Leadership and community in late antiquity : essays in honour of Raymond Van Dam 9782503583235, 2503583237

Citation preview

Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity

CULTURAL ENCOUNTERS IN LATE ANTIQUITY AND THE MIDDLE AGES

General Editor Yitzhak Hen, The Hebrew University of Jerusalem Editorial Board Angelo di Berardino, Augustinianum, Rome Nora Berend, University of Cambridge Leslie Brubaker, University of Birmingham Christoph Cluse, Universität Trier Rob Meens, Universiteit Utrecht James Montgomery, University of Cambridge Alan V. Murray, University of Leeds Thomas F. X. Noble, University of Notre Dame Miri Rubin, Queen Mary, University of London

Previously published volumes in this series are listed at the back of the book.

Volume 26

Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam Edited by

Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

© 2020, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-2-503-58323-5 e-ISBN: 978-2-503-58324-2 DOI: 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.116484 ISSN: 1378-8779 e-ISSN: 2294-8511 Printed in the EU on acid-free paper D/2020/0095/16

For Ray Van Dam: a teacher, a friend

Contents

List of Illustrations

ix

Acknowledgements

xi

Introduction: Leadership and Community YOUNG RICHARD KIM and A. E. T. McLAUGHLIN

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops: Textual Guidance from Three Urban Roman Settings ADAM M. SCHOR

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers LISA KAAREN BAILEY

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator BRENT D. SHAW

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City: The Case of Libanius and John Chrysostom’s Antioch JACLYN MAXWELL

The Authority of Tradition: Governors and their Capitals in Late Antique Asia Minor GARRETT RYAN

1

15 47 63

91

115

Contents

viii

Peter beyond Rome: Achilleus of Spoleto, Neon of Ravenna, and the Epigramma Longum DENNIS TROUT

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond VIRGINIA BURRUS

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City BENJAMIN GRAHAM and PAOLO SQUATRITI

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable? Premonitions of Constantinople and the Portability of Rome ANTHONY KALDELLIS

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate SHANE BJORNLIE

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy JONATHAN J. ARNOLD

Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity — Reviewed NOEL LENSKI

141 165

189

221

249 281 301

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

321

Index

329

Illustrations

Colour Plates Plate I, p. xiii. ‘The Royal Gold Cup, France, scenes from the martyrdom of Saint Agnes’, London, The British Museum. c. 1370–1380. Plate II, p. xiii. Giovanni Paolo Panini, Interior of San Paolo fuori le mura, 1750. Graphs Graph 2.1, p. 22. ‘Interactions recounted, embodied, or requested in Polycarp’s Letter to the Philippians’. Graph 2.2, p. 23. ‘Interactions recounted, embodied, or requested in Ignatius’s Letter to the Ephesians’. Graph 2.3, p. 25. ‘Summary diagram of interactions recounted, embodied or requested in the Letters of Ignatius-Polycarp’. Graph 2.4, p. 31. ‘Summary diagram of ritual interactions advised by Traditio apostolica (and repeated over 3 years)’. Graph 2.5, p. 37. ‘Summary diagram of interactions advised by Didascalia apostolorum (and repeated over 3 years)’. Figures Figure 4.1, p. 74. ‘Watchman Pictured on ARS Lamp’, Leclercq, ‘Dendrites’, col. 583, fig. 3696 = CRAI (1911), p. 582.

x

Illustrations

Figure 4.2, p. 74. ‘Watchman Pictured on ARS Lamp’, Bailey, A Catalogue of Roman Lamps, p. 33, Q1799. Figure 4.3, p. 75. ‘Watchman Pictured on ARS Plate’, Weidemann, Spätantike Bilder, no. 25. Figure 7.1, p. 144. ‘Romanesque church of S. Pietro, Spoleto, built on the site of the fifth-century church of Achilleus. View to east across Via Flaminia with foothills of Monteluco behind’. Figure 7.2, p. 151. ‘Plan of Ravenna in the age of Neon,’ From Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity (fig. 7). Figure 7.3, p. 152. ‘Hypothetical plan of Ravenna’s episcopium complex in the sixth century. Adapted by C. Trout from Miller, The Bishop’s Palace. Figure 7.4, p. 153. ‘Hypothetical plan of Neon’s quinque accubita’. Adapted by C. Trout from Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, fig. 21. Figure 8.1, p. 167. ‘The Royal Gold Cup, France, scenes from the martyrdom of Saint Agnes’, London, The British Museum. c. 1370–1380. Figure 9.1, p. 190. ‘The Italian Peninsula in the First Millennium’. Figure 9.2, p. 195. ‘Early Medieval Central Italy and the Papal territories’. Figure 9.3, p. 200. ‘Giovanni Paolo Panini, Interior of San Paolo fuori le mura, 1750’.

Acknowledgements

O

n 23–24 October 2015, many of Ray’s current and former students, friends, and colleagues reunited in Ann Arbor at the University of Michigan for a conference entitled ‘Cities, Saints, and Memory in Late Antiquity: A Conference in Honor of Ray Van Dam’. The festive occasion, planned and executed with aplomb by Tiggy McLaughlin, was a celebration of his career and retirement, with excellent papers, good food and drink (including Saltines and Sprite), and cheerful fellowship. With his beloved wife Judy there to join the fête, Ray listened to a ‘Raygiography’, in which current and former students presented ‘miracle stories’ of Ray’s mentorship, and he offered his own closing remarks first by showing (previously unseen) photos of him as a young man, complete with long hair and a motorcycle, and then by reflecting on his own intellectual formation, which was profoundly shaped by dedicated teachers in his life. Ray, of course, has been precisely that for us, the editors of this volume, which has been a labour of love and we hope a sure sign of our deep appreciation and profound gratitude. All of the contributors gathered here have had a different relationship with Ray: some are former students, one a former classmate, others colleagues in the field, but all alike, friends. We are especially grateful to Yitzhak Hen, series editor of Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, for his enthusiastic support for this volume, and to Guy Carney, Publishing Manager at Brepols, for his prompt feedback and sage advice. We also thank Deborah A. Oosterhouse for her precise copyediting, and Ruth Kennedy for typesetting. And of course, together we would like to express our sincerest gratitude to all of our contributors, who each joined this project with great joy and appreciation. Young : From the first (admittedly awkward) phone call before I had decided to attend the University of Michigan, to my doctoral defence and well beyond, Ray has been a friend, mentor, and Doktorvater, who has profoundly shaped my intellectual formation and personal character. Who I am as a scholar and teacher is in no small way due to the influence of my 선생님, and I am so

xii

Acknowledgements

pleased that we were able to complete this volume in his honour. I have always been impressed by Ray’s humility, all the more so despite the breadth of his knowledge and achievements as a scholar, and I appreciate how even from that first call he treated me as an equal conversation partner, learning as much from me as I did from him. My work on this volume was made possible through the support of my former institutions, Calvin College and the Onassis Foundation USA, to which I owe a debt of gratitude. I also have benefited greatly from an appointment as a Research Associate with the Institute for the Study of the Ancient World (ISAW). I am grateful to Tiggy for her friendship and her vision in putting together this volume. Finally, my love to Betty, Ewan, and Rhys, who make each day sweeter than the last. s.d.g. Tiggy: For me, this project began in the fall of 2014 while I was a graduate student, conscious of Ray’s impending retirement in the vague but not-so-distant future as well as the fact that I was writing his last solo-chaired dissertation, waiting and waiting for someone to invite me to Ray’s fest. And when no one did, I realized that the fest was up to me. Of course Ray had to have a fest. He deserved a fest, not just for having such a prolific scholarly career, but more importantly for being such an engaged and supportive mentor to so many students. So when I approached Ray’s colleague Paolo Squatriti and asked if it was time to plan Ray’s fest and he replied with a matter-of-fact ‘Yes’, the rest fell together with ease. With the help of Paolo and two of Ray’s former students, Beth Platte and Jared Secord, I organized this weekend of joyful reunion and sharing of new scholarship on cities, saints, and memory, which we lovingly termed the RayFest. I had no thoughts of a RaySchrift, however, until Young enthusiastically approached me at the end of the weekend with ideas for an edited volume in honour of Ray. From that moment on, Young and I worked together carefully to curate this Festschrift for Ray. I most of all would like to thank Young for his tireless editing work and patience with his co-editor, as well as his friendship and encouragement throughout the process. I am also grateful for support from my former and present institutions, the University of Michigan and Gannon University. Finally, this work would not have been possible without the love and support of my husband, Jonathan McLaughlin, my parents, Tom and Kristin Talarico, and my unsurpassable little buddies, Terry and Justin McLaughlin. Plate I (opposite, top). ‘The Royal Gold Cup, France, scenes from the martyrdom of Saint Agnes’, London, The British Museum. c. 1370–1380. © Trustees of the British Museum. Plate II (opposite, bottom). Giovanni Paolo Panini, Interior of San Paolo fuori le mura, 1750.

Introduction: Leadership and Community Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin The night is dark but the sidewalk’s bright And lined with the light of the living. – ‘Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out’, Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band

T

his is a book about people, among them a royal nun who challenged kings and bishops as she established her monastery in sixth-century Poitiers, two second-century Christian letter-writers who strengthened the role of bishops through the networks their letters created, and a saint whose legacy travelled far beyond her original commemoration at Rome. This is also a book about places, such as Antioch in the fourth century, where pagan rhetors and Christian clerics spoke the same language of elite leadership, Ephesus and Aphrodisias, whose city centres late antique governors tried to restore to their former glory, and Rome, both the physical Italian city and the idea, which was constantly reduplicated throughout history, most famously as Constantinople. In the essays that follow, these people and places are more than just the subjects of anecdotes. They demonstrate, through a focus on leadership and community, the personal, human aspect of the potentially abstract transformation of the Roman world to the medieval. Furthermore, they explain this process with-

Young Richard Kim is Associate Professor, Classics and Mediterranean Studies and History, at The University of Illinois at Chicago. A. E. T. McLaughlin teaches History and Theology at Gannon University. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 1–13 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118223

Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin

2

out imposing an artificial divide between secular and ecclesiastical history and without focusing exclusively on the elite perspective. These approaches, which perhaps seem standard in social and cultural histories of Late Antiquity over the past thirty years, were actually the historiographical aims laid out by the honouree of this volume, Raymond Van Dam, in his first book Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul.1 With hindsight it is safe to say that Van Dam not only accomplished those goals in this monograph and his other publications, but also that the methodological concerns he addressed at the beginning of his career are now part and parcel of how scholars think about the transformation of the Roman world in Late Antiquity, and in particular the role Christianity played in that process. The essays collected here both pay tribute to the influence Van Dam has had on the field over the course of a long and prolific career and push his inquiries in new directions, by continuing to explore the relationships between leaders and communities in Late Antiquity.

Raymond Van Dam and Late Antiquity For his students, colleagues, and friends, Raymond Van Dam is simply ‘Ray’. He has been and continues to be for many of us a nurturing mentor, a meticulous reader of and commenter on our work, as well as a passionate fan of Batman comic books and a devotee of Bruce Springsteen (and good music in general). Most of all, Ray is a brilliant, formidable, yet humble scholar. His work spans a career of over thirty-five years, with foundations laid at Calvin College in his native West Michigan, under the tutelage of his beloved Classics professor Robert Otten. At Calvin, Ray cultivated a wide range of interests, including tennis and motorcycles, but above all, the study of Greek and Latin, at which he excelled to such an extent that he taught the languages to his fellow undergraduates. Ray’s intellectual journey then took him to the UK where he studied at the University of Cambridge and wrote a dissertation under the supervision of C. R. (Dick) Whittaker that would form the basis of the first few chapters of Leadership and Community. His academic positions found him at Stanford as a Mellon Research Fellow, Dumbarton Oaks, the University of Texas at Austin, and ultimately back home in Michigan, where he was professor of History at the University of Michigan from 1987 until his retirement in 2016. While at Michigan, Ray mentored many graduate students, served on even more preliminary exam and dissertation committees, and taught countless undergraduates, most famously in a survey course, ‘History 201: The Roman Empire 1

Van Dam, Leadership and Community, pp. 1–4.

Introduction: Leadership and Community

3

and its Legacy’, for which many of his supervisees taught as Graduate Student Instructors (GSIs). These GSIs were always amused at Ray’s vision of a Roman history survey, which began in the late Republic with the Gracchi and ended with the ninth-century coronation of Charlemagne. His students were often perplexed, after reading the expected Caesar, Cicero, and Vergil, by the many source readings of Libanius, Procopius, sundry bishops, and other late antique texts. But Ray had a way of tying together, perhaps in an unexpected but certainly interesting way, a long picture of Roman history, which his most astute students could and did appreciate. Such an approach should not come as a surprise from a scholar of Late Antiquity whose graduate seminars included heavy doses of Gibbon, Pirenne, Braudel, and Brown. Ray likes to tell the story of a job interview question about what he thought was the most important book on Late Antiquity, to which he replied, Fernand Braudel’s The Mediterranean and the Mediterranean World in the Age of Philip II. While his interviewers were apparently unimpressed by his answer, this anecdote says something significant about Ray’s perspective and contributions to the field, which has been apparent from his earliest work. In 1985, Ray set the stage for a career’s worth of examination of Roman idioms of leadership and patronage in the late Roman Empire and the early Middle Ages with his first monograph, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul.2 In this study of Gaul from the fourth-century world of St Martin of Tours to that of his sixth-century successor, Gregory of Tours, he explored the complex interactions between urban communities and their notable leaders across time as well as space. Ray continued to pursue these themes with regard to saints as a discrete phenomenon in his second book, Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul and the two translation volumes of Gregory of Tours that preceded. Through his work with Gregory’s hagiographical corpus, Ray further brought this type of source to the fore as a window into cultural history.3 In a parallel way, one of his favourite assignments for his undergraduate students was to have them choose one of the miracles they read about and to explain it, not as an act of divine intervention, but as a product of the social and cultural milieu of the hagiographer. In the early 2000s, Ray shifted his focus to leaders and communities in the eastern Roman Empire in his Cappadocian trilogy, Kingdom of Snow: Roman 2 See the select curriculum vitae at the end of this volume for full citations of Van Dam’s books, articles, and reviews. 3 See also Van Dam, ‘Hagiography and History’; Van Dam, ‘From Paganism to Christianity’; Van Dam, ‘Paulinus of Périgueux’; Van Dam, ‘Images of Saint Martin’.

4

Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin

Rule and Greek Culture in Cappadocia, Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappa­ docia, and Becoming Christian: The Conversion of Roman Cappadocia.4 These works drew on a wider array of sources to illustrate how the idiosyncrasies of particular families in a specific region speak to broader developments in Late Antiquity. The trilogy as a whole explores the idioms of leadership exhibited by Basil of Caesarea, Gregory of Nazianzus, and Gregory of Nyssa through the related frameworks of geography, education, family and friendship networks, and religion. But Ray also included both Julian and Eunomius as ‘Cappadocian Fathers’, since they too were part of the interconnected web of relationships and rivalries among prominent figures from the region, all of whom shared in the language and culture of paideia. The result of Ray’s trilogy is not just a thorough study of the Cappadocian Fathers, but also a social, cultural, and political history of fourth-century Cappadocia and beyond.5 Ray then turned his attention to Constantine. The title of his first major study, The Roman Revolution of Constantine, was of course an homage to an earlier Roman historian, and the impress of Syme’s analysis of Augustus and its subsequent influence on later scholars was at the forefront of Ray’s thinking about Constantine.6 As much as a ‘Republican emperor was a contradiction in terms’, he explains, a ‘Christian emperor was no less a contradiction in terms’, and thus his study challenges us to reconsider (and in many cases, deprioritize) the Christian lens through which we usually interpret Constantine.7 Ray’s work on Roman emperors led to his reflecting more deeply on their relationship to cities, which in turn inculcated an interest in the role of memory in the interactions between communities and their associated leaders.8 His short collection of lectures, Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity, first examines the relationship between emperors with Rome, both as an economic (and perhaps parasitical) entity and as an ideological and imperial symbol, and then discusses how the birth of Constantinople necessitated a rearrangement of the memory of the original and the creation of a past, pre4 Ray published earlier hints of this new direction in Van Dam, ‘Emperor, Bishops, and Friends’; Van Dam, ‘Governors of Cappadocia’. He maintained his scholarly interest in late Roman and early medieval Gaul, as in Van Dam, ‘The Pirenne Thesis’; Van Dam, ‘Merovingian Gaul’. 5 See also Van Dam, ‘The Disruptive Impact’; Van Dam, ‘The East (1)’. 6 Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine, p. 3: ‘The most important book about Roman history from the twentieth century is Ronald Syme’s The Roman Revolution’. 7 Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine, p. 9. 8 See Van Dam, ‘Big Cities’. For the relationship between bishops and cities, see Van Dam, ‘Bishops and Society’.

Introduction: Leadership and Community

5

sent, and future for the New Rome.9 Finally, Ray aligned these research trajectories in Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge, in which he explored how the memory and reception of this particular place and event continues to influence scholarly thinking about Constantine, once again with a tendency to overemphasize Christianity. This book was perhaps his most experimental and creative, an attempt to write history in reverse, by peeling away and reckoning with the memories and memorialization of the event — the first of which was presented by Constantine himself.10 Thus, over the course of ten books and numerous articles, Ray Van Dam has developed an understanding of the lives and cultures of both elites and the humbler people of the late Roman and post-Roman world that situates Christianity within the context of the manifold other social influences, cultural practices, and political forces at work in Late Antiquity.11 He has demonstrated a skill for marshalling and interpreting a disparate range of source materials, including sermons, hagiographies, letters, and panegyrics, as well as inscriptions, sculpture, monumental constructions, and coins.12 The sum total of his work thus far and the arc of his investigations mirror the changing historiography of Late Antiquity in the last thirty-five years and highlight the continued value of examining the relationships between prominent (and otherwise) individuals and their urban and regional contexts as a means to add further nuance to our understanding of this discrete but disputed period.

Thematic Trajectories: Leadership and Community This volume advances some of the questions about the nature of leadership and community that Ray put forth in his first book and has continued to explore over the course of his career as a historian and professor. In his undergraduate 9

For Ray, Dagron, Naissance d’une capitale and Dagron, Constantinople imaginaire were influential studies of ‘New Rome’. See also Grig and Kelly, Two Romes. 10 Constantine continues to be a source of fascination for Ray; see Van Dam, ‘The Many Conversions’; Van Dam, ‘Constantine’; Van Dam, ‘Converting Constantine’; Van Dam, ‘“Constantine’s Beautiful City”’; Van Dam, ‘Imagining Constantine’; Van Dam, ‘The Sources for our Sources’; Van Dam, ‘Constantine’s First Visit’; Van Dam, ‘Eastern Aristocracies’. 11 Ray has also published dozens of reviews of books on Roman history, early and late ancient Christianity, Late Antiquity, Byzantium, and the Middle Ages, a vital service to the field that is often underappreciated. They are listed in the select curriculum vitae at the end of this volume. 12 See Van Dam, ‘“Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing”’; Van Dam, ‘Self-Representation’; Van Dam, ‘Bishops and Clerics’; Van Dam, ‘Imagining an Eastern Roman Empire’; Van Dam, ‘Inscriptions’.

6

Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin

survey course, Ray emphasized two concepts for understanding Roman social and political life, dignitas and auctoritas. Roman elites in the late Republic augmented the former (‘prestige’) by their service to the res publica, which in turn amplified the latter. But this escalating game of social and political competition had deleterious consequences that ultimately toppled the system, leaving one man standing.13 In the new dispensation, obsequium became the measure of political capital, as elites competed to demonstrate their obeisance to the emperor.14 The Augustan edifice remained intact in the later empire, albeit with clear signs of wear and tear and patchwork repairs. Elite culture in the form of paideia became increasingly important as the burdens of leadership fell more heavily on local notables, while the apparatus of the state became increasingly distracted and disrupted by both internal and external problems.15 What happened in the aftermath of the Tetrarchy and the reign of Constantine and beyond has been of great interest to Ray, as he examined the exercise of leadership by the ‘first Christian emperor’ in an empire where Christianity was becoming increasingly important but not yet the driving force it would be in later centuries.16 The essays collected in this volume explore the dynamics of leadership (the exercise of authority) and community (where such authority was exercised) in the Mediterranean world of Late Antiquity. Some of the essays treat leaders in detail; others focus on communities, real and imagined; still others delve into the physical locales of cities and regions. They all attempt to answer fundamental questions about the functioning of society in an age of transition by exploring the points of interaction between late antique people and their associated places. During this period in particular, individuals in and with their communities negotiated immense religious, intellectual, and cultural changes while still deeply enmeshed in the legacy of the Roman Empire. The memory of the classical past, expressed through institutions, practices, constructions, symbols, and idioms, was a powerful and compelling cultural and political force for the denizens of Late Antiquity, even as their physical urban surroundings came to resemble less and less the ideals of the Graeco-Roman city. The rest of this introduction will survey the mutually dependent frameworks of ‘leader13 Again the classic study by Syme, The Roman Revolution, was central to Ray’s narrative for this course. 14 On shifting ideologies in the Augustan age, Ray found Zanker, The Power of Images, particularly influential. 15 On paideia, see Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity. 16 Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine.

Introduction: Leadership and Community

7

ship’ and ‘community’ and suggest how the various essays in the volume serve to deepen our understanding of each. ‘Leaders and Best’ Leadership is a dynamic concept that embodies the exercise of power within the framework of multifarious relationships between prominent individuals and their given communities, undergirded by long-standing practices of patronage, euergetism, intervention, and intercession, both human and divine. In Late Antiquity as today, however, leadership took on a variety of forms, and the degree of authority of specific leaders often depended on the nature of their social contexts and the discourses they shared with the people they lived with and their communities as a whole. Ray reminds us of the particular power that proximity had for establishing authority in the premodern world, and that even though the emperor was the supreme power in theory, local leaders often had more practical authority by virtue of their being physically present in the community.17 The people examined in this volume represent a variety of roles and relational nodes, each reflecting different types of leadership in Late Antiquity. Certainly, the emperor exercised the farthest reaching, though most abstract, form of leadership. Anthony Kaldellis shows Constantine exercising authority over not just the terrestrial Roman Empire or his newly founded Byzantine city, but over the very idea of a city of Rome, which could be moved and replicated at will. Similarly abstract but more restricted to a particular region was the ideology of leadership embodied in the Ostrogothic kings of Italy, as they appeared in decidedly hagiographical works, examined in Jonathan Arnold’s essay. Garrett Ryan discusses provincial governors who directly involved themselves in improvements to civic spaces within the confines of their specific territories and whose presence was more closely felt by local communities than that of the faraway emperor. Outside of government officials, local notables functioned with authority within their communities, and Jaclyn Maxwell’s essay juxtaposes the leadership roles of the rhetor Libanius and the priest John Chrysostom in Antioch. They both held sway in different social circles as elite teachers and orators, with Chrysostom speaking within the context of the Christian church and Libanius in a secular, civic setting. The most pervasive type of Christian leader in Late Antiquity was undoubtedly the bishop, a central figure whose office grew and changed throughout 17

Van Dam, Leadership and Community, p. 8.

Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin

8

this period and varied from region to region.18 Scholarship on late ancient Christianity in the past twenty years, including Ray’s, has ventured far from the more limited study of ‘Patristics’, with its emphasis on theology and ecclesiastical affairs, and has paid close attention to among other things the real relationships — with Christians and non-Christians alike — that bishops cultivated and negotiated within their own immediate communities and in the broader context of empire.19 The essays by Adam Schor and Brent Shaw both address how ideals of episcopal leadership developed within local and regional settings. The essay by Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti treats the ultimate bishop, the pope in the early Middle Ages, whose leadership was most keenly felt in the city of Rome where he undertook to fix failing roofs over ancient churches, a responsibility that demonstrated his continued role as civic patron and manager of precious natural resources. Christian leadership by prominent individuals could continue far beyond the span of their lifetimes when they acquired the status of saint after their deaths. Ray has taken seriously the authority imbued in these holy figures in early medieval cults, arguing in Saints and their Miracles that control over the sites and stories of these saints by living bishops and secular leaders was an important means of increasing authority and legitimizing power.20 Many men who led civic communities as bishops, and notably a woman like Saint Radegund, exercised a postmortem leadership within their specific communities by virtue of their memories and legacies, in the hands of their successors. Lisa Kaaren Bailey incisively studies Radegund, who was in the unique position of guiding her community of nuns at Poitiers as both a secular queen and religious monastic founder, but whose afterlife also became a point of contested authority with the leaders of the church and city. Critical discussion of memory, which has formed a vital interpretive framework in Ray’s more recent work, has further influenced some authors in this volume in their interpretations of saintly leadership. Indeed, social memory, or the way communities collectively remembered elements of their past, was an 18

See, for example, Sterk, Renouncing the World yet Leading the Church and Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity. 19 Clark, History, Theory, Text, examines the turn to theory; Clark, ‘From Patristics to Early Christian Studies’. See also Clark, ‘From Patristics to Late Antiquity’, for her fascinating examination of book reviews in the Catholic Historical Review as reflections of changing (sometimes seismic) historiographical approaches to the study of early and late ancient Christianity over the last century. As she demonstrates, books that CHR has not reviewed are as revealing as those that it has. 20 Van Dam, Saints and their Miracles, p. 150.

Introduction: Leadership and Community

9

important mode of interaction between deceased saints and the peoples who commemorated them. Virginia Burrus explores the life of Saint Constantina, the daughter of Constantine, and how past and present memories of her life, in written and material form, highlight the tensions of social expectations for a woman between imperial and Christian ideals. Dennis Trout traces the development of the cult of Peter within two separate non-Roman communities, and how in each the epigrammatic and monumental commemoration of the saint served as a means to legitimize and augment episcopal claims to broader leadership. Communities: Real and Imagined All the individuals addressed in this volume have something in common both with each other and with the models of leadership that Ray has developed over the course of his career: that their authority, and perhaps even their existence, relied on their personal connections to and relationships with their communities. Whether real or imagined, local or ecumenical, physical or spiritual, communities lay at the heart of the exercise of leadership in Late Antiquity, perhaps none more important than the city, which has occupied a significant portion of Ray’s scholarship.21 The city remains an attractive locus of study for scholars interested in the transformation of the Mediterranean world in Late Antiquity, Byzantium, and the early Middle Ages.22 Cities were the shared spaces for political, cultural, and religious activity (even while many, especially those in the West, were slowly beginning to decline), and their material remains as well as the large corpus of literature written in and about them testify to their importance as communal centres of interaction and exchange. Ideals of cities, whether the great capitals of Rome and Constantinople as discussed in Anthony Kaldellis’s essay, or the persistent and consistent form of the classical city, were influential on their own terms for framing the ways people made sense of the world they were living in.23 The contributions by Garrett Ryan and Benjamin Graham/Paolo Squatriti both address the restoration efforts of cities undertaken by their leaders in Late 21

See especially Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople. Grig, ‘Cities in the “Long” Late Antiquity’, offers a useful survey of recent scholarship. 22 See the volume edited by Rapp and Drake, The City in the Classical and Post­Classical World, on the intellectual history of cities, in some ways a ‘prequel’ to the questions explored in this volume. Salzman, ‘From a Classical to a Christian City’, explores the complex relationship between the practice of civic euergetism and Christian charity. 23 Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople, reflects on the two capitals as both physical and ideological entities.

Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin

10

Antiquity. These works, along with Shane Bjornlie’s essay, which examines how the sack of Rome in 410 was remembered by contemporaries and subsequent generations, necessarily take into account the realities of decline that were present for many cities in Late Antiquity. Though the pessimistic model of decline and fall, recently experiencing a resurgence in scholarship, cannot fully explain the complexities of the period across the late Roman world, the idea still remains a useful lens for studying cities in Late Antiquity.24 The way Rome itself — both as an empire and as a city that suffered a devastating sack in 410 — was remembered hints at the significance of notions of decline for contemporaries, as studied by Jonathan Arnold. Bjornlie’s and Arnold’s essays each demonstrate how the memory and commemoration of Rome was intimately connected with the perceived fate of Rome and its imperium in Late Antiquity. The discussions in other essays in this volume are situated in communities that anchored social relationships in Late Antiquity. The overlapping elite social networks of Libanius and John Chrysostom in Antioch are the subject of Maxwell’s contribution, and the monastic setting of Radegund forms the basis of Bailey’s article. Shaw and Schor both examine the nature of ecclesiastical networks headed by bishops, while Trout and Burrus study the communities that formed around devotion to particular saints. Most of the communities represented in this volume can be mapped onto the physical spaces of cities, but others, such as the devotees of Constantina, had a more fungible connection to geographical place. In all of them, we can examine and evaluate how leaders exercised their authority, at times exhibiting continuity with old idioms of leadership, but in other cases shifting towards new paradigms characteristic of a postclassical world. * * * The essays in this volume work together from their various disciplinary vantage points — history, classical studies, and late ancient Christian studies — to further Ray Van Dam’s work on leadership and community in Late Antiquity. They are ordered according to themes central to Ray’s scholarship, which Noel Lenski develops in his conclusion to the volume: ‘The Interplay between Leadership and Community’, ‘The Importance of Regional and Local Context’, 24

Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Roman City. See the articles in the inaugural issues of the Journal of Late Antiquity and Studies in Late Antiquity for further reflections on the state of the field. We find particularly important in these discussions Banaji, Agrarian Change in Late Antiquity; McCormick, Origins of the European Economy; Ward-Perkins, The Fall of Rome; Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire; Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages; Dey, The Afterlife of the Roman City.

Introduction: Leadership and Community

11

‘The Material and Spatial Basis of Social Relations’, and ‘The Role of Memory and Memorialization in the Construction of History’. Taken together, the contributions produce a fuller picture of the Mediterranean world and add further nuance to our understanding of Late Antiquity as a time of both continued connectivity and transformation. We hope this volume is a worthy tribute to what Ray Van Dam has accomplished over the course of a long and distinguished career and that it opens new avenues of inquiry for further study of the people and places that have captivated his scholarly interest for so many years.

Works Cited Banaji, Jairus, Agrarian Change in Late Antiquity: Gold, Labour, and Aristocratic Domi­ nance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) Brown, Peter, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992) Clark, Elizabeth, ‘From Patristics to Early Christian Studies’, in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 7–41 —— , ‘From Patristics to Late Antiquity at the Catholic Historical Review’, Catholic Historical Review, 101 (2015), 27–71 —— , History, Theory, Text: Historians and the Linguistic Turn (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004) Dagron, Gilbert, Constantinople imaginaire: Études sur le recueil des ‘Patria’, Bibliothèque Byzantine, 8 (Paris: Presses Universitaire de France, 1984) —— , Naissance d’une capitale: Constantinople et ses institutions de 330 à 451 (Paris: Presses Universitaire de France, 1974) Dey, Hendrik W., The Afterlife of the Roman City: Architecture and Ceremony in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015) Grig, Lucy, ‘Cities in the “Long” Late Antiquity, 2000–2012’, Urban History, 40 (2012), 545–66 Grig, Lucy, and Gavin Kelly, eds, Two Romes: Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012) Heather, Peter, The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History of Rome and the Barbarians (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006) Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G., The Decline and Fall of the Roman City (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) McCormick, Michael, Origins of the European Economy: Communications and Commerce, ad 300–900 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001) Rapp, Claudia, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 37 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005)

12

Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin

Rapp, Claudia, and H.  A. Drake, eds, The City in the Classical and Post­Classical World: Changing Contexts of Power and Identity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014) Salzman, Michele, ‘From a Classical to a Christian City: Civic Euergetism and Charity in Late Antique Rome’, Studies in Late Antiquity, 1.1 (2017), 65–85 Sterk, Andrea, Renouncing the World yet Leading the Church: The Monk­Bishop in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004) Syme, Ronald, The Roman Revolution (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1939) Van Dam, Raymond, Becoming Christian: The Conversion of Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003) —— , ‘Big Cities and the Dynamics of the Mediterranean during the Fifth Century’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Attila, ed. by Michael Maas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 80–97 —— , ‘Bishops and Clerics during the Fourth Century: Numbers and their Implications’, in Episcopal Elections in Late Antiquity, ed. by Johan Leemans and others (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), pp. 217–42 —— , ‘Bishops and Society’, in Cambridge History of Christianity, vol.  ii, ed.  by Augustine Casiday and Frederick Norris (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 343–66 —— , ‘Constantine’, in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome, vol.  ii, ed.  by Michael Gagarin and Elaine Fantham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), pp. 283–89 —— , ‘“Constantine’s Beautiful City”: The Symbolic Value of Constantinople’, Antiquité Tardive, 22 (2014), 83–94 —— , ‘Constantine’s First Visit to Rome with Diocletian’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 11 (2018), 6–41 —— , ‘Converting Constantine’, Groniek: Historisch Tijdschrift, 191 (2012), 19–32 —— , ‘The Disruptive Impact of Christianity in Late Roman Cappadocia’, in The Making of Christian Communities in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed.  by Mark  F. Williams (London: Anthem Press, 2005), pp. 7–25, 153–55 —— , ‘The East (1): Greece and Asia Minor’, in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 324–43 —— , ‘Eastern Aristocracies and Imperial Courts: Constantine’s Half-Brother, Licinius’s Prefect, and Egyptian Grain’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 72 (2018), 1–24 —— , ‘Emperor, Bishops, and Friends in Late Antique Cappadocia’, Journal of Theological Studies, 37 (1986), 53–76 —— , Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003) —— , ‘From Paganism to Christianity at Late Antique Gaza’, Viator, 16 (1985), 1–20 —— , ‘Governors of Cappadocia during the Fourth Century’, Medieval Prosopography, 17 (1996), 7–93 —— , ‘Hagiography and History: The Life of Gregory Thaumaturgus’, Classical Antiquity, 1 (1982), 272–308 —— , ‘Images of Saint Martin in Late Roman and Early Merovingian Gaul’, Viator, 19 (1988), 1–27

Introduction: Leadership and Community

13

—— , ‘Imagining an Eastern Roman Empire: A  Riot at Antioch in 387 c.e.’, in The Sculptural Environment of the Roman Near East: Reflections on Culture, Ideology, and Power, ed. by Yaron Eliav, Elise A. Friedland, and Sharon Herbert, Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion, 9 (Leuven: Peeters, 2008), pp. 451–81 —— , ‘Imagining Constantine, Then and Now’, in The Life and Legacy of Constantine: Traditions through the Ages, ed.  by M.  Shane Bjornlie (New York: Routledge, 2017), pp.  6–25 —— , ‘Inscriptions’, in A Companion to Late Antique Literature, ed. by Scott McGill and Edward  J. Watts, Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World (New York: Wiley, 2018), pp. 505–21 —— , Kingdom of Snow: Roman Rule and Greek Culture in Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002) —— , Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 8 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985) —— , ‘The Many Conversions of the Emperor Constantine’, in Conversion in Late Anti­ quity and the Early Middle Ages: Seeing and Believing, ed.  by Kenneth Mills and Anthony Grafton (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2003), pp. 127–51 —— , ‘Merovingian Gaul and the Frankish Conquests’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. i, c. 500–c. 700, ed. by Paul Fouracre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 193–231 —— , ‘Paulinus of Périgueux and Perpetuus of Tours’, Francia, 14 (1986), 567–73 —— , ‘The Pirenne Thesis and Fifth-Century Gaul’, in Fifth­Century Gaul: A Crisis of Iden­ tity?, ed.  by John Drinkwater and Hugh Elton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 321–33 —— , Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011) —— , The Roman Revolution of Constantine (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007) —— , Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2010) —— , Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993) —— , ‘Self-Representation in the Will of Gregory of Nazianzus’, Journal of Theological Studies, 46 (1995), 118–48 —— , ‘“Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing”: The Letters of Consentius to Augustine’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 37 (1986), 515–35 —— , ‘The Sources for our Sources: Eusebius and Lactantius on Constantine in 312– 13’, in Constantine: Religious Faith and Imperial Policy, ed. by A. Edward Siecienski (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017), pp. 59–74 Ward-Perkins, Bryan, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) Wickham, Chris, Framing the Early Middle Ages: Europe and the Mediterranean, 400–800 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) Zanker, Paul, The Power of Images in the Age of Augustus (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1990)

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops: Textual Guidance from Three Urban Roman Settings Adam M. Schor

I

n the early third century, a cleric in Rome revealed an anonymous book of guidance, which he called the Traditio apostolica (Apostolic Tradition). Amid its ritual instructions, one thread concerned communal meals. The text urged suppers to be held ‘without drunkenness’ and ‘not saddened by your own disturbance’. Baptized believers were to sit apart from catechumens. The bishop, if present, could make exhortations; a deacon or presbyter could bless everyone and preside. But if no clergy attended, catechumens could not be exorcized, nor laypeople be blessed: ‘for a layperson cannot make a blessing’.1 These instructions scarcely attract our attention, but our cleric, if he enacted them, would feel an impact. Meal after meal among Christians, across a web of Severan-era Roman cities, would affirm that clerics like him were indispensable. Texts like this one illumine a transformation in how local urban Christian leaders asserted their claim to the flexible form of expertise that scholars call holiness. Before 150 ce, writings classed as Christian recognized various prophets, freelance teachers, and groups of elders; by 230, singular ‘bishops’ claimed unique capacities tied to their rank, beyond or in place of other individuals 1 Traditio apostolica (Traditio) 28, ed. and trans. by Botte, pp. 104 (‘non ad ebrietatem’), 106 (‘aut tristetur […] in vestra inquietudine’), 108 (‘Laicus enim bendictionem facere non potest’).

Adam M. Schor is Associate Professor of History, University of South Carolina. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 15–45 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118156

Adam M. Schor

16

and groups. Scholars face difficulties studying this ‘rise of bishops’. Older narratives have proven dubious, shaped, as they were, by confessionalism, and most relevant early Christian sources have seen their authorship questioned.2 Yet even pseudonymous sources support historical investigation, if we pursue one of Professor Van Dam’s favourite approaches: historical model-building.3 Such model-building can explore larger-scale processes, such as the ‘economy’ of imperial capitals, and smaller matters, such as social networking. Historical modelling always rests on assumptions and projections beyond evidence; yet modelling helpfully raises assumptions for scrutiny. It also enables us to explore obscure foundational processes, such as the making of ‘bishops’ as a rank with presumed holy capacities — one linked especially to cities. This essay attempts a focused form of modelling, based on three texts: the letters of Ignatius and Polycarp, Traditio apostolica, and Didascalia apostolo­ rum.4 After discussing the making of such ‘pericanonical’ writings, we survey their guidance. We then simulate the social impact if clerics repeatedly heeded each text. Finally, we contextualize these models in the localized urban and interurban communities that circulated the writings. As we shall see, in these writings clerics would find paths towards higher centrality and influence in their (then minority) Christian communities, assisted by the web of Roman civitates. ‘Ignatius and Polycarp’, if followed, would guide leading clerics to interact translocally as peers, to represent their city churches and perceive their ‘episcopal’ rank. The Traditio would lead bishops (and others) to stand out in their congregations as ritualizing social hubs. The Didascalia would urge bishops to command charity, judgement, forgiveness, and exegesis while relying on assistants to mediate in-town connections. Modelling with these texts does not prove how clerics acted. Rather it showcases social strategies, which were also deployed by various (non-Christian) Roman-era experts, but which suited different urban church contexts. It helps us to envision how an unusual pattern of ‘holy’ leadership, which would outlast classical patterns 2

Burtchaell, From Synagogue to Church, chs 1–4, summarizes confessionalist (sixteenth- to twentieth-century) scholarship. 3 See Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople. 4 For Ignatius, Epistulae, and Polycarp, Epistula (Ep.) ad Philippianos I use the text of the short recension, in Lightfoot’s edition, reproduced in The Apostolic Fathers, ed. by Ehrman. For the Traditio apostolica, Latin version, I use Hippolyte de Rome, La Tradition apostolique, ed. and trans. by Botte; for Sahidic and Ethiopic versions, I rely on the translations of Bradshaw, Johnson, and Philips, The Apostolic Tradition. For Didascalia apostolorum (Didascalia), Latin fragments, I use Didascalia apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly. For the Syriac version, I use Connolly’s translation, checked against Didascalia apostolorum Syriace, ed. by de Lagarde.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

17

of civic life, arose in part from the social geography of Roman cities in the Antonine and Severan periods.5

Modelling Guidance from ‘Pericanonical’ Christian Texts (160–248 ce) We begin with a question: why model social interactions with these texts? The Ignatius-Polycarp correspondence, the Traditio, and the Didascalia exemplify a significant form of second- and third-century Christian writing: pericanonical collections. Scholars have scrutinized textual canons and their Romanera use, but they have theorized less about extracanonical teaching texts.6 For Christians, however, pericanonical works mattered for their practical guidance and modifiability. The second- and third-century Roman world hosted arrays of would-be experts, who sustained knowledge, skills, ideals, and networks by distributing guiding texts.7 These texts took various forms, such as lists of (debated) rulings, doctrinal summae, and curated rhetorical examples.8 Some were canonized.9 Others were open to modification or complete invention.10 Famously second-century Christians crafted their two-testament Bible, whose process of assembly and publication remains debated.11 But beyond Scripture, Christians circulated ‘pericanonical’ apostolic collections. This category features more than texts of disputed canonicity.12 It includes works that early authors questioned but favourably quoted.13 It also encompasses ‘valid’ 5

See Kim and McLaughlin, introduction to this volume, on the persistence of bishops’ urban associations even amid urban decline or transformation. 6 See Hägg, ‘Canon Formation’; Athanassiadi, ‘Canonizing Platonism’. Beyond canon formation, Stroumsa, The Scriptural Universe, explored performative habits linked to canons. 7 See König and Woolf, Authority and Expertise, esp. chs 1, 2, 4, 11, 13, 14. 8 Debated rulings: e.g. the Mishnah. Doctrinal summae: e.g. Alcinous, Didascalicus (On Plato’s teachings). Rhetorical examples: e.g. The Ten Attic Orators. 9 E.g. The Canon of Ten Attic Orators; see Smith, ‘A New Look. 10 E.g. the Corpus hermeticum by second-century Egyptian priests. See Fowden, The Egyptian Hermes. 11 For competing views, see Campenhausen, Formation of the Christian Bible; Metzger, The Canon of the New Testament; Trobisch, The First Edition, esp. pp. 8–76. 12 Disputed texts abound beyond and within the current New Testament: e.g. Peter, John, Jude, James, i Clement, Apocalypse of Peter, Revelation, and Hermas. Irenaeus quoted Hermas and Apocalypse of Peter. Clement of Alexandra employed Hermas, Barnabas, and i Clement. 13 Clement of Alexandria drew from Gospel of the Hebrews and Gospel of the Egyptians

18

Adam M. Schor

texts that fourth-century writers distinguished from heretical works,14 and even some widely condemned works that retained influence.15 What marked texts as pericanonical were authorizing linkages to apostles; thus, Christians reattributed texts to apostolic associates,16 or gave anonymous works fresh attributions.17 New Testament entries were (eventually) assigned to just eight authors.18 Pericanonical texts, however, merely required plausible linkage to an apostle or even an apostolic companion. Pericanonical works benefited second- and third-century Christian experts. They detailed clerical roles, which Scripture outlined only vaguely (in the Pastoral Letters),19 or indirectly through non-clerical exemplars. When existing works lacked the desired guidance, they could be modified without enraging self-appointed guardians of the canon. Pericanonical authors lent apostolic credibility to fighting ‘heretics’.20 They informed Biblical exegesis.21 Crucially, they helped to ‘trace’ apostolic succession.22 Sometimes pericanonical works supported would-be experts other than clerics. ‘Apocryphal’ acts of the apos(Stromateis iii. 13). Origen drew from Gospel of Peter (Commentarium (Comm.) in Matthaeum x. 17). Both deployed unwritten sayings, sometimes labelled as scriptural (Clement, Stromateis i. 28; Origen, Comm. in Matthaeum xvii. 31). Both also used i Clement, Barnabas, and Hermas; Origen deployed the Didache. See Metzger, The Canon of the New Testament, pp. 130–41. 14 Eusebius (Eus.), Historia ecclesiastica (HE) iii. 25, classes James, Jude, ii Peter, Revelation, and Hebrews as ‘ἀντιλεγομένων’ (disputed); Apocalypse of Peter, Hermas, Barnabas, Didache, and Acts of Paul as ‘νόθοις’ (rejected) but respected. Rufinus, Expositio symboli apostolorum 36–38, ed. by Simonetti, labels Hermas, Didache, and Judgment of Peter as ‘ecclesiasticos’ (ecclesiastical). He still translated the ‘apocryphal’ Pseudo-Clementine Recognitiones. 15 Acts of Paul and Thecla inspired Gregory of Nazianzus’s stay at her shrine. 16 Hegesippus (summarized by Eus., HE ii. 23) ascribed the Letter of Barnabas to Paul’s companion (Acts 9–15); Origen, Comm. in Ioannem vi. 36, equated the author of i Clement with Paul’s ‘fellow labourer’ (Philippians 4. 3). 17 The author of Hebrews was identified as Luke, Clement, or Paul (Eus., HE vi. 20, 25, quoting Gaius of Rome, Clement of Alexandria, and Origen). 18 See Trobisch, The First Edition, esp. pp. 59–62. 19 i Timothy 2. 12 forbade women teachers; 3. 2 advised appointing episkopoi skilled at teaching; 5. 17 envisioned presbyteroi teaching. The Pastoral Letters never forbade other male teachers. 20 To counter Marcion, Irenaeus cited Polycarp’s activities (Adversus Haereses iii. 3). To confront Christians we might call Judaizers, the Didascalia specified inapplicable Jewish laws (Didascalia 26, pp. 115–16 = Latin 56–58). 21 On Paul’s comments on circumcision, Origen used Barnabas (Comm. in Romanos ii. 13. 21, ii. 13. 28). On Luke 12’s ‘adversary’, he deployed Hermas (Hom. in Lucam xxxv. 3). 22 Irenaeus relied on Polycarp as a bridge to the Apostle John.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

19

tles celebrated characters in ways that glorified new itinerants (Acts of Judas Thomas) or female ascetics (Acts of Paul and Thecla). Some martyrdom acta touted the capacities of laymen and female catechumens, above those of clerics.23 Still, clerics valued pericanonical works, which they kept in libraries and continued to modify beyond the fourth century. Our first pericanonical text of interest is Ignatius’s and Polycarp’s correspondence — not the (much disputed) originals,24 but the later corpus. Perhaps Polycarp gathered Ignatian letters; perhaps others played editorial roles. By the third century, Christians circulated a text in which Polycarp’s entry introduced seven by Ignatius.25 Meanwhile, both men gained credentials. Irenaeus considered Polycarp ‘instructed by the apostles’, above all John, and ‘[one who] gave testimony most gloriously and most nobly when he exited this life’.26 Origen (via Rufinus) termed Ignatius ‘one of the holy ones’ and Peter’s successor in Antioch.27 Later, two martyrdom tales were added — long after the letters were validated by the authors’ reported self-sacrifice.28 Then there were writings supposedly by ‘the apostles’: the Traditio apostol­ ica and Didascalia apostolorum.29 The Traditio, as noted, instructed clerics in ritual. Fixing the text, however, is problematic. Lost in Greek, it exists in Latin, Sahidic, Arabic, and Ethiopic translations. No author is named.30 Attribution 23 Laymen-martyrs: Acta Scilllitanorum martyrorum. For two female catechumens (adored by a bishop), see Passio sanctarum Perpetuae et Felicitatis. 24 Source-critical debates are voluminous. Recently Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, chs 1, 5–7, argued that all seven letters known to Eusebius (HE iii.  36) were authentically Ignatius’s, c. 130–40 ce. Barnes, ‘The Date of Ignatius’, argued for the 140s, based on Ignatius’s apparent refutation of Ptolemaeus’s Sige myth (crafted in the 130s). 25 On Polycarp’s editorial role, and whether Ignatius’s Letter to Romans was originally included, see Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, ch. 6. For arguments that Polycarp’s entry combines two letters, see Harrison, Polycarp’s Two Epistles, esp. pp. 15–17. 26 Irenaeus, Adversus haereses iii. 3. 4, ed. by Rousseau and Doutreleau, pp. 38–44: ‘ab apostolis edoctus’ and ‘gloriossissime et nobilissime martyrium faciens exiuit de hac vita’. 27 Origen, Comm. in Canticum Canticorum, prologue 2.36, ed. by Brésard, p. 116: ‘aliquem sanctorum’. 28 Acta Polycarpi endured modifications before Eusebius’s summary (HE iv. 15) and after. The traditional 160s dating was persuasively challenged by Moss’s ‘On the Dating of Polycarp’. Acta  Ignatii (which follows the letters in the tenth-century Codex Colbertinus) postdates Eusebius (he did not know of it; it dramatizes his chronological guesses). 29 Both texts drew on the Didache, as quasi-apostolic summary teaching. 30 Only some versions (e.g. Sahidic) feature ‘apostolic’ in the title. Ch. 43 refers to ‘Tradition of the Apostles’, which may mean its general content.

