. By claiming direct biological descent from Nimrod (and it should be emphasized, not through the Sasanian “branch” governing Iran), the Chosroids forged immediate links not only to biblical antiquity but to the imagined first monarch of the Iranians and, for that matter, of the entire Earth.85 81 82

140.

RAPP, The Sasanian world through Georgian eyes [see note 7], p. 293. On “the North,” see RAPP, The Sasanian world through Georgian eyes [see note 7], pp. 125-

Life of the Kings: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 67; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian History [see note 24], pp. 78-79. 84 Life of Vaxtang: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 158; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian history [see note 24], p. 173. 85 S. H. RAPP JR., The Georgian Nimrod, in K.B. BARDAKJIAN – S. LA PORTA (eds), The Armenian Apocalyptic Tradition: a Comparative Perspective (Studia in Veteris Testamenti 83

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The Life of Vaxtang divulges other connections to the Iranian world. Vaxtang’s name and sobriquet are derived from Middle Persian, a fact communicated by the royal biographer. The name Vaxtang is associated with Vərəϑraɣna (Verethragna), the Zoroastrian hypostasis of victory, and the related Vahrām/Bahrām. According to The Life of Vaxtang, Gorgasali stems from the Persian phrase Dur az gorgasal, “Flee the head of the wolf,”86 words allegedly shouted by Iranian soldiers as they fled the intrepid Vaxtang in the heat of battle.87 These Iranian imprints are emblematic of broader linguistic patterns, including an élite onomasticon dominated by names having close parallels to, or deriving from, Middle Iranian languages.88 Iranian linguistic influences also permeated Caucasia from Iranic pastoralists to the north, as we see with names like Saurmag which may have an East Iranian provenance.89 Conceivably, some Iranic epic traditions may have been transmitted through Northern Caucasia. The stories of the titanic Narts still told by highland peoples are built upon an Iranic foundation.90 THE IRANIAN/IRANIC EPIC AS A HISTORIOGRAPHICAL MODEL FOR NON-IRANIANS The third expression of the Iranian epic in Caucasian historiography is highlighted in my recent monograph, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes. There I argue that two of the oldest extant Georgian histories, The Life of the Kings and The Life of Vaxtang, are based substantially upon a lost Georgian history written down in the twilight of the sixth century. I have designated this Pseudepigrapha, 25), Leiden, 2014, pp. 188-216. For positive reimaginings of Nimrod in the Christian Near East, see: R.E. PAYNE, Avoiding Ethnicity: Uses of the ancient Past in Late Sasanian Northern Mesopotamia, in W. POHL – C. GANTNER – R. PAYNE (eds), Visions of Community in the Post-Roman World: the West, Byzantium and the Islamic World, 300-1100, Aldershot, 2012, pp. 205-221; and J.T. WALKER, The legend of Mar Qardagh: Narrative and Christian Heroism in late antique Iraq, Berkeley, 2006, pp. 20, 257, 259 and 277. 86 For Babik’s tiger-shaped helmet, see above and J.A. LERNER, Animal Headdresses on the Sealings of the Bactrian Documents, in W. SUNDERMANN – A. HINTZE – F. DE BLOIS (eds), Exegisti Monumenta: Festschrift in Honour of Nicholas Sims-Williams (Iranica, 17), Wiesbaden, 2009, pp. 215-226. 87 Life of Vaxtang: QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 180; THOMSON, Rewriting Caucasian History [see note 24], p. 197. 88 See RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7]. See also B. MARTINHISARD, Note sur l’onomastique géorgienne médiévale, in M. BOURIN – J.M. MARTIN – F. MENANT (dir.), L’anthroponymie document de l’histoire sociale des mondes méditerranéens médiévaux. Actes du colloque international (Rome, 6-8 octobre 1994), Rome, 1996, pp. 241-253. 89 Saurmag, if associated with Sauromatēs, a name used by Bosporan rulers: RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], p. 222. See below for Azoy. According to Life of the Kings, King Pʻarnavaz married an unnamed Durżukeli woman from Northern Caucasia (QAUXČʻIŠVILI, Life of Georgia [see note 24], p. 25). 90 J. COLARUSSO, Nart Sagas from the Caucasus: Myths and Legends from the Circassians, Abazas, Abkhaz, and Ubykhs, Princeton, 2002.

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vanished text Hambavi mepʻetʻa (ჰაძბავი ძეფეთა), The Tale of the Kings.91 Though written down some two centuries after the initial Christianization of the Kʻartʻvelian monarchy, the lost Hambavi mepʻetʻa was not patterned upon a Byzantine or Judaeo-Christian standard. Instead its author(s) adapted the architecture of the Iranian epic, especially the Xwadāy-nāmag.92 Entire passages of Hambavi mepʻetʻa are sometimes incorporated into the surviving Life of the Kings and Life of Vaxtang, both of which attained their received forms between ca. 790 and 813. Such literary activity coincides with historiographical (re)ordering and consolidation that also transpired among the Armenians93 and the dwindling Albanian community in the ninth and tenth centuries.94 The lost myth-history Hambavi mepʻetʻa extolled the early dynastic kings of eastern Georgia. Its royalist narrative asserted an uninterrupted sequence of monarchs from Pʻarnavaz (and/or his contemporary Azoy)95 in the fourth century BC through the Christian successors of Vaxtang Gorgasali in the sixth century AD. Thus, Hambavi mepʻetʻa addressed both “pagan” (especially Zoroastrian) and Christian monarchs. From its surviving remnants devoted to Vaxtang, which now constitute the nucleus of The Life of Vaxtang, we know that Hambavi mepʻetʻa cloaked both Christian and non-Christian Kʻartʻvelian rulers in the heroic imagery of the Iranian Commonwealth. However, Hambavi mepʻetʻa was dismembered and reworked towards the end of the eighth century. In the case of the first Christian king Mirian, Hambavi mepʻetʻa’s Iranic description was amputated and judiciously replaced with one that quieted Iranic kingship and heroism, not to mention Zoroastrianism. Lingering traces of the original Iranic treatment of Mirian were expunged in the eleventh century, when Archbishop Leonti Mroveli comprehensively re-edited several early Georgian histories, perhaps in the process creating the first iteration of Kʻartʻlis cʻxovreba, the so-called Georgian Chronicles.96 Hambavi mepʻetʻa was not a translation or close rendition of the Xwadāy-nāmag. Rather, it was an original Georgian text — a living narrative — paralleling 91 On the title Hambavi mepʻetʻa, see P. INGOROQVA, Leonti mroveli, k‛art‛veli istorikosi ‘hambavt‛a-mcerali’ me-8 saukunisa, in Akad. n. maris saxelobis enis, istoriisa da materialuri kulturis institutis moambe, 10 (1941), pp. 93-152. 92 Cf. the hypothesized lost “geste” of the Armenian Aršakunis (Arsacids), for which see GARSOÏAN, The Epic Histories [see note 63], p. 32. 93 R.W. THOMSON, The Formation of the Armenian Literary Tradition, in N.G. GARSOÏAN – T. MATHEWS – R.W. THOMSON (eds), East of Byzantium: Syria and Armenia in the Formative Period, Washington, 1982, p. 147. 94 DOWSETT, The History of the Caucasian Albanians [see note 61], introduction. 95 As noted, a tradition preserved in the pre-Christian section of the corpus Mokʻcʻevay kʻartʻlisay makes Azoy (the son of an unnamed king of Aryan-Kʻartʻli) the first monarch to rule from the city of Mcʻxetʻa. On the name Azoy and its Indo-Scythian connection, see RAPP, The Sasanian World through Georgian Eyes [see note 7], pp. 226-227. 96 “Georgian Chronicles” is a misnomer; none of its component texts are strictly chronicles. Kʻartʻlis cʻxovreba literally denotes “The Life of Kʻartʻli/Georgia.”

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and creatively modelled upon the Iranian epic. Hambavi mepʻetʻa deployed select, Kʻartʻvelized elements of Iranian myth-history as the fundamental background for the origin of eastern Georgia and the whole of Caucasia, including the pastoralists of Northern Caucasia who, as we have seen, elaborated their own Iranic traditions. Later, the eleventh-century archbishop and editor Leonti Mroveli further obscured Hambavi mepʻetʻa’s Iranic imagery and enhanced its Christian dimensions by inserting succinct notices about famous biblical episodes and personalities, including Noah, Moses, and Jesus.97 Throughout Hambavi mepʻetʻa, even in its treatment of late antiquity (during which this lost text crystallized), are far fewer allusions to the Greco-Roman Mediterranean than to Iran. Not only are the names of local kings and nobles reflective of the Iranian world, but the author’s Old Georgian lexicon is studded with hundreds of words borrowed from and having close parallels with Iranian tongues.98 With regard to structure, content, and language, Hambavi mepʻetʻa is principally an artifact of the late antique Iranian Commonwealth and not its RomanoByzantine analogue. This having been said, Hambavi mepʻetʻa is simultaneously a product of a Christianizing society. The long first section of Hambavi mepʻetʻa concentrated on pre-Christian history, but it also engaged the conversion of the Kʻartʻvelian monarchy and subsequent Christian Chosroid kings, including Vaxtang, down to the interregnum. Precisely when the Hambavi mepʻetʻa tradition matured is unclear, but this certainly transpired after the Christianization of the Kʻartʻvelian crown in the fourth century. Towards the end of the sixth century, the evolving, multirecensional oral tradition was put into writing. The late antique authors, compilers, and editors of Hambavi mepʻetʻa were Christians as were their royal overlords and wider audience. To the minds of these literary and élite figures, Caucasia’s Iranic society was compatible with Christian devotion: one could remain a member of the Iranian Commonwealth without adherence to Zoroastrianism. By the same token, one could belong to Christendom and the nascent Byzantine Commonwealth with a culture rooted deeply in the Iranian world. Nevertheless, by ca. AD 800 blatant Iranian and Iranic aspects of the tradition were deemed inappropriate by some constituencies, including prelates of the ascendant Georgian Church. This led to the dissection and resculpting of Hambavi mepʻetʻa and the emergence of new texts that became the core of Kʻartʻlis cʻxovreba.

On Leonti Mroveli’s activity, see: S.H. RAPP JR., Studies in Medieval Georgian Historiography: Early Texts and Eurasian Contexts, Leuven, 2003; and G. GAP‛RINDAŠVILI, Leonti mrovelis 1066 c. samšeneblo carcera t‛rexvis k‛vabebidan, in Sak‛art‛velos mec‛nierebat‛a akademiis sazogadoebriv mec‛nierebat‛a ganqopilebis moambe, 1 (1961), pp. 239-262. Well before the time of Mroveli, some biblical figures and events were recast in an Iranic mold. 98 ANDRONIKAŠVILI, Narkvevebi iranul-k‛art‛uli enobrivi urt‛iert‛obidan [see note 14]. 97

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CONCLUSIONS By means of a conclusion, let us ponder the broader implications of the Iranic bedrock of early Caucasian historiography.99 When Georgian, Armenian, and as they exist, Albanian sources are examined from a regional perspective, the fundamental socio-cultural coherence of Caucasia is confirmed. More than half a century ago, Cyril Toumanoff ardently advocated for a diverse yet cohesive “Christian Caucasian civilization” in the dynamic period we now call late antiquity.100 So as better to understand Caucasia’s components, their enduring interconnections, and the region’s place in the Afro-Eurasian ecumene, scholars would be well served to resuscitate Toumanoff’s pathfinding work.101 Among other things, we must continue to formulate correctives to intolerant ethnocentric visions — whereby one part of Caucasia is privileged and/or treated in isolation from or at the expense of the others — and to recognize pre-modern Caucasia’s profound cohesiveness.102 Alongside its diversity, a broad spectrum of crosscultural encounters, tensions, and practical syncretism define late antique Caucasia. Through its plurality, cross-cultural interplay, and hybridity, Caucasia was a microcosm of the prismatic late antique world stretching from Central Asia to Europe’s Iberian Peninsula, a world that was the direct heir of the Achaemenid and Hellenistic enterprises. Notwithstanding Peter Brown’s landmark albeit muted inclusion of Sasanian Iran in his early conceptualization of late antiquity,103 far too many specialists 99 Because of its focus on late antique historiography, I have not considered in this contribution the fictional, stand-alone epics popular at the Georgian Bagratid court starting in the twelfth century. These include: Vepʻxistqaosani of Šotʻa Rustʻaveli (Shota Rustaveli); Amirandarejaniani, traditionally ascribed to Mose Xoneli (Khoneli); and Visramiani, a Georgian adaptation of a wellknown Parthian epic filtered through New Persian. For an overview, see D. RAYFIELD, The Literature of Georgia: A History, Oxford, 1994, pp. 63-86. 100 Especially TOUMANOFF, Studies in Christian Caucasian History [see note 14], which in many respects extends the earlier work of Adontz and Ivane Javaxišvili to a pan-Caucasian scale. 101 Important steps have been taken in this direction, e.g. GARSOÏAN – MARTIN-HISARD, Note sur l’onomastique géorgienne médiévale [see note 88], pp. 275-361; English translation in S.H. RAPP JR. – P. CREGO (eds), Languages and cultures of Eastern Christianity: Georgian, Farnham, 2012, pp. 49-96. 102 On the cohesiveness of Caucasia, see also: S.H. RAPP JR., Chronology, Crossroads, and Commonwealths: World regional Schemes and the Lessons of Caucasia, in J.H. BENTLEY – R. BRIDENTHAL – A.A. YANG (eds), Interactions: Transregional Perspectives on world History, Honolulu, 2005, pp. 167-201; and S. ARUTIUNOV, Notes on the Making of a World Area, in B. GRANT – L. YALÇIN-HECKMANN (eds), Caucasus Paradigms: Anthropologies, Histories, and the Making of a World Area, Berlin, 2007, pp. 301-306. 103 P. Brown, The world of Late Antiquity AD 150-750, London, 1971, esp. pp. 160-170. On the interlocked Roman and Sasanian courts, Brown writes: “In many ways, the reformed Persian society of the late sixth century gravitated round a sub-Byzantine court whose centre lay in Mesopotamia. Byzantine architects helped to build the palace at Ctesiphon; the Byzantine land-tax provided the model for the reforms of Khusro; Aristotle was adopted at this time to redefine points of Zoroastrian ethics; Mesopotamian Christians, who spoke the same Syriac language as did their neighbours across the frontier, transmitted Byzantine medicine, philosophy and court manners to the Sasanian capital. Often, the frontier stood wide open...”

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continue to reduce that space and time to the Romano-Byzantine and/or Christian experience, or to privilege the Greco-Roman Mediterranean to the detriment of the Iranian world. Late antiquity was far more variegated and complex, as is confirmed by a growing body of innovative scholarship grounded in local languages but recognizing the value of regional and ecumenical perspectives. As revealed by Matthew Canepa, the “agnostic exchanges” drawing together the rival Roman and Sasanian courts constitute one of the central threads of late antiquity.104 But the case of Caucasia — like Mesopotamia, Anatolia, and Iran itself — shows that Christian-Zoroastrian interplay could be successfully and even peacefully negotiated in cosmopolitan non-Iranian communities across the longue durée.105 The history of early Caucasian historiography urges a polycentric definition of late antiquity grounded on the shared experiences and cross-cultural encounters of the interlocked Iranian and (emergent) Byzantine worlds. At the same, the Iranian Commonwealth had been an integral part of late antiquity from the very beginning.106

M.P. CANEPA, Inscriptions, royal Spaces and Iranian Identity: epigraphic practices in Persia and the Ancient Iranian World, in A. EASTMOND (ed.), Viewing Inscriptions in the Late Antique and Medieval World, Cambridge 2015, pp. 28-29, who acknowledges that not all relationships were oppositional. 105 WOOD, The Chronicle of Seert [see note 22] and PAYNE, A State of Mixture [see note 2]. For a creative and in many ways convincing chronology based on the first millennium AD (what might be termed the “long” late antiquity), see G. FOWDEN, Before and after Muḥammad: the first Millennium refocused, Princeton, 2014. Although Iran and Zoroastrian play a role in this model, Fowden has underestimated their long-term, cross-cultural importance. 106 See also M. MORONY, Should Sasanian Iran be included in Late Antiquity?, in Sasanika Occasional Papers 1 (2010), pp. 1-10; cf. the muted place of Iran and the Iranian Commonwealth in the introduction to the milestone work by G.W. BOWERSOCK – P. BROWN – O. GRABAR (eds), Late antiquity: a Guide to the Postclassical World, Cambridge MA – London, 1999, pp. ix-x: “Not only did late antiquity last for over half a millennium; much of what was created in that period still runs through our veins. It is, for instance, from late antiquity… that we have inherited the codifications of Roman law… The forms of Judaism associated with the emergence of the rabbinate and the codification of the Talmud emerged from late antique Roman Palestine and from the distinctive society of Sassanian Mesopotamia. The basic structures and dogmatic formulations of the Christian church, both in Latin Catholicism and in the many forms of eastern Christianity, came from this time, as did the first, triumphant expression of the Muslim faith….” Also cf. FOWDEN, Before and after Muḥammad [see note 105]. 104

“A WISE INDIAN ASTRONOMER CALLED GANDOUBARIOS”: MALALAS AND THE LEGEND OF YONIṬON Andy HILKENS

In his Anecdota, Procopius complained about Justinian I’s persecution of astrologers. By order of the praetores plebis of Constantinople, some astrologers of advanced age had been flogged and paraded around on camels.1 One might consider Justinian’s attack on astrologers in the context of his rejection of pagan learning,2 but the criminalization of astrology by Christian emperors predates the reign of Justinian by two centuries.3 Rather, its immediate context appears to have been fear of a potential usurper benefiting from knowledge of the future; emperors wished to retain this knowledge for themselves.4 In the face of imperial and ecclesiastical5 legislation and the opposition of the church fathers, belief in astral determinism, the idea that stars influenced human lives, persisted, despite being both irreconcilable with an all-powerful God who determined the fate of humankind. There were then, good reasons why Justinian I was still having astrologers flogged in the mid-sixth century.6 1

Procopius, Anecdota XI.37. M. MAAS, John Lydus and the Roman Past: Antiquarianism and Politics in the Age of Justinian, London – New York, 1992, p. 71. 3 T. BARTON, Ancient Astrology (Sciences of Antiquity), London – New York, 1994, pp. 64-44. Throughout the post-Roman Middle Ages, several emperors created and renewed legislation against astrology suggesting a continued interest in this practice among the population, see M. MAVROUDI, The Occult Science and Society in Byzantium: Considerations for Future Research, in P. MAGDALINO – M. MAVROUDI (eds), The Occult Sciences in Byzantium, Geneva, 2006, pp. 39-95 (p. 68). 4 MAVROUDI, Occult Science and Society in Byzantium [see note 3], pp. 70-71. The case of the emperor Zeno speaks volumes. Horoscopes cast during his reign have survived (D. Pingree, Political Horoscopes from the Reign of Zeno, in DOP, 39 [1976], pp. 133-50) and the presence of astrologers at his court is probably reflected in his consultation of the comes Maurianus, John Malalas, XV.16 (I. THURN [ed.], Ioannis Malalae Chronographia, Berlin – Washington DC, 2000, p. 317; English translation in E. JEFFREYS – M. JEFFREYS – R. SCOTT [tr.], The Chronicle of John Malalas, Melbourne, 1986, p. 219). Similarly, even though he renewed a pre-existing prohibition on astrology, the emperor Leo IV the Wise (AD 886-912) consulted horoscopes himself, MAVROUDI, Occult Science and society in Byzantium [see note 3], p. 70. For a general picture of the reemergence of astrology at the Byzantine court in the late eighth and early ninth centuries, see P. MAGDALINO, The Byzantine Reception of Classical Astrology, in C. HOLMES – J. WARING (eds), Literacy, Education and Manuscript Transmission in Byzantium and beyond, Leiden, 2002, pp. 33-57. 5 MAVROUDI, Occult science and society in Byzantium [see note 3], pp. 68-69. 6 Another example of such beliefs from the sixth century is the continued belief in astral determinism by Spanish followers of bishop Priscillianus of Avila, who had been executed almost two centuries earlier (in AD 386). In Antioch, astrologers still debated publicly with holy men (BARTON, Ancient astrology [see note 3], pp. 64-85; S. MCCUSKEY, Gregory of Tours, monastic Timekeeping, and Early Christian Attitudes to Astronomy, in Isis, 81 (1990), pp. 8-22 (p. 12). 2

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From the late second century on church fathers reacted to the popularity of astrology by denouncing Christians who practiced it as heretics and attributing its invention to demons or fallen angels.7 This negative attitude towards astrology reflects Jewish hostility, which emerges in a variety of traditions, extant in the Book of Jubilees (third century BC), a Jewish pseudepigraphic text that was originally written in Hebrew but is now only preserved in fragments and in an Ethiopic (Ge’ez) translation from a lost Greek intermediary.8 The author of the work makes a distinction between astronomy and astrology. The biblical patriarch Enoch, who was later translated to Paradise because of his praiseworthy life, is identified as the antediluvian father of astronomy. Conversely, fallen angels or Watchers, introduced astrology on Earth before the Flood. These had originally come to instruct mankind, but after they had intercourse with human women and spawned the giants, their teaching was corrupted.9 They inscribed their knowledge on tablets that were retrieved after the Flood by Cainan, the son of Arphaxad and, according to the Septuagint (Genesis LXX 10:24; 11:12), the father of Selah.10 To account for the appearance of practices such as writing, war, idolatry, astronomy and astrology, Christian historians happily appropriated some of these Jewish traditions.11 The Christian appropriation of Jewish material ranged from the Book of Jubilees to Jewish historians such as Josephus or (Pseudo)-Eupolemus. Often, however, their intended purpose and new context altered these Jewish traditions in the process of transmission. In this the historian John Malalas (c. AD 565) is no exception. Under the surface of Malalas’ presentation of history runs a reconstruction of the history of astronomia. In his narrative, astronomia is reduced to knowledge of the names of stars and planets. Malalas traced this knowledge from God to Seth, the son of Adam, and thence to the sons of Seth. After the flood this information was transmitted by the sons of Seth to the postdiluvian biblical patriarch Cainan, the son of Arphaxad, and ultimately to the Indians, the Persians and the Greeks, represented by three astronomers: Gandoubarios, Zoroaster and Atlas. For Malalas this knowledge was inherently positive. It had divine origins, was transmitted by the “virtuous” sons of Seth and received after the flood by BARTON, Ancient astrology [see note 3], pp. 72-73. See e.g. P.W. VAN DER HORST, Japheth in the tents of Shem: Studies on Jewish Hellenism in Antiquity (Contributions to Biblical Exegesis & Theology, 32), Leuven – Paris – Sterling/VA, 2002, pp. 147, 153-155. 9 VAN DER HORST, Japheth in the Tents of Shem [see note 8], p. 154. 10 Jubilees 8:2-4 (English translation in J. VANDERKAM, The Book of the Jubilees [CSCO 511 Scriptores Aethiopici 88], Leuven, 1989, p. 50). 11 A. HILKENS, Andronicus et son influence sur la présentation de l’histoire postdiluvienne et pré-abrahamique dans la Chronique syriaque anonyme jusqu’à l’année 1234, in P. BLAUDEAU – P. VAN NUFFELEN (eds), L’historiographie tardo-antique et la transmission des savoirs, Berlin, 2015, pp. 55-82. See also the example of the Constantinopolitan Fortunus in this paper. 7 8

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the “wise” Gandoubarios, a relative of Arphaxad. Whether Malalas considered astronomia to include astrologia is hard to say. Theoretically, it could cover both.12 However, Malalas does seem to account for the existence of astrology in another way. The Magi, who famously learned of the birth of Christ from a star, are called μυστικοὶ, “mystics” and the “very learned” (σοφῶτατον) comes Maurianus, an astrologer who was consulted by Zeno about his succession is said to have had μυστικά, “mystic knowledge” too.13 Malalas’ use of the term σοφῶτατον seems to suggest a positive view of Maurianus’ knowledge, despite his own hostility towards Zeno. In order to reconstruct the history of astronomia, Malalas used a variety of traditions. Three of these can be traced back to the Book of Jubilees, although Malalas clearly borrowed two from intermediate sources: the account of the otherwise unknown Constantinopolitan author Fortunus and an interpolated version of the Jewish Antiquities of Josephus (Pseudo-Josephus). He combined this material with the Cainan tradition, which he had to rework to fit his own narrative. It stands to reason that Malalas’ adaptation of the Cainan tradition may have impacted the other traditions that he used. In this paper I argue that this is especially true in the case of a Syrian tradition that Malalas may also have used: the legend of Yoniṭon.14 The legend of Yoniṭon, which circulated in Syrian and Northern Mesopotamian Christian circles from at least the sixth or early seventh century, identified MAGDALINO, The Byzantine Reception [see note 4], p. 34; BARTON, Ancient Astrology [see note 3], p. 32. 13 John Malalas, X.4 and XV.16 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 174175, p. 317; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 122-123, p. 219). On the reference to the latter, see BARTON, Ancient Astrology [see note 3], p. 68. In other contexts, however, this “mystic knowledge” does not relate to knowledge of the stars, nor is it necessarily inherently positive knowledge, A.-M. BERNARDI, Les mystikoi dans la chronique de Jean Malalas, in S. AGUSTA-BOULAROT – J. BEAUCAMP – A.M. BERNARDI – E. CAIRE (eds), Recherches sur la chronique de Jean Malalas II (Collège de France – CNRS. Centre de recherche d’histoire et civilization de Byzance. Monographies, 24). Paris, 2004, pp. 53-64. Malalas also uses the noun “mystic” to describe the gods Picus Zeus and Hephaestus, the biblical judge Samson, and Hercules and his opponent Antaeus, John Malalas, I.13, 15, IV.12, 17 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 13, 16, 57, 62; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 8, 10, 39 [IV.17], 42 [IV.22]). The knowledge that Zeus transmits to Perseus is described very negatively as “the sorcery of the loathsome skyphos” (τὴν μαγγανείαν τοῦ μυσεροῦ σκύφους) and “mystic and impious deceptions” (μυστικὰ καὶ δυσσεβῆ πλανήματα). In that context, it relates to “mystic acts” or “mysteries” that Perseus performed over the head of Medusa (ἐτέλεσεν τὴν αὐτὴν κάραν μυστικῶς), John Malalas II.11 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 25-26; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 17 [II.13]). Whereas in other cases, such as those of Samson, Hercules and Antaeus, it has a much more positive connotation and relates to the performance of miracles (θαύματα; Samson), labours (ἄθλους; Hercules) or “terrestrial deeds” (γήινά τινα; Antaeus). 14 On this tradition, see e.g. S. GERO, The legend of the fourth son of Noah, in HThR, 73 (1980), pp. 321-330; A. TOEPEL, Yonton Revisited: a Case Study in the Reception of Hellenistic Science within Early Judaism, in HThR, 99 (2006), pp. 235-245. 12

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Yoniṭon, a relative of Noah, as the postdiluvian inventor of astronomy. As such, this tradition may be viewed as a counterpart to the Cainan tradition that was circulating among Syrian Christians at least as early as the mid-sixth century. Malalas does not mention Yoniṭon, but his Chronicle does feature Gandoubarios, who is a relative of Noah as well as an astronomer, albeit among the Indians. The origins of the legend of Yoniṭon have not yet been sufficiently investigated, but shared characteristics between Yoniṭon and Gandoubarios suggest that both are variants of the same figure. Although Malalas’ account differs from that given in the Syriac Book of the Cave of Treasures (sixth or early seventh century), the earliest witness to the legend of Yoniṭon, we should not simply dismiss the similarities seen in the Greek and Syriac narratives. Having begun his Greek language Chronicle Epitome in Antioch, the city in which he was educated, and continued to write it in Constantinople, Malalas was ideally placed between two worlds. I have already mentioned his use of the Constantinopolitan author Fortunus, but Malalas is also known to have used the Chronicle of Timothy of Antioch15 (5th century) and a local history (of Antioch and its surrounds) composed by Clement.16 Furthermore, his knowledge of local Syrian traditions is detectable in several aspects of his work, for example, in his chronology and in his portrayal of Nimrod as a descendant of Shem rather than Ham.17 Why Malalas should have integrated this latter tradition into his narrative has never been adequately explained.18 It is highly probable that Malalas also knew other Syrian traditions, such as the legend of Yoniṭon, in which the positive portrayal of Nimrod was an essential element. If this theory is correct, Malalas’ work could offer us new insights into the legend of Yoniṭon, in particular regarding one controversial aspect of the story: the genealogical relationship between Yoniṭon and Noah. 15 E. JEFFREYS, Malalas’ sources, in E. JEFFREYS – B. CROKE – R. SCOTT (eds), Studies in John Malalas (Byzantina Australiensia, 6), Sydney, 1990, pp. 167-216 (pp. 194-195). 16 P. VAN NUFFELEN, Malalas and the Chronographic Tradition, in L. CARRARA – M. MEIER – C. RADTKI (eds), Die Weltchronik des Johannes Malalas — Quellenfragen (Malalas-Studien, 2), Stuttgart, 2017, pp. 261-272 (at p. 265). 17 S.-M. RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors. Étude sur l’histoire du texte et de ses sources (CSCO, 581 – Subsidia, 103), Leuven, 2000, pp. 347, 532-533; E. JEFFREYS, Malalas’ use of the past, in G. CLARKE – B. CROKE – A. EMMETT NOBBS – R. MORTLEY (eds), Reading the Past in Late Antiquity, Sydney, 1990, pp. 121-146 (at p. 132); E. JEFFREYS, Malalas’ world view, in E. JEFFREYS – B. CROKE – R. SCOTT (eds), Studies in John Malalas [see note 15], pp. 55-66 (p. 66). Note however, that in contrast to a statement made in the latter article, Malalas does not identify Zoroaster with Nimrod (see below). 18 K. BERTHELOT, La chronique de Malalas et les traditions juives, in J. BEAUCAMP – S. AGUSTA-BOULAROT – A.M. BERNARDI – B. CABOURET – E. CAIRE (eds), Recherches sur la Chronique de Jean Malalas I, Paris, 2004, pp. 37-51 (at p. 38), noting that “les premières inventions, et en particulier la philosophie et l’astronomie/astrologie, sont toutes dues à des membres de la tribu de Sem” supposes that Nimrod was identified as a descendant of Shem, because he was the first to practice hunting and Malalas wanted to connect that “first” to the Shemites as well.

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In the first book of his Chronicle Epitome, which covers the period between Creation and the death of Hephaestus, Malalas traces knowledge of the stars, i.e. the names of the stars and the planets, from God to three regions of Earth: the West (meaning Italy), India and Persia. His history of astronomy consists of three main phases: its invention by Seth, its transmission through the Flood by his sons, and its discovery after the Flood by Cainan. These claims were not new. Malalas is ultimately indebted to Jubilees for this information, albeit through intermediaries which account for some but probably not all of the discrepancies between Jubilees’ and Malalas’ narratives. Malalas ascribes the invention of astronomy to Seth, the son of Adam. According to Malalas, Seth “had wisdom from God and at God’s command gave names to all the stars and the five planets, so that they could be recognized by men. He called the first planet Kronos, the second Hera, the third Ares, the fourth Aphrodite and the fifth Hermes. He also wrote down the seven vowels corresponding to the five stars and the two great lights. He was the first to invent Hebrew and to write with it”.19 This account was clearly inspired by Jewish traditions about Enoch. In the Book of Jubilees Enoch is said to have been “the first of mankind who were born on the earth who learned (the art of) writing and instruction, and wisdom and who wrote down in a book the signs of the sky in accord with the fixed pattern of their months, so that mankind would know the seasons of the years according to the fixed patterns of their months”.20 How Enoch came upon this knowledge is not explained, but after his translation to Paradise, the angels are said to have introduced him to “everything on earth and in the heavens”.21 In both versions of the story, an antediluvian biblical patriarch (Seth or Enoch) was the first among mankind to acquire knowledge of the stars. Both traditions connect this knowledge to the invention of the (Hebrew) alphabet. Even though Malalas mentions Enoch in his Chronicle Epitome, any connection between this patriarch and these two inventions is absent from his narrative. The only detail given about Enoch is his translation to heaven.22 These firsts were instead transferred to Seth. The purpose of this transference — which 19 John Malalas, I.1 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 4; English translation in E. JEFFREYS – M. JEFFREYS – R. SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 2). See also “Leo Grammaticus” (ninth century; I. BEKKER, Leonis Grammatici Chronographia [CSHB, 26], Bonn, 1842, p. 9) and George Cedrenus (late eleventh – early twelfth century; I. BEKKER Georgius Cedrenus [CSHB, 8], vol. 1, Bonn, 1838, p. 16). 20 Jubilees 4:17 (English translation in VANDERKAM, The Book of the Jubilees [see note 10], pp. 25-26). 21 Jubilees 4:21 (English translation in VANDERKAM, The Book of the Jubilees [see note 10], p. 27). For the connection between Yoniṭon and Enoch, see RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 329. 22 John Malalas, I.2 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 5; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 2). J. BEAUCAMP, Le passé biblique et l’histoire juive: la version de Jean Malalas, in S. AGUSTA-BOULAROT –

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may go back to Africanus23 and was picked up by the otherwise unknown “very wise” Constantinopolitan author Fortunus, whom Malalas mentions as a source — is quite unclear.24 For Malalas in any case, it provided a direct link with the testimony of Flavius Josephus (AD 37-100) regarding the transmission of astronomia through the Flood by the sons of Seth; an interpretation that was combined with the Cainan tradition in Malalas’ narrative.25 According to the original version of the Cainan tradition in the Book of Jubilees, Cainan discovered astrology after the Flood when he found steles left by the Watchers, that is, the fallen angels. These stone tablets were inscribed with the “teachings by which [the Watchers] used to observe the omens of the sun, moon, and stars and every heavenly sign”. The author of Jubilees was very clear about his views on the Watchers, their knowledge and Cainan: the latter is said to have “read what was in it [i.e. inscribed on the stele], copied it, and sinned on the basis of what was in it”.26 The information that was found and used by Cainan was not the science of astronomy that had been invented before the Flood by Enoch, but the corrupt doctrine of astrology, the auguring “by the signs of the sky”, presumably part of the “studies of Chaldeans” that Serug taught to his son Nahor, the grandfather of Abraham.27 Malalas, however, omits any negative vocabulary and claims that Cainan, the son of Arphaxad, “wrote about astronomy when he discovered, engraved on a stone slab, the names which Seth, the son of Adam, and his children had given the stars.” The influence of Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities is evident, even without Malalas’ reference to “the second book of his Archaeology” or the subsequent narrative, copied almost verbatim from Josephus, or rather, from an interpolated version of Josephus (Pseudo-Josephus).28 In an elaborated J. BEAUCAMP – A.-M. BERNARDINI – E. CAIRE (eds), Recherches sur la chronique de Jean Malalas II [see note 13], pp. 19-34 (p. 29). 23 Malalas lists Africanus as one of his sources in his preface and Agapius of Mabbug says that “Africanus the sage claims that Seth, the son of Adam, was the first to bring to light letters and taught writing and the Hebrew language” (A.A. VASILIEV [ed. – tr.], Kitab al-‘unvan: histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Menbidj I.1 [PO, 5.4], Paris, 1910, p. 587; M. WALRAFF [ed.], Iulius Africanus chronographiae: the extant fragments [Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte, 15], Berlin, 2007, pp. 42-43). It should be pointed out, however, that in one other instance, Agapius attaches Africanus’ name to series regum that match those of Annianus (A.A. VASILIEV [ed. – tr.], Kitab al-‘unvan: histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Menbidj II.1 [PO, 7.4], Paris, 1911, pp. 553-557). On Malalas’ use of Africanus, see JEFFREYS, Malalas’ sources [see note 15], p. 182. 24 JEFFREYS, Malalas’ Sources [see note 15], pp. 173, 182 does not connect Fortunus and Africanus. 25 JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], pp. 58, 63. 26 Book of Jubilees 8:2-4 (English translation in VANDERKAM, The Book of the Jubilees [see note 10], p. 50). 27 Jubilees 11:8 (English translation in VANDERKAM, The Book of the Jubilees [see note 10], pp. 65-66). 28 Compare Flavius Josephus, Jewish Antiquities I.69-71 (English translation in L.H. FELDMAN, Flavius Josephus. Translation and Commentary [Judean Antiquities, 3], Leiden, 2000, pp. 24-26)

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version of the tradition from Jubilees, Malalas explains (in the words of Josephus) how the “virtuous” sons of Seth saved astronomy for the survivors of the Flood by engraving astronomical knowledge on two tablets in stone and clay; tablets that could withstand the two forms of annihilation that could destroy the world (flood or fire respectively). Unlike Jubilees, whose author still viewed the sons of God or Benai Elohim of Genesis 6:1-6 as divine beings, Josephus’ source29 was clearly inspired by the later Jewish interpretation that the sons of God had been excellent human beings. Malalas followed this exegesis, one that had become canonical among Christians as early as the second century.30 The nature of the Cainan tradition was, however, inherently changed by the combination of these two traditions. Josephus’ positive description of the origins of this knowledge (the “virtuous” sons of Seth), which for Malalas was a continuation of the positive views of Fortunus regarding the knowledge that Seth had received from God, clashed with negative implications of the knowledge retrieved by Cainan in Jubilees. The decision to neutralize the Cainan tradition must have been a controversial one. This interpretation was a long way from the original tradition, which viewed the knowledge transmitted to Cainan as corrupted. It is no surprise therefore, that none of Malalas’ dependants and successors presents Cainan,31 or the other biblical patriarchs who might be credited with the postdiluvian discovery of knowledge of the stars (Arphaxad32 or Selah33), in such a positive way. with John Malalas, I.5 (Thurn, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 7-8; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 4-5 [the reading “Arphaxad Cainan” is based on a defective manuscript]). Note that Malalas refers to the second book book of the “Archaeology”, which suggests that he never used Josephus’ Jewish Antiquities directly, JEFFREYS, Malalas’ sources [see note 15], p. 184. 29 Josephus and the Life of Adam and Eve are dependent on a common source for the concept of the two forms of annihilation and the two tablets made out of two different materials, A. KLIJN, Seth in Jewish, Christian and Gnostic Literature, Leiden, 1977, p. 124; FELDMAN, Flavius Josephus [see note 28], p. 25; VAN DER HORST, Japheth in the Tents of Shem [see note 8], p. 152. In Josephus and the Life of Adam and Eve, it is Adam who informs Seth and his sons about the coming annihilation, in Malalas they are merely said to have known in advance. 30 W. ADLER, Time Immemorial: Archaic History and its Sources in Christian Chronography from Julius Africanus to George Syncellus (DOS, 26), Washington D.C., 1989, pp. 113-116; J.T.A.G.M. VAN RUITEN, The Interpretation of Genesis 6:1-12 in Jubilees 5:1-19, in M. ALBANI – J. FREY – A. LANGE (eds), Studies in the Book of Jubilees, Tübingen, 1997, pp. 59-75 (at p. 66). 31 George Syncellus (d. AD 810; A.A. MOSSHAMMER, Georgii Syncelli Ecloga chronographica, Leipzig, 1984, p. 90; English translation in W. ADLER – P. TUFFIN [eds], The Chronography of George Synkellos: A Byzantine Chronicle of Universal History from the Creation, Oxford, 2002, p. 114) only says that Cainan “discovered the writing of the Giants and hid it for himself.” The latter element agrees with Jubilees, which says that Cainan hid it because he was afraid of Noah’s reaction. 32 See the reworked fragment of Malalas in J.A. CRAMER, Anecdota graeca e codd. manuscripts bibliothecae regiae parisiensis, vol. 2. Oxford, 1839, p. 233.16-29, where the reference to Cainan is dropped. 33 Due to a mistaken identification of Selah as the son of Cainan “Leo Grammaticus” (BEKKER, Leonis Grammatici Chronographia [see note 19], p. 12) attributes the discovery to Selah. He also uses the verb “sinned”. George Cedrenus (late eleventh – early twelfth century), who also knew

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Scholars tend to attribute this conflation of Josephus’ account and the Cainan tradition to earlier historians such as Africanus.34 Although Malalas’ identification of the sons of Seth with the sons of God does seem to accord with Africanus,35 the overwhelmingly negative interpretation of the Cainan tradition in Greek and Syriac Christian circles suggests that this new function of Cainan as the inventor of astronomy was unique to Malalas.36 All the other Greek and Syriac authors who know the Cainan tradition (or attribute it to Selah or Arphaxad), as well as the Book of Jubilees, describe the biblical patriarch who discovers knowledge of the stars after the Flood negatively. In fact, in the Syriac tradition Cainan’s image grew worse, evolving into a connection between Cainan and pagan worship, presumably in response to an association between paganism and astrology. At least as early as the turn of the eighth century, but perhaps as early as the sixth,37 Cainan came to be identified in Syriac sources as the god who was worshipped by his descendants (i.e. the biblical patriarchs38) in sources attributing this tradition to Selah instead of Cainan, simply calls the doctrine of the Giants “absurd” (BEKKER, Georgius Cedrenus [see note 19], p. 27). Cedrenus, did know the Book of Jubilees, which he calls Little Genesis (BEKKER, Georgius Cedrenus [see note 19], p. 6), but he probably did not have direct access to this text, or at least not in its original form (W. ADLER, Abraham and the Burning of the Temple of Idols: Jubilees’ Traditions in Christian Chronography, in The Jewish Quarterly Review, 77 (1986-1987), pp. 95-117 (p. 95). Given that Cedrenus’ biblical chronology (Flood in AM 2242; first postdiluvian kingdoms in AM 2776) reveals the influence of the Alexandrian chroniclers Panodorus and Annianus, it is not improbable that one of these (or perhaps even both) chroniclers was his source for traditions drawn from the Book of Jubilees. 34 E. JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas, Book 1: a commentary, in P. ALLEN – E. JEFFREYS (eds), The sixth century: end or beginning?, Brisbane, 1996, pp. 52-74 (pp. 63, 57); ADLER, Time immemorial [see note 30], pp. 215-216. 35 JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], p. 60. See the fragment 7 of Africanus in George Syncellus (MOSSHAMMER, Georgii Syncelli Ecloga chronographica [see note 31], pp. 19-20; English translation in ADLER – TUFFIN, The Chronography of George Synkellos [see note 31], p. 26). Malalas probably did not know Africanus’ work directly, JEFFREYS, Malalas’ Sources [see note 15], pp. 172-173. 36 Crucially, Africanus did not include Cainan in his chronology of the postdiluvian biblical patriarchs, see fragment 16c in WALRAFF, Iulius Africanus chronographiae [see note 17], pp. 28-29, especially p. 29, n. 1, and George Syncellus’ critique of this omission, WALRAFF, Iulius Africanus chronographiae [see note 17], pp. 38-39 (T16l). 37 A letter of Jacob of Edessa (d. AD 710), addressed to John the Stylite of Litarba is the earliest Syriac witness identifying Ur of the Chaldeans as a place of worship of Cainan, on which see S.P. BROCK, Abraham and the Ravens. A Syriac Counterpart to Jubilees 11-12 and its Implications, in Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period, 9 (1978), pp. 135-152. Elsewhere I have retraced the Syriac Cainan tradition to the now lost post-Eusebian chronicle of Andronicus (sixth century), A. HILKENS, The Anonymous Syriac Chronicle of 1234 and its Sources (OLA, 272; BB, 18), Leuven, 2018, pp. 75-81, 217-221. 38 For example, the statement that “Nahor was priest of the idol Cainan” in Michael the Elder, II.6 (G.Y. IBRAHIM [ed.], The Edessa-Aleppo Syriac codex of the chronicle of Michael the Great, Texts and translations of the Chronicle of Michael the Great 1, Piscataway/NJ, 2009, p. 14; French translation in J.-B. CHABOT, Chronique de Michel le Syrien, patriarche jacobite d’Antioche [1166-1199]. Éditée pour la première fois et traduite en francais, vol. 1, Paris, 1899, p. 25).