Adam M. Schor

20

to Hippolytus of Rome may merely reflect later efforts to validate the work.31 Scholars have debated the text’s layering, dating, and locale. Many propose 200–230 ce (excepting a few interpolations); some posit an original secondcentury core. 32 Most concur that by 240 the Traditio circulated in Rome, Alexandria, and beyond, touted inconsistently as ‘apostolic’. The Didascalia, by contrast, simulated guidance from the apostles. The text outlined expectations for lay Christians and each clerical rank, frequently backed by Scripture. Also lost in Greek (though that version was adapted to form the Greek Apostolic Constitutions), it survives in Syriac and, fragmentarily, in Latin. It seems to have one (urban Syrian) author.33 Dating is difficult, but quotations from most New Testament books and the concern for only localized persecution suggest 180–249 ce.34 Still, the text pretends that it was written in Jerusalem circa 40 ce by a council of apostles.35 These three pericanonical texts are suited to support our modelling of the social relations of clerics who enacted them. As documents, letters and church orders remain unreliable, and they cannot prove how specific clerics acted. What our modelling can do is take templates of social interaction and envision the likely consequences for clerics who repeated them.

31

Döllinger, Hippolytus und Kallistus, assigned the Traditio to a sole Hippolytus based on (1) its links to a work called Canons of Hippolytus; (2) the (undated) inscription possibly commemorating a ‘Hippolytus’ listing two of his works, ‘Concerning Charisms’ and ‘Apostolic Tradition’; (3) Constitutiones apostolorum viii with its chapter ‘Concerning Charisms’ followed by modifications of the Traditio; (4) The Refutatio criticizing Callistus of Rome (210s ce) long attributed to ‘Hippolytus’. On efforts to posit two or more Hippolyti, see Brent, Hippolytus and the Roman Church in the Third Century, chs 1–6. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, introduction, question all reconstructions of ‘Hippolytan’ authorship. 32 Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 13–15. See below for why I set aside this claim. 33 Syrian context is marked by Aramaicisms. See Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. lxxxvii–xci; see also Fonrobert, ‘The Didascalia Apostolorum’. 34 Didascalia 19 notes persecutions as localized and haphazard. See Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. xc. 35 See Didascalia 24–26. The pretence builds on Acts 15, in which an ‘apostolic’ gathering deals with disputes over whether gentile converts had to follow all of Jewish law.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

21

Modelling the Ignatius­Polycarp Corpus: Bishop as Peer­Networked Representative We begin with Polycarp and Ignatius. Most scholars have taken their letters as evidence (authentic or falsified) for empowered bishops.36 By contrast, our modelling treats the corpus as exemplary guidance for clerics to represent communities translocally. Those leading clerics who paid heed would join a peer network that affirmed their rank, even if others challenged it. First, we must state our assumptions. Let us suppose that our ‘middle recension’ of Ignatius and Polycarp matches what Origen used in the 230s, and Eusebius later summarized.37 This text began with Polycarp’s Letter to Philippians. Next came Ignatius’s Letters to Ephesians, To Magnesians, and To Trallians (from Smyrna). His Letter to Romans, was, we assume, included.38 Then came letters To Philadelphians and To Smyrneans (from Troas), and finally his note To Polycarp. Polycarp’s letter to Philippi introduces Ignatius, while presenting its author as an exemplary church representative. Polycarp labels himself one of several presbyters, but the author still stands out. He writes under his name for Smyrna’s church. He touts shared texts and teachings.39 Polycarp exchanges authenticated letters of Ignatius and promises to send them to Syria. Finally, he celebrates three recent examples of ‘ὑπομονὴν’ (endurance), including Ignatius, to inspire presbyters and lay Christians to unite.40 Graph 2.1 features a diagram of this letter’s inherent social acts — the directional linkages that the text recounted (as completed in the past), embodied (in its present), or urged purported recipients to complete themselves (in its future). Whether or not Polycarp and his addressees historically engaged in these interactions, what we see here — a leading cleric sharing teachings and martyrdom news translocally — made a template replicable by later readers. The first letter of Ignatius, then, assigns such clerical networking to ‘bishops’. In Letter to Ephesians, Ignatius writes as travelling prisoner, seeking ‘to obtain the 36 On debates over the authenticity of Ignatius and his ‘bishops’, see Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, chs 1, 5–7. 37 Origen, Comm. in Canticum Canticorum, prologue 2.36; Eus., HE iii. 36. This supposition is likely, given the usual stability of textual ordering, but presently unverifiable. 38 If including Romans seems unwarranted, modelling without it has minimal effect on the larger picture in Graph 2.3. 39 Polycarp, Ep. ad Philippianos 2, 7–8, ed. by Ehrman, pp. 334, 342–44. 40 Polycarp, Ep. ad Philippianos 9, 13, ed. by Ehrman, pp. 344, 350. On this forwarding, see Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, ch. 6.

Adam M. Schor

22

Graph 2.1. Interactions recounted, embodied, or requested in Polycarp’s Letter to the Philippians. Drawing by the author.

privilege of fighting with the beasts at Rome’ to become a ‘disciple’. He rejoices that he was received by the Ephesian church by Onesimus and other clergymen. These clerics, we read, showcase unity by serving Onesimus the bishop and Christ. So, all Ephesian Christians must be ‘joined in one subjection […] to the episkopos, to the presbytery’, and to Christ.41 Here Ignatius never calls himself bishop. But he instructs the Ephesians theologically. He urges more frequent meetings and deeper links to the churches of Smyrna (he vouches for episkopos Polycarp) and Syria.42 Graph 2.2 diagrams the social acts recounted, embodied, or urged by this Ignatian epistle. Again, we see how the letter conjures a translocal network of clerical interaction — one now centred on ‘bishops’. Ignatius’s letters to the Magnesians and Trallians vary this template subtly. Here he recalls warm encounters with these churches’ representatives (Damas, 41 Ignatius (Ign.), Epistula (Ep.) ad Ephesios (Eph.) 1–6,  ed.  by Ehrman, pp.  218–26: ‘ἐπιτυχεῖν ἐν Ῥώμῃ θηριομαχῆσαι’; ‘μαθητὴς’; ‘ἐν μιᾷ ὐποταγῇ κατηρτισμένοι […] τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ καὶ τῷ πρεσβυτερίῳ’. 42 Ign., Ep. ad Eph. 13, 21, ed. by Ehrman, pp. 232, 240.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

23

Graph 2.2: Interactions recounted, embodied, or requested in Ignatius’s Letter to the Ephesians. Drawing by the author.

Polybius, and assistants). Though Damas is young, presbyters still yield to him as if ‘to the Father […] episkopos of all’.43 These letters deepen the call that ‘bishops’ are indispensable, an image of church unity.44 Laypeople are to do nothing without the bishop’s involvement.45 For unless they respect deacons, presbyters, and the bishop, ‘it is not called a church’.46 Meanwhile, Ignatius attacks Judaizers and heretics,47 marked above all by their separation from the bishop’s association. Ignatius’s epistle to Rome offers a different example: networking via a future martyr.48 This letter aimed to convince Christians in Rome not to hinder the prisoner’s sacrificial death. Ignatius calls himself episkopos — to separate himself 43 44 45 46 47 48

Ign., Ep. ad Magnesios (Magn.) 3, ed. by Ehrman, pp. 242–44: ‘τῷ πατρὶ […] τῷ πάντων ἐπισκόπῳ’. Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, esp. ch. 5, stresses this point. Ign., Ep. ad Magn. 7. Ign., Ep. ad Trallianos (Trall.) 3, ed. by Ehrman, p. 258: ‘ἐκκλησία οὐ καλεῖται’. Ign., Ep. ad Magn. 8–9; Ep. ad Trall. 6–11. These early texts often prefer ἅγιος to μάρτυς for those who die for God.

Adam M. Schor

24

from (executed) μαθηταῖ (disciples). The letter still encourages interconnection. It praises envoys from churches ‘not on my road in the flesh’. It introduces clerics from Smyrna and Ephesus to those of Rome.49 Broadly it recalls Polycarp’s theme: pending martyrs inspire inter-church bonding. Ignatius’s letters to Philadelphia and Smyrna further enhance the bishop’s role. Philadelphians makes the bishop prime interpreter of ‘ancient charters […] of the gospel’ or whatever ‘has been written [as in Scripture]’.50 Like the ancient kahen gadol, the new ‘ἀρχιερεὺς’ (high priest) is superior; ‘only he has been entrusted with the secrets of God’.51 Smyrneans affirms the bishop’s ritual importance. A valid Eucharist requires the bishop or ‘one whom he deputizes’, and likewise, baptism and any communal activity.52 Both letters praise translocal clerical interaction and encourage outreach to Syria’s churches.53 Yet now those who represent translocally gain new local importance. Ignatius’s letter to Polycarp closes the collection by advising one ‘bishop’ in his role. Episcopacy, we read, involves many duties, which Polycarp does well. He exhorts, sustains unity, assists everyone, offers godly wisdom, converses with congregants individually, and ‘bear[s] the sickness of all’. Ignatius tells Polycarp to ‘let nothing happen without your approval’.54 He urges Polycarp to ‘lead a most godly council meeting and ordain someone’ to visit Syria. Meanwhile he enlists Polycarp to write to churches along his planned route, to extend translocal bonds.55 The text allows that Polycarp may not perform these roles alone, yet he is now instructed to play bishop with peers and in his congregational home. The instructions, offered to Polycarp, would equally address any leading cleric of later decades who sought to play such a role. What, then, do Polycarp’s and Ignatius’s letters tell us when read as social guidance? Each entry conjures its own social scene. Graph 2.3 sums up all the 49

Ign., Ep. ad Romanos 9–10, ed. by Ehrman, pp. 280–82: ‘μὴ προσήκουσαι μοι τῇ ὁδῷ τῇ κατὰ σάρκα’. Ignatius’s Romans never names leaders of Rome’s church. Perhaps Rome had no ‘bishop’ at the time, or perhaps author and editors were unfamiliar with the city’s clerics then. 50 Ign., Ep. ad Philadelphios (Philad.) 8, ed. by Ehrman, p. 290: ‘τοῖς ἀρχείοις […] ἐν τῷ εὐαγγελίῳ’; ‘γέγραπται’. 51 Ign., Ep. ad Philad. 9, ed. by Ehrman, p. 292: ‘ὃς μόνος πεπίστευται τὰ κρυπτὰ τοῦ θεοῦ’. 52 Ign., Ep. ad Smyrneaos (Symrn.) 8, ed. by Ehrman, pp. 302–04: ‘ᾧ ἂν αὐτὸς ἐπιτρέψῃ’. 53 Ign., Ep. ad Philad. 10; Ep. ad Smyrn. 10–13. 54 Ign., Ep. ad Polycarpum (Polyc.) 1, 4,  ed.  by Ehrman, pp.  310 (‘πάντων τὰς νόσους βάσταζε’), 314 (‘μηδὲν ἄνευ γνώμης σου γινέσθω’). 55 Ign., Ep. ad Polyc. 7, 8, ed. by Ehrman, pp. 318–20: ‘συμβούλιον ἀγαγεῖν θεοπρεπέστατον καὶ χειροτονῆσαι τινα’.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

Graph 2.3. Summary diagram of interactions recounted, embodied, or requested in the letters of Ignatius-Polycarp. Drawing by the author.

25

Adam M. Schor

26

interactions recounted or embodied by the eight collected letters, or urged upon the addressees. We can thus see how these letters, together, trace a full template of exemplary interactions for a later clerical readership. And the power of this template intensifies if we imagine representative-clerics following it repeatedly over years. Like Ignatius and Polycarp, these clerics could connect with peers, within their region and beyond. They could visit, share texts or news of martyrdoms, and write for their congregations, and over time, such interactions would solidify webs of communication. And the participants in such translocal contacts would, in time, come to recognize each other as peers — as (indispensable) bishops. The activation of such a translocal peer network would especially matter if most Christians did not regard representatives as permanent ‘bishops’. For all its pro-bishop advocacy, this text still recognizes valid freelance teachers, prophets, and presbyters.56 No letter set, however pro-bishop, could push everyone to obey a haughty cleric. A peer network, however, could curate a new conversation. Amid indifference or criticism, it could sustain a sense that its participants were ‘bishops’.

Modelling the Traditio apostolica: Bishop as Well­Connected Ritualizer Pericanonical texts could guide leading clerics by authorial example, but they could also guide through new apostolic prescriptions, like the Traditio apos­ tolica. On the surface, the Traditio confines bishops with the involvement of presbyters, lay teachers, and ‘honorary cleric’ confessors. But modelling reveals what bishops (and perhaps other high clerics) would gain by heeding it. By leading rituals and connecting with individuals, bishops could quietly become central local Christian social hubs. Our modelling of the Traditio rests on more assumptions. Loss of the Greek means we must compare later translations.57 We must also avoid the circular reasoning of distinguishing layers by whether passages mention bishops.58 Our 56

See Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, chs 2–5. Ign., Ep ad. Philad. 5, approves ‘prophets’. He never refuses non-clerics’ right to interpret Scripture (see Ep. ad Philad. 8). As Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, pp. 32–34, notes, his demands to respect bishops are nearly always paired with demands to respect presbyters. 57 Quotations from the Traditio’s Latin version are presented in the footnotes; when only the Sahidic and other versions are available, quotations come from Bradshaw, Johnson, and Philips, The Apostolic Tradition (with Greek loanwords noted in the footnotes when present). 58 See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 14–15.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

27

material comes mostly from the Sahidic (through Bradshaw, Johnson, and Philips’s translation) and Latin versions, but we heed these scholars’ valuation of other versions for certain chapters.59 We assume that, excepting a few interpolations, the Greek circulated in Rome and Alexandria by the 230s. The Traditio offers ritual instructions for a church, which it marks into subgroups. It distinguishes laypeople from catechumens by sustained separation,60 and it segments a ‘clergy’ off from the laity. The text posits assemblies managed by deacons and presbyters. One official episkopos, meanwhile, approves all sacred activity.61 And yet, the Traditio shows ambivalence about bishops’ capacities. An instance of this ambivalence is found in its staging for ordination of bishops. The Council of Nicaea later ordered bishops to consecrate other bishops.62 This practice appears in the extant Traditio — as an awkward interpolation.63 In the third-century edition, the evidence suggests, congregants led the process by ‘electing’ the bishop and praying for the Holy Spirit. Then presbyters (probably) laid hands on the bishop-to-be.64 The Traditio mostly avoids exalting the bishop; it marks his slightly higher status not by peer affirmation but through ordination by the whole community. Ambivalence about bishops’ powers continues as the Traditio directs other ordinations. New presbyters are ordained similarly to bishops: ‘Let the bishop lay a hand on his head, with the presbyters also touching him’. Then the bishop publicly prays, ‘according to what was […] said above about ordaining a bishop’.65 59

With Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, I follow the Latin chs 4–5 and Ethiopic ch. 22. I concur that ch. 29 B–C, originally stood as chs 24–25. I exclude chs 39–40 as later expansions of ch. 34. 60 Traditio 19, 26–27, 37. 61 Traditio 2–3, 7–8. 62 Council of Nicaea, canon 4. 63 Traditio 2, ed.  by Botte, p. 42: the Latin mentions the laying-on of hands and a prayer by ‘quibus unus de praesentibus episcopis’ (one of the bishops who are present), on Sunday after the bishop’s election. The parallel text in Sahidic, Arabic, and Ethiopic only mentions presbyters and deacons (Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 24–25), relegating bishops to a subordinate clause. Radcliff, ‘Apostolic Tradition’, argued that this indicated an original in which presbyters and deacons consecrate. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 26–27, concur. 64 Walls, ‘The Latin Version’, p. 159, asserts that ‘let the presbytery stand by, keeping still’ in the Latin suggests an editor was correcting a prior version that directed presbyters to lay hands on the new bishop. 65 Traditio 7,  ed.  by Botte, p.  56. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic

28

Adam M. Schor

Ordaining deacons differs: while presbyters still stand with the bishop, only he prays and lays hands on diaconal candidates. ‘For [the deacon] is not a participant in the counsel of the clergy […] and does not receive the common Spirit of the presbyterate’.66 Complete ordination is apparently reserved for presbyters and bishops. Other selection rituals in the Traditio reinforce a narrow clergy. Readers are ‘appointed’ by handing them the ‘book of the Apostle’ and praying. Subdeacons are ‘named’.67 The Traditio never calls subdeacons or readers clerics, any more than it does widows and virgins. In one respect, the Traditio expands the clergy: it recognizes some confessors as honorary elders. ‘The confessor, if he was in bonds […] shall not have hand laid on him for the diaconate or presbyterate […]; he [already] has the honour’. These confessors do not appear numerous. And only some qualify, based on type of suffering.68 In any case, honouring confessors did not mean accepting their primacy. No one, we read, should serve as bishop unless elected and ordained.69 Including these honorary elders reinforces the distance between presbyters and lesser ranks, while (slightly) multiplying the bishop’s consultants.70 The Traditio’s narrowing of ‘the clergy’ has a corollary: its church rituals rely more on deacons and laypeople. Such reliance is revealed, for instance, in the conversion of newcomers. The Traditio directs visitors to ‘teachers’, who could be laypeople.71 These teachers autonomously interview and morally instruct Tradition, pp. 56–57: ‘inponat manum super caput eius episcopus, contingentibus etiam praesbyteris’; ‘sicut praediximus […] super episcopum’. 66 Traditio 8,  ed.  by Botte, p.  60. See Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 60–61: ‘Non est enim particeps consilii in clero, […] non accipiens communem praesbyteri spiritum’. 67 Traditio 11, 13. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 74–75, 78–79 (trans. from Sahidic version). The Sahidic preserves Greek loanwords for these terms: ‘καθίσταναι’ (to appoint) and ‘ὀνομάζειν’ (to name). 68 Traditio 9 (from Sahidic version) honours imprisonment or legal condemnation above revilement or house arrest. 69 Traditio 9. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 68–69 (from Sahidic version). 70 Healers also need no appointment; ‘the deed itself will reveal […] truth’. Traditio 14; Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 80–81 (from Sahidic version). 71 Traditio 15. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, p. 82 (from Sahidic version). See also Traditio 19: ‘Whether a cleric is the one who teaches, or a layperson, let him act the same way’. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, p. 102 (from Sahidic version).

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

29

newcomers, and they judge if a newcomer ‘has a demon’, requiring purification. They query each newcomer’s ‘crafts and deeds’, and they explain which pursuits must be abandoned. Teachers can even affirm or disallow those with unusual careers, ‘for we all have the Spirit of God’.72 As baptism approaches, teachers question the candidates. Teachers and sponsors conduct daily exorcisms. While clerics could preach to catechumens or exorcise them, prebaptism preparations require little direct clerical contact.73 Where the Traditio highlights bishops’ capacities is in staging pivotal moments, such as the baptismal rite. A few days before the ceremony the bishop performs an exorcism. The day before, he takes charge of the baptismal cohort, ‘seals’ them, and instructs them through a fasting vigil. In the morning, after water is prepared, the bishop blesses oil for ‘thanksgiving’ and for ‘exorcism’. Two deacons (and probably a presbyter) now assist.74 The bishop leads the baptisand to immersion, with a deacon immersing alongside.75 This deacon queries the baptisand to elicit his confession of faith, then the bishop lays hands on the baptisand for final blessing and seals with oil of thanksgiving. Later, once deacons bring forth all the neophytes’ offerings, the bishop dispenses blessed foods and prays that each of them ‘live uprightly, occupied with the church […] doing the things that he learned’.76 Thus, newcomers experience their liminal moment by sudden attention from the bishop. The Traditio also posits bishops’ capacities in Eucharistic directions. To consecrate the Host, the bishop calls all clerics before the assembly. Deacons bring the bread offering, on which the presbyters and bishop lay hands. The bishop leads a call-and-response thanksgiving, followed by a doctrinally rich prayer. He alone asks for the Holy Spirit.77 In distributing the Host, the bishop again 72

Traditio 16–17. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 88–97 (from Sahidic version). 73 Traditio 18–20 (Sahidic version). Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 108–09, argue that the absence of bishops here reflects an earlier stratum, where a presbyter took the lead. 74 Traditio 19–20. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 102–05 (from Sahidic version). The Sahidic preserves Greek loanwords σφραγίζειν (to seal), εὐχαριστία (thanksgiving), and ἐξορκισμός (exorcism). Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, p. 137, argue (unconvincingly) that the presbyter’s presence is a fourth-century interpolation. 75 Extant versions sometimes feature ‘bishop or presbyter’. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 108, 124, see a later interpolation accommodating parish presbyters. 76 Traditio 21. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 112–23 (from Sahidic version). 77 Traditio 4.1–2, 4.3–11, 4.12–13 (Sahidic version).