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Ur; according to a tradition that was already extant in the Book of Jubilees, in the temple that was ultimately destroyed by Abraham.39 Moreover, Cainan’s name was Hellenized to “Cainos”, a deity to whom a temple in Mabbug was said to have been devoted.40 Finally, the Syriac Orthodox patriarch Michael the Elder (1126-1199) and the Anonymous Syriac Chronicle up to the Year 1234 identified Cainan not only as the inventor of astrology, but the source of divination and magic,41 and the founder of Harran, not coincidentally a major pagan stronghold in Northern Mesopotamia.42 Given that Malalas stands alone among both Jewish and Christian authors in holding such a positive view of Cainan, it is unlikely that an earlier source, especially one as popular as Africanus, had already conflated these two traditions. It was probably Malalas himself who combined Josephus’ testimony with the Cainan tradition and thus transformed Cainan into a positive figure. The end result of Malalas’ harmonization of Fortunus, Josephus and the Cainan 39 BROCK, Abraham and the Ravens [see note 37], pp. 135-152; ADLER, Abraham and the Burning of the Temple of Idols [see note 33]. 40 Ishocdad of Merv, Commentary on Genesis (J.-M. VOSTÉ – C. VAN DEN EYNDE, Commentaire d’Iso’dad de Merv sur l’Ancien Testament, I. Genèse [CSCO, 126 – Syr., 67], Leuven, 1950, p. 167; French translation in C. VAN DEN EYNDE, Commentaire d’Iso’dad de Merv sur l’Ancien Testament, I. Genèse [CSCO, 156 – Syr., 75], Leuven, 1955, p. 181) and Agapius of Mabbug (VASILIEV [ed. – tr.], Kitab al-‘unvan, 1.1 [see note 23], p. 664). Whether these authors realized that Cainos and Cainan were one and the same, is another matter (see M. CONTERNO, Found in translation: Agapius, the Septuagint, and the “falsified” Torah of the Jews, in M. CONTERNO – M. MAZZOLA [eds], Intercultural Exchange in Late Antique Historiography, Leuven, 2020), pp. 143168. 41 Michael the Elder, I.2 (G.Y. IBRAHIM, The Edessa-Aleppo Syriac codex [see note 38], p. 9; French translation in CHABOT, Chronique de Michel le Syrien [see note 38], p. 16), II.8 (G.Y. IBRAHIM, The Edessa-Aleppo Syriac codex [see note 38], p. 17; French translation in CHABOT, Chronique de Michel le Syrien [see note 38], pp. 30) and the Anonymous Chronicle up to the Year 1234 (J.-B. CHABOT, Chronicon anonymi auctoris ad annum Christi 1234 pertinens I, [CSCO, 81 – Syr., 36], Louvain, 1920, p. 46; Latin translation in J.-B. CHABOT, Anonymi auctoris chronicon ad annum Christi 1234 Pertinens I [CSCO, 109 – Syr., 56.], 1937, pp. 33-34). The author of the latter seems to have had access to either a Syriac translation of the Book of Jubilees or a collection of translated extracts. Unfortunately, neither of these is preserved. On this issue, see E. TISSERANT, Fragments syriaques du Livre des Jubilés, in Revue Biblique, 30 (1921), pp. 55-86, pp. 206-232 and A. HILKENS, The Anonymous Syriac Chronicle of 1234 [see note 37]. On the issue of the Syriac reception of Jubilees in general, see also W. ADLER, Jacob of Edessa and the Jewish Pseudepigrapha in Syriac Chronography, in J. REEVES (ed.), Tracing the Threads: Studies in the Vitality of Jewish Pseudepigrapha (SBL Early Judaism and its Literature, 6), Atlanta, 1994, pp. 143171; W. ADLER, Jewish Pseudepigrapha in Jacob of Edessa’s Letters and Historical Writings, in R.B. TER HAAR ROMENY (ed.), Jacob of Edessa and the Syriac Culture of His Day (Monographs of the Peshitta Institute Leiden, 18), Leiden – Boston, 2008, pp. 49-65. 42 Michael the Elder, I.2 (G.Y. IBRAHIM, The Edessa-Aleppo Syriac codex [see note 38], p. 9; French translation in CHABOT, Chronique de Michel le Syrien [see note 38], p. 17) and the Anonymous Chronicle up to the Year 1234 (CHABOT, Chronicon anonymi auctoris [see note 41], p. 50; Latin translation in CHABOT, Anonymi auctoris chronicon [see note 41], p. 38). Harran was one of the centers of worship of the moon god Sin, but remained a pagan center well into the Middle Ages, see T.M. GREEN, The city of the moon god: religious traditions of Harran (Religions in the Graeco-Roman World, 114), Leiden, 1992. Significantly, Sin was also the divine patron of Ur, see H. CRAWFORD, Ur: the City of the Moon God (Archaeological Histories), London, 2015.

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tradition is an uninterrupted chain of transmission of astronomia from God, via Seth and his sons to Cainan and the postdiluvian world. In this schema Cainan serves as the link between the antediluvian and postdiluvian world. Having accounted for the transmission of astronomy to postdiluvian society, Malalas offers the names of three astronomers in order to explain how three peoples came to know astronomy: the Indian Gandoubarios, the Persian Zoroaster and the Greek Atlas. It seems significant that this is the chronological order in which these three astronomers appear in the Chronicle Epitome: Gandoubarios lived in India during the reign of Nimrod, at the time of the Tower of Babel and the division of languages, Zoroaster in Persia during the reign of Ninos, Nimrod’s descendant and successor, and Atlas in “the West”, i.e. Italy, at the time of the biblical judges. Thus, Malalas seems to recognize the Eastern origins of astronomy.43 Malalas’ euhemeristic interpretation of the myth of Atlas is not innovative, based as it is on the testimony of Eusebius.44 His descriptions of Gandoubarios and Zoroaster are, however, another matter. Zoroaster is identified as an (in) famous45 Persian astronomer, a member of the family of Ninos. The only other thing that Malalas has to say about him is that upon his death Zoroaster prayed to Orion to be consumed by fire from heaven: his wish coming true, Zoroaster’s ashes were preserved by the Persians.46 This etiological tale about the origins of Zoroastrianism seems to have been based on a tradition that was already extant in the fourth century Pseudo-Clementine Homilies, but there are major differences in the two accounts.47 Although Malalas may allow for a link between Nimrod and Zoroaster, he certainly does not identify them with each other.48 Crucially, Zoroaster prays to Orion, the catasterised and deified Nimrod.49 Malalas is the MAGDALINO, The Byzantine Reception [see note 4], p. 39. Relating the origins of the arts, writing and music in Greece and “the West”, i.e. Italy, Malalas states that “Atlas interpreted astronomy. Men say that he supports the sky, because he holds knowledge of the sky in his heart”, John Malalas, IV.3 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 49; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 34). Note, however, that Malalas never used Eusebius’ Chronicle itself, but more likely a thoroughly revised version of this work (Pseudo-Eusebius) which may have been interpolated with traditions from Jubilees or even a later intermediary, JEFFREYS, Malalas’ sources [see note 15], p. 180. 45 Malalas uses the adjective περιβόητος, which can be interpreted in a positive or negative way. 46 John Malalas I.11 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 12; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 7). 47 Homily IX.4-5 (B. REHM – G. STRECKER [eds], Die Pseudo-Klementinen I. Homilien [GCS, 42], Berlin, 1992, p. 133). JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], p. 65. 48 Contra JEFFREYS, Malalas’ world view [see note 17], p. 66 and JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], p. 65. 49 John Malalas, I.7 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 9; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 56). 43

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only known author who equates Nimrod with Orion; he may have been inspired by the fact that Nimrod and Orion were both associated with hunting.50 However, there might be another purpose for Nimrod’s catasterism: to propose a link between Nimrod and the Magi (see below). Apart from those Greek historians who are dependent on him, Malalas is the only source for Gandoubarios, who is identified as a relative of the biblical patriarch Arphaxad and as “the first of the Indians to write about astronomy”.51 Significantly, Gandoubarios is the first astronomer mentioned by Malalas after Cainan. Gandoubarios’ origin and his function in the Chronicle Epitome have puzzled previous scholars. Some have suggested a connection with the Indian king Gondophares.52 Yet, although this may certainly explain the origin of his name, no other source offers a link between Gondophares and astronomy. Therefore, the origins of the figure remain unclear. In light of Malalas’ adaptation of the Cainan tradition, I propose to consider Gandoubarios as an adaptation of the figure of Yoniṭon. If Malalas changed the presentation of Cainan, he may have also been forced to change the legend of Yoniṭon in order to have it fit his narrative. Thus, Yoniṭon, relative of Noah and postdiluvian inventor of astronomy, became Gandoubarios, the first Indian astronomer. There are several reasons to assume that Malalas knew the legend of Yoniṭon. One has already been highlighted by Su-Min Ri in his rich commentary on the Cave of Treasures, that is Malalas’ knowledge of the tradition of the Shemite Nimrod.53 Given that the positive description of Nimrod was an inextricable element of the legend of Yoniṭon, Malalas’ knowledge of the legend is quite plausible. It is, however, another matter entirely to prove that Malalas integrated an adapted version of this legend into his historical narrative. In order to facilitate a comparison of the links between the legend of Yoniṭon and Malalas’ historical narrative, it is worth reiterating the main characteristics of the legend of Yoniṭon as it is found in the Cave of Treasures. Among the Jewish, Christian and Iranian traditions preserved in the Syriac Book of the Cave of Treasures — an example of a “rewritten Bible” that was probably composed by a West-Syrian author in Persian-controlled Northern Mesopotamia between the middle of the sixth and the early seventh century — is the legend of Yoniṭon.54 This legend is inserted after several traditions conJEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], p. 65. See also the Chronicon Paschale (early seventh century; L. DINDORF, Chronicon Paschale [CSHB, 11], vol. 1, Bonn, 1832, p. 63) and George Cedrenus (BEKKER, Georgius Cedrenus [see note 19], p. 27). 52 JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], p. 65. 53 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 347, pp. 532-533. 54 Cave of Treasures XXVII.6-11 (S.-M. RI, La Caverne des Trésors. Les deux récensions syriaques [CSCO, 487 – Syr., 208], Leuven, 1987, pp. 80-81). Regarding the issues of date and authorship, see most recently S. MINOV, Date and Provenance of the Syriac Cave of Treasures: A Reappraisal, in Hugoye, 20 (2017), pp. 129-229. 50

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textualising the origin of magic and idolatry, including the Persian cults of fire and the white horse.55 According to the anonymous author of the Cave of Treasures, Yoniṭon, a “son of Noah”, lived near a sea or body of water in Nod, a location in the East, near Paradise, and where Cain is said to have died. The Chaldean king Nimrod approached Yoniṭon, knelt before him, and was initiated in “wisdom, writing and the revelation”.56 Having heard of this, the Chaldean fire-priest Ardashir asked the fire demon to be taught these things as well.57 In return the demon demanded that Ardashir lie with his mother, sister and daughter. Ardashir complied, and from that moment on, he began to use “Chaldean divination”, interpreting signs of the Zodiac, fortunes, oracles, “accidental events”, “involuntary movements”, and horoscopes.58 The tale is concluded by an emphasis on the difference between the pure science that “the Persians call ‘revelation’ and the Romans call ‘astronomy’”, in which Nimrod was initiated by Yoniṭon, and the Chaldean art of magic and astrology that the fire-demon taught Ardashir which “belonged to the error of the evil spirits”.59 For decades, scholars have debated the origins of the legend. Its JudeoChristian background is undeniable: the invention of astronomy is contextualized in biblical terms, as it is traced back to a relative of Noah who lived in the time of the biblical king Nimrod.60 Furthermore, in the Syriac Cave of Treasures the legend of Yoniṭon is embedded in a Christian apologetic context: astrology and astronomy are used as partes pro toto for Zoroastrianism and Christianity (the latter is referred to by the author as “the revelation of the Messiah”). By explicitly identifying the former as Ardashir’s secondary corruption of the latter,61 55

Cave of Treasures XXV.7-XXVII.5. The kneeling implies that Nimrod’s kingdom on earth remained secondary to the kingdom of heaven. Note the link between the invention of astronomy and writing, as in the traditions about Enoch in Jubilees and Seth in Malalas’ Chronicle Epitome. 57 Cave of Treasures XXVII.12-17 (RI, La Caverne des Trésors [see note 54], pp. 81-83). 58 This is an amalgamation of aspects of the Chaldean art, or Chaldeism, listed in the WestSyriac and East-Syriac versions of the Cave of Treasures XXVII.17 (RI, La Caverne des Trésors [see note 54], pp. 82-83). 59 Cave of Treasures XXVII.18-22 (RI, La Caverne des Trésors [see note 54], pp. 82-83). See also Cave of Treasures XXVI.1-10 which tells the story of how magic was introduced into the world when Satan deceived a young man by speaking to him, pretending to be his father, and convincing him to sacrifice his son to him, thus giving Satan control over his own body. 60 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 329. 61 Previous scholars have considered Yoniṭon (A. GÖTZE, Die Schatzhöhle: Überlieferung und Quellen [Sitzungsberichte der Heidelberger Akademie der Wissenschaften PhilosophischHistorische Klasse, 4], Heidelberg, 1922, p. 59 and RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 356) and/or Nimrod (JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], pp. 65-66; TOEPEL, Yonton Revisited [see note 14], p. 242) as representations of Zoroaster, but the explicit dichotomy between the origins of astronomy and astrology does not allow for either figure to be equated with the founder of Zoroastrianism, whom the author of the Cave of Treasures clearly placed in a negative light. Neither Yoniṭon nor Nimrod introduced astrology to the Persians: they are presented as inherently good persons who were unaware of Ardashir’s evil intentions and thus not directly responsible for the corruption of astronomy into astrology. 56

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the author alludes to the primacy of Christianity over Zoroastrianism.62 Crucially, Nimrod is not associated with Zoroastrianism,63 astrology or demonic magic.64 This “honour” is entirely granted to Ardashir. On the contrary, Nimrod is initiated in the science of astronomy and, by extension, Christianity, “the revelation” of the Messiah. In turn he transmits this knowledge to the Magi, who are said to have “read the oracle of Nimrod”.65 The legend thus clears the biblical scene of the Nativity of any association with astrology. Because of this apologetic aspect it is not surprising that Albertus F. J. Klijn,66 Witold Witakowski,67 Clemens Leonhard68 and Andreas Su-Min Ri69 have asserted the story’s Christian origin on a number of grounds or even without argumentation. On the other hand, Stephen Gero has dismissed the legend as a Christian reinterpretation of a Jewish tradition.70 Even though there is no evidence to support the theory that any late antique Jewish author was familiar the legend of Yoniṭon, Gero claimed to have found evidence of a Jewish response to a tradition of a fourth son of Noah in Rabbinic exegeses of Genesis 9:24 (Ham’s treatment of Noah) which states that Ham castrated his father, and that he “damaged him through the fourth son”.71 According to Gero, RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 333. Contra JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], p. 65 and TOEPEL, Yonton revisited [see note 14], p. 242. 64 Contra A. DESREUMAUX, La couronne de Nemrod: Quelques réflections sur le pouvoir, l’histoire et l’écriture dans la littérature syriaque, in D. WARREN – A. BROCK – D. PAO (eds), Early Christian voices in texts, traditions, and symbols: essays in honor of François Bovon (Biblical Interpretation Series, 66), Leiden, 2003, pp. 189-196 (at p. 295). 65 Cav. Tr. 45:11 (RI, La Caverne des Trésors [see note 54], pp. 141-144). TOEPEL, Yonton revisited [see note 14], p. 241. 66 KLIJN, Seth in Jewish, Christian and Gnostic Literature [see note 29], p. 53. 67 W. WITAKOWSKI, The Division of the Earth Between the Descendants of Noah in the Syriac Tradition, in Aram, 5 (1993), pp. 635-656. 68 C. LEONHARD, Observations on the date of the Syriac Cave of Treasures, in M. DAVIAU – J.W. WEVERS – M. WEIGL (eds), The World of the Aramaeans III: Studies in Language and Literature in Honour of Paul-Eugène Dion (Journal for the Study of the Old Testament (Supplement Series, 326), Sheffield, 2001, pp. 255-293 (at pp. 287-288). 69 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], pp. 341-357, pp. 543-545. 70 GERO, The Legend of the Fourth Son of Noah [see note 14] whose opinion was followed by TOEPEL, Yonton revisited [see note 14]. J.P. MONFERRER SALA, Mēmrā del Pseudo Metodio y Yōntōn, el cuarto hijo de Noé. Notas a propósito de un posible origen de la leyenda oriental llegada a Hispania en el s. VII, in Meah, Sección Arabe-Islam, 50 (2001), pp. 213-230 (at pp. 222225) who also follows Gero, claims to have found allusions to this legend in the Qur‘an 11:40 and 23:27, but these Surahs are uttered to an antediluvian son whereas Yoniṭon was born after the Flood. Monferrer Sala also highlights the testimony of two Muslim exegetes, al-Baydāwī (d. AH 685/AD 1286) and Ibn Kathīr (d. AH 774/AD 1372) who may have known the legend of Yoniṭon. Given their late date, however, they cannot be used to argue for a Christian or Jewish origin of the legend. TOEPEL, Yonton revisited [see note 14] connects Yoniṭon to Yoqtan and the division of the earth by assuming the usefulness of astronomy for the measuring of the earth at the time of its division. 71 GERO, The Legend of the Fourth Son of Noah [see note 14], pp. 321-322. This material comes up in a debate between the third-century Babylonian rabbis Rav and Samuel, preserved in the Babylonian Talmud, and is alluded to by a tradition in the Genesis Rabbah, attributed to the 62 63

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this exegesis reflects the suppression of “a branch of Mesopotamian Judaism, which adopted a broadly favourable attitude toward Babylonian astrology”72 and “which had Yonṭon73 and Nimrod as its heroes”.74 In my view, however, it is much more plausible that the legend originated in a Christian milieu. In any case, Nimrod’s involvement only makes sense in a Christian context: he accounts for the transmission of astronomy and knowledge of the birth of Christ from Yoniṭon to the Magi. To sum up, in the Cave of Treasures the legend of Yoniṭon serves two purposes: contextualizing the origins of astronomy after the Flood and dissociating the Magi (and thus the Nativity scene) from astrology. Crucially, in taking up the position as the postdiluvian inventor of astronomy, Yoniṭon became the counterpart of Cainan. Although Cainan and Yoniṭon are not cast as the inventors of astrology and astronomy in the same source before the twelfth century,75 Malalas’ testimony does prove that the Cainan tradition was circulating among Syrian and Northern Mesopotamian Christians at least as early as the middle of the sixth century, around the time when the legend of Yoniṭon appears in the Cave of Treasures. Although it is possible that this is a coincidence, it is hard to imagine that the two etiological tales were not connected, that Yoniṭon was not created in response to the Syrian Christian appropriation of an ancient tradition about a son of Arphaxad who had invented astrology. The second function of the legend of Yoniṭon was to clear the Magi – and thus the biblical scene of the birth of Christ – of any association with astrology. The presence of an astrological scene at the heart of the sacred scriptures, the fact that the Magi knew of Christ’s birth because of a star (Matthew 2:1-12), was a source of frustration for many fathers of the church.76 The author of the Cave of Treasures resolved this issue by making a distinction between astronomy and astrology and by tracing the transmission of astronomy from Yoniṭon to the Magi via “the oracle of Nimrod”. Although in the Chronicle Epitome of Malalas the first function of the legend of Yoniṭon seems to have been taken up by Cainan, there are some traces of the second function in Malalas’ narrative. In his commentary on the Cave of Treasures, Su-Min Ri highlighted the unusually positive picture of Nimrod that is painted by the author of the Cave fourth-century Palestinian rabbis Huna and Joseph. The earliest Jewish author who knew the legend of Yoniṭon is the author of the medieval Chronicles of Jerahmeel (M. GASTER, The Chronicles of Jerahmeel; or the Hebrew Bible Historiale, London, 1899, pp. 69-70), which is clearly reliant on the Syriac Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius (AD 692), as GERO, The Legend of the Fourth Son of Noah [see note 14], p. 326, n. 34 concluded. 72 GERO, The Legend of the Fourth Son of Noah [see note 14], p. 328. 73 In several Syriac sources Yoniṭon is called Yonṭon, see below. 74 GERO, The Legend of the Fourth Son of Noah [see note 14], p. 329. 75 Michael the Elder and the Anonymous Chronicle of 1234. 76 BARTON, Ancient Astrology [see note 3], pp. 76; MAGDALINO, The Byzantine Reception [see note 4], p. 39.

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of Treasures.77 Nimrod’s initiation in astronomy and Christianity in the Cave of Treasures does not accord with the negative characterisation of the biblical king Nimrod, a descendant of Ham, who is fairly consistently placed in a negative light by Jewish and Christian authors because of his connection to the construction of the Tower of Babel (Genesis 10:6-11).78 For this reason Su-Min Ri argued that the Nimrod in the Cave of Treasures was not a son of Ham, but a son of Shem. Although the author of the Cave of Treasures did not express Nimrod’s Shemite ancestry, the late-seventh-century Syriac Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius does.79 The crux of Su-Min Ri’s argument that this tradition already circulated in Syria and Northern Mesopotamia in the sixth century, was, however, the testimony of Malalas, the only relevant Greek source.80 We have already discussed Malalas’ description of Nimrod and his catasterism as Orion, but Malalas also provided some quite interesting details about Nimrod’s ancestry. There was another man of the tribe of Shem, named Cush, an Ethiopian, who fathered Nimrod, the giant, who built Babylon. The Persians say that he was deified and became (one) of the stars in heaven which they call Orion. He was the first to practice hunting, and he provided everyone with wild animals to eat and was the first among the Persians.81

Malalas agrees with Genesis 10:8 in identifying Nimrod as a hunter and a son of Cush, but deviates from the biblical account by claiming that Cush was a son of Shem rather than Ham. This seemingly harmless extra-biblical reconstruction of the genealogy of Nimrod confirms the existence of a tradition of a Shemite Nimrod in Syria as early as the mid-560s, suggesting that the Nimrod in the Cave of Treasures was a son of Shem as well, even though its author never explicitly identifies him as such. The reason for the presence of the tradition of the Shemite Nimrod in the Cave of Treasures is straightforward: it serves as the validation of Nimrod’s involvement in the transmission of the revelation to the Magi. They knew of the birth of Christ because they had “read the oracle of Nimrod” (Cav. Tr. 45:11).82 But this raises a major question: why would Malalas choose to mention a Shemite RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 347, pp. 532-533. On the positive description of Nimrod in late ancient Syriac sources in general, see DESREUMAUX, La couronne de Nemrod [see note 64]. Later medieval Syriac Christian authors seem to have abandoned this positive image of Nimrod, presumably because they struggled to bridge the gap between the biblical and the extra-biblical traditions. 79 G.-J. REININK, Die syrische Apokalypse des Pseudo-Methodius (CSCO, 541, Syr., 221), Leuven, 1993, p. 7. 80 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 347. 81 John Malalas, I.7 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 9; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 5-6). 82 TOEPEL, Yonton Revisited [see note 14], p. 241. Interestingly, Agapius of Mabbug also knew this tradition (VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan, 2.1 [see note 23], p. 464). Given that Agapius does not 77

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Nimrod at all? Katell Berthelot makes a valid point when she observes that every “first” in Malalas’ Chronicle, including Nimrod the first hunter, is connected to a relative of Shem. The first inventions after the Flood all originated in the regions of the earth controlled by Shem and his sons (a region that includes Syria), and not in the region of Japheth (a region that includes Constantinople and a large part of the Byzantine empire) or of Ham (Egypt and Africa). By tracing kingship and emperorship back to Chronos and his son Picus Zeus, who reigned in Assyria first and over Italy (“the West”) second, Malalas effectively implies that Roman emperors were the successors of Shemite rulers.83 While this may indeed be one function of the Shemite Nimrod in Malalas’ Chronicle, it may not be the only one. Malalas must have had pressing reasons to diverge from the biblical account and the traditionally negative image of Nimrod that is repeated throughout Christian literature. Thus, the role of a positive Nimrod in the transmission of astronomy from Yoniṭon to the Magi in the legend ought not be dismissed too quickly. Especially as there are indications that Malalas also introduced other elements of the legend of Yoniṭon than the positive portrayal of Nimrod in his narrative. One of these traces is a possible link between Nimrod and the Magi, an equivalent of the Cave of Treasures’s claim that the Magi read the “oracle of Nimrod”. Such an explicit statement is absent from Malalas’ Chronicle Epitome, but he may have connected Nimrod and the Magi in another – more inconspicuous — way: through the Persian cult of Nimrod-Orion, which may have been the vehicle of the transmission of astronomia to the Persians. Malalas never explains how Zoroaster acquired astronomical knowledge. The implication may be that Zoroaster was automatically informed of astronomy because of his genealogical relationship with Cainan (Zoroaster was the son of the Persian king Ninos, the son of Kronos and grandson of Shem).84 Equally, Zoroaster’s knowledge of astronomia could have derived from his worship of Nimrod-Orion, another relative of Shem, though this latter possibility could also be a consequence of the former.85 Ultimately, the catasterism of Nimrod as Orion functions as a link between Nimrod and the Magi, as they were also appear to have known the Book of the Cave of Treasures, this may indicate that (one of) his Syriac chronographic source(s) also knew the legend of Yoniṭon. 83 BERTHELOT, La chronique de Malalas [see note 18], pp. 38-39. By identifying Nimrod not as the first king, but as a primus inter pares, Malalas followed the Syrian tradition that Nimrod only had a woven crown (i.e. a diadem), a tradition that appears in the Cave of Treasures and also in several Syriac chronicles, see DESREUMAUX, La couronne de Nemrod [see note 64], p. 195. 84 John Malalas I.8, 10-11 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 9-12; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 6-7). 85 John Malalas, I.7, 11 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 9-12; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 5-6, p. 8).

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Persians who would have worshipped Orion. This link may, therefore, also account for the transmission of astronomy to the Magi.86 Further on in his Chronicle Epitome, in the context of the story of the Nativity, Malalas confirms the biblical idea (Matthew 2:9-10) that a star in the East had guided (ὁδηγούμενοι) the Magi to Christ. Crucially however, Malalas says that the Magi worshipped the star as a god that was “showing [them] the God greater than itself”.87 This detail, that the Magi worshipped this star as their god, is not extant in any other text and may be fundamental to Malalas’ narrative. One of the possible identifications of the star that guided the Magi is Nimrod-Orion, which Malalas claimed on two occasions to have been worshipped by the Persians.88 If this identification is correct, it could be considered as an equivalent of the Magi having read the “oracle of Nimrod” in the Cave of Treasures. Admittedly, this interpretation is purely hypothetical. Malalas never identifies the star by name and says that it had “appeared” (φανέντος). Furthermore, Malalas also calls the Magi “mystics” (μυστικοὶ), which may or may not be a concealed reference to astrologers.89 On its own, the proposed link between Nimrod and the Magi may not be compelling, but, coupled with the presence of a Shemite Nimrod in both Malalas and the Cave of Treasures, it seems to me that the similarities between the two texts are suggestive. Although there are major discrepancies between both narratives, these can be explained by the authors’ independent adaptations of an oral90 tradition in different political, geographical and literary contexts. Being active in bilingual Greek-Syriac Antioch and later on in Constantinople in the middle of the sixth century, Malalas wrote a chronicle, covering history from Creation until his own time (c. 565) on the basis of a variety of historical 86

Malalas acknowledges the presence of astronomers at the court of king Balthazar in his version of the biblical story of the writing on the wall (Daniel 5), John Malalas, VI.3 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 117-118; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 80). Interestingly, here he seems to distinguish between the Magi and astronomers. 87 John Malalas, X.4 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 174-175; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 122-123). Malalas refers to “Clement the chronicler” as a source. Traditionally, this has been thought to be a reference to Clement of Alexandria, but Clem. Alex. Strom. 2.15 only speaks of the Magi “who foretold the Savior’s birth, and came into the land of Judaea guided by a star”, without any mention of them worshipping said star. Interestingly, a recent re-evaluation of the evidence from Malalas suggests that this Clement was in fact an author of a local history of Antioch, see VAN NUFFELEN, Malalas and the Chronographic Tradition [see note 16], p. 265. 88 At the catasterism of Nimrod as Orion and at the prayer of Zoroaster to Orion, John Malalas, I.7, 11 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], pp. 9, 12; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], pp. 5-6, 8). 89 For his reference to the μυστικά, “mystic knowledge” of Maurianus, whom the emperor Zeno consulted about his succession, see above. 90 On Malalas’ use of oral traditions, admittedly for events that occurred in the fifth and sixth centuries, see JEFFREYS, Malalas’ Sources [see note 15], p. 168; JEFFREYS, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 34], pp. 54-55.

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sources including a Greek sacred history (Pseudo-Josephus), “universal” chronicles (Africanus, Pseudo-Eusebius and probably at least one dependant of the latter) and “local” chronicles including material with a local focus and mythographical information (Theophilus on Alexandria and Clement on Antioch).91 In addition to at least one chronicle that focused on Antioch, Malalas’ Syrian background is betrayed not only by his plays on Semitic words,92 but by his use of Syrian traditions such as millenarian93 interpretations of history, and oral traditions (including his own experiences) of events in fifth and sixth-century Antioch.94 In this work Malalas used Gandoubarios to explain the origins of astronomy among the Indians. Conversely, the author of the Cave of Treasures, who was probably writing in the Persian-controlled part of Northern Mesopotamia, produced a rewritten bible, a treasure trove of Hebrew, Syrian and Greek Christian, and Persian traditions, in which he retraced the genealogy of Mary, mother of Christ, to Adam, thus countering Jewish attacks on the descent of Jesus.95 In the Cave of Treasures Yoniton was an integral part of the author’s vigorous attack on Zoroastrianism. Thus, the exercise of comparing the figures of Yoniṭon and Gandoubarios is worth the effort, especially as Malalas is the earliest source for this enigmatic figure and his origins and function in his Chronicle are somewhat unclear. After a discussion of the division of the earth between the tribes of Shem, Ham and Japheth after the fall of the Tower of Babel, Malalas mentions Gandoubarios, a figure who shares certain characteristics with Yoniṭon. It is worth noting that this description of Gandoubarios appears immediately before his description of Nimrod’s ancestry, so I will provide the entire passage: During that time a wise Indian astronomer called Gandoubarios appeared, a certain man from the family of Arphaxad. He was the first to write about astronomy for the Indians. There was another man of the tribe of Shem, named Cush, an Ethiopian, who fathered Nimrod, the giant, who built Babylon. The Persians say that he was deified and became (one) of the stars in heaven which they call Orion. VAN NUFFELEN, Malalas and the Chronographic Tradition [see note 16], p. 265. BEAUCAMP, Le passé biblique et l’histoire juive [see note 22], pp. 27-28: Malalas plays with the idea of the just king by identifying Melchisedek as “priest and king” (ἱερεὺς καὶ βασιλεὺς), behind which lie the Semitic roots mlk (“to rule”) and sdq (“just”). 93 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 347, pp. 532-533; JEFFREYS, Malalas’ use of the past [see note 17], p. 132; JEFFREYS, Malalas’ World View [see note 17], p. 66; E. JEFFREYS, Chronological structures in the chronicle, in E. JEFFREYS – B. CROKE – R. SCOTT (eds), Studies in John Malalas (Byzantina Australiensia, 6), Sydney, 1990, pp. 111-166 (pp. 119120). 94 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 347, pp. 532-533; JEFFREYS, Malalas’ Use of the Past [see note 17], p. 132; JEFFREYS, Malalas’ World View [see note 17], p. 66; JEFFREYS, Chronological Structures in the Chronicle [see note 93], pp. 119-120. 95 S. MINOV, The Cave of Treasures and the Formation of Syriac Christian Identity, in B. BITTONASHKELONY – L. PERRONE (eds), Between Personal and Institutional Religion. Self, Doctrine, and Practice in Late Antique Eastern Christianity (Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, 15), Turnhout, 2013, pp. 155-194 (p. 157). 91 92

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He was the first to practice hunting, and provided everyone with wild animals to eat and was the first among the Persians.96

In itself a close textual proximity might not constitute sufficient evidence to argue that Gandoubarios and Yoniṭon are one and the same, especially because Malalas does not mention any transmission of information between Gandoubarios and Nimrod, but alongside Malalas’ knowledge of one, perhaps even two, of the essential elements of the legend of Yoniṭon the circumstantial evidence becomes significant. Gandoubarios and Yoniṭon share several features: they are both astronomers, relatives of Noah (Gandoubarios is a relative of Arphaxad, the grandson of Noah; Yoniṭon an unspecified “son of Noah”) and both are living at the time of the Shemite Nimrod. Gandoubarios’ Indian background may be an elaboration of the Syrian legend, which consistently locates Yoniṭon in the East. Obviously, the major difference between the legend of Yoniṭon and the Gandoubarios tradition is the fact that in the Cave of Treasures Yoniṭon was credited with the invention of astronomy, an invention that Malalas associates with Cainan, identifying Gandoubarios as the first Indian astronomer. However, given that we have established that Malalas reworked the Cainan tradition to have it fit a positive context, it is not a giant leap to suggest that he could have also adapted the legend of Yoniṭon. Rather than excluding Yoniṭon from his narrative, he may have changed his position from postdiluvian father of astronomy to the father of astronomy among the Indians.97 There is one more indication that Gandoubarios may not be who he appears to be: the identification of Gandoubarios as a member of “the family of Arphaxad”. Given that Malalas identified Cainan as the postdiluvian inventor of astronomy, it would have made more sense to cast Gandoubarios as a member of the family of Cainan. However, if we consider that the Cainan tradition, in its original form, identified this son of Arphaxad as the inventor of astrology, it may well be that in Malalas’ (oral or written) source, Gandoubarios, i.e. Yoniṭon, was also identified as a son of Arphaxad. If the equation between Gandoubarios and Yoniṭon is correct, this observation would allow us to shed light on one of the most controversial aspects of the legend of Yoniṭon: the relationship between Yoniṭon and Noah. Scholars occasionally assume that the author of the Cave of Treasures considered Yoniṭon to be the fourth son of Noah, but this is far from certain.98 In 96 JOHN MALALAS, Chronicle 1.7 (ed. THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 9; trans. JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 6). The Paschal Chronicle (DINDORF, Chronicon Paschale [see note 51], p. 64) and George Cedrenus (BEKKER, Georgius Cedrenus [see note 19], p. 27) are dependent on Malalas for this tradition. 97 This would also explain the different names. Under the influence of the name of the Indian king Gondophares, Malalas changed Yoniṭon’s name to Gandoubarios. 98 GERO, The Legend of the Fourth Son of Noah [see note 14], pp. 323-324.

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fact, the views of the West-Syrian author on this matter cannot be determined with absolute certainty on the basis of internal evidence alone. The Cave of Treasures never refers to Yoniṭon as the “fourth son of Noah”, never puts him on the same level as Shem, Ham and Japheth, nor does it mention Yoniṭon’s birth as a son of Noah. In fact, the West-Syrian manuscripts of the Cave of Treasures do not express the relationship between Yoniṭon and Noah at all. Only the East-Syrian manuscripts refer, ambiguously, to Yoniṭon as “son of Noah”. Given that one biblical attestation of the epithet “sons of Noah” suggests that the title did not necessarily require a father-son relationship,99 it would be methodologically unsound to assume that the author of the Cave of Treasures saw Yoniṭon as the brother of Shem, Ham and Japheth. Especially since two late Syriac dependants of the Cave of Treasures — the authors of the Book of the Acknowledgement of Truth100 (tenth-twelfth centuries) and the Anonymous Chronicle up to the Year 1234101 — expressly identified Yoniṭon as a distant relative of Noah. Syriac claims that Yoniṭon was the fourth son of Noah or a brother of Shem, Ham and Japheth only begin to surface from the late seventh century on: in the Syriac Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius (AD 692), and in the Book of Rolls, a seventh- or eighth-century Arabic recension of the Syriac Cave of Treasures. In the Syriac Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodius, Yoniṭon (or rather Yonṭon as he is called in all but one of the manuscripts) remains a relative of Noah and an astronomer, who lived in the East and transmitted his knowledge to king Nimrod; there are, however, several differences in the accounts given in the Syriac Apocalypse and the Cave of Treasures. Like the author of the Cave of Treasures, Pseudo-Methodius uses the epithet “son of Noah” to refer to Yoniṭon but dispels any confusion about its interpretation by explicitly mentioning the birth of Yonṭon to Noah, dating it to AM 2100, the 700th year of Noah’s life. By describing the birth of Yonṭon to Noah as “in his image” and thus applying biblical imagery from Genesis 5:3 (Seth’s birth to Adam) to Yonṭon and Noah, PseudoMethodius seems to allude to Yonṭon’s status as a postdiluvian son of Seth, an image that surfaces in later Syriac sources.102 Moreover, Noah is also said to have given Yonṭon (unidentified) gifts and to have sent him to the East. The discrepancies in the narratives of the Cave of Treasures and the Syriac Apocalypse have been explained by the assumption that Pseudo-Methodius and 99 The sons of Yoqtan in Genesis 10:32, see RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 344. 100 C. KAYSER, Das Buch von der Erkenntniss der Wahrheit oder der Ursache aller Ursachen, Leipzig, 1889, p. 189 (German translation in C. KAYSER, Das Buch von der Erkenntniss der Wahrheit oder der Ursache aller Ursachen, Strassburg, 1893, p. 259). 101 CHABOT, Chronicon anonymi auctoris [see note 41], pp. 48-49 (Latin translation in CHABOT, Anonymi auctoris chronicon [see note 41], p. 36). 102 GERO, The legend of the fourth son of Noah [see note 14], p. 328, n. 42 and TOEPEL, Yonton Revisited [see note 14], p. 244, n. 31.

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the author of the Cave of Treasures used a common source, but it is more likely that the former used and expanded on the latter’s narrative.103 If we approach Pseudo-Methodius’ version of the legend of Yoniṭon as a later adaptation, the explicit mention of Yon(i)ṭon’s birth to Noah can be interpreted as one of several strategies that Pseudo-Methodius deployed to tighten the genealogical bond between Noah and Yoniṭon. The unidentified gift that Noah supposedly gave to Yoniṭon and the statement that Noah sent Yoniṭon to the East might be seen as two other innovations in the same vein. By adding these elements, PseudoMethodius made sure that the phrase “son of Noah” could only be understood in one way: Noah and Yoniṭon were father and son. Similarly, the Book of Rolls104 (Kitāb al-Magall), a seventh-or eighth-century Arabic recension of the Cave of Treasures, has been used to argue that the Syriac author of the Cave of Treasures knew Yoniṭon as the “fourth son of Noah”.105 To be clear, the Book of Rolls is the most ancient source that applies this epithet to Yoniṭon, but the earliest witnesses to the Book of Rolls date from the ninth century, more than a century after the Syriac Apocalypse. The clearest evidence that the author of the Cave of Treasures did not originally place Yoniṭon on the same level as Shem, Ham and Japheth comes from the Arabic106 and Garshuni107 versions of the Cave of Treasures. In those texts, the epithet “fourth son of Noah” is secondary, appearing immediately after the epithet “son of Noah”. This suggests not that the father-son relationship in the Syriac Cave of Treasures was censored, as Su-Min Ri suggested, but rather that the Arabic epithet “fourth son of Noah” was a later development. Presumably it was added in response to the changes in the tradition engendered by Pseudo-Methodius, whose authority superseded that of the author of the Cave of Treasures. Given the later date of the Syriac evidence for the father-son relationship between Yoniṭon and Noah, the testimony of Malalas, the only other source that is contemporary with the Cave of Treasures, seems to confirm that Yoniṭon was generally held to have been a distant relative of Noah at this time. Previous suspicions that the phrase “son of Noah” in the Cave of Treasures should not be taken at face value may indeed be correct.108 Malalas’ categorization of See most recently MINOV, Date and Provenance [see note 54], pp. 133-134. M. GIBSON, Apocrypha Arabica (Studia Sinaitica, 8), London, 1901, pp. 37-38. Although this may perhaps be considered a separate work, its version of the legend of Yoniṭon (whom the author calls Bouniter, due to a scribal error in Arabic), does rely heavily on the Cave of Treasures. 105 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 350 argued that this element was deleted from the Syriac Cave of Treasures at a later date. 106 RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], pp. 65, 321 (Cod. Vat. Arab. 165, copied in AD 1477). 107 Arabic in Syriac script, e.g. Mingana Syr. 32, f. 115r (sixteenth-century), see RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], pp. 63-67, 321. 108 See RI, Commentaire de la Caverne des Trésors [see note 17], p. 344 and TOEPEL, Yonton Revisited [see note 14] who argued for a connection between Yoniṭon and Yoqtan. 103 104

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Gandoubarios as a member of the “family of Arphaxad” suggests that his source identified Yoniṭon as a distant relative of Noah, perhaps even as a son of Arphaxad, and as such, the brother of Cainan. Certainly, from the perspective of a late antique Christian world-view it would make sense to trace the origins of astronomy and astrology back to the offspring of the same biblical patriarch. Because the Syrian Christian appropriation of the Jewish legend of Cainan is attested from the middle of the sixth century on, the appearance of the figure of Yoniṭon in a similar temporal, socio-cultural and geographical context holds great significance. The lack of textual evidence and the absence of any definite proof to substantiate the claim that the legend of Yoniṭon had Jewish origins leads to the simplest solution: the sudden increase in Syrian and Northern Mesopotamian Christian witnesses to the Yoniṭon legend from the mid-sixth century on is probably not a coincidence. It may have been developed in response to the Near Eastern Christian appropriation of the Cainan tradition in the sixth century. As relatives of Arphaxad, Yoniṭon and Cainan could be seen as two sides of the same coin: they derived knowledge from the stars through astronomy and astrology respectively. On a more basic level, Yoniṭon and Cainan also represent competition between Christianity and a resistant paganism, which lasted in the East until the late middle ages.109 Su-Min Ri was probably correct in highlighting the apologetic Tendenz of the legend of Yoniṭon: its genesis ought to be sought in a Christian attempt to contextualise the postdiluvian origins of astronomy. The legend places Yoniṭon in direct competition with Cainan, who was infamous among late ancient and medieval Christians in Syria and Northern Mesopotamia as the inventor of astrology (and later also as a pagan god). As in the Jewish tradition, extant in the Book of Jubilees, crediting Enoch with the antediluvian invention of astronomy, an apocryphal son of Arphaxad was created in the early or mid-sixth century in order to fill a particular gap in postdiluvian biblical and cultural history: the lack of a tradition that expressed the primacy of astronomy over astrology. Unfortunately, this dichotomy between Cainan and Yoniṭon is not expressed in any of the earliest sources. Neither in Malalas’ Chronicle Epitome, whose adaptation of his source material generated a distorted image of Cainan and Yoniṭon, nor in the earliest Syriac sources, which expressed the dichotomy between astronomy and astrology in other ways, without mentioning Cainan; often because they followed the succession of the biblical patriarchs in the Peshitta, a work that was translated from the Hebrew Old Testament which did not feature the postdiluvian Cainan.110 Ultimately therefore, this reconstruction has to remain hypothetical until a late antique source pitting both figures against each other comes to light. Having 109 Hence, the tradition that Cainan was the founder of (the pagan stronghold) Harran that appears in two twelfth- and thirteenth-century sources (see note 42). 110 On this, see M. CONTERNO, Found in Translation [see note 40].