Adam M. Schor

30

leads.78 Presbyters assist with breaking the bread. But the bishop should ‘deliver [the Host] to all […] by his own hand’;79 only if that proves impractical should deacons distribute. The Traditio’s final sections mark the relative expertise of clerical ranks and their ritual unity. We read about clerical attendance at feasts. As noted above, bishops are preferred because they teach (the full group of attendees); presbyters and deacons only bless. We read of first fruits, which the bishop alone selectively blesses.80 And we read about visiting the sick. Deacons collect information to prepare for the bishop’s visit: ‘For the sick are consoled when they see their high priest [Sahidic: archiereus]’.81 The clerical ranks are not cast as an army. But deacons are told to serve the bishop, presbyters to stay near him, and laypeople to follow their ‘counsel’.82 Troubles arise when ‘leaders’ ignore the ‘purpose of the Apostles’, but do ‘things that they desire, not those that are proper’.83 That purpose seems to include bishops’ ritual primacy. What, then, does modelling with the Traditio tell us? It cannot prove how real rituals proceeded. But its prescriptions appear practical and unlikely to court objections — they never tout episcopal supremacy but include presbyters, deacons, lay teachers, and confessors. We could thus envision bishops or other clerics borrowing from the Traditio with little ado. And yet, simulating the long-term impact of following the Traditio gives counterintuitive results: a bishop with unrivalled local church connectivity. Graph 2.4 sums up all the social interactions that the clerics are told to perform (repeatedly) as part of baptism, the Eucharist, ordinations, sacred meals, blessings, sick visits, and other rites, with other clerics and congregants. The diagram thus simulates some likely effects upon the social positioning of the participants. This text, we have seen, features some signals of a collective clerical leadership wider than the bishop. Over time, its template of guidance would lead presbyters, unless otherwise divided, to form thickets of bonds with the bishop and each other, as a central clique. But a bishop who followed all the advised social interactions would 78

Traditio 22, which appears only in Ethiopic, but a variation arises in the Canons of Hippolytus. Traditio 22. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 136–37 (from Ethiopic version). 80 Traditio 31, lists thirteen species worth blessing. 81 Traditio 34. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 176–77 (from Sahidic version). 82 Traditio 34, 39, 43.2. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, pp. 176–77, 188– 89, 216 (from Sahidic version). The Sahidic preserves the Greek loanword ‘συμβουλεύειν’ (to give counsel). 83 Traditio 43.3. Bradshaw, Johnson, and Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition, p. 222 (from Sahidic version). The Sahidic preserves the Greek loanwords ‘προιστάναι’ (leaders), ‘προαίρεσις’ (purpose), and ‘πρἐπειν’ (to do what is proper). 79

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

31

Graph 2.4. Summary diagram of ritual interactions advised by Traditio apostolica (and repeated over three years). Drawing by the author.

gain more connectivity, from constant work with deacons, readers, subdeacons, and teachers. In time, given his role in every ordination, he could place favourites as presbyters and assistants. Thus, a bishop who followed the Traditio’s instructions would tend to become the clergy’s unequalled social hub. The bishop who heeded the Traditio’s guidance would also tend to gain centrality across his congregation. The bishop might bond with laypeople by leading group rituals, distributing the Eucharist, and blessing offerings. He could gain deeper ties, though, through ritualized interactions. Each visit to the sick or needy would involve at least a triad: ill/needy person, deacon, and bishop. Each baptism would involve at least a pentad: baptisand, lay sponsor, teacher, deacon (perhaps presbyter), and bishop. Over time, these memorable bonding moments would multiply. Deacons, presbyters, and lay assistants would share in these moments, but no one would join in as many as the bishop. A bishop who followed the Traditio, then, would tend to accrue direct links to active members. Such positioning does not equate to formal authority.84 The 84

See Kadushin, Understanding Social Networks, ch. 7, regarding mismatches between hierarchy and connectivity rank.

Adam M. Schor

32

Traditio is vague about who really chooses ordinands or delineates teachings.85 It says little about translocal networking. Nevertheless, the most central cleric would have the most chances to suggest names, channel donations, present teachings, and call allies during conflicts.

Modelling the Didascalia apostolorum: Bishop as Clerical Executive So far, we have seen pericanonical texts provide authorial exemplars and ritual directions. The Didascalia pursued a broader programme: outlining all Christian roles as apostolic directive. This text aggrandizes bishops’ expertise to encompass financial, judicial, penitential, and exegetical matters. It casts bishops as commanders, whom other clerics must obey. And yet, following its advice would have mixed effects. By our modelling, the bishop would remain central but stand out from assistants only through his asymmetrical bonds. Modelling with the Didascalia demands fewer assumptions than it does with the prior texts. We rely on the Syriac,86 the Latin fragments supplied by Hugh Connolly, along with Connolly’s skilful translation.87 We assume a single (urban Syrian) author, and (as scholars generally see) little to no interpolation. Finally, we assume that the text found use in at least some Syrian towns by the mid-third century. The Didascalia demands obedience to an (idiosyncratic) clerical order, constructed via analogies. In one analogy, clerics resemble leaders of the Exodus. Bishops match to Moses the ‘mouth of God’. Deacons align with Aaron his spokesman, while presbyters go unmentioned.88 In another analogy, clerics resemble Israelite priestly ranks. The Didascalia calls bishops the new ‘primi sacerdotes’ (high priests). Except its new ‘Levitae’ (Levites; originally: priests and Levites)89 are ‘deacons, presbyters, widows and orphans’.90 The grandest analogy fits clerics to ontological levels of holiness. It likens bishops to God the 85

The Traditio never specifies how far the bishop or presbyters should control appointments or expenditures. It never fully delimits teachers’ autonomy (15–18, Sahidic version). It tolerates confessors leading prayers in a strange manner, so long as they are not heretical (9, Sahidic version). 86 Didascalia apostolorum syriace, ed. by de Lagarde. 87 Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly. 88 Didascalia 9, p. 38 (Syriac only). 89 Didascalia 9, p. 36 = Latin 25. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 87. The Syriac has kahane wa­lewiye; the Latin, just Levitae. Perhaps the Latin translator avoided sacerdos because by 350 ce that term usually connoted ‘bishop’. 90 Didascalia 9, p. 36 = Latin 25. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 87: ‘diacones, praesbyteri, uiduae et orfani’.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

33

Father, deacons to Christ, and deaconesses to the Holy Spirit.91 Here presbyters equate to (mere) apostles.92 Despite variations, all three analogies exalt bishops, bind them to diaconal assistants, and demote presbyters. These analogies, however, merely highlight the Didascalia’s overall message that bishops’ capacities call for obedience. ‘You, bishops, […] are to your people priests, prophets, princes, leaders and kings, mediators between God and His faithful, receivers and preachers of the Word, experts in the Scriptures and utterances of God, witnesses to His will, who bear the sins of all and shall answer for all’.93 Not only does a bishop ‘proceed in place of the Almighty’, he is ‘[the laypeople’s] father after God’.94 Scholars have noted the Didascalia’s framing of bishops as household managers, fathers, and rulers.95 Yet the contrast with the Traditio’s and Ignatius’s more collaborative figure is striking. Why does the Didascalia exalt bishops? Partly it aims to justify their financial support: ‘Because you [bishops] have taken up the burden of all, the fruits which you receive from all the people shall be yours, for all that you need’. 96 Each rank’s ‘portion’ marks its honour relative to the lay needy. Thus, whatever a widow receives, ‘let double be given to each of the deacons’. Presbyters and readers get the same as deacons. But the bishop gets ‘four times’ the widow’s portion.97 Tellingly all clerics receive through the bishop’s hands. If full-time support marks ‘professionalization’, the Didascalia’s bishop and assistants qualify.98 Yet the Didascalia’s rhetoric does more than justify bishops’ salaries; it outlines their command in multiple spheres. One such sphere is charity. Bishops or deacons collect tithes, first fruits, and offerings. Bishops then judge if gifts are acceptable. If donations are impure, we read, even ‘a widow […] can91

Didascalia 9, p. 36 = Latin 25. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 89. Syriac ruha (spirit) is morphologically feminine. See Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. lxxviii. 92 Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, pp. 105–08, argues that the Didascalia drew on Ignatius’s Letter to Magnesians 6, while misconstruing Ignatius’s point. 93 Didascalia 8, p. 32 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 80 (trans. from Syriac version). 94 Didascalia 9, p. 36 = Latin 25: ‘Hic locum Dei sequens’; ‘post Deum […] pater’. 95 Schöllgen, Die Anfänge der Professionalisierung, esp. pp. 127–45. See also Young, ‘The Apostolic Constitutions’; Young, ‘Ministerial Forms and Functions’. 96 Didascalia 8, p. 33 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 83 (from Syriac version). 97 Didascalia 9, p. 37 = Latin 26. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 89: ‘duplum dabitur singulis diaconibus’; ‘quadruplum’. 98 See Schöllgen, Die Anfänge der Professionalisierung, esp. pp. 81–87, 116–45.

Adam M. Schor

34

not offer her ministry or her intercession’.99 Meanwhile, bishops decide who deserves alms. They must approve supported widows. They must oversee orphans, even adoptees.100 The Didascalia urged Christians to honour confessors and refugees with refreshment, jailer bribes, and visitations. Yet again donations go through the bishop; for you (laypeople) ‘are commanded to give, but he to dispense’.101 The author tells Christians to demand ‘no account’ from the bishop as to ‘when he gives, to whom, […] or whether he gives fairly’.102 Thus the Didascalia, while it posits a large crew managing resource flows, imagines a bishop holding sway. In another sphere, the Didascalia taps bishops to head a system of justice. This role entails conducting investigations. Unlike Polycarp, the Didascalia tasks bishops to sleuth out ‘false brothers’, through whom ‘Satan never suffers peace to be in the church’.103 Deacons become the bishops’ agents, helping to find two to three agreeing witnesses.104 Bishops’ role here also entails judging. If one Christian accuses another (and cannot settle), the bishop convenes a trial. Both parties are heard, questioned, and observed in manner of life. Deacons should deliberate, but the bishop makes rulings, based on the facts and the disputants’ character. Bishops are warned to judge fairly, or face God’s sentencing.105 The author points to imperial judges as models. Yet unlike iudices, the Didascalia’s bishop’s ruling affords no earthly path of appeal.106 Amid guidance on judgement, however, the Didascalia casts the bishop as forgiver. Bishops impose penance. For basic sinners, this means ‘days of fasting, 99

Didascalia 18, pp.  75–76 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 158 (from Syriac version). 100 Didascalia 14, 17, pp. 61–62, 72–74 (Syriac only). 101 Didascalia 9, p. 42 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 98 (from Syriac version); see also 19, pp. 77–81. 102 Didascalia 9, p. 42 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 98–100 (from Syriac version). 103 Didascalia 10, p. 47 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 101–02 (from Syriac version). Polycarp’s Letter to Philippians (11, Latin only) tells the congregation to judge avaricious clerics, then forgive the repentant. 104 Didascalia 10, pp. 43–44 (Syriac only). 105 Didascalia 11, pp. 50–53 (Syriac only). 106 Didascalia 10, p. 53. The Didascalia 10, p. 47, recognizes that accusers might try ‘murmurings’ (Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 107) to win Christian support, or even turn to non-Christian authorities (11, p. 53). On imperial judicial appeals to the emperor, see Harries, Law and Empire, pp. 110–14; Tellegen-Couperus, A Short History of Roman Law, pp. 92–93.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

35

according to the offense: two or three weeks, or five or seven’.107 For pernicious ‘false brothers’, this could mean exclusion: ‘For the Lord has commanded you, bishops, not […] to communicate with him [who so errs]’.108 Yet bishops are reminded, via Ezekiel 18, of God’s forgiveness.109 The text simulates an apostolic recollection: ‘For I Matthew […] was formerly a publicanus, but now, because I believed, I have obtained mercy’.110 Even most excommunicates, we read, should ‘hear the word’.111 Like physicians, bishops must know when to employ ‘the compress of exhortation’, ‘pungent drugs’ of ‘rebuke’, the ‘violent drug’ of threatening punishments, or (after consult) amputation of ‘that putrefied member’.112 Still this text vests forgiveness only in God and bishops. ‘You have the authority to forgive sins’, it reads, ‘for you wear the face of Christ’.113 The Didascalia guides bishops to serve as supreme teachers of ‘God’s one, simple [Scriptural] Law’.114 Legal interpretation is not confined to bishops. This text, after all, addresses the laity with rules supported by Scriptural quotations.115 The Didascalia warns all Christians about heresies.116 And it tries to clarify valid Christian law, the ‘ten pronouncements [commandments] and 107

Didascalia 6, p. 20 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 52 (from Syriac version). 108 Didascalia 10, p. 44 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 102 (from Syriac version). 109 Didascalia 6, pp.  17–19  = Latin 13–16. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 45–51. 110 Didascalia 10, p. 44. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 102 (from Syriac version, slightly adapted). 111 Didascalia 10, p. 45. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 104 (from Syriac version). 112 Didascalia 10, p. 45 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 104–05 (from Syriac version). 113 Didascalia 7, p.  26  = Latin 19 (Syriac only for first half of passage). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 64 (from Syriac version): ‘Christi vultum portans’; vultum was probably originally Greek πρόσωπον. 114 Didascalia 1, p. 2 = Latin 2. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 2: ‘una lex […] sinplex’. 115 Especially ‘negative’ golden rule, marital continence. Didascalia 1–3, pp. 2–9 = Latin 2–9. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 5–31. 116 Didascalia 23, p. 102, summarized orthodoxy: ‘[to] worship God almighty and Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit […] [to] employ the Holy Scriptures and believe in resurrection of the dead’. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 204 (from Syriac version). Some sections assume the Father superior to the Son (e.g. 9, p. 36) and do not treat this as controversial.

Adam M. Schor

36

judgments’,117 as opposed to ‘secondary legislation’, extra precepts supposedly imposed on Jews as punishment for the Golden Calf.118 In these respects, the text represents manifest apostolic teaching. Nevertheless, the Didascalia endorses the bishop as arbiter of teaching. When selecting an episkopos, it calls for an ‘assiduous teacher’, who interprets Scripture, ‘so that the sayings of the Law and Prophets may be in accord with the Gospel’. But his prime expertise was as ‘discriminator between the Law and the secondary legislation’.119 The Didascalia mentions no teacher but the bishop. The only other permitted preachers are visiting bishops.120 Finally, the Didascalia casts bishops as not just ritualizers, but rulers. It stages rituals sparsely. For baptism, its urges bishops to direct, though they may delegate blessings.121 For the Eucharist, it allows just bishops to consecrate,122 while deacons guard the oblation and distribute portions.123 The Didascalia dwells longer on the arrangement of people at assembly. Here men separate from women, and clergy from laity. Entry is checked by deacons and deaconesses, who query and usher in men and women, respectively. Presbyters are honoured with a crescent of seats on the east side. The bishop is placed in the middle of this crescent, either by the altar or on a throne.124 This vision of assembly stages the bishop as monarch. In fact, the Didascalia’s staging exemplifies a monarchical programme, unifying the clergy to unite the church. Deacons and deaconesses appear as the bishop’s workhorses. They ‘imitate the bishop in interactions’ and follow 117

Didascalia 26, pp.  107–08  = Latin 49. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 219–20: ‘decalogus et iudicia’. Iudicia apparently indicates precepts following the Decalogue in Exodus. 118 Didascalia 26, p. 110 = Latin 51. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 227–29: ‘secundationis legis’. Secundatio legis was probably originally Greek δευτερῶσις νόμος. Such secondary precepts include continual sacrifice (26, p. 109 = Latin 50) and ritual exclusion of menstruating women (26, pp. 115–18 = Latin 57). 119 Didascalia 4, p. 12 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 34 (from Syriac version). 120 Didascalia 12, p. 58. 121 Didascalia 16, p. 71: ‘Anoint […] those receiving baptism […] afterwards — whether you baptize or command deacons and presbyters to baptize, let a deaconess […] anoint the women’. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 146–48 (from Syriac version). 122 Only a visiting bishop may share, e.g. by blessing the cup. 123 Didascalia 12, pp. 57–58. 124 Didascalia 12, pp. 56–58.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

37

Graph 2.5. Summary diagram of interactions advised by Didascalia apostolorum (and repeated over three years). Drawing by the author.

‘orders’. They must ‘be [his] ear, mouth, heart, and soul’.125 Lower assistants obey equally, while presbyters passively lend the bishop an aura of authority.126 From non-clerics, the Didascalia expects silent deference. Widows it values for effective prayers but suspects as gossipy grumblers.127 Confessors it respects — as fortunate ordinary Christians forgiven their sins.128 The Didascalia’s clergy show unity with the bishop, so the laity will follow. ‘Through agreement [of the clerics]’, we read, ‘there will be peace also in the church’.129 125 Didascalia 15–16, pp. 71–72 = Latin 35–36. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 149–530: ‘sint in actibus similis episcopis suis’; ‘iussionem’. Didascalia 11, p. 48 (Syriac only). Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 109 (from Syriac version). 126 The brief mention of presbyters as proxy baptizers (Didascalia 16, p. 71) may be interpolated. 127 Didascalia 15, pp. 63–66 = Latin 31–34. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, pp. 135–41. 128 Didascalia 19, pp. 80–81. 129 Didascalia 11, p. 48. Didascalia Apostolorum, ed. and trans. by Connolly, p. 109 (from Syriac version).

Adam M. Schor

38

The Didascalia imagines authoritative bishops, but what social effects would arise if its advice was enacted? Graph 2.5 sums up the social interactions that this text tells bishops and other clerics to perform (repeatedly) in rituals, judicial processes, charity work, legal instruction, and other duties. Some results of following this template are intuitive: any bishop who enlisted clerical support for broad operations would gain centrality. Whenever he prayed or preached, he could bond with the whole community. Whenever he accepted and dispensed charity, or forgave sinners, he could enhance personal attachments. Meanwhile, delegation would place deacons and deaconesses (and their assistants) in tight webs of both asymmetrical and peer linkages. Following the Didascalia, however, would not give the bishop unrivalled connectivity. Generally, in our modelling, a bishop following this text’s template would hold only slightly higher closeness centrality (i.e. a smaller sum of social distances to all other members of the network) than his pastoral assistants. The bishop’s asymmetrical bonds to other clerics and to congregants mark his importance, but they equally reflect his delegation of tasks to deacons and deaconesses, and his less intense interactions with laypeople. The text asserts that only God can judge the bishop.130 Yet this implies the tacit judgements that congregants assuredly made. Such patterns of judgement might indicate the relative social isolation of the bishop according to this textual vision. Ultimately, the Didascalia calls bishops to act as multi-sphere experts by enlisting deacons and deaconesses to serve as eyes and hands. The presbyters that co-claim expertise in other early texts are here sidelined. Yet the cost of this command structure would be social webs less dependent solely on bishops, and more centred on an episcopal-diaconal clique.

Pericanonical Clerical Guidance in its Roman­Era Urban Contexts Our modelling has showcased potential consequences if clerics heeded three pericanonical texts, but can we go beyond these texts to explore how episkopoi won support? We cannot use these (few) works to posit universal clerical developments. We can, however, view them as vehicles for communicating social strategies suited to certain regional urban imperial contexts. The corpus of Ignatius and Polycarp associates with Aegean Anatolia, a second-century imperial crossroads. Aegean cities saw intense interest from Italian elites drawn to their classical past, sophists, and oracles. Imperial patronage 130

Didascalia 9, p. 41.

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

39

encouraged these cities to compete for honours through buildings and cultural sponsorship. Meanwhile imperial structures (including the imperial cult) drew these cities to interact mutually and with Rome.131 Christian circles had inhabited some Aegean cities for decades. They had not attracted many civic elites, but they had multiplied urban circles across the region. This segmented web supported freelance teachers, confessors, presbyterial groups, ‘new prophets’, and other would-be experts.132 The guidance of Ignatius and Polycarp makes sense as social strategy in Aegean churches of the later second century. 133 Here singular clerics rarely stood out as experts, but some travelled or wrote for their congregations. By heeding Ignatius, they could follow the interurban array and build peer networks with other ‘bishops’, regardless of their local backing. Slightly later sources confirm solidification of the Aegean episcopal web. Eusebius quoted letters from a 180s synod of bishops of Asia province, explaining their dating of Easter, joining a multiregional dispute.134 What local support these bishops held remains unclear. Their peer networking, however, not only affirmed their status regionally but further extended ‘episcopal’ discourse.135 The Traditio’s strategy suited a different context: Severan-era megacity churches. This text, we recall, circulated in Rome and Alexandria. Both were enormous cities, requiring supply systems spanning vast landscapes. Both also required endless immigration (not just after epidemics or imperial brutalization).136 Quickened shipping and migration turned Rome and Alexandria into more cosmopolitan centres. It also created an atomized society, ripe for various experts seeking support. By 200 ce both cities hosted some Christian communities too large to fully assemble. By then, each megacity 131

On Roman interactions with Aegean cities, see Woolf, ‘Becoming Roman, Staying Greek’. For Aegean civic links to the imperial cult, see Burrell, Neokoroi, esp. part 1, and Price, Rituals and Power. 132 Eus., HE v. 14–20. 133 Scholars have linked Ignatius to Aegean interurban relations. Brent, The Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order, esp. pp. 210–50, and Brent, Ignatius of Antioch, esp. chs 3–4, cast these letters as contra-cultural response to civic elites’ imperial cult participation. But this was one of several interactional settings that could have inspired clerics. 134 See Eus. HE v. 24, though Eusebius often adds episcopal titles. 135 Irenaeus, Adversus haereses iii. 3. 4, refers to ‘Bishop’ Polycarp (c. 180 ce). Eus., HE v. 24 quotes Polycrates, who mentions bishops of several regions and cities in Anatolia and Syria. Clerics in Rome apparently resisted this trend. When Irenaeus wrote to Rome, he addressed its ‘πρεσβύτεροι οἱ προστάντες’ (presiding presbyters), quoted by Eus., HE v. 24. 14. 136 On Caracalla’s brutalizing of Alexandrians, see Cassius Dio, Historia Romana 78.22–23.

40

Adam M. Schor

had at least one ‘bishop’, but his expert standing was constrained by ‘parish’ presbyters,137 incoming teachers, and pending martyrs. The Traditio’s advice makes sense within the megacities because it guided clerics towards connectedness. The Traditio is not set in a large city with parishes. However, both bishops and parish presbyters could use its directions to cooperate with clerics and bond with congregants. The ideal of small-group unity might even motivate clerics to intensify their labours. Use in Rome or Alexandria, moreover, could readily spread to North Africa and Upper Egypt (whose churches left marks on surviving translations) and beyond.138 The Didascalia’s strategy responds to its context, urban Syria of the Severan era (or shortly thereafter). The third century brought Syria rapid changes, as emperors graced its cities with new patronage. This combined with conquests, annexations, and demographic expansion to integrate the region deeper into imperial systems.139 By the 220s, Christians’ presence in Syria was old, dispersed, and varied.140 Some circles were culturally proximate to sizable Jewish communities; others held to Marcion’s views, anti-marriage asceticism, or secret gnosis. The ‘great church’, which Eusebius linked to bishops, was clearly present, but it overlapped other Christian groupings.141 The Didascalia’s strategy addressed a large congregation. Its full-time clerics, paid via charitable redistribution, could only function in sizable communities. The text allows that a bishop might not bond personally with every congregant. Yet rather than subdivide into parishes, its clerics manage the whole cooperatively, intervening in more facets of Christian life. The Didascalia’s strategy also countered ‘Jewish’/‘Judaizing’ expert-rivals. Contrasts with Jews were standard Christian fare, but this text shows unusual proximity to active Jewish communities.142 Indeed, it precisely challenges rab137 Bishop Cornelius (251–52 ce) (quoted by Eus., HE vi. 43) summarized Rome’s clergy, with forty-six (mostly parish) presbyters and seven deacons. 138 Bouhot, La Confirmation, pp. 38–45, noted the Traditio’s baptismal rites’ similarities to those in Tertullian, De baptismo (from N. Africa). The surviving Sahidic may reflect early use in Upper Egypt. 139 On the imperial-led cultural Romanization of third-century Syria, see Andrade, Syrian Identity, esp. pp. 316–24. On demographic expansion, see Tchalenko, Villages antiques de la Syrie du Nord; Tate, Les Campagnes. 140 On sparse material evidence for Christians in third-century Syria, see MacMullen, The Second Church, pp. 1–10, 118–23. 141 See Eus., HE iv. 24, iv. 30, v. 22. 142 Repeatedly Didascalia calls Jews ‘the people’ (Syriac: ‘ama). Rabbinic Jews self-identified as ‘am, contrasted with pl. ‘amim (e.g. Mishnah Berachot 4. 4; Avot 6. 10, Yoma 4. 2).