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said that, it may well be that such a source never existed and that the legend of Yoniṭon was originally an oral tradition that was written down for the first time by Malalas and the author of the Cave of Treasures; indeed, such an origin may explain the differences seen in the two testimonies. In spite of these issues, this exercise has proven fruitful in terms of our understanding of the inner workings of Malalas’ Chronicle Epitome. A crucial part of Malalas’ presentation of world history was his reconstruction of the history of astronomy. On this account, analysis of his history of this science grants more a general insight into Malalas’ sources, methodology and thinking processes. A man at the crossroads of cultures, Malalas was able to draw from a wide variety of traditions: Christian adaptations of ancient Jewish genealogies (Seth and his sons, Cainan), biblical history (Nimrod), pagan Greek mythology (Orion) and Syrian oral traditions (Nimrod, Yoniṭon), which he fused into a new narrative. Like some of his sources (e.g. Fortunus), Malalas was not afraid of adapting these traditions for his own purposes. In Malalas’ Chronicle Epitome the biblical patriarch Cainan emerges as the intellectual successor of the sons of Seth, a positive position that clashes with every other known Jewish and Christian witness to the Cainan tradition. By adjusting the representation of Cainan, Malalas not only allowed for the transmission of astronomia through the Flood, but also managed to rescue the reputation of a muchmaligned biblical patriarch. In turn, Cainan’s new status forced Malalas to reposition Yoniṭon, the first postdiluvian astronomer, as the first Indian astronomer, changing his name to Gandoubarios in order to highlight his Indian background. The presentation of Gandoubarios as an astronomer from India may not be the result of a random decision but rather part of a carefully conceived plan. The history of science given in Malalas’ Chronicle Epitome is an example of apologetic historiography, a “piece of ethnic boasting”.111 Although he was writing in Greek, Malalas was a native of Syria who underlined the cultural and scientific prestige of the East by locating the postdiluvian roots of kingship, science and other essential human practices such as hunting in the land of “the tribe of Shem”. For Malalas there was no doubt in which region of the world astronomy emerged after the Flood: Cainan (Shem’s grandson), Gandoubarios (a member of the family of Shem’s son Arphaxad) and Zoroaster (a member of the family of Ninos, the son of Kronos, himself a member of “the tribe of Shem”) were all living in “the land from Persia and Bactria as far as India and, as for the breadth as far as Rhinokourouroi, that is, from the East as far as the region of the South, including Syria and Media and the river called the Euphrates”.112 This expression is borrowed from VAN DER HORST, Japheth in the Tents of Shem [see note 8], p. 143. 112 John Malalas, I.6 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 8; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOtt, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 5). 111

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By a process of elimination, we can rule out India and Persia as the locations where Cainan invented astronomy: Gandoubarios was the first astronomer in India during the reign of Nimrod and the first mention of astronomy among the Persians occurs much later, in the time of Zoroaster, who lived during the reign of Ninos.113 Therefore, it seems probable that Malalas was suggesting that Cainan invented astronomy in postdiluvian Syria. A proud native of Syria who was writing in Antioch (and later in Constantinople), Malalas located the origins of science, terrestrial kingship and writing in his part of the world.114 By placing the origins of these developments in the East, Malalas implied the derivative nature of Roman and Byzantine culture. The Greeks and the Romans (and hence the Byzantine empire) only acquired these practices later. Chronos, the first human king, ruled over Assyria before he administered Italy (“the West”) which had, up until that point, been inhabited by kingless “members of the tribe of Japheth” who had migrated there.115 Hesiod did not invent the Greek alphabet until the time of Abraham.116 Similarly, two relatives of Shem (FaunusHermes and Hercules, through their father Chronos), were the inventors of gold mining, smelting and philosophy “in the region of Hesperia, that is, in the West”.117 Knowledge of the stars was discovered after the Flood in the East by Cainan and only received by the Greeks and the Romans through Atlas’ interpretation (ἑρμήνευσεν) of astronomia at a far later date.118 These observations seem to strengthen recent considerations of the nature of Malalas’ work and his sources: like some of his predecessors, Malalas wrote a text at the crossroads of local history and chronography, a local chronicle.119 Combining material from Greek “universal” and “local” chronicles with local traditions, Malalas identified the East as the cradle of civilization.

113 The secondary transmission of knowledge of the stars to the Persians can also be found in the Cave of Treasures. Here Yoniṭon transmits astronomy to Nimrod, and the fire-demon transmits astrology, a corrupted version of astronomy, to Ardashir. 114 BERTHELOT, La chronique de Malalas [see note 18], pp. 38-39. 115 John Malalas I.13 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 13; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 8). 116 John Malalas, III.5 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 42; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 29). 117 John Malalas I.14 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 14; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 9). 118 John Malalas, IV.3 (THURN, Ioannis Malalae Chronographia [see note 4], p. 49; English translation in JEFFREYS – JEFFREYS – SCOTT, The Chronicle of John Malalas [see note 4], p. 34). It is possible that Malalas was responding to other theories about the invention and transmission of knowledge of the stars, see e.g. the Greek tradition from Pseudo-Eupolemus and/or Alexander Polyhistor in Eusebius’ Praeparatio Evangelia that not only identified Enoch as the inventor of astronomy/astrology but equated Enoch with Atlas, thus dating the Greek reception of astronomy/ astrology to before the Flood, Eusebius, Praeparatio Evangelica IX.17.9 (K. MRAS – É. DES PLACES (eds), Die Praeparatio Evangelica. Teil 1: Einleitung. Die Bücher I Bis X [GCS, 43], Berlin, 1982, p. 504). 119 VAN NUFFELEN, Malalas and the Chronographic Tradition [see note 16], pp. 265, 270.

FOUND IN TRANSLATION: AGAPIUS, THE SEPTUAGINT, AND THE “FALSIFIED” TORAH OF THE JEWS1 Maria CONTERNO INTRODUCTION The special status of sacred scriptures confers inevitably a special status to their translations as a subject of study, since producing and circulating the translation of a sacred text is likely to have more complex preconditions and a wider impact than it is true for most other kinds of texts. The different attitudes towards translation displayed over the centuries by the three “religions of the book” confirm this assumption.2 To Judaism, Hebrew was indisputably the only sacred language, but as the language became inaccessible to most, translations of the Torah and of the other books of the Bible were produced and used. This practice began as early as the 3rd century BCE in Alexandria with the composition of the Septuagint, and continued in the production of other Greek versions (Aquila, Symmachus, Theodotion) and the Targumic tradition of Aramaic paraphrases.3 Islam’s clear-cut opposition to any translation of the Qur’an 1 I first presented and discussed the subject of this paper at the workshop “Text and Context in Late Antiquity”, organised by the Center for the Study of Christianity of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem on 14-15 February 2016. The subsequent research on this topic benefited substantially from the feedback and suggestions I received on that occasion, and I am much indebted to the organiser, Yonathan Moss, for reading a draft of the paper and providing further comments and bibliographical indications. Likewise, I thank Miriam Lindgren Hjälm and Dirk Kruisheer for discussing certain important points with me, sharing unpublished material, and reading and commenting on this paper. I am also grateful to Michael Penn, and to all the members of the “Late Antiquity Research Group” of Ghent University for being interested and responsive readers. The research leading up to this publication was funded by an FWO (Fonds Wetenschappelijk Onderzoek) post-doctoral fellowship and represents a continuation of the work on Christian Arabic historiography I started as a post-doctoral researcher in Peter Van Nuffelen’s project “Memory of Empire: the Post-Imperial Historiography of Late Antiquity”, which received funding from the European Research Council under the European Union’s Seventh Framework Programme (FP/2007-2013) / ERC Grant, agreement n. 313153. 2 See J. DELISLE – J. WOODSWORTH, Translators through History, revised ed. Amsterdam – Philadelphia, 1995, pp. 154-184 (chapter 6: “Translators and the spread of religions”). 3 See S. BARNES, Translating the Sacred, in K. MALMKJAER – K. WINDLE (eds), The Oxford Handbook of Translation Studies, Oxford, 2011, pp. 2-3. Philo of Alexandria, for instance, knew very little, if any, Hebrew and based his biblical exegesis on the Septuagint. It has also been argued that the earliest layers of the Syriac translation of the Bible known as Peshitta originated in a nonrabbinic Jewish group of Edessa, cf. M.P. WEITZMAN, The Syriac Version of the Old Testament: An Introduction, Cambridge, 1995, pp. 258-262 and R.B. TER HAAR ROMENY, The Syriac versions of the Old Testament, in R. JABRE-MOUAWAD, Nos sources: Arts et littérature syriaques, Antélias, 2005, pp. 75-105.

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is due to the unique relation the Islamic religion has always had with the Arabic language: Arabic being the language of God’s revelation to Muhammad, the original Arabic text of the Qur’an is the only one that can be regarded as inspired and it is therefore considered inimitable, since translating the word of God is beyond the capacity of human minds.4 Translations of the Qur’an were thus allowed but none has ever assumed any official value for Islamic worship. Christianity, on the other hand, was from its very birth polyglot — or at least bilingual, in Greek and Aramaic — and relied on a sacred text in translation, the Septuagint. Besides, as a consequence of the universalist aim of the Christian religion, Christians always promoted the translation of both the Old and the New Testament as a means of evangelisation, eventually making the Bible the most widely translated and disseminated text in history. Biblical translations have often had a remarkable impact on the languages into which they were received, “sanctifying” them (as in the case of Latin), or initiating their literary tradition (as in the case of Old Slavonic and Armenian). For most Christians — and as far as the Old Testament is concerned, for all Christians — translations necessarily replace the original, both in the liturgy and in the individual approach to the text. Moreover a number of translations have, over the centuries, assumed special authority, remaining “standard” versions for a long time (as did Martin Luther’s in Germany), and even becoming the source text for translation into other languages (as did the “King James” English version). Still, translating the Sacred Scriptures is not an unproblematic process for Christians either. Quite the opposite, as may be seen in Origen’s philological exertions over the text of the Septuagint, the numerous phases of translation, re-translation, and revision of the Bible in Syriac,5 Jerome’s adoption of a verbum verbo technique when translating the Bible, instead of the sensus senso method he otherwise used and highly recommended,6 and, on the other hand, Augustine’s reticence to replace the Septuagint with a translation from the Hebrew original.7 This chapter deals with similar issues of Biblical translation, raised in the Arabic universal chronicle of the Melkite Agapius of Manbij. A number of passages in Agapius’ chronicle reveal a scenario of competition between different translations of the Bible and between Greek and Syriac for the status of “sacred language”: competition that reflects frictions among and within the Christian 4 H. ABDUL-RAOF, Qurʼan translation: Discourse, Texture and Exegesis, Richmond (Surrey), 2001. 5 See S.P. BROCK, The Bible in the Syriac Tradition, second revisited edn., Piscataway, 2006 and WEITZMAN, The Syriac Version of the Old Testament [see note 3]. 6 Jerome, Epistula LVII. Ad Pammachium De Optimo Genere Interpretandi, 5: Ego enim non solum fateor, sed libera voce profiteor, me in interpretatione Graecorum, absque Scripturis sanctis, ubi et verborum ordo mysterium est, non verbum e verbo, sed sensum exprimere de sensu. 7 DELISLE – WOODSWORTH, Translators through History [see note 2], pp. 162-163.

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communities of 9th-century Syria as well as their different cultural allegiances. Agapius’ passages are particularly interesting for the study of intercultural exchange in late antique historiography in two respects: on the one hand, they attest to the wide circulation of narratives and motifs across linguistic and religious borders in the Mediterranean region; on the other, they explicitly convey the historian’s view of what is possibly the most delicate and thorny form of intercultural transmission, namely the translation the Sacred Scriptures.

THE “SEPTUAGINT-TAMPERING-CONSTANTINE THE CHRONICLE OF AGAPIUS

EXCURSUS” IN

According to one of the manuscripts that preserve his work, Agapius was the Melkite bishop of Mabbug in northern Syria (modern Manbij, ancient Hierapolis). In the 940s he wrote a universal chronicle in Arabic, the final part of which, unfortunately, does not survive.8 Throughout his chronicle, Agapius displays a deep interest in issues of world chronology, interspersing his narrative with chronological résumés, reporting reckonings from different sources, and providing scientific arguments on matters such as the day and month of the beginning of the Creation. Concerning the genealogy of the biblical patriarchs in particular, Agapius shows a real fixation for the alleged manipulation of biblical chronology at the hands of the Jews, which he presents as the explanation for the fact that the biblical chronology attested in the Septuagint does not match that of the Masoretic text of the Torah. These discrepancies had already been remarked upon and variously explained in antiquity, and they remain an object of scholarly interest today.9 For each biblical patriarch Agapius reports the total years of his life and the age at which he generated his first son (henceforth the “age of begetting”), first according to the Septuagint and then according to what he calls the “manipulated/altered/false Torah of the Jews”, which 8 The manuscript Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Or. 323, which is the only testimony we have for the second part of the chronicle, stops abruptly in AD 780. Agapius’ chronicle is available in two modern editions, both appeared at the beginning of the twentieth century, prepared by L. CHEIKHO (Agapius episcopus Mabbugensis: Historia universalis / Kitāb al-‘unwān [CSCO, 65 – Scriptores Arabici, 10], Paris, 1912) and A.A. VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan: histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Menbidj I.1 [PO, 5.4], Paris, 1910; IDEM, Kitab al-‘unvan: histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Menbidj II.1 [PO, 7.4], Paris, 1911; IDEM, Kitab al-‘unvan: histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Menbidj II.2 [PO, 8.3], Paris, 1912; IDEM, Kitab al-‘unvan: histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Menbidj I.2 [PO, 11.1], Paris, 1913). The two editions are based on the same manuscripts, but Cheikho’s interventions to improve the text and make it more readable are more drastic and not systematically signalled, I will therefore refer to Vasiliev’s edition. When not otherwise indicated, the English translations are my own. 9 Cf. J. HUGHES, Secrets of the times: Myth and History in biblical Chronology, Oxford, 1990.

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— he regularly adds — was translated and adopted by Syriac Christians.10 When he reaches the time of Abraham, he explains the reasons for such discrepancies between the Greek and Hebrew/Syriac text of the Bible by inserting a long and multi-layered flash-forward into his narrative.11 After Jesus’ death and resurrection, the Jewish High Priests Annas and Caiaphas tampered with the biblical chronology in order to prove that, according to the Sacred Scriptures, the time of the Messiah had yet to come and, therefore, that Jesus of Nazareth could not be the Christ. In order to do this they compressed the chronology of the biblical patriarchs from Adam to Abraham. They only altered the Hebrew Torah, but the Temple of Jerusalem also contained a copy of the Greek translation of the Scriptures made in Alexandria almost 300 years before, at Ptolemy II’s request. At this point the flash-forward flashes back to the story of the translation of the Septuagint, at the end of which we see king Ptolemy sending out copies of the Greek translation to the major cities of the Mediterranean with one of them being brought back to Jerusalem by the Seventy-two translators in person. Agapius then repeats, in even more detail, the story of the tampering, concluding: “Today it [i.e. the altered Torah] is in the hands of those Christians who use the Syriac idiom, and the true Torah translated by the Seventy was not shown to them until Constantine reigned, son of Helena the believer, whose reign was 305 years after the advent of the Messiah”. These words open another flash-forward: this time to Constantine the Great. According to Agapius, Constantine went to Jerusalem in search of the relics of Christ and the books of the Prophets. Some of the Jews, afraid that the truth about the tampering would come out, decided to get ahead of the game by leaking the story to the emperor. The emperor then summoned the High Priests asking for an explanation, but they stubbornly denied everything, so he had them put in jail and ordered that copies of the Greek translation be brought from Alexandria, Rome and other cities. When they heard of this the High Priests decided to confess in order to save their lives, and gave their copy of the Septuagint to the Emperor. Constantine compared all the Greek copies with the Hebrew Torah and found that the Hebrew text had indeed been tampered with, and that only the Septuagint preserved the original text of the Torah. As the Jews kept putting forward weak arguments for this altered chronology, he convoked some Christian bishops and ordered them to counter the Jews’ claims 10 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 573, 580-582, 586-589, 595, 598, 599, 629631, 634-635. 11 The excursus occupies more than 20 pages in Vasiliev’s edition (VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 636-660) and includes also a résumé of Alexander the Great’s feats, which led to the establishment of the Ptolemaic kingdom in Egypt. The part on Constantine is briefly analyzed in J. STUTZ, Constantinus Arabicus. Die arabische Geschichtsschreibung und das christliche Rom, Piscataway, 2017, pp. 83-90 (with partial German translation).

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in a dispute. The bishops refuted the Jews by revealing the truth that had been hidden for centuries, and by providing, as further proof, a chronological exegesis of Daniel’s prophecy of the 70 weeks [Dan 9,24-27], from which the exact date of the Messiah’s arrival could be calculated. The story of Constantine’s retrieval of the Greek translation of the Biblical books and exposing of the Jews’ ruse is found nowhere else. The long digression has been translated in English and discussed by John Lamoreux in a reader of Melkite sources.12 Lamoreux contends that Agapius was translating and abridging a treatise addressing Syriac-speaking Christians, both Chalcedonian and anti-Chalcedonian, to convince them to abandon the Syriac translation of the Bible, based on the Hebrew text, in favour of one translated from Greek.13 He argues that the narrative looks self-contained, presents very few crossreferences to the rest of the chronicle, and seems, in places, to have been carelessly summarised. As further evidence for this assertion he points to the very words with which Agapius resumes the narrative of Abraham’s life at the end of the digression: “Now then, we have translated and analysed the account of what was translated by the Seventy and of why King Constantine examined the reason behind the discrepancies found in the Scriptures. I shall now return to where we left off, in the days of Abraham [...]”.14 The main meaning of the verb fassara, which Lamoreux renders with “we have translated”, is actually “explain, interpret”,15 whereas the Arabic for “translate” is tarjama, which is, in fact, used in the following line with reference to the Seventy. Yet, throughout the “Septuagint-Tampering-Constantine” digression, Agapius systematically uses the verb fassara and its verbal noun tafsīr with reference to the Septuagint and to the activity of the Seventy-two translators. Agapius’ words are thus ambiguous, but the very same semantic ambiguity applies to the Syriac verb paššeq, 12 J.C. LAMOREUX, Agapius of Manbij, in S. NOBLE – A. TREIGER (eds), The Orthodox Church in the Arab World 700-1700, DeKalb, 2014, pp. 136-159. In the introduction to the text, Lamoreux discusses the flaws and virtues of the two editions of Agapius’ chronicle, making clear that neither of them can be considered a proper critical edition, since neither is based on a thorough assessment of the whole manuscript tradition of the first part of the chronicle. In particular, the ms. Sinai Ar. 456, which presents a more readable and at times even shorter text, was not consistently taken into account by Vasiliev and was totally ignored by Cheikho. Lamoreux’s translation is based on an ad hoc edition of the excursus, where the texts and variants reported in the two editions are complemented, when needed, with the text provided by Sinai Ar. 456. Unfortunately, the translation has very few critical notes and it is therefore useless for a philological examination of problematic passages of the text (something that was admittedly beyond the purpose of the volume where the translation appears). I will nevertheless refer to it on occasion. 13 LAMOREUX, Agapius of Manbij [see note 12], pp. 142-143. 14 LAMOREUX, Agapius of Manbij [see note 12], p. 158. 15 Cf. VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], p. 660: “Maintenant que nous avons déjà expliqué et raconté l’histoire de l’interprétation et de la traduction des Septante, les efforts et les recherches du roi Constantin sur la raison du désaccord qu’il avait trouvé dans les Livres Sacrés, nous allons revenir au récit de l’époque d’Abraham”. See also J. STUTZ, Constantinus Arabicus [see note 11], p. 88.

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“explain/translate”, and the related noun pūšāqā, “interpretation/translation”, an aspect that gives further strength to Lamoreux’s hypothesis and suggests that Agapius may indeed have taken the story from a Syriac source. Two more details seem to confirm this: a sudden and isolated switch to the first person singular at the beginning of the narrative,16 and a cross-reference that remains unaddressed. The latter is particularly relevant, since it concerns the creation by Seleucus I Nicator of a new way of reckoning time bearing Alexander’s name: namely, the Seleucid era used by Syriac Christians and by Agapius himself.17 The anticipated explanation is nowhere to be found in the rest of the chronicle. As will be shown in the following pages, other features of this digression seem to suggest that it was an original composition made by Agapius. It remains, therefore, impossible to establish with any certainty whether he extrapolated the whole narrative in bulk from a single source or whether he built up the excursus by assembling more than one account, possibly even composing part of it on his own. This source-critical issue aside, the “wandering stories” we find in this portion of the chronicle deserve our attention: it is worth trying to understand how they landed in Agapius’ chronicle — or in his source(s) — and why Agapius decided to use them.

THE “WANDERING STORIES”... The digression is composed of three main narrative cores: – the story of the Septuagint, which, as has already been said, includes a historical preamble concerning Alexander the Great and the establishment of the Hellenistic kingdoms; – the story of how the High Priests Annas and Caiaphas tampered with biblical chronology; – the story of Constantine’s re-discovery of the Septuagint in Jerusalem. The first and the third stories are self-contained, being two clearly defined narrative blocks within the digression. The story of the tampering, on the other hand, is given in full more than once. Even before the digression, it is referred to briefly where Agapius gives the years of Adam;18 it is first told extensively where Agapius talks about Cainan, Noah’s great-grandson whose name appears 16 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], p. 640: “Before he [i.e. Alexander the Great] divided his reign among four of his closest men, as I said above”. Agapius consistently uses the first person plural throughout the whole chronicle and in the “Septuagint-Tampering-Constantine” story as well, this being the only exception, possibly a point where he forgot to adjust his source. 17 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 640-641. 18 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 580-582.

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in the Septuagint but not in the Masoretic text;19 it is then re-told twice, before the “Alexander-Ptolemy-Septuagint block” and then again between it and the “Constantine block”. The Septuagint story Agapius’ account of the translation of the Torah into Greek in Alexandria by the Seventy-two translators at the request of Ptolemy II Philadelphus largely follows that given in the Letter of Aristeas, the earliest extant version of this episode. It contains, however, some noteworthy discrepancies. Some of these differences correspond to early evolutions of the legend.20 Other variations seem unprecedented and are more difficult to interpret.21 The most curious innovation concerns the process of translation itself. In the Letter of Aristeas the Seventy-two elders work all together and complete the translation in seventy-two days. Philo of Alexandria added a miraculous element; inspired by the Holy Spirit, the Seventy-two produced as many identical translations, matching word for word.22 In the Rabbinic tradition the miraculous aspect of this story was pushed further; although put in different cells by Ptolemy, the translators produced identical translations making the very same changes to the Biblical text.23 In the Christian tradition we again find the seclusion of the translators and their miraculous agreement, but not the textual changes.24 In Agapius, Ptolemy divides the seventy-two translators into 36 “teams” according to their tribes, and assigns to them 36 cells. Each cell has an attendant, whose tasks are to prevent the translators from meeting each other, to take care of their daily needs, and to transfer the translated books from one cell to the next. This seclusion, however, does not lead to any miraculous agreement, only to the production of 36 copies, which are not only intended to enrich the library in Alexandria, but to be sent to the major cities of the world. The Seventy-two, then, worked in a sort of production line and their being set apart in pairs was most likely due to disagreement and hostility among the different tribes: another new element introduced, and very much stressed, by Agapius. He says, for instance, that when Ptolemy’s second embassy arrived in Jerusalem, the VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 599-602. For instance, the use of the shortened form Seventy instead of Seventy-two to refer to the translators, which dates back at least to Josephus, see A. PELLETIER, Flavius Josèphe adaptateur de la Lettre d’Aristée. Une réaction atticisante contre la Koinè, Paris, 1962, p. 199; or the extension of the translation to the “books of the Prophets”, namely the whole Old Testament, and the introduction of a second embassy of Ptolemy’s to Jerusalem to ask for translators, which are Christian innovations first attested in Justin Martyr’s First Apology, see A. WASSERSTEIN – D. WASSERSTEIN, The Legend of the Septuagint from Classical Antiquity to Today, Cambridge, 2006, pp. 98-100. 21 See WASSERSTEIN – WASSERSTEIN, The Legend of the Septuagint [see note 20], p. 148. 22 IIDEM, The Legend of the Septuagint [see note 20], pp. 35-38. 23 IIDEM, The Legend of the Septuagint [see note 20], p. 51. 24 IIDEM, The Legend of the Septuagint [see note 20], p. 97. 19

20

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Jews could not agree on whom to send him, and only after quarrels and disputes did they decide to select and send six men from each tribe. Since the Septuagint story is used in this context to maintain and prove the superiority of the Greek translation of the Bible over the original Hebrew text, it seems rather odd that the detail of the miraculous agreement by divine inspiration was dropped. Indeed, this detail had been added to the legend precisely to bestow on the translation an equal status of inspired, and therefore sacred, text. Even in the second part of the digression, where it is said that Constantine gathered the various copies of the Greek translation and found them to be identical, no emphasis is put on this and no miracle is implied: the Greek copies are in agreement compared to the Hebrew text, simply because none of them underwent the tampering the Hebrew text did. Agapius’ version of the Septuagint story has been thoroughly analysed by Abraham and David Wasserstein in their monograph dedicated to the legend and its various developments.25 The two authors point out how Agapius’ adjustments seem to reflect the mixed Muslim and Byzantine background of a border city like Manbij. On the one hand, the depiction of Ptolemy and his court recalls, more or less explicitly, the image of the enlightened Muslim king, and more precisely al-Ma‘mun and the intellectual circles he fostered. Ptolemy is presented not just as a successor and a peer of Alexander the Great, but even as superior to him in his love for knowledge; the list of his intellectual interests is made up of mathematical and similar disciplines of which the Greek transliterated names are given (astronomy, astrology, geometry, arithmetic), and which strongly evoke the sciences that Muslim scholars imported from the Greek, Syriac, and Persian traditions; the library he built in Alexandria is called Bayt al-ḥikma, “house of wisdom”, which is precisely the name of Harun al-Rashid’s private library, which was expanded and turned into a sort of public university by his son al-Ma‘mun; when the Jews speak to Ptolemy about their Scriptures, they use Arabic words and formulae that belong of the Muslim prophetic and eschatological lexicon; among the gifts Ptolemy sends to Jerusalem there are precious garments and honour robes, which may recall the Islamic style of giftgiving; finally, Ptolemy visits the translators regularly and even outdoes them in his mastery of their language and Scriptures.26 As Wasserstein and Wasserstein observe, the presentation of Ptolemy as patron of learning and culture fits the image that Hellenistic kings wanted to project of themselves as much as it does the image of the perfect Muslim ruler, and this aspect is stressed much more than is required by the needs of the plot. On the other hand, while the story of Constantine in Jerusalem seems totally unheard of, his retrieval of the dispersed Greek copies calls to mind an episode that has a stronger historical 25 26

IIDEM, The Legend of the Septuagint [see note 20], pp. 144-152. Cf. also LAMOREUX, Agapius of Manbij [see note 12], p. 149 n. 29.

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background, namely the order he gave to Eusebius to produce fifty copies of the Scriptures for the churches of Constantinople, a command attested by Eusebius himself in his Life of Constantine. Although he does so by means of a completely fictitious narrative set in a totally different context, Agapius ascribes to Constantine the role of the “populariser” of the Sacred Scriptures that he held in the Byzantine tradition. Besides these two features observed by Wassertsein and Wasserstein, one should also note that the Septuagint story assumes a markedly more anti-Jewish tone in Agapius’ hands. The Jews are depicted as greedy and quarrelsome: coveting the rich gifts Ptolemy promises in return for their efforts, they fight to decide who should go to Alexandria. Even the Seventy-two translators, whom Agapius always mentions respectfully as “the wise men” or “the elders”, are not cast in an entirely positive light, being eventually outclassed by a Greekspeaking foreigner in the knowledge of their own language and their own Scriptures. Such a detail usefully serves the purpose of both extolling Ptolemy’s love for knowledge and belittling the Jews, presenting them as unworthy custodians of the word of God even before the tampering. The seclusion of the translators in separate cells also seems to stress implicitly the factious nature of the Jewish people. This detail is actually a vestige of the miracle story introduced by Philo of Alexandria and suggests that Agapius had indeed access to a source that included it. The absence of the miraculous agreement of all the copies in the finale may well be a deliberate change, made with the intention of excluding the Jews, even the Seventy-two wise translators, from any form of divine inspiration. The Septuagint is sacred in itself because it reproduces in Greek the very text that was revealed by God to Moses and to the Prophets, without need of a second inspired revelation, and certainly not by way of a group of Jews. These additions to the Septuagint story dovetail with the patently antiJewish character of the digression as a whole, which, of course, springs from its narrative core, the story of the tampered scriptures. The story of the tampering The numerous discrepancies between the Septuagint and the Masoretic text of the Old Testament were noted, explained and variously dealt with very early, in primis by the Jews themselves. The new, more literal, Greek translations produced in the Greek-speaking diaspora communities in the second century (the famous Aquila, Symmachus, and Theodotion) responded to this need to bring the Greek text closer to the Hebrew.27 On the other hand, as 27 BARNES, Translating the sacred [see note 3], p. 41; F. KAUFMANN, Un exemple d’approche théologique de la traduction: les jugements sur la Septante, in Traduction, terminologie, rédaction, 3.2 (1990), p. 38. For a deeper analysis of the issues that led to the appearance of the second-century translations and a more exhaustive contextualisation, see T. RAJAK, Translation and Survival: the Greek Bible of the Ancient Jewish Diaspora, Oxford, 2009.

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we have already seen, the rabbinic tradition also fabricated a miraculous explanation, ascribing a certain number of specific differences between the two texts to changes intentionally introduced by the Seventy translators under divine inspiration.28 The Christians, to whom the Septuagint was the first, the favoured, and in most cases the only means of access to the Old Testament, adopted different approaches. The philological approach is, of course, best represented by Origen and his Hexapla. Origen provided a “critical” text of the Septuagint accompanied by a monumental philological tool with the intention of enabling scholars to evaluate problematic passages by comparing the Septuagint with the other Greek versions as well as the original Hebrew text. Even if in some specific cases he admitted the possibility that the Jews had modified the Masoretic text (as in the case of the book of Daniel), he never implied that they had an anti-Christian motive in doing so, and his unbiased attitude toward the Hebrew Scriptures is further proven by the fact that he used Jewish and not Christian manuscripts of the Septuagint.29 Proceeding from the same philological concerns, but challenged by the conundrum of Paul’s Septuagint quotes, Jerome refused to deny the authority of either the Masoretic text or the Septuagint and came up with an explanation that recalls the rabbinic tradition: the Seventy themselves purposely modified the text, either to hide the truths of the faith from the pagans, or to adapt the translation to the cultural context of reception, or sometimes, even out of imperfect knowledge; a similar solution was adopted by Augustine, who assumed that the Septuagint was just as divinely inspired as the Hebrew text.30 This approach would safeguard the authority of the former without repudiating the latter. The anti-Jewish interpretation of this episode, which explains the differences by charging the Jews with the corruption of the Hebrew original text, appeared as early as the mid-2nd century, and is first attested in Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho. According to Justin, the Jewish scribes mutilated their own Scriptures by M. SIMON-SHOSHAN, The Task of the Translators: the Rabbis, the Septuagint, and the cultural politics of translation, in Prooftexts, 27 (2007), pp. 1-39; E. TOV, The Rabbinic Tradition concerning the ‘Alterations’ Inserted into the Greek Pentateuch and their Relation to the Original Text of the LXX, in JSJ, 15 (1984), pp. 65-89. 29 A. VÖÖBUS, The Hexapla and the Syro-Hexapla. Very Important Discoveries for Septuagint Research, Stockholm, 1971, pp. 2-17. To date, the actual final purpose of the Hexapla remains debated, and Origen’s “scientific” aim has been questioned, for instance by Ruth Clemens, who sees in his philological endeavour rather a tool for use in both internal Christian debates and anti-Jewish polemics, see R. CLEMENS, Origen’s Hexapla and Christian-Jewish Encounter, in T.L. DONALSDON (ed.), Religious Rivalries and the Struggle for Success in Caesarea Maritima, Waterloo, 2000, pp. 303-329. For an overview of different positions see also A. GRAFTON – M. WILLIAMS, Christianity and the Transformation of the Book. Origen, Eusebius, and the Library of Caesarea, Cambridge/MA, 2006, pp. 117-118. 30 W. ADLER, The Jews as Falsifiers: Charges of Tendentious Emendation in anti-Jewish Christian polemic, in D. GOLDENBERG (ed.), Translation of Scriptures: Proceedings of a Conference at the Annenberg Research Institute, May 15, 1989, Philadelphia, 1990, pp. 25-27. 28

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removing passages concerning Christ in order to prove the Christians wrong.31 Church fathers such as Irenaeus, John Chrysostom, and Epiphanius,32 took a similar line with the same apologetic purpose: that of asserting the sanctity and authority of the Septuagint by discrediting the Masoretic text and the rival Greek translations. They all refer to the omission or alteration of scriptural passages of specific christological significance, but the argument we find in Agapius, based on the discrepancies in the pre-Abrahamic chronologies, is not entirely new either. A difference of one hundred years in the ages at which each of the patriarchs from Adam to Abraham (excepting only Jared, Methuselah, and Lamech) generated his first son had already been observed by Eusebius, who explained it as an intentional modification of the Hebrew text made by the Jews. Curiously though, Eusebius does not interpret this as an anti-Christian manoeuvre, but as an attempt to give early childbirth a scriptural legitimisation.33 His namesake and contemporary Eusebius of Emesa noticed that the Syriac text agreed with the Hebrew and with Symmachus’ translation, presenting the same difference of 100 years.34 Augustine commented upon these chronological differences, too, but was content with ascribing them to scribal errors generated in the Greek manuscript tradition, ruling out as absurd the possibility that the Jews had changed the numbers in all the copies of the Hebrew Torah scattered all over the world.35 As far as we know, the alleged corruption of the patriarchal chronologies was first given an anti-Christian motivation by Jacob of Edessa who, in his commentary on the book of Genesis, explained the difference of one hundred years in exactly the same way as Agapius: Now (concerning) Adam we find in the Hebrew accounts, which are very precise, that he begot Seth at the age of two hundred and thirty years. But when the same Hebrews sought to falsify the chronology and show that Christ had not come yet, they subtracted one hundred from the years before the birth of Seth. And Adam lived after he begot Seth eight hundred years. The total of his years is therefore one thousand and thirty years. […] These (things) the Jews did after the ascension of Christ, such as to make by means of a deception like this the coming of Christ a falsehood (arguing), “He had not come at the time that it is written about him and therefore we (must) understand that it is not this (man) who is awaited by us”. And we will not be judged by their authority as unrighteous, because they corrupted the books in order that there be room for their impudence. And they don’t realize that they are fighting God.36 ADLER, The Jews as Falsifiers [see note 30], pp. 4-8. S. BENOIT, L’inspiration des Septante d’après les Pères de l’église, in L’homme devant Dieu. Mélanges H. Lubac, vol. 1, Paris, 1963, pp. 169-187. 33 Eusebius, Chronikon: J. KARST, Eusebius Werke 5: Die Chronik aus dem Armenischen übersetzt mit textkritischem Kommentar, vol. 1, Leipzig, 1911, pp. 39-40, pp. 44-45. 34 R.B. TER HAAR ROMENY, A Syrian in Greek Dress. The Use of Greek, Hebrew, and Syriac Biblical Texts in Eusebius of Emesa’s Commentary on Genesis, Leuven, 1997, pp. 248-250. 35 Augustine, De Civitate Dei 15.13. 36 This passage is a fragment preserved in the manuscript Vat. Syr. 103, ff. 1-39, see D. KRUISHEER, Jacob of Edessa’s view of Genesis. Edition, Translation and Study of the Commentary and Scholia of 31 32

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Jacob’s argument is, however, a bit less refined than Agapius’, since he assumes that the Jews’ cutting of one hundred years from the age of begetting also impacted the total lifespan of each patriarch (with the exceptions of Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, and Lamech) in the Hebrew text. He therefore adds one hundred years back to the lifespan of each patriarch and produces total figures that match neither the Septuagint nor the Masoretic text.37 According to Agapius, instead, the Jews cunningly shifted one hundred years from the time before the birth of the first child to the time after, so that the total years of life remained unchanged, but the chronology of the world (which was based on the genealogy of the patriarchs and was calculated by adding up the ages of begetting of each one of them) was shortened [see table]. Furthermore, Jacob only takes into account the chronology of the patriarchs before the Flood and says that the total number of years excised by the Jews was 600. Conversely, Agapius includes the patriarchs from Noah to Abraham as well and gives 1389 years as the total reduction. It seems clear, then, that although the anti-Jewish argument is the same, Agapius (or his source) did not depend on Jacob directly. This is confirmed by the fact that Agapius reports a much more detailed account of when, how, and at whose hands the tampering actually took place, explicitly naming Annas and Caiaphas as the culprits. A quick reference to Annas and Caiaphas’ intentional subtraction of one thousand years from the genealogy of the biblical fathers with the intent of refuting the appearance of the Messiah is included in the preface of a Syro-Orthodox Arabic Pentateuchal manuscript from Mardin dated 1240.38 Agapius(’s source) may either have embroidered an existing narrative core or simply adopted a longer version that was already in circulation; what is certain is that the story was used by more than one Christian group and that it moved across confessional borders. Jacob of Edessa on the Book of Genesis, forthcoming. I am very much indebted to Dirk Kruisheer for discussing Jacob’s views on biblical chronology with me and I thank him for sharing, and allowing me to quote, the edition and translation of passages from the manuscript that will be included in his dissertation and forthcoming publication. See also D. KRUISHEER, Ephrem, Jacob of Edessa, and the Monk Severus: An Analysis of Ms. Vat. Syr. 103, ff. 1-72, in R. LAVENANT (ed.), Symposium Syriacum VII. Uppsala University, 11-14 August 1996, Rome, 1998, pp. 599-605. On this passage, and on Jacob’s anti-Jewish argument, see also Y. MOSS, Versions and perversions of Genesis: Jacob of Edessa, Saadia Gaon and the falsification of Biblical history, in A.M. BUTTS – S. GROSS (eds), Syriac Christianity and Judaism, Washington, in press. 37 R.B. TER HAAR ROMENY, Jacob of Edessa on Genesis. His Quotations of the Peshitta and his Revision of the Text, in IDEM (ed.), Jacob of Edessa and the Syriac Culture of His Day, Leiden, 2008, p. 154. 38 The codex is preserved in Leiden, see A.P. DE LAGARDE, Materialien zur Kritik und Geschichte des Pentateuchs, vol. 1, Leipzig, 1867, pp. iv-v; M.J. DE GOEJE, Catalogus Codicum Orientalium Bibliothecae Academiae Lugduno-Batavae, vol. 5, Leiden, 1873, p. 77. The passage is reproduced in DE LAGARDE, Materialien zur Kritik, pp. 230-231 and translated in WASSERSTEIN – WASSERSTEIN, The Legend of the Septuagint [see note 20], p. 157. Interestingly, in spite of this premise, the introduction claims that the manuscript contains an Arabic translation of the Pentateuch made on the Hebrew text. De Lagarde has shown that the first two books correspond to Saadia Gaon’s Arabic version of the Masoretic text, whilst the rest is a translation from Syriac.

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As has been said above, Agapius often alludes to the story of the tampering and even tells it in full before making his excursus on the Septuagint. After the account of the Deluge, where he names, among Noah’s descendants, “Qaynān, son of Arfaḥshad, son of Sām, son of Nūḥ”, Agapius inserts a little flash-forward to tell how Annas and Caiaphas deleted from their Torah the name and the years of this second Cainan, namesake of the fourth patriarch, Adam’s great-grandson. In this first minor excursus, Agapius says that the High Priests took the initiative to manipulate the scriptures because the people of Jerusalem were rising up against them for what they had done to Jesus. They then showed the altered Scriptures to the people arguing that the world was only halfway into its total lifespan and therefore that Jesus could not be the Messiah. But Christ’s disciples discovered the tampering and forced them to confess that they had deleted the name of the second Cainan, which they eventually acknowledged, putting forward as an excuse the fact that he introduced men to the cult of idols. This second Cainan is an enigmatic figure who represented a double challenge for late antique historians and exegetes, and continues to puzzle scholars today. His presence in the Septuagint is a contentious riddle of biblical philology. He is mentioned in Septuagint Gen. 10.24 and 11.12, and in 1 Chron. 1.18 (in the case of the latter, only in some manuscripts) and he is also to be found in the genealogy of Jesus that opens the Gospel of Luke (Lk 3.36-37), which is one of the arguments Agapius advances to claim his authenticity. He is not mentioned, however, in the Masoretic text of the Old Testament or in the Targum, nor does he appear in the Syriac and Armenian translations of the Bible or the Vulgate. Contrary to Agapius’ claim, he is not to be found in the Samaritan Pentateuch either. Neither is he in Josephus, who we know used the Septuagint. A more extended account of this second Cainan is offered by the Book of Jubilees (third-second cent. BCE), where he is presented as the discoverer of astrology and put in a negative light.39 This old Jewish tradition later found its way into Christian texts, both Greek and Syriac, where Cainan is presented as the founder of the notoriously pagan city of Harran, and even as an idol, deified and venerated by his descendants in the cities of Mabbug and Ur.40 Later on in 39 Book of the Jubilees 8.1-4 (J. VANDERKAM, The Book of the Jubilees [CSCO, 511 - Scriptores Aethiopici, 88], Leuven, 1989, pp. 50-51): “In the 29th jubilee, in the first week — at its beginning — Arpachshad married a woman named Rasueya, the daughter of Susan, the daughter of Elam. She gave birth to a son for him in the third year of this week, and he named him Kainan. When the boy grew up, his father taught him (the art) of writing. He went to look for a place of his own where he could possess his own city. He found an inscription which the ancients had incised in a rock. He read what was in it, copied it, and sinned on the basis of what was in it, since in it was the Watchers’ teaching by which they used to observe the omen of the sun, moon, and stars and every heavenly sign. He wrote it down, but told no one about it because he was afraid to tell Noah about it lest he became angry at him about it”. 40 Malalas (Chronographia, I.5; cf. also John of Antioch, fr. 2,7-16 in K. MÜLLER, Fragmenta Historicorum Graecorum, vol. 4. Paris, 1868, pp. 540-541) who credits Cainan with the invention of astronomy, is the only source that portrays him in a good light, possibly under the influence