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

41

binic pursuit of God’s ‘secondary legislation’ with Christian halachah.143 The Didascalia attacks teachings we might label ‘Marcionite’ or ‘encratite’. Its biggest concern, though, remains ‘Judaizing’ Christians, enticed or inclined to follow extra laws.144 Its answer is obedience to one interpreter, encouraged by support signals from other clerics. It is tempting to assemble from these texts (dated roughly sequentially) a storyline for the rise of bishops. First, by this storyline, bishops spread their rank consciousness peer-to-peer from the Aegean outwards (150–80 ce); then, they accumulated local bonds via rituals (180–220 ce); finally, they used their social centrality to organize clerics to operate in diverse spheres. Assuredly this storyline oversimplifies. These texts remain imprecisely dated, and they cannot indicate how far circulators enacted them, or how much they were resisted. The strategies of these texts, however, point towards two observations. First, these strategies are nothing unique to clerics, but are found among other contemporary experts. Translocal peer networking enabled sophists’ transformation from localized Aegean circles into ‘schools’ that reached Rome and multiple regions.145 Ritual bonding found use among the Isis priests and upstart prophets mocked by satirists, and all the priesthoods that interwove rites with elite socialization.146 Broadened operations (and cooperation) arose among jurists, who went from textbook writing to public posts to assembling ‘codes’.147 Mainly, non-clerical experts differed from our texts’ strategies by their pursuit of imperial patronage. While some Christians sought such patronage (e.g. Origen), these texts denigrate involvement with imperial authority.148 Second, though these strategies were common, leading clerics were well placed to combine them. Clerics could play ‘bishop’ with translocal contacts 143

Fonrobert, ‘The Didascalia Apostolorum’. Zellentin, The Qur'an’s Legal Culture, argued that the Didascalia targeted a fixed community boasting ‘Judeo-Christian legal culture’, equally evident in Pseudo-Clementine texts. A nebulous tendency strikes me as equally likely. 145 These ‘schools’ were in fact looser patronage networks, as made partly visible in the letters of (imperially supported) Fronto. Yet later writers (e.g. Aulus Gellius, Philostratus) could recast them as vessels of specific ‘Attic’ traditions. See Eshleman, The Social World of Intellectuals in the Roman Empire, esp. ch. 4. See also Whitmarsh, The Second Sophistic, esp. chs 1–2. 146 Apuleius, Metamorphoses xi. 16–30; Lucian, Alexander 26–27, 38–39. For elite priesthoods, see Rüpke, From Jupiter to Christ, pp. 83–103, 233–53; Rüpke, Religion of the Romans, esp. pp. 205–35; Cameron, The Last Pagans of Rome, pp. 14–31, 132–72. 147 On jurists through the Severan era, see Harries, ‘Iurisperiti’. 148 Traditio 16 calls to exclude newcomers who organized corrupting amenities or held military authority. Didascalia 18, pp. 74–76, urges rejecting donations tainted by improper gains. 144

Adam M. Schor

42

without initiating rituals. They might bond through local rituals without tapping translocal peers. But distant contacts and ritual leadership could mutually reinforce, forming a (non-coercive) expert performance. But too large a congregation, too close to rivals, would strain this performance. A bishop thus might try to convert influence into command. Peer networking and ritual leadership strategies could then reinforce and spread this commanding role. And the lack of imperial patronage might reduce the elevation of new favourites that could disrupt social relations. With or without textual guidance, bishops did enact combinations of these strategies. A dispersed peer network, fitted to Roman cities, spread the notion of (sole) bishops and their claim to be apostolic successors.149 By the mid-third century, some bishops held enough multi-sphere control that writers (e.g. Origen) criticized them as corrupt or haughty.150 Our texts cannot prove how this web of bishops solidified, but modelling with these texts highlights some plausible historical processes linking the ‘rise of bishops’ to certain socio-historical settings. Aegean civic networks, the megacities of Rome and Alexandria, and the towns of Syria underwent diverse transformations across late antique centuries.151 But bishops sustained claims to holy capacities within their assigned cities. Abstract modelling helps us to envision how the role of ‘city bishop’ could have drawn on a few specific Antonine and Severan-era civic patterns as it took form.

149

See Cyprian, Epistulae e.g. 33, 57, 59, 72. Origen, Comm. in Matthaeum xi.  15; see also Hom. in Genesim xvi.  6. See also ‘Hippolytus’, Refutatio omnium haeresium ix. 2, 6–7. 151 See Kim and McLaughlin, introduction to this volume. 150

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

43

Works Cited Primary Sources Didascalia Apostolorum: The Syriac Version Translated and Accompanied by the Verona Latin Fragments, with an Introduction and Notes, ed. and trans. by R. Hugh Connolly (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1929) Didascalia apostolorum syriace, [ed. by Paul de Lagarde] (Leipzig: Teubner, 1854) Ignatius of Antioch, Epistulae, in The Apostolic Fathers, vol. i, ed. and trans. by Bart D. Ehrman, Loeb Classical Library, 24 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014), pp. 218–322 Irenaeus of Lyons, Adversus haereses (Latin version), in Contre les hérésies, ed. and trans. by Adelin Rousseau and Louis Doutreleau, 5 vols, Sources Chrétiennes, 100, 153, 210, 263, 293 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1965–2002) Mishnah (Vilna: Romm, 1913) accessed at Sefaria, Origen, Commentarium in Canticum Canticorum, in Commentaire sur le Cantique des Cantiques, ed. by Luc Brésard, trans. by Henri Crouzel, 2 vols, Sources Chrétiennes, 375, 376 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1991–92) Polycarp of Smyrna, Epistula ad Philippianos, in The Apostolic Fathers, vol. i, ed. and trans. by Bart D. Ehrman, Loeb Classical Library, 24 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2014) pp. 332–55 Rufinus, Expositio symboli apostolorum, in Opera, ed. by Manlio Simonetti, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 20 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1961) Traditio apostolica, in Hippolyte de Rome, La tradition apostolique, ed. and trans. by Bernard Botte, Sources Chrétiennes, 11 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1946)

Secondary Works Andrade, Nathanael J., Syrian Identity in the Greco­Roman World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) Athanassiadi, Polymnia, ‘Canonizing Platonism: The Fetters of Iamblichus’, in Canon and Canonicity: The Formation and Use of Scripture, ed. by Einar Thomassen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2010), pp. 129–42 Barnes, Timothy D., ‘The Date of Ignatius’, Expository Times, 120 (2008), 119–30 Bouhot, Jean.-Pierre, La Confirmation, sacrement de la communion ecclésiale (Lyons: Éditions du Chalet, 1968) Bradshaw, Paul, Maxwell Johnson, and L. Edward Phillips, The Apostolic Tradition: A Com­ mentary, Hermeneia (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2012) Brent, Allen, Hippolytus and the Roman Church in the Third Century: Communities in Tension before the Emergence of a Monarch­Bishop, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, 31 (Leiden: Brill, 1995) —— , Ignatius of Antioch: A Martyr Bishop and the Origin of the Episcopacy (New York: T&T Clark, 2007)

44

Adam M. Schor

—— , The  Imperial Cult and the Development of Church Order: Concepts and Images of Authority in Paganism and Early Christianity before the Age of Cyprian, Supplements to Vigiliae Christianae, 45 (Leiden: Brill, 1999) Burrell, Barbara, Neokoroi: Greek Cities and Roman Emperors, Cincinnati Classical Studies, n.s., 9 (Leiden: Brill, 2004) Burtchaell, James Tunstead, From Synagogue to Church: Public Services and Offices in the Earliest Christian Communities (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992) Cameron, Alan, The Last Pagans of Rome (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011) Campenhausen, Hans von, Formation of the Christian Bible, trans. by John Austin Baker (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1972) Döllinger, Johann Joseph Ignatius von, Hippolytus und Kallistus (Regensburg: G. J. Manz, 1853) Eshleman, Kendra, The Social World of Intellectuals in the Roman Empire: Sophists, Philosophers, and Christians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012) Fonrobert, Charlotte, ‘The Didascalia Apostolorum: A Mishnah for the Disciples of Jesus’, Journal of Early Christian Studies, 9 (2001), 483–509 Fowden, Garth, The Egyptian Hermes: A  Historical Approach to the Late Pagan Mind (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993) Hägg, Tomas, ‘Canon Formation in Greek Literary Culture’, in Canon and Canonicity: The Formation and Use of Scripture, ed. by Einar Thomassen (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, 2010), pp. 109–28 Harries, Jill, ‘Iurisperiti: Men Skilled in Law’, in Authority and Expertise in Ancient Scientific Culture, ed. by Jason König and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 82–106 —— , Law and Empire in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999) Harrison, Pearcy N., Polycarp’s Two Epistles to the Philippians (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1936) Kadushin, Charles, Understanding Social Networks: Theories, Concepts, and Findings (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012) König, Jason, and Greg Woolf, eds, Authority and Expertise in Ancient Scientific Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) MacMullen, Ramsay, The Second Church: Popular Christianity, a.d. 200–400 (Atlanta: Society for Biblical Literature, 2009) Metzger, Bruce, The Canon of the New Testament: Its Origin, Development, and Significance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1987) Moss, Candida, ‘On the Dating of Polycarp: Rethinking the Place of the Martyrdom of Polycarp in the History of Christianity’, Early Christianity, 1.4 (2010), 539–74 Price, Simon, Rituals and Power: The Roman Imperial Cult in Asia Minor (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984) Radcliff, Edward, ‘Apostolic Tradition: Questions Concerning the Appointment of a Bishop’, Studia Patristica, 8 (1966), 266–70 Rüpke, Jörg, From Jupiter to Christ: On the History of Religion in the Roman  Imperial Period (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014)

Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops

45

—— , Religion of the Romans, trans. by Richard Gordon (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2007) Schöllgen, Georg, Die Anfänge der Professionalisierung des Kerus und das kirchliche Amt in der syrischen Didaskalie, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum Ergäzungsband, 26 (Münster: Aschendorffsche Verlagsbuchhandlung, 1998) Smith, R.  M., ‘A  New Look at the Canon of the Ten Attic Orators’, Mnemosyne, 48 (1995), 66–79 Stroumsa, Guy, The Scriptural Universe of Ancient Christianity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2016) Tate, Georges, Les Campagnes de la Syrie du Nord, Bibliothèque archéologique et historique, 133 (Paris: Presses de l’Ifpo, 1992) Tchalenko, Georges, Villages antiques de la Syrie du Nord: Le Massif du Bélus a l’époque romaine, Bibliothèque archéologique et historique, 50 (Paris: Institut français d’archéologie de Beyrouth, 1953) Tellegen-Couperus, Olga, A Short History of Roman Law (London: Routledge, 1993) Trobisch, David, The First Edition of the New Testament (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) Van Dam, Raymond, Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2010) Walls, Andrew F., ‘The Latin Version of Hippolytus’ Apostolic Tradition’, Studia Patristica, 3 (1961), 155–62 Whitmarsh, Tim, The Second Sophistic (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) Woolf, Greg, ‘Becoming Roman, Staying Greek: Culture, Identity and the Civilizing Process in the Roman East’, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, 40 (1994), 116–43 Young, Frances, ‘The Apostolic Constitutions: A  Methodological Case Study’, Studia Patristica, 36 (2001), 105–15 —— , ‘Ministerial Forms and Functions in the Church Communities of the Greek Fathers’, in Community Formation in the Early Church and the Church Today, ed. by Richard N. Longnecker (Peabody, MA: Hendrickson, 2002), pp. 157–76 Zellentin, Holger Michael, The The Qur'an’s Legal Culture: The Didascalia Apostolorum as a Point of Departure (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013)

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers Lisa Kaaren Bailey Pontifex loci cum omni populo devote hoc vellet excipere, inimicus humani generis per satellites suos egit, ut precium mundi repellerent nec in civitatem recipere vellent, qualiter beata Radegundis tribulationibus subiaceret. The bishop of that place should have wished to welcome it [the relic] with all the people, but the Enemy of mankind, to subject the blessed Radegund to trials and tribulations, worked through his satellites to make the people reject the world’s ransom and refuse to receive it in the city.1

R

adegund would become Poitiers’s most famous saint: a former queen who fled her husband, defied reluctant bishops, and became an ascetic. She chose Poitiers as the location in which to found her monastery, brought to it a fragment of the Holy Cross relic, as a gift from the imperial couple in Constantinople, and left behind a cult which survives to the present day. In doing all of this, however, Radegund acted independently from, and in some instances in direct defiance of, the existing structures of leadership and power within the city. Her actions, therefore, represented a profound challenge to other forms of authority in Poitiers, and her monastery became an enclosed community within, but inaccessible to, the wider city. Her example shows that saints could pose problems for cities, especially when they could not be comfortably accommodated within male civic space. 1

Baudonivia, Life of Radegund 16, ed. by Krusch, p. 388. Translations are my own.

Lisa Kaaren Bailey is Associate Professor in Classics and History at the University of Auckland. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 47–62 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118157

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

48

This chapter takes inspiration from Raymond  Van Dam’s 1985 book, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, a work which explored the vulnerability of power, the tensions within small communities, and the complicating role of gender in the emergence of local forms of authority in Late Antiquity.2 For the purposes of this chapter, I will focus on two episodes of conflict over leadership and community in Poitiers involving Radegund and her monastery. The first took place in 569, when Radegund sought to bring a fragment of the Holy Cross into the city and have it installed in her community. The Bishop of Poitiers, Maroveus, refused to preside over this ritual, and Radegund went over his head, using her royal connections to ensure that the relic was installed with all due ceremony. The story of this event was depicted by subsequent sources as a failure of male leadership, which forced Radegund to step into the breach. It seems likely, however, that Maroveus perceived Radegund’s enclosed community as a threat or rival to the broader civic Christian community over which he presided. Unusually, in this case it is the male episcopal perspective which has been elided, and Radegund’s subsequent sainthood has ensured that Maroveus is now remembered as one in a list of powerful men who tried and failed to stop her from following her divinely approved path.3 The second conflict has been remembered rather differently. This episode was a rebellion by some of the nuns in the Holy Cross community, which took place in 589, a couple of years after Radegund’s death. The abbess Agnes, whom Radegund had appointed, had died not long after the saint, and the new abbess, Leubovera (possibly Maroveus’s candidate), seems to have been an unpopular appointment. Several prominent nuns, of royal descent themselves, laid complaint against Leubovera and tried to get her deposed, but when these efforts were rebuffed, the situation escalated to violence with surprising rapidity and eventually involved attacks both on the abbess and on the clergy of the city. This, on the face of it, seems a very different kind of conflict, but in fact, many of the same issues were at stake. The rivals battled over the legacy of Radegund and embroiled the city of Poitiers and its spaces in their struggles. Once again, gendered leadership and the boundaries of community proved to be particular flashpoints. Our main sources on Radegund, and on the events which took place after her death, represent efforts to control how she would be subsequently remembered, an especially important project given that her authority was contested and challenged in her lifetime. The revolt by nuns from her com2

Van Dam, Leadership and Community. However, for a relatively sympathetic view of Maroveus, see Mineau, ‘Un évêque de Poitiers au vie siècle’. 3

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers

49

munity a few years after her death represented another (though less successful) working out of her disruptive legacy. In both instances, the relationship between saint and city was to the fore, and both need to be considered together as part of this story. The events of both conflicts were set firmly against and in the landscape of the city, so our discussion requires some knowledge of its contours. Roman Poitiers had acquired a range of monumental structures in the second century, most located on the highest point of the defensible promontory which formed the centre of the town, but with a set of baths further out to the north and an amphitheatre to the south.4 The second century was the town’s peak, and the zone of urbanization may have extended as far as the amphitheatre — it even took over from Bordeaux as regional capital at some point.5 Its wall was built sometime after the end of the third century. This enclosed a smaller area than had been inhabited previously, but was still of considerable size, perhaps around 42 hectares, and densely populated. 6 By the Merovingian period, Poitiers was a centre of considerable activity as it moved between the rule of different Frankish kings and served as the power base for some important local officials. It was never a royal capital, but it was a city of significance and may have hoped for more. Christianity protruded visibly upon this landscape at an early point. The group of episcopal buildings was established in the fourth century, in a slightly peripheral region but firmly situated within the city walls. 7 The baptistery associated with this complex is one of the few early Christian buildings still standing in France, and the entire complex, which eventually included a bishop’s residence and a xenodochium, constituted a substantial claim on urban space by the Merovingian period.8 These would have been the centres of public religious ritual in late antique and early medieval Poitiers. 4

Maurin, Topographie chrétienne des cités de la Gaule, pp. 73–74; Hiernard, ‘La Topographie historique de Poitiers dans l’antiquité’, p. 177; Nicolini and Papinot, ‘Poitiers’, p. 628. On the natural geography of the city, see Hiernard, ‘La Topographie historique de Poitiers dans l’antiquité’, pp. 170–71. 5 Maurin, Topographie chrétienne des cités de la Gaule, pp. 74–76. 6 Maurin, Topographie chrétienne des cités de la Gaule, p. 76; Hiernard ‘La Topographie historique de Poitiers dans l’antiquité’, pp. 176, 181; Nicolini and Papinot, ‘Poitiers’, p. 628. 7 Note, however, the rather depressing summary of missed archaeological opportunities in Poitiers in Hiernard, ‘La Topographie historique de Poitiers dans l’antiquité’, pp. 164–66. 8 Maurin, Topographie chrétienne des cités de la Gaule, pp. 80–81; Reynaud, ‘Reflexions sur le baptistere de Poitiers’, pp. 159–61. There is some controversy about the exact dating of the

50

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

The city’s initial claim to Christian fame, however, rested on its association with Hilary, who was Bishop of Poitiers in the mid-fourth century and a prominent figure in the theological and political struggle against Arianism. When Hilary died in 368, he had been buried in a graveyard beyond the city’s walls, and at some point, perhaps in the fifth century, a basilica was built over his tomb. Gregory of Tours describes Clovis as encouraged in his fight against the Arian Goths by a pillar of fire which rose from Hilary’s church as the Frankish army approached the city, indicating that it was a prominent landmark.9 This basilica contained the tombs of other notables, who wished to be buried near the saint, including that of Theomastus, a Bishop of Mainz. ‘De quo tumulo erasus a multis pulvis et haustus’ (Dust scraped from this tomb by many people and then drunk), Gregory noted, ‘ita dolori dentium febriumque medetur, ut qui hauserit miretur effectum. Nam ita haec benedictio assiduae expetitur, ut iam in uno loco sarcofagum appareat transforatum’ (heals toothache and fever so well that anyone who drinks it marvels at the effect. This blessing is sought so assiduously that already in one place the sarcophagus appears to be worn through).10 The practice of burial ad sanctos thereby multiplied the sacred powers accessible in this location, and by the mid- sixth century it also housed a community of monks.11 The fame of Hilary’s church, however, was eclipsed after 557 when the former Frankish queen Radegund founded her monastery just within the city walls and a short distance from the cathedral complex. If Hilary represented the male, intellectual, episcopal, and public face of the city, Radegund represented something very different: an enclosed and self-authorizing woman who used her wealth and royal connections to circumvent the authority of the local bishop, and who would obtain a truly impressive relic, which she had installed in her monastery, not in any of the existing churches of Poitiers. The complex of buildings which made up the monastery created a religious site to which lay people had only very limited access. Radegund adopted the Regula virginalis of Caesarius of Arles, which insisted on enclosure for the nuns and strict regulation of access to sacred areas by outsiders.12 This nunnery was therefore both baptistery, which is not mentioned in literary sources until the tenth century, but most scholars now argue that it is fourth or fifth century in origin. For a different view, see Hubert, ‘Le Baptistère de Poitiers’. 9 Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History ii. 36. 10 Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors 52, ed. by Krusch, p. 329. 11 Baudonivia, Life of Radegund 27. 12 On the adoption of this strict enclosure, see Rosenwein, Negotiating Space, pp. 52–57.

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers

51

an asset to the city — as the site of a holy relic, and the foundation of a woman subsequently considered to be a saint — and a challenge, as an enclosed female community within the city, relatively impervious to male authority. This created profound tensions, with eventually violent results. Despite its assets, Poitiers must have felt like an also-ran to Tours. The Poitevins had claimed the body of Martin after his death, telling the Turonici, ‘Noster est monachus, nobis abba extetit, nos requiremus commendatum’ (As a monk, he is ours, he became an abbot among us, we ask that you give back the one we deposited with you).13 The men of Tours, however, simply stole the saint’s body and put it on a boat for their city. The scene captures for us how important such a relic would have been to a town’s fate — Poitiers never became the pilgrimage site it could have been, had its citizens been a little more ruthless. Instead, the city of Poitiers had to grapple with a less dramatic and popular bishop-saint, in the form of Hilary, and an apparently popular and dramatic, but problematic female saint, in the form of Radegund, who had important roles both as a living figure and as a contested memory after her death. The story of Radegund’s life and the disruption of her community subsequently is told to us in three texts. The first Life of Radegund was written soon after her death in 587 by her dear friend and frequent correspondent, Venantius Fortunatus.14 This Life worked hard to establish that Radegund was a saint, making no mention of her dispute with Maroveus, Bishop of Poitiers, and concentrating instead on her defiance of her husband’s authority, in her desire to live an ascetic life. It was an exercise in determined memory-making, an effort to control Radegund’s reputation at a time when this may well still have been uncertain.15 Venantius carefully avoided any details around her relationship with the bishop which might have been sensitive or controversial in the immediate aftermath of her death.16 This was discretely politic, on the part of a man who would himself become Bishop of Poitiers towards the end of his life. Baudonivia, who was a nun in Radegund’s community and who wrote her Life of Radegund as a continuation of Venantius’s, was nonetheless not 13

Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History i. 48, ed. by Krusch, p. 32. On Venantius, see Brennan, ‘The Career of Venantius Fortunatus’ and George, Venantius Fortunatus. The dating of his Life of Radegund is uncertain, but see the brief comments in Venantius Fortunatus, Opera Pedestria, ed. by Krusch, pp.  xvi–xvii. On  Venantius’s Life of Radegund, see Coates, ‘Regendering Radegund?’, esp. pp. 37–42; Effros, ‘Images of Sanctity’; Kitchen, Saints’ Lives and the Rhetoric of Gender, pp. 115–24. 15 Brennan, ‘St Radegund and the Early Development’, p. 350. 16 Kitchen, Saints’ Lives and the Rhetoric of Gender, p. 121. 14

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

52

as restrained.17 Her account painted Maroveus in a black light, although she refrained from attacking him directly or by name. Not many years had passed since Radegund’s death, but much had happened, and her memory needed further attention. The revolt of the nuns, although unmentioned, hangs over this text. After the violent events which had transpired, Baudonivia sought to remind her readers that this was a holy community, founded by a holy woman. The Life repeatedly associated Radegund with her community and with the famous relic she had brought to it. This saint was not the heroic solo ascetic of Venantius’s version, but the centre of a community of women, to whom she acted as a mother. Radegund was presented as a model of proper female leadership. Moreover, Baudonivia also took care to present her as a saint benefiting the city as a whole. She included tales of miracles performed for travellers, locals, and nuns both in the monastery itself and at Radegund’s tomb, which was outside the enclosed area and therefore more accessible to the public.18 The Holy Cross fragment itself, meanwhile, was presented as a boon to the whole city. ‘Quisquis a quacumque infirmitate detentus ex fide venerit, per virtutem sanctae crucis sanus redit’ (Anyone who comes in faith, whatever the infirmity that binds them, goes away healed by the virtue of the Holy Cross). Indeed, Baudonivia insisted, this was a benefit available to all in Poitiers. ‘Quis queat dicere, quantum et quale donum huic urbi beata contulit?’ (Who could attempt to tell the greatness and richness of the gift the blessed woman conferred on this city?).19 These two versions of Radegund’s life already told this aspect of her story in markedly different ways, for their own reasons. Gregory of Tours provided a third perspective, different again. He was a contemporary of Radegund, presided at her funeral, and became involved in settling the revolt within her community. He wrote episodic accounts of these various events in his Ten Books of History, a vast work telling the history of the world from the perspective of sixth-century Francia. His account of Radegund and her nunnery, crucially, was not sequential. Instead, most of our information about Radegund’s life, and her acquisition of the Holy Cross relic, was given to his readers as back story for his account of the subsequent revolt of the nuns. Important letters to and from Radegund during her lifetime were quoted in full by Gregory in order to make points about 17

On the dating of Baudonivia’s Life, see Brennan, ‘St  Radegund and the Early Development’, p.  343 n. 17. On the Life in general, see Coates, ‘Regendering Radegund?’, pp. 42–44; Coudanne, ‘Baudonivie, moniale de Sainte-Croix’, pp. 45–51; Kitchen, Saints’ Lives and the Rhetoric of Gender, pp. 134–53. 18 Baudonivia, Life of Radegund 15, 16, 25, 28. 19 Baudonivia, Life of Radegund 16, ed. by Krusch, p. 389.