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his Chronicle, Agapius speaks about such a cult, initiated in Mabbug by the Queen Semiramis, but without making any explicit connection between the venerated idol and the biblical patriarch.41 Irrespective of the controversial extra-biblical accounts, doubts and discussions about the historicity of Cainan date back at least to Origen, and the commonly accepted view today is that he is an interpolation. What remains open to debate is whether his name got into the biblical tradition from the Book of the Jubilees or the other way round, and whether it was added directly to the Septuagint or appeared in the Hebrew text before the Septuagint was translated and was then deleted.42 Eusebius disregarded him completely in his Chronicon, as Africanus had apparently done before him.43 Remarkably, a genealogy ascribed to John Chrysostom, reported by Agapius in the second part of his chronicle,44 does not mention him either. But Annianus and Panodorus (5th cent.) already criticised Eusebius for not including the second Cainan, and they were followed by George Synkellos later on.45 Jacob of Edessa was aware that Cainan was a controversial figure, but he did eventually include him in his revised Syriac text of the Bible.46 of the mysterious Yoniton in the Cave of Treasures, see A. HILKENS, “A wise Indian Astronomer Called Gandoubarios”: Malalas and the Legend of Yoniṭon, in M. CONTERNO – M. MAZZOLA (eds), Intercultural Exchange in Late Antique Historiography, Leuven, 2020, pp. 119-142. 41 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], p. 664. The name of the idol is mispelled as “Qayus” in the manuscripts, probably a corruption of “Qaynos”, the hellenised version of Cainan attested in Isho‘dad of Merv, Bar Hebraeus, and Michael the Syrian, see S.P. BROCK, Abraham and the Ravens. A Syriac Counterpart to Jubilees 11-12 and its Implications, in JSJ, 9 (1978), pp. 149150 and A. HILKENS, “A wise Indian astronomer” [see note 40]. Most probably Agapius reported this information without realising that the two figures were supposed to be one and the same. 42 For an overview of the different positions see G. HASEL, Genesis 5 and 11: Chronogenealogies in the Biblical History of Beginnings, in Origins, 7 (1989), pp. 23-27. See also: HUGHES, Secrets of the times [see note 9], p. 9 and p. 245; J. NORTHCOTE, The Schematic Development of Old Testament Chronography: Towards an Integrated Model, in Journal for the Study of the Old Testament, 29 (2004), p. 8. It has also been argued, on the basis of a very complicated arithmetical demonstration, that Cainan was actually present in the proto-Masoretic and the proto-Samaritan text and was deleted at some point between the translation of the Septuagint and the Samaritan schism, in the Jewish mathematical schools of Palestine or Alexandria, see H.R. JACOBUS, The Curse of Cainan (Jub. 8.1-5): Genealogies in Genesis 5 and Genesis 11 and a Mathematical Pattern, in Journal for the Study of Pseudepigrapha, 18 (2009), pp. 207-232. 43 Cainan’s absence in Eusebius’ Chronicon is confirmed by the Armenian translation (J. KARST, Eusebius Werke 5: Die Chronik aus dem Armenischen übersetzt mit textkritischem Kommentar, vol. 1, Leipzig, 1911, pp. 41-42) and by references in later Greek and Syriac authors, as for instance George Synkellos, Elias of Nisibis, the Chronicle of 1234. 44 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan II.1 [see note 8]. 45 W. ADLER – P. TUFFIN (eds), The Chronography of George Synkellos: A Byzantine Chronicle of Universal History from the Creation, Oxford, 2002, pp. 48-50. According to Elias of Nisibis, Diodorus of Tarsus (4th cent.) had already deeply revised Eusebius’ chronology, and he may well have been the first to defend the authenticity of the second Cainan, accepting him in his biblical genealogy, E.W. BROOKS (ed. – tr.), Eliae metropolitae nisibeni opus chronologicum I (CSCO, 62 – Scriptores Syri, 21-23), Paris, 1910, p. 14.12-20 (ed.), p. 6.15-18 (tr.). 46 Jacob mentions the question in a letter to John of Lytarba, see F. NAU, Lettre de Jacques d’Édesse à Jean le Stylite sur la chronologie biblique et la date de la naissance du Messie, in

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Although Agapius neither reports the story told in the Book of Jubiliees, nor connects the idol in Mabbug to the biblical figure, since he has Annas and Caiaphas putting forward Cainan’s supposed introduction of idolatry as an excuse for deleting him from the Torah, he must have known about the negative legends attached to this patriarch. The presence of the Post-Diluvian Cainan in Agapius and, more generally, the biblical genealogies he adopts, are crucial to understand which biblical and exegetical traditions flowed into his chronicle and may reveal on which biblical text Agapius based his argumentations. A careful analysis of Agapius’ patriarchal list and of the figures he ascribes to the Septuagint reveals a complex layering of sources, and it is hard to say whether he made direct use of any biblical text or drew all of his information from commentaries and/or other chronographic works. The lifespans and ages of begetting that Agapius quotes from the “Septuagint” do not actually match those given in the Septuagint, but they do tally exactly with the biblical genealogy ascribed by Elias of Nisibis to the 6th-century chronicler Andronicus.47 Andronicus, though, could not have been Agapius’ only, or direct source, because, as we know from a variety of sources, Andronicus counted 5172 years from Adam to the beginning of the Seleucid era48 whereas Agapius gave 5197 years, a number which Bar Hebraeus associates with the astronomer and historian Theophilus of Edessa, and which corresponds to the reckoning made in the Byzantine World Era.49 In addition, in two different passages Agapius ascribes two different ages of begetting to Cainan, 130 first (the correct Septuagint figure, also to be found in Annianus) and 139 later on (Andronicus’ figure).50 Whether Agapius got an altered version of Andronicus’ ROC, 5 (1900), pp. 581-596. Jacob’s revised text of the Pentateuch is preserved in the manuscript Paris, National Library, Syr. 126 (Cainan is to be found at ff. 21 and 23; I am indebted both to Dirk Kruisheer, who gave me access to a digital reproduction of the manuscript, and Flavia Ruani, who double-checked the manuscript for me in Paris). In one of the fragments of his commentary on Genesis, Jacob counts nine patriarchs between the Deluge and Abraham, whereas (including Cainan) they should be ten: this may indicate that Jacob hesitated and had second thoughts on the question. I am, again, deeply grateful to Dirk Kruisheer for sharing this still unpublished passage and his own translation of it with me. 47 BROOKS, Eliae metropolitae [see note 45], pp. 17-22 (ed.), pp. 8-11 (tr.). On this elusive figure and its historiographical work see A. HILKENS, The Anonymous Syriac Chronicle of 1234 and its Sources, Leuven – Paris – Bristol/CT, 2018, pp. 191-228; IDEM, Andronicus et son influence sur la présentation de l’histoire postdiluvienne et pré-abrahamique dans la Chronique syriaque anonyme jusqu’à l’année 1234, in P. BLAUDEAU – P. VAN NUFFELEN (eds), L’historiographie tardoantique et la transmission des savoirs, Berlin, 2015, pp. 55-82 (containing synoptic tables of Eusebius’, Annianus’, and Andronicus’ biblical genealogies). 48 See F. CUMONT, L’ère byzantine et Théophile d’Édesse, in Revue de philologie, de littérature et d’histoire anciennes, 39 (1915), pp. 260-263. 49 See above, n. 17. 50 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], p. 599, p. 629 respectively. The first is the passage where Cainan is first mentioned, just before the minor excursus on the tampering, the second is a chronological resume that comes after the account of the propagation of idolatry on earth after the deluge (but, notably, in no way does Agapius associate Cainan with that). In these very same

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genealogy via Theophilus (or another source that used the Byzantine World Era),51 or assembled chronologies from different sources, remains impossible to tell. But Agapius’ version of the pre-Abrahamic genealogy possesses one more remarkable feature: at least in one instance he seems to be indebted to the Syriac text of the Old Testament whose authority he so steadfastly denies. Against the consensus of all the sources (biblical versions and chroniclers, Andronicus included), which puts Terah’s age as 70 when he generated Abraham, Agapius gives 75, a number attested, apparently, only in the Peshitta.52 Despite being ignored by authoritative Greek chroniclers such as Eusebius and being absent from the “official” Syriac version of the Bible, by Agapius’ time, Cainan was well entrenched in both the Byzantine and the Syriac traditions. This discrepancy in the figures reveals that Agapius did not quote the biblical genealogy directly from the text of the Septuagint itself. Most likely, he got it second-hand from different historiographical/chronographical traditions, including the Syriac one. Even assuming he had found the “Septuagint-TamperingConstantine story” ready-made somewhere, the anticipation he gives of it in connection with Cainan is completely detached from the main narrative block and seems to have been introduced by Agapius to make his case even stronger. Agapius, then, used the second Cainan as supporting evidence to enrich the tampering story and argue in favour of the soundness of the Greek text of the Bible, against the Hebrew/Syriac version, although he did so without direct access to the actual text of the Septuagint. Interestingly, the ages of begetting he ascribes to the Hebrew text all match the Masoretic text, with the exception of Terah’s, which is given again as 75 instead of 70. Contrariwise, the figures Agapius ascribes to the Hebrew text for the span between the age of begetting and the age of death, as well as the total years of life, do not always match the Masoretic text, which makes one wonder whether he had direct access to the Hebrew/Syriac text of the Bible either. Where he got these figures from is another question that shall remain unanswered for the time being; it cannot be excluded that he calculated them by himself, simply adding 100 years to the corresponding figures he had for the Septuagint in order to make them fit the mathematics of the tampering story [see table]. passages two different ages of begetting are given for Phaleg as well, namely 130 (Septuagint/ Annianus figure) and 132 (Andronicus’ figure), which makes the hypothesis of a manuscript corruption less likely. 51 Theophilus of Edessa (695-785), official astronomer of the Abbasid court, was the author of various astronomical and astrological treatises and of a now lost historical work, quoted by Agapius as his main source for the events of the Abbasid Revolution. Given Agapius’ interest in astronomy and astrology, betrayed by the ample geographical section in the first part of his chronicle (VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 604-627), he may also have consulted Theophilus’ scientific treatises, an equally plausible context for calendrical discussions and calculations of universal chronology. 52 VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], p. 636. Elias of Nisibis remarked on this peculiarity of the Peshitta, cf. BROOKS, Eliae metropolitae [see note 45], p. 13 (ed.), p. 5 (tr.).

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The Constantine story The third part of the excursus entails a further jump forward in time, bringing the reader to the age of the first Christian king.53 This narrative of Constantine is not to be found anywhere else besides Agapius, but it is a medley of easily recognisable themes arising from the hagiographical tradition of Constantine and Helena. No visit of Constantine’s to Jerusalem is historically attested, and no hagiographical tradition contains one either, but the emperor’s trip to the Holy City in search of Christ’s relics clearly parallels Helena’s mission to recover the Cross. The Jews’ leaking the story of the tampering, and the High Priests’ stubborn denial of it, antithetically mirror the so-called Judas Cyriacus Legend, a version of the Inventio Crucis preserved in Syriac where the Jews deny knowledge of where the Cross is hidden until one of them, Judas, eventually reveals it to Helena, and becomes Christian with the name of Cyriacus. The collation of the Greek copies of the Torah with each other and with the Hebrew version in order to ascertain which one is the original text faintly echoes the finding of the three crosses and the various ways in which they are “tested” — on an ill woman, a dead man, the queen’s dead daughter — in the Helena, Judas Cyriacus, and Protonike legends respectively.54 Finally, the dispute between the bishops and the High Priests recalls the Actus Sylvestri; in particular, the version preserved by Agapius himself and in the Chronicle of Seert (a 10th century East Syrian ecclesiastical history in Arabic), where twelve Christian bishops (instead of Sylvester alone) debate twelve rabbis.55 But it also evokes other disputes present in the Constantinian tradition, such as the already mentioned dispute between Helena and the Jews in the Judas Cyriacus Legend and a dispute between Constantine and the pagan priests after the Visio Crucis in a Syriac liturgical poem on the Finding of the Cross.56 Indeed, Agapius’ narrative looks like a composition of pre-existing materials skilfully tailored for a new context. 53 For an in-depth analysis of the Constantine section, see M. CONTERNO, Shaping the Christian King under Muslim Rule: Constantine and the Torah in the Melkite Arabic Chronicle of Agapius of Mabbug (10th cent.), in H. LEPPIN (ed.), Images of the Good Christian ruler, Boston – Berlin (in press), whose main points are summarised here. 54 See H.J.W. DRIJVERS, Helena Augusta: The Mother of Constantine the Great and the Legend of her Finding of the True Cross, Leiden, 1992. 55 VASILIEV (ed. – tr.) Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], p. 543; A. SCHER, Histoire nestorienne inédite (Chronique de Séert). Première partie, fasc. 1 (Patrologia Orientalis, 4.3), Paris, 1908, pp. 262263, 269-270. See T. CANELLA, Gli Actus Silvestri. Genesi di una leggenda su Costantino imperatore, Spoleto, 2006. 56 See S.P. BROCK, Two Syriac poems on the invention of the Cross, in N. EL-KHOURY – H. CROUZEL – R. REINHARDT (eds), Lebendige Überlieferung: Prozesse der Annäherung und Auslegung. Festschrift für Hermann-Josef Vogt zum 60. Geburtstag, Beirut – Ostfildern, 1992, pp. 55-82.

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If the provenance of the pieces of this patch-work narrative is relatively easy to detect, the very reason for Constantine’s involvement in the Septuagint-Tampering story as providential (re)discoverer of the original Word of God is far from selfevident. As has already been observed by Abraham and David Wasserstein, Constantine’s name is associated in the Byzantine tradition with the divulgation of the Sacred Scriptures.57 Besides this Greek echo, though, an apologetic function may also inform the prominent role of Constantine in this narrative. The mutual accusation of tampering with the Scriptures was a long-standing topos in Christian-Jewish polemics; indeed, it became so widespread that it backfired against both, being eventually taken up by the Muslims.58 The accusation of taḥrīf addressed to the “People of the Book” is already present in the Qur’an, but it was developed further in the Islamic tradition and eventually came to sully the reputation of Constantine the Great as well. The Mu’tazilite theologian ‘Abd al-Jabbar ibn Ahmad (b. AD 935) wrote an anti-Christian treatise entitled The Establishment of Proofs for the Prophethood of Our Master Muhammad. One of his main polemical points is that the Christians perverted Christ’s original doctrine, moulding their religion to make it more palatable to the Romans out of pure political opportunism. He accuses the Christians of having abandoned the Hebrew language, and having adopted Greek instead, in order to cover their manipulations of the Scriptures and the Gospels, and he claims that the full “Romanisation” of the Christian doctrine was achieved precisely under Constantine, with the Council of Nicaea. As argued by Sydney Griffith, this kind of accusation directed against the Christian kings and the councils must have circulated as early as the 9th century, since the Melkite theologian Theodore Abu Qurrah responds to them in his apologetic treatises.59 What is more, Samuel Stern has proposed a detailed analysis of ‘Abd alJabbar’s very peculiar material on Constantine’s life and has convincingly argued that it comes from an anti-hagiographical tradition originated in the Sabean milieu of Harran, which depicted the first Christian emperor as a ruthless persecutor of pagans.60 Stern has spotted traces of this pagan tradition in three more Muslim authors: al-Mas‘udi (a contemporary of Agapius’), Al-Iskaf and Miskawayh (contemporaries of Al-Jabbar’s). Most importantly, Al-Iskaf and Miskawayh both report a variant of the story of Constantine’s conversion that includes a trip to Jerusalem and a dispute between Jews and Christians. Although both Al-Iskaf 57

See above, pp. 150-151. As shown by Yonatan Moss in his study of Jacob of Edessa’s accusation and Saadia Gaaon’s reaction. See MOSS, Versions and perversions of Genesis [see note 36]. 59 S.H. GRIFFITH, Muslims and Church Councils: the Apology of Theodore Abū Qurrah, in Studia Patristica, 25 (1993), pp. 282-283. 60 S.M. STERN, Abd al-Jabbār’s Account of how Christ’s Religion was Falsified by the Adoption of Roman Customs, in JThS, 19 (1968), pp. 128-185. 58

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and Miskawayh, like ‘Abd al-Jabbar, wrote later than Agapius, Stern has provided compelling evidence that all of the negative Constantine narratives reported by these four authors (‘Abd al-Jabbar, Al-Mas‘udi, Al-Iskaf, Miskawayh) come from an earlier, manifold, and possibly oral, tradition. Muslim sources, therefore, allow us, to sketch the context and the issues that urged Agapius(’ source) to fabricate this brand new episode of Constantinian hagiography and attach it to the “Septuagint-Tampering story”. Constantine was the Christian ruler par excellence, but among Eastern Christians the fact that he was the first convener of a Church Council made him a controversial figure.61 Church Councils were seen by non-Chalcedonian Christians as the means by which heretic emperors had perverted the true faith. Just as had happened with the accusation of corruption of the Scriptures, this polemical weapon was soon taken up by the Muslims, who, in their attacks against the “People of the Book” left no internal disagreement unexploited, be it between Jews and Christians or among the different Christian confessions. Agapius’ narrative is a perfect example of the impact of what John Wansbrough has called the “sectarian milieu” on historiography. In a context where all other Christian communities had given up the idea that a Christian empire was needed at all, and were even pointing out the potential dangers of having a Christian king, Melkites, caught in the crossfire of non-Chalcedonians, Muslims, and possibly even pagans like the Sabeans of Harran, had to defend the figure of Constantine, and therefore the idea of Christian kingship tout-court, in order to legitimise their sharing the faith of the Byzantine emperors. ...

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Sacred languages in competition After pinpointing the “wandering stories” conjured up in this long excursus and trying to trace their origin, if not the precise cross-cultural track they followed before landing in Agapius’ chronicle, it is now time to look at the excursus in its own right, the message it conveys as a whole, and the meaning it assumes in Agapius’ work. If, as hypothesised by Lamoreux, Agapius extrapolated it in bulk from another text, that text must have originated in a context very similar to that in which Agapius himself was working: at the crossroads of the Byzantine, Syriac, 61 See M. CONTERNO, Culto e memoria di Costantino nelle chiese sire. Agiografia costantiniana nella liturgia e nella storiografia siriaca, in A. MELLONI – P. BROWN et al. (eds), Flavius Valerius Constantinus Maximus Augustus. Una enciclopedia internazionale sulla figura, il mito, la critica e la funzione dell’imperatore dell’ “editto” di Milano, 6 vol., Bologna – Roma, 2013, pp. 425-439.

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and Islamic traditions. And if Agapius actually translated it, he must have done so either from Greek or Syriac. Assuming the story came from a Greek original, it would then reflect, besides a general anti-Jewish tendency, a more specific competition between Greek and Syriac, which in 10th-century Northern Syria would be easily explained by the “Greek revival” brought about by the Byzantine reconquest. Melitene was retaken in AD 934, and Antioch would be in AD 969, but the frontier had been in turmoil since the beginning of the century and there is evidence that the translation of Greek Patristic texts into Arabic, one of the main intellectual achievements of the period, had already begun in some monasteries of the Black Mountain with revisions of pre-existing Palestinian versions.62 Agapius himself, whose full name is given by some manuscripts as “Agapius son of Constantine the Greek”, was of Greek origin and probably had a Greek education: he shows familiarity with the Greek language and marked traits of “philhellenism” in his work. It is possible then, that Agapius took the story from a local Greek source. However, despite its apparent anti-Syriac sub-text, it is also possible that the story came from a Syriac source; after all, the only precedent for the tampering story is provided by the Syrian-Orthodox Jacob of Edessa, and the only other attestation known so far is in a Syrian-Orthodox Arabic manuscript of the Pentateuch. If it did come from a Syriac source, be it Melkite or Miaphysite, the story would then reflect the competition between the two main Syriac translations of the Bible, one of which was based on the Greek text and the other on the Hebrew. Known today respectively as the “Syro-Hexapla” (because it was based on the revised text of the Septuagint in Origen’s Hexapla) and the “Peshitta” (“simple, straightforward” or “widespread, vulgata”), the two translations were called by Syriac Christians “the [one of the] Seventy” and “the Syriac one”, which are exactly the expressions Agapius uses to refer to the Septuagint and to the Syriac Bible translated from the Hebrew text. Naturally, the discrepancies between the Septuagint and the Hebrew text affected the two Syriac translations as well, and these became a source of increasing philological and exegetical embarrassment as early as the 5th century, when Greek biblical commentaries started to be translated into Syriac.63 Remarkably, Agapius(’ source) points out such difficulties as well, with a concluding remark that seems, in one sentence, to toss centuries of biblical exegesis in Syriac into the bin: 62 A. TREIGER, Christian Graeco-Arabica: Prolegomena to a History of the Arabic Translations of the Greek Church Fathers, in Intellectual History of the Islamicate World, 3 (2015), pp. 205-206. 63 R.B. TER HAAR ROMENY, The Peshitta and its Rivals. On the Assessment of the Peshitta and Other Versions of the Old Testament in Syriac Exegetical Literature, in The Harp, 11-12 (19981999), pp. 23-24.