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers

53

the iniquity of this revolt and the improper actions of those involved in it. The revolt therefore entirely shaped Gregory’s account of Radegund’s life. His version of the saint served to exculpate her and to place the blame upon a failure of male leadership, which finally resulted in a violent breakdown of the community. His Radegund was also a markedly popular figure: ‘Quae orationibus, ieiuniis atque elymosinis praedita, in tantum emicuit, ut magna in populis haberetur’ (Gifted in prayers, fasts, and almsgiving, she became so famous for these that the people regarded her as a great woman).20 Gregory told the story of a possessed man who came to the nunnery to be cured by the relic of the cross, and who received his cure despite his presumed inability to get direct access to it.21 Gregory, like Baudonivia, and to a lesser extent Venantius, was defending the nunnery against any implications of exclusivity. These repeated protestations should, in themselves, raise the suspicions of a historian. Inaccessibility was a problem for the city and for the saint’s relationship with it. The first crisis of leadership derived from Radegund’s attempt to bring the relic of the Holy Cross into her community in 569. Radegund had used her personal royal connections to obtain this relic, writing letters and sending ambassadors to Constantinople of her own accord.22 If Mineau’s timeline is correct, Maroveus would already have been bishop by the time of these endeavours, but we get no indication in our sources of his attitude before the relic arrived in Gaul.23 Gregory of Tours, who gave the fullest account, made repeatedly clear in his works that he believed relics could only be obtained by those who deserved them, and for Radegund to seek out, obtain, and therefore deserve such a high-status relic as a fragment of the cross stood for him as a clear indication of God’s approval.24 He also depicted Radegund as immaculate in her deference to male authority, seeking the permission of the king before making her request, and asking Maroveus, as her local bishop, to install the relic once it arrived. Maroveus’s refusal to do so therefore stood, in Gregory’s depiction, as an act of pettiness. As Gregory put it, ‘Sed ille dispiciens suggestionem eius, ascensis aequitibus, villae se contulit’ (He rejected her suggestion; he climbed on his horse and went off to his villa). Radegund’s response, in 20

Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History iii. 7, ed. by Krusch, p. 105. Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History vi. 29. For other miracles performed by the cross, according to Gregory, see Glory of the Martyrs 5. 22 On these efforts, see the detailed study of Moreira, ‘Provisatrix optima’. 23 Mineau, ‘Un évêque de Poitiers au vie siècle’. 24 This is also clear in his brief account of the acquisition of the cross, and subsequent miracles it performed, in Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs 5. 21

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

54

Gregory’s telling, was to continue in her deference to male authority, writing to King Sigibert and begging him to deputize another bishop, which he duly did. ‘Qui cum clericis suis Pectavo accedens, cum grandi psallentium et caereorum micantium ac thymiamatis apparatu sancta pignora, absente loci episcopo, in monastirium detulit’ (He [Eufronius, Bishop of Tours] came to Poitiers with his clergy and deposited the sacred relics in the nunnery with much chanting of psalms, with candles gleaming, and with a great burning of incense, in the absence of the bishop of the city).25 Although this episode is the centrepiece of Gregory’s account, it is bolstered by other examples in which Maroveus also failed to exercise his proper episcopal role and Radegund was forced to turn to other male authorities instead. Post haec, cum ponteficis sui saepius gratiam quaereret nec possit adipisci, necessitate commota, cum abbatissa sua, quam instituerat, Arelatensium urbem expetunt […]. reges se tuitione munierunt, scilicet quia in illum, qui pastor esse debuerat, nullam curam defensiones suae potuerant repperire.26 [Down the years [Radegund] had frequent occasion to seek the help of the bishop, but she received none, and she and the Mother Superior whom she had appointed were forced to turn instead to Arles […]. They put themselves under the protection of the king, for they roused no interest or support in the man who should have been their pastor.]

Even when Radegund died, Maroveus continued in his fit of apparent pique, according to Gregory, and had to be coerced into taking the nunnery into his care.27 He did not attend Radegund’s funeral, and Gregory himself was forced into taking on the role of presiding bishop.28 Gregory’s account of these episodes amounts to a striking attack on the conduct of Maroveus as a leader. Moreover, by placing his account of Maroveus’s actions in the middle of his explanation of the subsequent revolt, Gregory linked the revolt to Maroveus’s failure to be a proper father figure to these women right from the start. For him, the central issue in this conflict was male authority, and he did not present Radegund as undermining it in any way, but rather as the victim of a bishop who would not exert it as she wished him to. 25

Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History ix. 40, ed. by Krusch, p. 464. Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History ix. 40, ed. by Krusch, pp. 464–65. 27 For a very different take on Maroveus’s actions through these events, see Mineau ‘Un évêque de Poitiers au vie siècle’, pp. 371–72. 28 Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History ix. 40; Glory of the Confessors 104. 26

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers

55

Baudonivia’s account of the dispute between Radegund and Maroveus struck some of the same notes. In her version Radegund was still deferential to male leadership and authority, getting the proper permission from King Sigibert to seek out her relic and refusing to install it in the nunnery until she had royal sanction and a replacement bishop. Baudonivia, however, depicted Radegund as fighting the devil himself in this episode, and therefore made her defiance of Maroveus part of her sanctity. Maroveus, indeed, went unmentioned by name. Instead, Baudonivia commented: Pontifex loci cum omni populo devote hoc vellet excipere, inimicus humani generis per satellites suos egit, ut precium mundi repellerent nec in civitatem recipere vellent, qualiter beata Radegundis tribulationibus subiaceret, aliud pro alio adserentes Iudaico ordine, quod nostrum non est disserere. Ipsi viderint; Dominus novit qui sunt eius. Sed illa, spiritu fervente, animo dimicante, iterum ad benignissimum regem dirigit  […]. In quanto se cruciatu posuit, in geiuniis, in vigiliis, in profusione lacrimarum, tota congregatio sua in luctu et fletu omnibus diebus, usquequo respexit Dominus humilitatem ancillae suae, qui dedit in corde regis, ut faceret iudicium et iustitiam in medio populi?29 [The bishop of that place should have wished to welcome it [the relic] with all the people, but the Enemy of mankind, to subject the blessed Radegund to trials and tribulations, worked through his satellites to make the people reject the world’s ransom and refuse to receive it in the city. So one and another played the role of the Jews, which is not part of our story. But they would see: the Lord knows his own. Her spirit blazing in a fighting mood, she sent again to the benevolent king […]. She cast herself into agonies of fasts and vigils lamenting and wailing with her whole flock every day until at last the Lord respected his handmaid’s humility and moved the heart of the king to do judgement and justice in the midst of the people.]

This was a much more assertive and defiant depiction of Radegund’s behaviour. Here, Radegund used her authority as a religious woman to pressure male authorities until they did the right thing, and Baudonivia indicated clear divine sanction for this strategy by reciting a number of miracles which took place after the installation of the cross relic. Here, Radegund behaved as the leader of her female community, acting in their interests against the male representative of the city. Neither Gregory nor Baudonivia made any attempt to explain Maroveus’s feelings or present his perspective on the dispute, leaving plenty of space for scholarly speculation. Most straightforwardly, the conflict has been read as a power struggle between two clashing personalities, the ‘homme sévère et 29

Baudonivia, Life of Radegund 16, ed. by Krusch, pp. 388–89.

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

56

obstiné’ and the ‘headstrong and highly controversial’ former queen, who was perhaps a little lacking in tact.30 Two scholars have also, however, linked the dispute to the control of space within the city. Barbara Rosenwein has argued that Maroveus’s refusal to install the relic was linked to the novel practice of strict enclosure at Radegund’s nunnery, which meant that the fragment of the cross was off limits to most Christians in Poitiers — both clerical and lay.31 This was therefore not a cult which Maroveus as bishop could exploit to bolster his own authority, or which could easily become a focus for civic identity. If this was his motivation, it helps explain why both Gregory and Baudonivia subsequently worked hard to counteract the accusation of exclusivity and to present the relic, and the saint, as benefiting Poitiers as a whole. Brian Brennan emphasizes the threat which Radegund’s foundation may have posed to Maroveus’s authority within Poitiers in another spatial respect. He argues that the presence of the Holy Cross relic ‘was instrumental in shifting the devotional centre of the city away from the cathedral or the basilica of St Hilary’.32 Hilary’s cult was something which the city’s bishop had unambiguous control over and access to, and Brennan argues that the sources suggest some tension between these two sites of sanctity within the city.33 He points out that the penultimate chapter of Baudonivia’s work is a story about how two possessed women disrupted the vigils being held at the feast of St Hilary in his church, by clamouring, roaring, and raving. Once they followed the celebrants to Radegund’s church, however, the possessed women were cured. Baudonivia ended her telling of this tale on a note of reconciliation, stating : ‘Ad basilicam sancti viri sunt alii liberati, alii vero basilicae dominae Radegundis sunt directi, ut, sicut aequalis gratiae erant, ita aequalis et virtus ostenderetur’ (Some were liberated at the holy man’s basilica while others were brought to Lady Radegund’s basilica for, as they were equal in grace, so were they both shown equal in virtue).34 The implication, however, is clear: Radegund’s sanctity was at least equal to, and possibly greater than, the sanctity of Hilary. The enclosed woman stood alongside or even exceeded the public, intellectual, episcopal, male authority figure. 30

Mineau, ‘Un évêque de Poitiers au vie siècle’, p. 361; Brennan, ‘St Radegund and the Early Development’, p. 341; Moreira, ‘Provisatrix optima’, p. 299. 31 Rosenwein, ‘Inaccessible Cloisters and Episcopal Exemption’, p. 192. 32 Brennan, ‘St Radegund and the Early Development’, p. 346. 33 Brennan, ‘St Radegund and the Early Development’, pp. 352–54. 34 Baudonivia, Life of Radegund 27,  ed.  by Krusch, p.  394. Discussion in Brennan, ‘St Radegund and the Early Development’, p. 354.

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers

57

This conflict over leadership and authority was central to the one text in which Radegund appears to speak directly. In the course of his account of the subsequent revolt, Gregory preserved a letter which he claimed Radegund herself had written to contemporary local bishops to defend her nunnery.35 In it, Radegund made a number of gestures of humility, insisting that she was submissive in obedience to bishops and to the abbess she had appointed. Strikingly, however, this letter was essentially a statement that no external power, however constituted, should have the right to interfere with her community. Si casu post meum obitum, si quaecumque persona vel loci eiusdem pontifex seu potestas principis vel alius aliquis […] congregationem vel suasu malivolo vel inpulsu iudiciario perturbare temptaverit […] vel quasdam dominationes in monasterio vel rebus monastirii quaecumque persona vel pontifex loci, praeter quas antecessores episcopi aut alii […] ita vestra sanctitatem successorumque vestrorum post Deum pro mea supplicatione et Christi voluntate incurrat, ut, sicut praedones et spoliatores pauperum extra gratiam vestram habeantur.36 [If by chance, after my death, anyone at all, either the bishop of this place, or a magistrate of the king, or anyone else at all […] should try to disturb the community, either through some malevolent urge or judicial pressure […] or if anyone, even the bishop of the place, wishes to assert powers over the monastery or the monastery’s possessions beyond those of the previous bishop or others […] by my prayer and the will of Christ, may that person so offend your holiness and your successors in the hands of God, that they are held outside your grace, like robbers and plunderers of the poor.]

Later in the letter she called upon God, Mary, and Saints Hilary and Martin to further wreak vengeance upon anyone who interfered with the community’s property or autonomy. This was not a deferential letter. Radegund had created a sacred space which was not under male control, and which was physically separated from the city and its leaders. However Gregory and Baudonivia might later have spun things, it looks here as though Maroveus was indeed being shut out of the nunnery within his city. Radegund’s community would be self-contained, and led from within. The second episode of conflict once again involved the Holy Cross monastery and eventually drew in the city of Poitiers as a whole, but it took place after 35

There are some reasons for scepticism about whether this letter represents a verbatim copy of Radegund’s words. For example, the mention of a possible revolt by the nuns seems suspiciously prescient. However, the tone of the letter is rather different from the tone which Gregory takes about the episode, which suggests that the whole thing is not his own production. 36 Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History ix. 42, ed. by Krusch, pp. 471–72.

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

58

the deaths of both Radegund and her abbess Agnes, as the community plunged into an internal crisis over leadership. A group of discontented nuns, Gregory of Tours told his readers, rebelled against the authority of the new abbess Leubovera, accusing her of failing to treat them with the honour which their royal family backgrounds merited. According to Gregory, one of these nuns, Clotild, wanted the leadership of the community for herself. The dissident nuns initially attempted an appeal to male sources of authority: Gregory himself, as bishop of nearby Tours, and the kings whom they claimed as relations (but apparently not Maroveus, who was still Bishop of Poitiers). Subsequently, the revolt resulted in violent clashes between what Gregory describes as a criminal gang gathered around the miscreant nuns, and the clergy sent to remonstrate with them: the abbess and prioress were physically attacked, the clergy were set upon with weapons and driven off, and the situation was only settled when the local count sent in his forces. The violence gives the second conflict a very different tone and explains its subsequent notoriety. However, Gregory linked the two conflicts together. He depicted the revolt as the direct consequence of Maroveus’s failure to exert his proper male leadership, and he therefore told the story of these two episodes as confusingly intertwined threads of the same story.37 Maroveus, in Gregory’s telling, was both incompetent and delinquent in his duty to the community. The result was a complete inversion of proper order resulting in violence committed by religious women. Gregory even absolved the nuns of full responsibility for events. They, like Radegund, were depicted as victims of Maroveus’s failure, and they were presented in surprisingly sympathetic terms at some points in Gregory’s narrative.38 Leadership and community were also at the heart of this episode in other ways. The rebelling nuns seem to have tried to present themselves as the defenders of Radegund’s legacy and of her principle of enclosure. They cited the inadequate leadership of their own abbess Leubovera as one of the causes of their discontent and accused her of violating the Rule of Caesarius by admitting laypeople to the nunnery, holding parties, and playing games. Eventually, the accusations even ratcheted up to claims of sexual misconduct.39 Since Leubovera was probably Maroveus’s appointment, this could be read as another stage in 37

Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History ix. 40, ix. 43, x. 15. See for example Ten Books of History ix. 40, which places much of the blame at the feet of Maroveus and makes no critical comment about the fact that some of the nuns decided to get married. Ten Books of History x. 15, however, is far more condemning of the nuns, and in particular of the violence which they caused. 39 Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History x. 16. 38

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers

59

his argument with Radegund over how the nunnery should be run.40 Clotild and her allies may have seen or presented themselves as continuing Radegund’s efforts to shut the city’s bishop out of their community. If so, however, Gregory rejected this justification in his version of events. Instead, he cited Radegund against them, reading to Clotild, who had left the monastery to lay her complaints, a letter which reiterated Radegund’s own insistence that the nuns must be strictly enclosed. At another point Leubovera read to the rebels a letter from Radegund which insisted upon the authority of the abbess, but once again to no effect.41 The revolt only finally ended when authority over the community was, as Gregory saw it, properly restored. The bishop and the abbess, despite their mutual inadequacies, were placed back in power, and the misbehaving nuns were subdued. Gregory quoted in full the letter of episcopal judgement upon the rebels, which rejoiced in the restoration of the nunnery to its original state, and the preservation of male authority in the form of the rule of kings, the regulations of the Fathers, and the canons of the church.42 Whether inadvertently or deliberately, however, by conjoining his account of Radegund’s dispute with Maroveus and the rebellion of the nuns, Gregory created the impression that the disruption of the latter was a violent working out of the tensions over authority in the former. The rebellion almost was, in some way, the legacy of Radegund’s leadership. The episode ended, moreover, on a disconcerting note. After the episcopal judgement had been delivered, the nuns still did not give up — they took further accusations to the king and continued to agitate against their abbess.43 Male authority, even at the end, had not been completely restored. In Gregory’s telling, this conflict also had an important spatial dimension. The rebelling nuns accused their abbess of failure to keep the space of the nunnery free of secular influences coming from the city outside, complaining that she had lay visitors, allowed men inside, and even held an engagement party in the community.44 The rebels, however, engaged in their own far more egregious violations of sacred space: armed men burst into a space reserved for religious women, attacking the nuns loyal to the abbess, seizing the abbess herself, even though she had sought sanctuary in the shrine of the Holy Cross relic, and then 40 41 42 43 44

Mineau, ‘Un évêque de Poitiers au vie siècle’, p. 379. Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History ix. 42. Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History x. 16. Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History x. 20. Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History x. 16.

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

60

looting the nunnery.45 In later episodes, men were killed in front of Radegund’s tomb, and others cut down in a riot in the shrine of the cross.46 Meanwhile, the violence spilled into other parts of the city, and even into a rival religious space. Hilary’s basilica served as a place of asylum for the nuns who had fled their community in the rebellion and for their gang of accomplices, the ‘homicidis, maleficis, adulteris, fugitivis vel reliquorum criminum reis’ (murderers, criminals, adulterers, fugitives, and men guilty of all the other crimes), as Gregory of Tours memorably described them.47 Throughout this sequence of events, Gregory conveyed their horror by evoking the repeated violation of sacred space, evincing both the ideal that these spaces should be free of violence and the knowledge that this ideal did not bind the behaviour of either lay or religious people, in the heat of the moment. Nuns and armed men forced their way in and out of the nunnery and the church of Hilary in a sequence of inappropriate transitions between sacred and secular.48 The boundaries between the space of the nunnery and that of the city itself were therefore once again at the heart of this dispute. One could argue that rather than undermining Radegund’s legacy, the rebelling nuns were working out some of the consequences of her disruptive acts. These two episodes were centred on leadership and community. They played out against the landscape of the city of Poitiers but especially concerned control over the nunnery itself. In the first episode we get two interestingly different perspectives on Radegund’s conflict with Maroveus, but in the second case we unfortunately only have Gregory’s take on the fascinating revolt; Baudonivia remained discreetly silent on the events which may have taken place when she was already a nun at Holy Cross. It is striking, however, that despite their defiance of male episcopal authority, Gregory treated the nuns with some sympathy, and for both authors, Radegund was unambiguously a saint. This is not how we expect the fates of women who defy episcopal religious power to play out, but it speaks to how Radegund was able to call other unimpeachable authorities to her side, in order to defend her actually independent leadership of her community. 45

Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History x. 15. Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History x. 15. 47 Gregory of Tours, Ten Books of History x. 15, ed. by Krusch, p. 501. For other episodes of sanctuary-seeking in this church, see Ten Books of History v. 49 and ix. 40. 48 On the demarcation of spaces as sacred or secular, and the frequent violation of that demarcation, see the discussion in Bailey, Religious Worlds of the Laity, pp. 53–73. 46

Leadership and Community in Late Antique Poitiers

61

Works Cited Primary Sources Baudonivia, Life of Radegund, in Fredigarii et aliorum chronica: Vitae sanctorum, ed. by Bruno Krusch, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptorum Rerum Merovingicarum, 2 (Hanover: Hahn, 1888) Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors, in Gregorii Episcopi Turonensis Miracula et Opera Minora, ed. by Bruno Krusch, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptorum Rerum Merovingicarum, 1.2 (Hanover: Hahn, 1885) —— , Ten Books of History, in Gregorii Episcopi Turonensis Historiarum Libri X, ed. by Bruno Krusch, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptorum Rerum Merovingicarum, 1.1.1 (Hanover: Hahn, 1887) Venantius Fortunatus, Venanti Honori Clementiani Fortunati Presbyteri  Italici Opera Pedestria, ed.  by Bruno Krusch, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 4.2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1885)

Secondary Studies Bailey, Lisa, Religious Worlds of the Laity in Late Antique Gaul (London: Bloomsbury, 2016) Brennan, Brian, ‘The Career of Venantius Fortunatus’, Traditio, 41 (1985), 49–78 —— , ‘St Radegund and the Early Development of her Cult at Poitiers’, Journal of Religious History, 13 (1985), 340–54 Coates, Simon, ‘Regendering Radegund? Fortunatus, Baudonivia and the Problem of Female Sanctity in Merovingian Gaul’, Studies in Church History, 34 (1998), 37–50 Coudanne, Louise, ‘Baudonivie, moniale de Sainte-Croix et biographie de sainte Radegonde’, in Études merovingiennes: Actes de journées de Poitiers 1er–3 mai 1952 (Paris: Picard, 1953), pp. 45–51 Effros, Bonnie, ‘Images of Sanctity: Contrasting Descriptions of Radegund by Venantius Fortunatus and Gregory of Tours’, UCLA Historical Journal, 10 (1990), 38–58 George, Judith W., Venantius Fortunatus: A  Latin Poet in Merovingian Gaul (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992) Hiernard, Jean, ‘La Topographie historique de Poitiers dans l’antiquité: Bilan et perspectives’, Bulletin de la Société des Antiquaires de l’Ouest et des Musées de Poitiers, 5 (1987), 163–88 Hubert, Jean, ‘Le Baptistère de Poitiers et l’emplacement du premier groupe épiscopal’, Cahiers archéologiques, 6 (1952), 135–43 Kitchen, John, Saints’ Lives and the Rhetoric of Gender: Male and Female in Merovingian Hagiography (New York: Oxford University Press, 1998) Maurin, Louis, Topographie chrétienne des cités de la Gaule des origines au milieu de viiie sié­ cle, vol. x: Province ecclésiastique de Bordeaux (Aquitania secunda) (Paris: De Boccard, 1998)