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As the altered Torah and all the books of the Prophets that are in possession of the Christians in Syriac copies are spread in all the parts of the earth from East to West, the Christians are not able [to explain] the cause of this shortcoming in its translation and the reasons for the issue, but all the scholars and wise men and whoever tried to translate the books of the Prophets by interpreting and rendering them from one language to another, or to explain their meaning and interpret their content, they did not change anything in it, or their translation is based on the Syriac Scriptures, which are at odds with what is in the translation of the Seventy, in what the Jews altered and changed after the resurrection of the Messiah.64

Throughout the centuries various attempts were made to create a Syriac text of the Old Testament more in line with the Greek Bible, the most conspicuous cases being the production the Syro-Hexapla itself and Jacob of Edessa’s revision of the Syriac Old Testament mentioned above.65 The issue being a “pan-Syriac” one, the excursus, as has already been said, was not necessarily of Melkite origin. If, instead, Agapius concocted the entire narrative by himself, it may be interpreted as a double attack: on the one hand, against non-Chalcedonian Christians, whose theological doctrines are implicitly called into question because they were allegedly based on an altered biblical text; on the other, against those Melkites who were still using Syriac (and the Peshitta) in the liturgy, thus failing to dissociate themselves from the heretics. We know, in fact, that at Agapius’ time and even later, Syriac was still being used as liturgical language by some Melkites too. This is attested by a number of Melkite lectionaries produced in the monasteries of the Black Mountain, near Antioch, during the second Byzantine domination of Northern Syria. These are Syriac translations of Byzantine liturgical books, where, remarkably, everything has been translated from Greek except for the Biblical pericopes, whose text matches the Peshitta.66 The relevance of this excursus, however, goes beyond the issue of its origin and original aim. Its very presence in Agapius’ chronicle is indicative of a more complex multi-cultural landscape. With all this talking about competition among Greek, Hebrew, and Syriac, we must not forget that Agapius actually wrote in Arabic. How then, does Arabic fit into this cross-cultural arena? Regardless of its provenance, the “Septuagint-Tampering-Constantine” story raises two more specific questions concerning Agapius and his work: what was the point of embedding such a story in a chronicle addressing an Arabic-speaking audience? And why is there no talk at all of an Arabic translation of the Bible? VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 659-660. A (partial) translation of the Greek Old Testament had probably been commissioned by Philoxenos of Mabbug before the Syro-Hexapla, see TER HAAR ROMENY, The Peshitta and its Rivals [see note 63], p. 25. 66 See S.P. BROCK, Syriac Manuscripts Copied on the Black Mountain, near Antioch, in R. SCHULZ – M. GÖRG (eds), Lingua Restituta Orientalis: Festgabe für Julius Assfalg, Wiesbaden, 1990, pp. 66-67. 64

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The Bible in Arabic and Agapius’ audience Assuming Agapius was actually railing at his fellow Melkites who still used Syriac in the liturgy, an obvious question arises: which language was he actually boosting? The question is obvious, the answer less so. The 10th century was a pivotal phase in the history of Melkite Christians. Among the Melkites of Palestine, Sinai, and Syria, the Arabic language had been gradually taking root since the 8th century, coming up beside, if not totally replacing, Greek, Syriac, and Aramaic in everyday use, in literature, and eventually in the liturgy as well.67 The Byzantine reconquest of Northern Syria (AD 934-1078) brought about a “(re-)byzantinisation” of the liturgy and a revival of the Greek language and culture, which inaugurated a long season of coexistence and competition between the two languages within eastern Chalcedonian communities, with Greek remaining the official religious language even after the definitive withdrawal of the Byzantine Empire from the region, but with Arabic playing the major role in everyday life and literary production.68 At Agapius’ time the situation was still evolving, this is why his take, as a Melkite, on linguistic and cultural affiliations, is most valuable. Fragmentary Arabic translations of the Bible are attested from the 9th century on, and the Melkites were pioneers in this enterprise. By the end of the century the major Biblical books had been fully translated, but the process was not systematic. It probably followed practical needs, as proven by the fact that some books remained untranslated as late as the 15th century.69 Later in his chronicle Agapius himself mentions that a translation of the Book of Ruth was made, apparently just because it was extremely beautiful.70 It goes without saying that the competition between Greek and Hebrew as sacred languages, and between Syro-Hexapla and Peshitta as authoritative Syriac versions of the Bible, also had implications for this ongoing process of translation into Arabic, since selecting one version over the other was not always a neutral choice. The Melkite approach was apparently marked by a nonchalant use of both Greek and Syriac models, sometimes even in the same translation,71 and this might be precisely the attitude Agapius was reacting to. The Melkite communities eventually adopted the 67 For a general introduction to the origin of the Christian Arabic tradition and literature, see S.H. GRIFFITH, The Beginnings of Christian Theology in Arabic: Muslim-Christian Encounters in the Early Islamic Period, Aldershot, 2002; R.G. COQUIN, Langue et littérature arabes chrétiennes, in M. ALBERT (ed.), Christianismes orientaux, Paris, 1993, pp. 35-106. 68 This “linguistic split” was precisely what brought the Melkites to separate from the Greek Orthodox Church and to seek union with the Roman Catholic Church in 1729. This allowed them finally to abandon Greek and have their own liturgy in Arabic. 69 See R. VOLLANDT, Arabic Versions of the Pentateuch. A Comparative Study of Jewish, Christian, and Muslim sources, Leiden, 2015, p. 136. 70 For a general instroduction to the Bible in Arabic see S.H. GRIFFITH, The Bible in Arabic: The Scriptures of the ‘People of the Book’ in the Language of Islam, Princeton, 2013 and Hjälm in press. 71 See VOLLANDT, Arabic Versions of the Pentateuch [see note 68], p. 53.

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translation of the Pentateuch made on the Syro-Hexapla by a contemporary of Agapius’, al-Harith ibn Sinan of Harran, according to Vollandt for want of a direct translation from the Septuagint.72 Given that Agapius did not have access to the original text of the Septuagint either, we may well gather that his including/inventing the “Septuagint-Tampering-Constantine” story was a way of promoting Greek against Hebrew in general, but more specifically the Syro-Hexapla against the Peshitta, possibly also as source text for the Arabic translation of the Bible. The fact that no Arabic version is explicitly mentioned looks less odd if one recalls that Christian sources in general (both Syriac and Arabic) are curiously reticent about the Arabic translations of the Bible, even when their authors must have known of their existence.73 If this interpretation is correct, we may characterise this story as an expression of Byzantine loyalty by way of a Syriac go-between in an increasingly arabicised context. Agapius’ target was most likely a Syro-Arabic Melkite community still wavering between its Semitic roots and its Byzantine affiliation. But one cannot exclude the possibility that, writing in Arabic, Agapius had also an Islamic audience in mind. In his preface he dedicates the chronicle to an otherwise unknown Abu Musa Isa ibn al-Husayn, addressing him in terms that suggest he was a socially superior layman.74 The name does sound Islamic more than Christian, but it would be wrong to draw any conclusion from this. Still, the very fact that never, throughout the whole chronicle, does Agapius ever let slip a negative or hostile remark about Islam and/or revered Muslim figures leads one to think that he at least envisaged, if not targeted, a potential Muslim readership.75 It should be noted that the “Septuagint-Tampering-Constantine” story also contains a Muslim-oriented subtext and thereby brilliantly kills two birds with one stone. As we have seen above, the figure of Constantine was targeted by Muslim polemicists who wanted to undermine the authenticity of the Christian faith; in addition, the discrepancies seen in different versions of the Bible were a source of embarrassment for Christians, and Muslims would put these to work in their polemical arguments. The excursus therefore, had the apologetic function of clearing Constantine (and his successors) of the charge of having distorted the Christian faith, and of claiming authority for the Greek text of the Bible, and therefore the Melkites, in front of the Muslims, by turning the charge 72 VOLLANDT, Arabic Versions of the Pentateuch [see note 68], p. 136. Vollandt includes AlHarith’s translation among the Syro-Orthodox translations, but very little is known about his life and origins, and al-Mas‘udi actually refers to him as a Melkite. 73 VOLLANDT, Arabic Versions of the Pentateuch [see note 68], pp. 43-46. 74 “Abu Musa-Isa ibn al-Husayn, may God’s grace toward him last, may his wisdom be perfect, his philosophy be double, his dignity be elevated, may the power of his enemies, those who hate him, be diminished and subjected to him, may the hand that preserves him be upon him, and may his life be long”. VASILIEV, Kitab al-‘unvan I.1 [see note 8], pp. 565-566. 75 We also know that Muslims did indeed read his chronicle, as proven by Al-Masu‘di’s praise of it in The Book of Admonition and Revision (M.J. DE GOEJE [ed.], Al-Mas῾ūdī. Kitāb al-tanbīh wa-l-ishrāf, Leiden, 1894, p. 154; French translation B. CARRA DE VAUX [tr.], Maçoudi. Le livre de l’avertissement et de la revision, Paris, 1896, p. 212).

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of taḥrīf against the Jews and non-Chalcedonian Christians instead. Furthermore, as the sources attest to numerous cases of inter- or intra-confessional quarrels settled by Muslim authorities, having the rulers on one’s side was always desirable. Writing about 50 years after Agapius, the Iranian polymath Al-Biruni seems to sketch the very scenario in which Agapius’s excursus originated. In his Chronology of Ancient Nations he discusses the differences between the Jewish and Christian computations of the world era and their mutual accusations of inaccuracy,76 finding faults with both. He rejects Christian numerological interpretations of Daniel’s prophecy based on Syriac language text because the original language of the prophetical revelation was Hebrew,77 but he also replies to claims of the superiority of the Septuagint by quoting the Rabbinic version of the Septuagint story,78 and argues that, in principle, the Samaritan text should be historically the only uncorrupted one.79 By Agapius’ time, Jewish-Christian and Christian intra-confessional disputes were no longer confined to these communities: Muslims were aware of them and intervened in them, therefore they needed to be convinced as well. It should also be added that by professing the superiority of the Greek tradition over Jewish and Syriac traditions, and by boasting his affiliation with it, Agapius was in line with Muslim intellectual trends of the 8th/9th-centuries, trends whose influence can be clearly detected in other parts of his work.80 Moreover, Muslims thought of themselves as the legitimate recipients of the (ancient) Greek heritage, which had allegedly been betrayed and disavowed by Byzantine Christians. It seems then, as if Agapius were trying to counter this assumption by reasserting 76 C.E. SACHAU, The chronology of ancient nations: an English version of the Arabic text of the Athâr-ul-Bâkiya of Albîrûnî, London, 1879, p. 18: “The Jews and Christian differ widely on this subject; for, according to the doctrine of the Jews, the time between Adam and Alexander is 3,448 years, whilst, according to the Christian doctrine, it is 5,180 years. The Christians reproach the Jews with having diminished the number of years with the view of making the appearance of Jesus fall into the fourth millennium in the middle of the seven millennia, wich are, according to their view, the time of the duration of the world, so as not to coincide with that time at which, as the prophets after Moses had prophesised, the birth of Jesus from a pure virgin at the end of time was to take place”. 77 SACHAU, The chronology of ancient nations [see note 75], p. 19: “Now, if the Christians do not allow us to use the numerical values of Arabic words, we cannot allow them to do the same with the Syriac words which they quote, because the Thora and the books of those prophets were revealed in the Hebrew language”. 78 SACHAU, The chronology of ancient nations [see note 75], p. 24: “Now this [i.e. the Greek translation ordered by Ptolemy] is the copy of the Christians, and people think that in it no alteration or transposition has taken place. The Jews, however, give quite a different account, viz. that they made the translation under compulsion and that they yielded to the king’s demand only from fear of violence and maltreatment, and not before having agreed upon inverting and confounding the texts of the book”. 79 Agapius also backs up his argument by quoting (though erroneously!) the Samaritan Torah. 80 To give just one example: the extensive geographical-astronomical-astrological digression Agapius inserts after the account of the Deluge mirrors the interest in such disciplines developed at the Baghdad court and is indebted to the scholarship and translations of Greek works fostered by the caliph al-Ma‘mun in the previous century.

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the “Greek pedigree” of (Chalcedonian/Melkite) Christians, tracing their cultural lineage back to Alexander the Great and Ptolemy, the wisdom-loving king, and thus stressing their role in the preservation and transmission of authentic wisdom. CONCLUSIONS Regardless of the uncertainty regarding its origin, the “Septuagint-TamperingConstantine” story is an enthralling example of how late antique historiography could make the best out of cross-cultural materials. A microscope analysis of its various components has revealed: a) the presence of narratives, themes, and echoes drawn from a variety of Christian, Jewish, Muslim and pagan traditions; b) the uninhibited use that the author of the composition made of these elements on the basis of his own agenda, by cutting and adding, nuancing, twisting, creating resonances and meaningful connections to the reception context. The case of Constantine’s journey to Jerusalem, whose only precedent is to be found in Islamic sources most likely indebted to anti-Constantinian late pagan traditions, is a remarkable illustration of this: even negative narratives generated by opposing traditions could be taken up, and turned upside down in response. The inter-cultural composition of the narrative, though, is by no means its only relevant feature. By tackling such a delicate matter as the translation of the Sacred Scriptures, the author, and by proxy Agapius as well (if the two are not one and the same), leaps at the chance to make a more general statement on cultural exchanges, and his stance is as clear as thought-provoking: the original (text, language, cultural context) need not be an object of absolute reverence, as the receiving culture sometimes deserves the transmitted item better. A providential act of intercultural transmission (the translation from Hebrew into Greek) saved the word of God from being lost forever: the core message being that the Greek Christian tradition is a much more entitled custodian of it, and any further transmission should therefore step from there. This “meritocratic” approach to cultural transmission is often to be found in Christian apologetics, since Christianity was confronted with the difficult task of distancing itself from the Jewish (and pagan) past while at the same time claiming to be its real, legitimate, heir. As the very same rhetorical strategy was adopted by Muslims toward Greek wisdom and sciences, it comes as no surprise to find it exploited again in a 10th-century Christian Arabic chronicle, whose author had to juggle different cultural lineages to make the Melkite Arabic identity fit a diverse and evolving cultural context.

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begetting b. to d. death begetting HT b. to d. death LXX LXX LXX HT HT Adam 230 700 930 130 800 930 Seth 205 707 912 105 807 Enosh 190 715 905 90 815 Cainan 170 734 904 70 834 Mahalalel 165 730 895 65 830 Jared 900AM 162 800 962 162 800 962 Enoch 165 200 365 65 300 Matuselah 187 782 969 187 782 969 Lamech 182 590 777 182 590 777 Noah 1656AM 500 100d. + 350 950 Shem 102 (= Del.+2) 500 660 102 (=Del.+2) 500 660 1. Arphaxad 135 430 565 35 530 2. Cainan 130/139 330 460 3. Salah 130 330 460 30 430 4. Eber 134 270 464 34 370 5. Peleg 130/132 208 338 30 368 6. Reu 2926AM 132 267 7. Serug 130 200 330 30 300 330 8. Nahor 79 122 201 29 172 9. Terah 75 130 205 75 130 205 10. Abraham Table 1. The genealogy of the biblical patriarchs from Adam to Abraham in the Septuagint and in the Hebrew text according to Agapius.

Adam Seth Enosh Cainan Mahalalel Jared Enoch Matuselah Lamech Noah

begetting [J corruption] 230 [-100 = 130] 205 [-100 = 105] 120 [-100 = 20] 170 [-100 = 70] 165 [-100 = 65] 162 65 187 86 500 [-100 = 400]

b. to d. 800 807 815 840 830 800 300 782 596 100+450

death 1030 1012 1005 1020 992 962 365 969 682 1050

Table 2. Genealogy of the biblical patriarchs from Adam to Noah according to Jacob of Edessa’s commentary on Genesis

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118. M.F.J. BAASTEN, W.Th VAN PEURSEN (eds.), Hamlet on a Hill. Semitic and Greek Studies Presented to Professor T. Muraoka on the Occasion of his Sixty-Fifth Birthday. 119. O.E. KAPER, The Egyptian God Tutu. A Study of the Sphinx-God and Master of Demons with a Corpus of Monuments. 120. E. WARDINI, Lebanese Place-Names (Mount Lebanon and North Lebanon). 121. J. VAN DER VLIET, Catalogue of the Coptic Inscriptions in the Sudan National Museum at Khartoum (I. Khartoum Copt.). 122. A. ŁAJTAR, Catalogue of the Greek Inscriptions in the Sudan National Museum at Khartoum (I. Khartoum Greek). 123. H. NIEHR, Ba῾alšamem. Studien zu Herkunft, Geschichte und Rezeptionsgeschichte eines phönizischen Gottes. 124. H. WILLEMS, F. COPPENS, M. DE MEYER, P. DILS, The Temple of Shanhûr. Volume I: The Sanctuary, The Wabet, and the Gates of the Central Hall and the Great Vestibule (1-98). 125. K. CIGGAAR, H.G.B. TEULE (eds.), East and West in the Crusader States. Context – Contacts – Confrontations III. 126. T. SOLDATJENKOVA, E. WAEGEMANS (eds.), For East is East. Liber Amicorum Wojciech Skalmowski. 127. E. LIPIŃSKI, Itineraria Phoenicia. 128. D. BUDDE, S. SANDRI, U. VERHOEVEN (eds.), Kindgötter im Ägypten der griechischrömischen Zeit. Zeugnisse aus Stadt und Tempel als Spiegel des Interkulturellen Kontakts. 129. C. LEITZ (ed.), Lexikon der ägyptischen Götter und Götterbezeichnungen, Band VIII. 130. E.J. VAN DER STEEN, Tribes and Territories in Transition. 131. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara V-VI. Traduction. Les cryptes du temple d’Hathor. 132. S. CAUVILLE, Dendara V-VI. Index phraséologique. Les cryptes du temple d’Hathor. 133. M. IMMERZEEL, J. VAN DER VLIET, M. KERSTEN, C. VAN ZOEST (eds.), Coptic Studies on the Threshold of a New Millennium. Proceedings of the Seventh International Congress of Coptic Studies. Leiden, August 27 - September 2, 2000. 134. J.J. VAN GINKEL, H.L. MURRE-VAN DEN BERG, T.M. VAN LINT (eds.), Redefining Christian Identity. Cultural Interaction in the Middle East since the Rise of Islam. 135. J. MONTGOMERY (ed.), ‘Abbasid Studies. Occasional Papers of the School of ‘Abbasid Studies, Cambridge, 6-10 July 2002. 136. T. BOIY, Late Achaemenid and Hellenistic Babylon. 137. B. JANSSENS, B. ROOSEN, P. VAN DEUN (eds.), Philomathestatos. Studies in Greek Patristic and Byzantine Texts Presented to Jacques Noret for his Sixty-Fifth Birthday. 138. S. HENDRICKX, R.F. FRIEDMAN, K.M. CIAŁOWICZ, M. CHŁODNICKI (eds.), Egypt at its Origins. Studies in Memory of Barbara Adams. 139. R. ARNZEN, J. THIELMANN (eds.), Words, Texts and Concepts Cruising the Mediterranean Sea. Studies on the Sources, Contents and Influences of Islamic Civilization and Arabic Philosophy and Science. 140. U. VERMEULEN, J. VAN STEENBERGEN (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras IV. 141. H.T. DAVIES, Yusuf al-irbīnī’s Kitab Hazz al-Quhuf bi-arh Qasīd Abī aduf (“Brains Confounded by the Ode of Abu aduf Expounded”). Volume I: Arabic text. 142. P. VAN NUFFELEN, Un héritage de paix et de piété. Étude sur les histoires ecclésiastiques de Socrate et de Sozomène. 143. A. SCHOORS, The Preacher Sought to Find Pleasing Words. A Study of the Language of Qoheleth. Part II: Vocabulary. 144. M.E. STONE, Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha and Armenian Studies. Collected Papers: Volume 1. 145. M.E. STONE, Apocrypha, Pseudepigrapha and Armenian Studies. Collected Papers: Volume 2.

146. M. CACOUROS, M.-H. CONGOURDEAU (eds.), Philosophie et sciences à Byzance de 1204 à 1453. Les textes, les doctrines et leur transmission. 147. K. CIGGAAR, M. METCALF (eds.), East and West in the Medieval Eastern Mediterranean I. 148. B. MICHALAK-PIKULSKA, A. PIKULSKI (eds.), Authority, Privacy and Public Order in Islam. 149. E. CZERNY, I. HEIN, H. HUNGER, D. MELMAN, A. SCHWAB (eds.), Timelines. Studies in Honour of Manfred Bietak. 150. J.-Cl. GOYON, C. CARDIN (eds.), Proceedings of the Ninth International Congress of Egyptologists. Actes du neuvième congrès international des Égyptologues. Grenoble, 6-12 septembre 2004. 151. S. SANDRI, Har-pa-chered (Harpokrates). Die Genese eines ägyptischen Götterkindes. 152. J.E. MONTGOMERY (ed.), Arabic Theology, Arabic Philosophy. From the Many to the One: Essays in Celebration of Richard M. Frank. 153. E. LIPIŃSKI, On the Skirts of Canaan in the Iron Age. Historical and Topographical Researches. 154. M. MINAS-NERPEL, Der Gott Chepri. Untersuchungen zu Schriftzeugnissen und ikonographischen Quellen vom Alten Reich bis in griechisch-römische Zeit. 155. H. WILLEMS, Dayr al-Barsha Volume I. The Rock Tombs of Djehutinakht (No. 17K74/1), Khnumnakht (No. 17K74/2), and Iha (No. 17K74/3). With an Essay on the History and Nature of Nomarchal Rule in the Early Middle Kingdom. 156. J. BRETSCHNEIDER, J. DRIESSEN, K. VAN LERBERGHE (eds.), Power and Architecture. Monumental Public Architecture in the Bronze Age Near East and Aegean. 157. A. CAMPLANI, G. FILORAMO (eds.), Foundations of Power and Conflicts of Authority in Late Antique Monasticism. 158. J. TAVERNIER, Iranica in the Achaemenid Period (ca. 550-330 B.C.). Lexicon of Old Iranian Proper Names and Loanwords, Attested in Non-Iranian Texts. 159. P. KOUSOULIS, K. MAGLIVERAS (eds.), Moving Across Borders. Foreign Relations, Religion and Cultural Interactions in the Ancient Mediterranean. 160. A. SHISHA-HALEVY, Topics in Coptic Syntax: Structural Studies in the Bohairic Dialect. 161. B. LURSON, Osiris, Ramsès, Thot et le Nil. Les chapelles secondaires des temples de Derr et Ouadi es-Seboua. 162. G. DEL OLMO LETE (ed.), Mythologie et Religion des Sémites occidentaux. 163. N. BOSSON, A. BOUD’HORS (eds.), Actes du huitième congrès international d’études coptes. Paris, 28 juin - 3 juillet 2004. 164. A. BERLEJUNG, P. VAN HECKE (eds.), The Language of Qohelet in Its Context. Essays in Honour of Prof. A. Schoors on the Occasion of his Seventieth Birthday. 165. A.G.C. SAVVIDES, Byzantino-Normannica. The Norman Capture of Italy and the First Two Invasions in Byzantium. 166. H.T. DAVIES, Yusuf al-irbīnī’s Brains Confounded by the Ode of Abu aduf Expounded (Kitab Hazz al-Quhuf bi-arh Qasīd Abī aduf). Volume II: English translation, introduction and notes. 167. S. ARGUILLÈRE, Profusion de la vaste sphère. Klong-chen rab-’byams (Tibet, 1308-1364). Sa vie, son œuvre, sa doctrine. 168. D. DE SMET, Les Épîtres sacrées des Druzes. Rasa᾿il al-Hikma. Volumes 1 et 2. 169. U. VERMEULEN, K. D’HULSTER (eds.), Egypt and Syria in the Fatimid, Ayyubid and Mamluk Eras V. 170. W.J. VAN BEKKUM, J.W. DRIJVERS, A.C. KLUGKIST (eds.), Syriac Polemics. Studies in Honour of Gerrit Jan Reinink. 171. K. D’HULSTER, J. VAN STEENBERGEN (eds.), Continuity and Change in the Realms of Islam. Studies in Honour of Professor Urbain Vermeulen. 172. B. MIDANT-REYNES, Y. TRISTANT, J. ROWLAND, S. HENDRICKX (eds.), Egypt at its Origins 2.

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