62

Lisa Kaaren Bailey

Mineau, Robert, ‘Un évêque de Poitiers au vie siècle: Marovée’, Bulletin de la Société des Antiquaires de l’Ouest et des Musées de Poitiers, 11 (1972), 361–83 Moreira, Isabel, ‘Provisatrix optima: St Radegund of Poitiers’ Relic Petitions to the East’, Journal of Medieval History, 19 (1993), 285–305 Nicolini, Gérard, and Jean-Claude Papinot, ‘Poitiers’, in Archéologie urbaine: Actes du col­ loque international Tours 17–20 novembre 1980 (Paris: Association pour les fouilles archéologiques nationales, 1982), pp. 627–33 Reynaud, Jean-François, ‘Reflexions sur le baptistere de Poitiers’, in Orbis romanus chris­ tianusque ab Diocletiani aetate usque ad Heraclium: Travaux sur l’antiquité tardives rassemblés de Noël Duval (Paris: Éditions de Boccard, 1975), pp. 157–65 Rosenwein, Barbara H., ‘Inaccessible Cloisters and Episcopal Exemption’, in The World of Gregory of Tours, ed.  by Kathleen Mitchell and Ian Wood (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 181–97 —— , Negotiating Space: Power, Restraint and Privileges of Immunity in Early Medieval Europe (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1989) Van Dam, Raymond, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 8 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985)

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator Brent D. Shaw For thus hath the Lord said unto me: Go set a watchman, let him declare what he seeth. Isaiah 21. 6 (KJV)

I

n forging their new identity, Christian bishops sought out and exploited existing images of authority. Some formal aspects of their new identity and power were calqued on the institutions of the Roman state, whereas other facets drew on sources that supported a special aura of holiness and sanctity.1 In preaching to their parishioners, however, it was often more quotidian frames of reference that were sought. In this regard, I would like to begin with a piece of rhetoric that somehow managed to survive as a written text.2 The brief text might originally have been a mini-treatise, a sectarian pamphlet, or a sermon. Most critical readers, myself included, would prefer the last as its generic form.3 1 For the former, see, e.g., Chadwick, The Role of the Bishop in Ancient Society; for the latter, Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity; the process was a slow one: Stewart-Sykes, Original Bishops. 2 The first modern edition of Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion was attempted by Hartel. More recently, a much improved edition has been provided by Burini; a middle course is taken in Pseudo-Cipriano, Trattati, ed. by dell’Osso, pp. 131–58, who also provides useful comments accompanying his Italian translation. 3 As a tract: Corssen, ‘Ein theologischer Traktat’; Quasten, Patrology, p. 371; as a sermon: Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion, ed. by Burini, pp. 18–19. The text was so quirky

Brent D. Shaw is Andrew Fleming West Professor Emeritus of Classics, Princeton University. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 63–89 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118158

64

Brent D. Shaw

The author is anonymous, a man from some unknown place, very probably somewhere in Africa. He was fortunate that his modest work was thought to have been authored by Cyprian of Carthage with the result that it was grouped together and survived with the great bishop’s works. Modern students of the sermon quickly came to recognize that the text could not have been written by the Church Father himself. So the little composition that had conventionally been included along with those of Cyprian was categorized as pseudo-Cyprianic. In the judgement of some of its modern critical expositors, the sermon was most probably delivered by someone whose first language was not Latin. Even if this was not so, it was certainly composed by someone whose knowledge of Latin was rudimentary. Measured against the canons of proper Latin, the writer managed to compose a work that has been condemned as exemplifying almost every lapse found in bad Latin.4 A  number of items, including the inclusion of his work with those of Cyprian, suggests that the author was almost certainly a churchman and was indeed from Africa. If we have to make an educated guess about his identity, he was probably one of the numerous bishops from the rural communities that dotted the African countryside. Although the guesswork extends over a considerable range, most critics, on reasonably good grounds, place him sometime in the last half of the third century.5 His vivid sermon, almost amounting to a moral harangue in places, bears the conventional title of De duobus montibus Sina et Sion (Concerning the Two Mountains of Sinai and Zion). For Christian exegetes and preachers of the time, Mount Sinai and Mount Zion had conventionally come to have symbolic significance. On the one hand, Mount Sinai stood for the Old Testament, Moses and the Law, and the now-overcome Jewish precursors to Christianity; on the other hand, Mount Zion stood for the New Testament, Christ crucified, the New Disposition, and the way to the future. Variously seen as a piece of scriptural exposition, a sectarian polemic, or an anti-Semitic (or anti-Jewish) attack, the sermon might well be seen to exhibit some of these traits by turn.6 None of these deliberate intentions of the that the encyclopaedic Monceaux, Histoire littéraire, took a pass on commenting on it in his analysis of the pseudo-Cyprianic texts. 4 Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion, ed. by Burini, p. 17, confirming a perhaps harsh judgement issued by Manlio Simonetti. 5 I agree with Burini in Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion, pp. 21–23, who offers a good synopsis of earlier estimates. 6 Jean Daniélou and Adalbert Hamman speculated that the author might have been Jewish, a strange idea rightly rejected in Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion, ed. by Burini,

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

65

speaker concern me here. What do are the concluding parts of his exposition, the words found at the end of the sermon.7 Vero etiam et vitem veram se esse dixit, patrem suum agricolam; si ergo Christus vitis vera utique constat quia et nos qui in illo credimus et ipsum induimus sumus vitis vera quae est vinea dominica et Christus custos vineae suae dicentem Salomonem: posuerunt me custodem in vineam.8 Invenimus vero in conversus huius mundi in similitudinem spiritalem figuraliter esse vineam habentem dominum et possessorem suum. Vero tempore maturo prope dies vindemiarum ponunt in vineam custodem puerum in alto ligno mediam vineam confixo et in eo ligno faciunt speculum quadratum de harundinibus quassatis et per singula latera quadraturae speculi facit caverna terna quae fiunt caverna duodecim; per quam quadraturam cavernorum custos puer omnem vineam perspiciens custodiat cantans ne viator ingrediens vineam dominicam sibi adsignatam vexet vel fures uvam vineam vestigent, quod si inportunus fur egens in vineam voluerit introire et uvam demere, illic puer sollicitus de vinea sua deintus de speculo dat vocem maledicens et comminans ne in vinea viator fur audeat accedere dicens: rectum ambula. Fur autem timens vocem pueri sibi comminantis refugit de vinea, speculum videt, vocem audit, puerum intus in speculo sibi comminantem non vidit, timens post viam suam vadit. Hic conversus saecularis similat gratiae spiritali. Ita est enim et in populo deifico, sicut in vineam terrenam. Vinea dominica et spiritalis plebs est christianorum quae custoditur iusso Dei patris a puero Christo in ligni speculum exaltatum; quid si viator diabolus perambulans viam saecularem si ausus fuerit de vinea spiritale hominem de plebe dominica separare et vexare, statim a puero caeleste correptus et spiritalibus flagris emendatus exululans ad centesimum effugit in locis arridis et desertis. Hic est custos puer filius dominicus qui vineam suam sibi a patre commendatam salvandam manet et reservandam. De quo Esaias propheta canuit dicens: ecce puer meus filius meus dilectissimus, ponam super eum spiritum meum et iudicium gentibus nuntiabit: non clamabit neque contendet. Harundinem quassatam non confringet et lignum fumigans non conlocabit, quoadusque expellat in contentione iudicium et in nomine eius gentes credant.9 pp. 14–16. The preacher does (vii. 2) specify the two bandits, latrones, crucified with Jesus as representing, in the one case, the anti-Christian ‘peoples’, gentes in saeculi, and in the other, the Jews, murderers of the prophets, interfectores prophetarum. For a thorough investigation of this possible side of the sermons, see Laato, Jews and Christians in ‘De duobus montibus Sina et Sion’. 7 Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion xiv. 1–xv. 2, ed. by Burini, pp. 182–85. The first quotation in the passage is from the Song of Songs 1. 5, and the second is a pastiche of Matthew 12. 18–21 and Isaiah 42. 1–4. 8 African and different from the Vetus Latina and Vulgate of Jerome: Jerome, Cantici Canticorum, 1. 6, ed. by Vaccari, p. 19: ‘posuerunt me custodem in vineis | vineam meam non custodivi’. 9 The Isaiah text here is different from the Vulgate, but close to the known African versions:

Brent D. Shaw

66

I offer a provisional translation of his words: He also said that he is the true vine, that his father is the farmer of the vineyard. If, then, Christ is the true vine, then it is clear that we who believe in him, we who are clothed in him, are also the true vine which is the vineyard of the Lord, and that Christ is the guard of his vineyard, just as Solomon (Song of Songs 1. 5) says: they placed me as a guard over the vineyard. Indeed, in the affairs of this world, we find a spiritual likeness in a prefigurative reality: in a vineyard that has both an owner and its possessor.10 In the fullness of time, when the days of the harvesting of the grapes approach, a boy [i.e. slave?] is placed as a guard over the vineyard, on the top of a high pole planted in the middle of the vineyard. On the top of the pole, they construct a square-shaped observation hut made from broken reeds. On the length of each side of the square-shaped hut, he [sc. the guard] cuts three apertures, which makes twelve openings in total. From the inside of this square-shaped hut with its cut apertures, the boy carefully surveys the whole vineyard. On guard, he shouts out to make sure that a highwayman entering into the vineyard of the owner, who has put him in charge, does not damage it or that thieves find the vineyard’s grapes. So that if a trouble-making or needy thief might want to enter into the vineyard and to cut some of the grapes, then the boy, concerned for his own vineyard, shouts out curses and threats from inside his square (hut) so that the highway thief who is passing by does not even dare to approach the vineyard: ‘Just keep walking!’ [sc. he shouts]. The robber, fearing the voice of the boy who is threatening him, flees from the vineyard. He sees the hut on the pole, he hears the voice, but he does not see the boy who threatens him from inside the lookout. In fear, he puts a lot of the road behind him. This way of living here in the world can be compared to spiritual grace. It is the same for the people of God as it is in the earthly vineyard. The spiritual vineyard of the Lord is the Christian people who by the command of God the Father are guarded by his own slave, Christ, who was raised up on an observation post of wood. If the Devil, like highway robber rambling down the road of this world, might dare to separate a man who belongs to the Lord’s people from the Vetus Latina, ed. by Gryson, pp. 973–76; the text of the Matthew ‘quotation’ is neither like the Vulgate nor like the closest ‘African’ text that we have, that of Cyprian: see von Soden, Das Lateinische Neue Testament, p. 389: ‘Ecce filius meus, quem eligi, dilectissimus meus, in quo bene sensit anima mea, ponam spiritum meum super eum, et iudicium gentibus nuntiabit. Non contendet neque clamabit neque audiet quis in plateis vocem eius. Harundinem quassatam non confringet et lignum fumigans non collocabit, donique expectabat in contentione iudicium, et in nomine eius gentes credent’. 10 Figuraliter is an unusual word. For the author’s meaning of spiritaliter and figuraliter, see Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion i. 1, ed. by Burini, p. 144: ‘quae in scripturis deificis continenter quae in vetere testamento figuraliter scripta sunt per novo testamento spiritaliter intellegenda sunt’. He means to indicate that something that exists in a material and plain sense in the Old Testament foretells, as it were, something that will appear ‘spiritualized’ in the New Testament.

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

67

spiritual vineyard and to harm him, immediately [he is] caught by the heavenly boy and castigated with spiritual whippings, (and) howling and howling in a loud voice he will flee into arid and deserted lands.11 This is the slave watchman, the Son of the Lord, who has been made a guard over his vineyard by the Father, and who stays there to safeguard and to keep it. He is the one about whom the prophet Isaiah sings, saying (Matthew 12. 18–21, with Isaiah 42. 1–4): ‘Behold my slave, my most beloved son, I shall pour my spirit over him and he will announce his judgment to all the peoples [i.e. the gentiles]. He will neither shout nor quarrel. The shaken reeds he will not break and he will not put out the smoking wood [i.e. the wick] until he places his judgement beyond doubt [?]12 and the foreign peoples [i.e. those who are not Christians, the gentiles] will believe in his name.’

There are two things in play in the final words of the preacher’s sermon. First, there is a scene apparently taken from everyday life in the African countryside and then there is the exegetical exposition of some of the speaker’s own ideas. The two converge and overlap in ways that metaphor and typology tended to in the Christian writers and speakers of the time. The main source and inspiration for the comparison is a passage in the book of Ezekiel. In it, the prophet speaks of the divinity as providing a watchman similar to the one found where a city, town, or community took precautions against an enemy attack by placing lookouts in some elevated position in or near the town. He will blow his trumpet in order to warn the people of an approaching danger.13 New Testament writers came to interpret the watchman who was provided by God as his own son who mounted guard over the Christian people. This same image as interpreted by later Latin patristic writers, where the watchman is called a speculator, was also closely connected with the secular image of the military watchman suggested by Ezekiel, although now the image was sometimes transferred to the figure of the bishop. This image remained a central strand in thinking about bishops to the end of Antiquity and beyond. The figure of this type of speculator appears frequently in the writings of Augustine.14 The image was specifically attached 11 I take the ad centesimum in the sense explicated in Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion, ed. by Burini, pp. 293–94, rather than Turner’s idea that it represents the idea of a banishment beyond the ‘one hundredth milestone’ from Rome: Turner, ‘Adversaria Patristica’. 12 The speaker’s words in the last sentence between lignum fumigans and contentione iudi­ cium have either suffered badly in transmission or are the result of a bad translation in the hands of the preacher. It is clear what he intends to mean, but the Latin is obscure to the point of incomprehension. 13 Ezekiel 33. 1–6; cf. 3. 16–21, at 3. 16–17, where the same image of the armed sentry for the House of Israel appears. 14 E.g., Augustine, Speculum 21; Enarrationes in Psalmos (Enarr. in Psalm.) 2. 5, 9. 12, 19. 3,

68

Brent D. Shaw

to the function of a guard, a reconnaissance scout, or a standing lookout who was part of military operations, defensive or otherwise.15 In some of the final summas of Late Antiquity, the idea is given a thorough ventilating. In his uniform explication of words and their definitions composed in the first decades of the seventh century, Isidore of Seville explicitly drew a direct connection between the two ideas.16 Episcopi autem Graece, Latine ‘speculatores’ interpretantur. Nam speculator est praepositus in Ecclesia. Dictus eo speculatur, atque praespiciat populorum infra se positorum mores et vitam. [Bishops are called episcopi in Greek, speculatores in Latin. For a speculator is one set in charge over the church. He is called this because he ‘looks out’ and he ‘looks over’ the morals and the life of the people under him.]

At the very end of Antiquity, in the third quarter of the eighth century, much the same new line of interpretation was repeated by Beatus of Liebana in his commentary on the Apocalypse. Here the connection between bishop and military speculator was explained in detail. Prepositi vero latine speculatores dicuntur, nam grece episcopi nominantur. Episcopus autem vocabulum inde ductum, quod ille qui superefficitur superintendat, curam scilicet subditorum gerens. […] Nam iste speculator prepositus est in ecclesia dictus, eo quod discernat atque prespiciat singulorum populorum infra se positorum mores et vita.17 [Those put in charge (i.e. of churches) are correctly called lookouts or speculatores in Latin since they are also called lookouts or episcopi in Greek. For episcopus is a word taken from the fact that he is the one who is placed above others, the one who takes care, obviously, of those who are subject to him. […] The person in charge is a speculator on the grounds that he discerns and looks out for the morals and the Christian life of the individual persons who are placed under his authority.]

50. 22, 64. 3, 75. 5, 77. 41, 101. 4, where the ecclesia is identified with Sion and the speculatio; there are many such examples, all of them calqued on the phrases in Ezekiel. 15 For some of the details, see ‘Scouts: Exploratores and kataskopoi’ and ‘Spies: Speculatores’ in Austin and Rankov, Exploratio, pp. 42–60. Although for their purposes they rightly lay emphasis on the active gathering of intelligence, the place of the stationary lookout is also considered by them. 16 Isidore, Etymologiarum vii. 12. 12, ed. by Lindsay; cf. xix. 1. 18: ‘Scapha qui et “kataskopos” navigium quod Latine “speculatorium” dicitur, “skopos” enim Latine intendere dicitur’. 17 Beatus of Liebana, Tractatus de Apocalipsin i. 5. 66–67, ed. by Gryson, pp. 128–29.

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

69

The bishop is a man who is always vigilantly on guard. He protects his flock against the insidious inroads of evil persons from outside, and who constantly polices their moral behaviour inside the community.18 This picture of the bishop, drawn from biblical books, was one that was frequently repeated and explicated by a long line of biblical and post-biblical commentators who extended from Jerome deep into the western European Middle Ages.19 Naturally, this militant image of the bishop-guardian was one to which Augustine and other African Christian writers had access. They often alluded to it in their writings and in sermons to their congregations.20 All of these later texts echo this same understanding of the bishop as speculator: he is an outlook in the military sense suggested by the prophet Ezekiel. What I am concerned with here, however, is precisely not this lineage of military comparisons that is found in late Roman writers like Jerome or Isidore, or in the many dozens of early and later medieval church writers. My attention is drawn to a rather different lineage of metaphor that appealed to the vivid image of a man high up in a tree-perch outlook that is set up in the middle of a vineyard: the prolonged metaphor that anchors the exordium of our preacher’s sermon. This trope appears only in African writers, from Tertullian to Augustine and beyond. Christian writers from outside Africa do not focus on this line of metaphor. In fact, when glossing the position and duties of the bishop with reference to the military outlook pictured by Ezekiel, Caesarius of Arles, a non-African writer, not only stood by the militant sentinel metaphor of the speculator, but pointedly ruled out any agricultural meaning of the watchman as a guardian of fields and crops.21 For African bishops and priests, however, the vineyard metaphor used by our anonymous third-century preacher 18

See Mohrmann, ‘Episkopos-speculator’, pp. 246–49, and Hoeflich, ‘The Speculator in the Governmental Theory’, pp. 121–22, for a catena of such texts. 19 See Hoeflich, ‘The Speculator in the Governmental Theory’, who investigates this later history in some detail. 20 E.g., Augustine, Sermones (Sermo.) 88.  23 (Verbraken, ‘Le Sermon LXXXVIII de saint Augustin’, p. 98, cf. Augustine, Sermones, ed. by Migne, col. 552); 137. 12. 5 (Augustine, Sermones, ed. by Migne, col. 763), both quoting the Ezekiel passage; he seems to be drawing on this image of the bishop elsewhere, as at Sermo. 339 and 350B, as also assumed in non-sermonic materials as in De civitate Dei (De civ.) xix. 19, where he once again alludes to the bishop being located in a ‘higher place’. 21 Caesarius of Arles, Sermones 1. 11, ed. by Delage, p. 242: ‘Lectio enim prophetica [i.e. Ezechiel] qualis in ordinatione pontificis legitur? “Speculatorem”, inquit, “dedi te domui Israhel”. Non dixit: “Procuratorem vinearum, villarum, non actorem agrorum”; “speculatorem” sine dubio animarum’.

Brent D. Shaw

70

was a commonplace. They used it in preaching to their audiences, presumably based on the assumption that their congregations would readily understand the allusion directly from their own experiences. If there is any prophetic authority that they had in mind, it was not Ezekiel but rather Isaiah. The passage in Isaiah, however, had nothing to say about a speculator or watchman. What it contained was a reference to a particular structure of surveillance commonly found in a vineyard: ‘And the daughter of Zion is left as a tent in a vineyard, as a high lookout in a garden of cucumbers, as in a besieged city’.22 It is a passage, right down to the specifics of the garden of cucumbers, that is repeatedly selected from as early as Tertullian.23 The Greek translation of the Septuagint that would have formed the understanding of the African bishops referred to this construction as a tent, a skênê, or a tabernaculum in Latin translations of the LXX. The whole was then attached to the symbolic interpretation of Zion as itself being a height or speculatio from which the whole world could be seen, including the sense of God being able to see all of the future.24 This was an image that was commonly associated with the idea of Zion or Jerusalem right through to the early Middle Ages.25 The African bishops who directed the affairs of their churches drew not only on biblical tropes. They also referred to more humble figures of everyday life, like the shepherd and the teacher.26 Their penchant to exploit agricultural metaphors just as much as military ones is not surprising. In this respect there is another African connection that is worth noting. Decorative ceramics were a significant part of the material culture of Christian origin that were widely used throughout Africa and were traded far abroad as items of Mediterranean commerce. In the pictures on them ‘we can see quietly emerging, in a north Africa all too vividly lit up for us by the dazzling lumière brisée of the works of 22

Isaiah 1. 8: ‘ἐγκαταλειφθήσεται ἡ θυγάτηρ Σιών ὡς σκηνὴ ἐν ἀμπελῶνι καὶ ὡς ὀπωροφυλάκιον ἐν σικυηράτῳ, ὡς πόλις πολιορκουμένη’; Vulgate: ‘Et derelinquetur filia Sion ut umbraculum in vinea, et sicut tugurium in cucumerario, et sicut civitas quæ vastatur’. Note that the Isaiah scroll has ‘a town of Nazareth’ for the last words. 23 See notes 38–39, below. 24 See Augustine, De Genesi contra Manichaeos ii. 10. 13, ed. by Weber, p. 134: ‘et Sion, quamvis sit mons in terra, speculationem tamen significat, et hoc nomen in scripturarum allegoriis ad spiritalia intellegenda saepe transfertur’; De civ. xvii. 6, ed. by Dombart and Kalb, p. 581: ‘Ipsa (sc. civitas regis magni) est Sion spiritaliter; quod nomen Latine interpretatum speculatio est; speculatur enim futuri saeculi magnum bonum, quoniam illuc dirigitur eius intentio’. 25 See, e.g., Gregory the Great, Homiliae in Hiezechihelem Prophetam i. 11. 4–8, where the military metaphor is developed at length; Moralia in Job xxxiii. 26 (46). 26 See Shaw, Sacred Violence, pp. 348–53.

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

71

Augustine’, not only the first Christian images of the martyrs, but also scenes of more quotidian life with which the bishops not only used to preach but also to form popular images of themselves.27 Some of these ceramics featured what is manifestly the Christian motif of the speculator in the vineyard.28 The decorative motif is seen on African Red Slip (henceforth ARS) ware lamps, plates, and bowls that were mass produced by mould technology for widespread distribution both within Africa and elsewhere in the Mediterranean.29 Most of these particular ARS wares date to the fifth and sixth centuries, therefore to times later than the long literary tradition that extends from Tertullian to Augustine. The decorative theme of the speculator in his lookout was a quotidian agrarian image which seems to be so vividly drawn from everyday life that it has often not been recognized as a specifically Christian trope.30 The figure in the scene has sometimes been identified as Orpheus.31 Or, according to others, he might be a hunter sounding his trumpet.32 Even when it has been thought that the 27

The quoted words are from Brown, ‘Conclusions’, p. 407 (specifically on Salomonson’s studies of African ceramics). 28 For an initial cataloguing, see Bailey, A Catalogue of Lamps, p. 33, his theme Q 1799: illustrated as Q 1799, pl. 23: the example in the British Museum is lacking the rooster on the roof. 29 For one of the moulds, see Bailey, ‘Pottery’, p. 97, fig. 170. 30 As late as the mid-1990s, the editors of the collection of African (and other) lamps held by the Bibliothèque Nationale (Paris) could still categorize the scene under the heading not of Christian themes but of ‘scènes et personnages non identifiées’ and point to the interpretation of the figure as Noah and the ark or Orpheus. Trost and Hellmann, Lampes antiques, pp. 47, 79–80, being generally persuaded of its secular nature: ‘C’est peut-être exagérer la portée d’un tel décor, qui peut très bien illustrer une histoire populaire ou simplement une scène de la vie quotidienne’. So, too, Leschi, ‘Basilique et cimetière donatistes’ and Leschi, Etudes d’épigraphie, pp. 302–12, at p. 305, fig. 4; and pp. 311–12, where he rehearses some of the errant guesses, to arrive at the judgement that the scene is problematically Christian: ‘Cette petite scène réaliste n’a sa raison d’être sur une lampe chrétienne que si on l’interprète au point de vue symbolique’. 31 Almost inexplicably, it is wholly omitted by Bejaoui, Céramique et religion chrétienne, in his otherwise comprehensive study. I say ‘almost’, since the obvious reason must be that it is such an ordinary scene that if one does not connect it with the relevant textual material, it does not seem manifestly to be Christian: see van den Hoek and Hermann, ‘Thecla the Beast Fighter’, p. 213, and van den Hoek and Hermann, Pottery, Pavements, and Paradise, p. 67. So, similarly, Ennabli, Lampes chrétiennes de Tunisie, pp. 52–55, who groups them under a section entitled ‘scènes non identifiées’. Indeed, his no. 81, from Carthage, originally had the man in the lookout playing the horn identified as none other than Orpheus: Gauckler and others, Catalogue de Musée d’Alaoui, no. 1404. 32 Merlin and Lantier, Catalogue du Musée d’Alaoui, p.  265, no.  2749 (cf. Merlin, ‘Supplément au Catalogue’, p. 55, no. 324).

Brent D. Shaw

72

icon probably had some Christian significance, the correct points of reference have not always been made. Sometimes the man in the hut has been thought to be a holy man perched high up in his pillar-house.33 On other occasions, it has been suggested that the person and the construction portrayed in the scene are Noah and the ark of the Flood.34 Whatever it might be, the illustration has been recognized as one of the main thematic icons found on this particular form of utilitarian decorative arts of the time.35 The identification of the man in these scenes, however, is reasonably certain, and he is neither Orpheus nor Noah. The picture on the ceramics is that of a man perched high up in a tree house on a platform overlooking a vineyard. He was like one of the well-attested guardians of the cereal crops in Africa, a custos fructuum, who made sure that the harvested grains were not stolen or damaged. Our man’s position and his task was analogous, but more specific. He was the watchman of the vineyard perched high up in his specula vinitoris, precisely as described by pseudo-Cyprian and, later, by Augustine. In the year 418 at Caesarea in Mauretania, in their debate on the position of the bishop, Augustine and the dissident ‘Donatist’ bishop Emeritus both agreed that the bishop was a man raised on high who overlooked and guarded the Christian people under his aegis. In reprimanding his opponent on a matter of detail, however, Augustine continued: ‘My brothers, if we are thinking about the Lord, that higher place is the lookout of the vineyard worker, not the height of haughtiness’.36 Both men were appealing to the fact that vineyards in Africa often had a watchtower built in the middle of them to house the man who was guarding the ripening vines. This fact was so well known for the vineyards of the Mediterranean that it is found in the commonplace description of a vineyard in a parable told by Jesus.37 African Christian writers going all the way back to Tertullian likened the lookout of Christ raised high on Mount Zion 33

Leclercq, ‘Dendrites’, col. 583, fig. 3696. Bailey, A Catalogue of Lamps, p. 33, notes this of one such lamp discovered in Sicily: Nuovo Didaskaleon, 1 (1947), p. 56. 35 See Tortorella, ‘Il repertorio iconografico’, pp. 192–93, fig. 15: ARS plate with man perched up in his tree house overlooking the vineyard; p.  194, fig.  16, featuring the same theme = Weidemann, Spätantike Bilder, no. 25. 36 Augustine, Gesta cum Emerito Donatistarum episcopo 7, ed. by Petschenig, p. 189: ‘Cum que recitaret, Augustinus episcopus dixit: “Fratres mei, si dominum cogitamus, locus iste altior specula vinitoris est, non fastigium superbientis”’. 37 Where it is a tower, pyrgos, constructed by the owner of the vineyard, along with fences and grape presses: see Mt 21. 33–43, at 33; Mk 12. 1–11, at 1; and Lk 20. 9–18 (with no mention of the tower, however). 34

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

73

to the high lookout found in a vineyard.38 Some of these notices come rather close to the idea later evoked in detail by our pseudo-Cyprianic preacher as, for example, when Tertullian specifically speaks of the watchman as the guard of a vineyard or a garden who is able to catch the occasional petty thief who tries to steal things growing in them.39 But the watchman that Tertullian had in mind was God himself and not a bishop. Watchtowers used in vineyards are referred to for other regions of the Mediterranean outside Africa; they are attested for vineyards in lands as far apart as northern Italy and southern Syria.40 These lookouts must have been as common in Mediterranean lands as were the ubiquitously attested custodes fructuum of the cereal crops of wheat and barley.41 What is unusual, therefore, is that they are only spoken about and represented in African Christian texts and material artefacts. In some of his description, at least, the anonymous author of the De duobus montibus is reasonably well attuned to the actualities of vineyard production in a provincial context, as for example when he refers to the legal difference between the dominus, the owner of the vineyard, and the possessor, the farmer who was actually working it. Apart from these knowing references in Christian writers of the time, however, there are also a number of items provided by the material culture of Late Antiquity that shed light on this problem.42 Let us consider one of these material images found on an ARS ware oil lamp of African manufacture (see Figures 4.1–2).43 The image on the lamp departs slightly from the description offered by our pseudo-Cyprianic preacher. The basic idea of the speculator being placed in a hut-like construction on the top of 38

Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem (Adv. Marc.) iv. 25. 11, ed. by Dekkers and others, p. 612: ‘et Sionem, tamquam speculam in vinea derelictam’; iv. 31. 6, p. 631: ‘derelicta Sione tamquam specula in vinea et in cucumerario casula’; iv. 42. 5, p. 660: ‘angeli eruptione derelinquentis filiam Sionis tamquam in vinea speculam et in cucumerario casulam’. 39 Tertullian, Adv. Marc. ii. 25. 2–3, ed. by Dekkers and others, p. 503: ‘tam latens quam de interdicta fruge sumens! Speculatorem vineae vel horti tui lepus aut furunculus non latet: deum puta, de sublimioribus oculatiorem, aliquid subiecti praeterire non posse’. 40 See Stuiber, ‘Die Wachhütte im Weingarten’, pp. 88–89, figs 11, 12. 41 For more detail on these field guards, see Shaw, Bringing in the Sheaves, p. 216. 42 In general, see Stuiber, ‘Die Wachhütte im Weingarten’. 43 Trost and Hellmann, Lampes antiques, pp. 79–80, no. 45 (and their illustration of the type: pl. VII, fig. 45): on an Anselmo-Pavolini XA1a type = Hayes type II lamp; Hermann and van den Hoek, Light from the Age of Augustine, nos. 51, 61, and van den Hoek and Hermann, Pottery, Pavements, and Paradise, p. 67 and pls 7b and c. See Tortorella, ‘Il repertorio iconografico’, p. 194, fig. 16, for general comment; see Gsell, ‘Découvertes d’antiquités récemment faites en Algérie’, pp. clxi–clxii, who refers to yet another unpublished example, from Sidi-Ferruch.

Brent D. Shaw

74

Figure 4.1. Watchman pictured on ARS lamp, Leclercq, ‘Dendrites’, col. 583, fig. 3696 = Comptes rendus de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles­Lettres, 1911, p. 582.

Figure 4.2. Watchman pictured on ARS lamp, Bailey, A Catalogue of Lamps, p. 33, Q 1799; drawing by Margaret Andrews.

a wooden pylon in the middle of the vineyard is definitely there. There are vine tendrils all about the outer edge of the lamp signifying the vineyard itself, and a worker in the vineyard is seen to the left. The speculator himself, however, does not appear to be hidden nor do there appear to be any lookout holes pierced through the sides of the square-shaped hut situated at the top of the pole. Rather than alarming intruders by yelling or shouting dire imprecations against them, the picture presented of the speculator here is of a calmer figure who makes his presence known to potential intruders by playing a musical instrument which is likely a trumpet. Terracotta lamps decorated with this motif have been found throughout Africa, ranging from regions close to Carthage to more remote ones in Numidia to the south and in Sitifensis much further to the west.44 Different pieces feature fuller or simpler versions of this same scene. In addition to the tree house and the guardian playing either a horn or 44

For the Carthage region, see Ennabli, Lampes chrétiennes de Tunisie, pp. 52–54, nos. 76–90, in his catalogue; for Algeria, see Bussière, Lampes antiques d’Algérie, p. 61, C 358– 65; p. 106: nos. 358–67: find from Castellum Tidditanorum, Kherbet Agoub (near Satafis), Calama, Hippo Regius, Thamugadi, and Theveste.

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

75

a trumpet, the more elaborate ones include a rooster perched on the top of the hut, a man, with a bunch of grapes tied around his neck, who is hanging in mid-air tied by a cord to the corner of the hut’s platform, and a scene of a hound chasing a rabbit on the ground below the hut. Other versions, however, are missing some of these elements; some of them do not have the picture of the man dangling by a rope from the platform, others are missing the scene of the hound chasing the rabbit, Figure 4.3. Watchman pictured on ARS plate, while still others are missing Weidemann, Spätantike Bilder, no. 25; drawing by both of these additional eleMargaret Andrews. ments. In yet other versions, there are new elements, such as the one seen on a lamp from Carthage where a second man is pictured gripping the tree trunk as he attempts to climb up to join the outlook in his perch high in the tree.45 Not only these additional elements, but also the figure in the outlook who is playing a horn have provoked interpretative uncertainties.46 Another typical illustration of this same theme is found on ARS ware plates, cups, and bowls. The images found on these wares are part of a common repertoire of thematics that have been rather confusing to interpreters. They have prompted at least one of them to identify the figure in the tree house as none other than the mythical Ganymede and another scene on the same plate as the rape of Ganymede by Zeus (see Figure 4.3).47 On the left side of the plate, how45 Or, alternatively, the two could be the same man seen in sequence, the one showing him making his ascent to the top and the second showing him in his lookout: Delattre, Lampes chré­ tiennes de Carthage, p. 137, nos. 709–14. 46 See, e.g., Bailey, A Catalogue of Lamps, p. 33 (on his theme Q 1799), who was ‘frankly puzzled’ by the trumpeter, the man hanging by the cord, and the dog chasing the hare, noting later that neither of the existing suggestions explains any of these elements or the ‘cock on the roof ’. 47 Weidemann, Spätantike Bilder, no. 25. See Tortorella, ‘Il repertorio iconografico’, p. 192,

76

Brent D. Shaw

ever, is the unmistakable figure of our vineyard speculator. On closer inspection, it can be seen that the lookout is facing a separate isolated illustration on the right side of the plate of the vineyard that he is guarding. At the bottom of the plate, the scene is more obscure, but it appears to be one or two miscreants who are ready to thieve from the vineyard and not the rape of Ganymede. When they are compared to the images found on the lamps, it is clear that the illustrations found on the ARS wares are a stereotype of sorts. The pole of the tree on which the speculator’s tree house is mounted is pictured in much the same fashion, as is the cabin that is mounted at the top of it, while the specula­ tor himself is shown in a similar fashion blowing a trumpet-like instrument. Interpreting these scenes is sometimes difficult because the elements of the picture are manipulated in the fashion of the structural composition of myth. In all of the designs, the core and essential component of the watchman who is seated on the edge of the platform of his cabin in the sky mounted on a large pole that is formed by a gigantic vine is always present. Additional elements could include a rooster perched on the top of the lookout’s house-in-the-sky, a hound chasing a rabbit out of the vineyard, or the miscreant thief captured and tied to the edge of the platform, dangling in mid-air, with a bunch of stolen grapes tied around his neck. These were possible parts of a more detailed picture — variable components that could all be present, some of which might be absent, or all of which could be omitted, depending on the choices exercised by the client or the artist creating the moulds. Does this image reflect ordinary realities of daily life, or was it a biblical trope? First of all, it seems likely that the actual lookout’s hut was in fact mounted on the top of a column or a regular pole in the middle of a vineyard — as is suggested by literary descriptions, including biblical ones. But the repeated illustrations of the watchman in the vineyard on the decorative household wares show the pole as a large vine-like plant that is the size of a tree. In this case, it seems probable that the metaphor of Christ as the vine of life, with which our anonymous preacher begins the passage above, has determined the way in which artists depict the speculator’s mount in ARS wares. Similarly, the cabin at the top of the pole is elaborately described by the preacher as a foursquare construction made of ‘shaken’ or ‘broken’ reeds with three observation holes cut out of each of its four sides. The parallels with the idea of the heavfig. 15, who identifies the figure as Ganymede. More of these types appear from time to time, as on ARS ware bowls of Hayes Form 53, dating from the mid-fourth to the mid-fifth century, like the one sighted in the possession of a London dealer in 1984: Bailey, A Catalogue of Lamps, p. 33 (found at Thysdrus/el-Djem).

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

77

enly Jerusalem being a four-squared construction, as referred to earlier in the sermon by the same preacher, and the fact that the look-out’s observation windows nicely add up to twelve, manifestly representing the twelve disciples of Christ, indicates an idealistic construction in the preacher’s mind rather than any straightforward reality as seen by the artist. The harundines quassatae out of which the walls of the lookout’s hut are constructed in the part of the sermon we have quoted can be shown to be drawn verbatim from a contemporary African translation of the book of Isaiah.48 Any actual lookout’s hut was most probably not constructed in such a neat symbolic form. Other writers, in fact, refer to structures in the middle of vineyards as being tentlike, a skênê in the Greek of the Septuagint or a tabernaculum in Latin translations of the LXX. Other motifs of the vineyard scene have also been thought to be drawn from real life. For example, a fierce dog is chasing a marauding rabbit out of the vineyard, either to catch it or to get it permanently out of the way. The scene has all the appearance of being a vignette-like snapshot taken from everyday life in the countryside. And it would be so, if the scene was not in fact the material exposition of some remarks on Scripture that had already been made by Tertullian in the first years of the second century, perhaps three centuries before the production of the ARS wares that we are discussing. Tertullian specifically alludes to the fact that ‘neither robber nor rabbit are able to escape the sight of the watchman of the vineyard’.49 Once more, it seems likely that it was a prior mental and literary image that configured the picturing of the scene. And why is the figure who is seated on the edge of the high platform on which his observation hut has been built playing a trumpet-like instrument? Again, the image was probably configured out of textual ideas rather than calqued on any real-life scenario in the African countryside. In conclusion we can say that in some instances the preacher is more taken by biblical metaphor than by ‘real life’ whereas in other cases this seems just as true of the illustration in the material objects. But precisely the reverse could happen. The preacher’s words could conjure pictures that were more concordant with lived reality than were the details on the ‘real-life’ picture on the ARS wares. For example, in the preacher’s descrip48 See Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sinon x. 1, ed. by Burini, p. 176, where the New Jerusalem is described as quadriform for the four evangelists; the lookout holes representing the twelve prophets or apostles is self-evident. 49 Tertullian, Adv. Marc. ii. 25. 3, ed. by Dekkers and others, p. 503: ‘Speculatorem vineae vel horti tui lepus aut furunculus non latet’. Old texts sometimes read lupus, leading both to mistranslation and misunderstanding. In this case, the detailed image demonstrates what must have been the correct reading in Tertullian; compare Augustine, Confessiones (Conf.) x. 35. 57), though admittedly in a different context.

Brent D. Shaw

78

tion of the scene, the watchman shouts curses and verbal threats at the potential robber, and by this means he wards him off from the vineyard and keeps him moving down the road. Nor does the guard, as envisaged by the preacher, play a musical instrument. This time the preacher is ‘real’ and the ARS plate ‘metaphorical’. The figure on the platform in the ARS wares is surely configured as Christ who is frequently referred to as blowing his heavenly trumpet, his tuba or bucina. In several sermons, Augustine refers to Christ as a speculator who issues a blast on his trumpet when he sees any threat appearing. The imagery of Christ as the city watchman using his trumpet to warn the people about approaching dangers is taken directly from the prophet Ezekiel in his description of the duties and behaviour of the speculator.50 Much the same interpretation surely applies to the rooster that is perched on the top of the watchman’s hut high in the sky. This is another image that does not appear in the third-century preacher’s attempt to evoke a real-life scenario in the minds of his listeners. But it does appear repeatedly as a symbol in other sermons where Christ is configured as a gallina who protects her chicks against impending dangers. Her wings are pictured as an umbraculum under which they hover, the same term that is used in other sources for the protective shade constructed for the field guard himself.51 It seems unlikely, however, in this threatening context that it is a gallina or hen to which appeal is being made. It is rather a gallus or rooster. In a wide range of popular Christian communications of the time, from sermons to hymns, the rooster is pictured as the symbol of vigilance, on the watch, above all, to announce the ‘new day’ of the coming age.52 When this element is pictured on ARS lamps, for example, the reflection is not of quotidian reality, but rather of a metaphoric scriptural reality. But is this the spiritual reality that most Africans, men and women from the same social 50

See, esp. Augustine, Speculum 21, ed. by Weihrich, p. 109: ‘et constituerit super se speculatorem, et ille viderit gladium venientem super terram et cecinerit bucina et adnuntiaverit populo […] sonum bucinae audierit et non observaverit (sc. populus)’; a theme later replayed in the sermons: e.g. Augustine, Sermo. 137 and 339, ed. by Lambot, p. 113, where the three elements of the watchman, the trumpet (‘speculator […] et cecinerit tuba’), and the warning against unwanted intrusions are all found. 51 All calqued on Matthew 23. 37; see Augustine, Enarr. in Psalm. 62. 16; Enarr. in Psalm. 90. 5, and esp. Conf. iv. 16. 31 and x. 36. 59; for the umbraculum, see note 22, above. 52 Ambrose, Hymni 1, referred to by Augustine, Retractiones i. 21; of vigilance while awaiting the return of the master of the household: Augustine, Speculum 26, ed. by Weihrich, p. 179: ‘vigilate ergo: nescitis enim quando dominus domus veniat: sero, an media nocte, an galli cantu, an mane’; signalling the end of ‘night’ (i.e. secular time) and the coming of ‘day’, the new age: Enarr. in Psalm. 118. 4; as a form of warning: De agone Christiano xxx. 32.

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

79

milieux as the creators of the lamps and plates, also saw? Most of them came from the long-term background that was much the same as the man who was preaching to them in his rudimentary Latin and so harkened back to a long tradition of Punic religiosity that was antecedent to the obvious Christian messages in the ARS wares. In this other, earlier tradition, as we know, the rooster had a critical significance, topping the roofs of funerary mausolea found throughout the hinterlands of the African provinces of the empire. The problem is that the same misunderstanding of metaphoric meaning could strike them as well. A good example is provided by the longest epigraphic poetic text known in Latin, from the funerary mausoleum of the Flavii at Cillium (modern Kasserine) in south-central Tunisia.53 On the roof of the mausoleum, high up in the sky, from which imperial vistas opened to the viewer from its pinnacle, was placed a rooster. The Roman poet who was commissioned to compose the poem written on the monument wrote ninety lines of dactylic hexameters, but failed somehow to mention the rooster. The local worthy who had the monument built, Titus Flavius Secundus, called the Roman poet back, pointing out that he had missed the single most important element in the whole funerary structure that was deserving of celebration: the figure of the rooster set on its peak. The poet managed to add another twenty lines of elegiacs that did bring the bird in, but without making very clear its significance. This has been left to modern scholars to debate, and the division in their interpretation is precisely the one that we have already mentioned. To some the rooster is a symbol of vigilance: he is the ultimate guardian and lookout, surveying possible dangers from his high perch.54 To others, the rooster signifies the eternal soul of the deceased, his or her rou’ah, on high as opposed to the body buried at the base of the monument, the nefesh. The rooster represents the soul taking flight and departing from the heights of the pinnacle of the mausoleum that is purposefully pointed heavenwards.55 The reason that the very Roman Latin poet did not understand the significance is that he did not naturally have a share in the religious symbolic world of the local indigenous Africans 53

For the text of inscription on the mausoleum, see CIL 8.212–13 = Carmina Latina Epigraphica, ed. by Buecheler, 1552 A-B (Cillium, modern Kasserine, Tunisia); the collected studies in CIL 8.211–16, are basic to everything about the monument and its text; to which might be added the fine literary study of the text by Pillinger, ‘Inventa est blandae rationis imago’. 54 Camps, ‘Le Coq et la coquille’, pp. 35–49. 55 Fantar, Eschatologie phénicienne­punique, based mainly on the Jebel Mlezza tomb frescoes; see Bessi, ‘Un brano de al-Mas’udi’; cf. Shaw, ‘Cult and Belief in Punic and Roman Africa’, pp. 253–54, for context.

Brent D. Shaw

80

(as the Flavii most certainly were) and its western Phoenician and Punic roots. The Flavii would easily have understood the role of the rooster perched on the roof of the lookout’s cabin on his high perch over the vineyard. The rooster on the Christian plate and lamp doubles down, so to speak, on the imagery and the concept of the soul of the saved and the watchman guarding against those intending to do harm to it. There is both a human lookout lower down on the deck and a divine one perched on the highest level of the speculatorium. But what of the other element found on the ARS wares, the man hanging, strung up by his waist, connected by a rope to the edge of the platform of the watchman’s high-level perch? According to the artistic representations, the fate that awaited the thief was more than just getting scared off and running away down the road from the vineyard as is indicated in the preacher’s sermon. On some of the ARS ware lamps, the thief, far from merely being chased off, has been caught and strung up, tied to one of the edges of the platform of the tree hut with the grapes that he tried to steal tied around his neck.56 Of all the elements depicted in the scene, this is the one that does not seem to have any obvious or known antecedent either in biblical metaphor or in the preacher’s sermon. No Christian writer, from Tertullian onwards, alludes to the scene. The lamp seems to feature an image that was not prompted by scriptural cues, but rather by real life. One is tempted to see in this pictorial element an example of summary self-help justice in the fields of Africa or, at least, a commonly perceived ideal of what such rough justice might consist.57 Such criminal activity involving vineyards is well attested elsewhere in the empire, as in Egypt, where it is often dealt with in the public courts.58 In this case, however, the thief has been caught and trussed up around his waist with his hands tied behind his back. He was then strung up by a rope from the edge of the high platform for all to see, with the stolen grapes tied around his neck. The scene seems most probably interpreted not as a biblical trope, but as one of those mimetic punishments so typical of the age. Those who set fire to things were themselves burned or turned into torches. So a man who stole grapes was hung from the big vine, dangling like a bunch of grapes (indeed, with some of them tied around his neck). How long the miscreant was allowed to hang there as a public spectacle, as a lesson pour encourager les autres, is anyone’s guess. Even this element, however, might have come to have a popular Christian sym56

As noted by Hermann and van den Hoek, Light from the Age of Augustine, p. 61, and van den Hoek and Hermann, Pottery, Pavements, and Paradise, p. 67. 57 Already sensed by Leschi, Etudes d’épigraphie, p. 312. 58 See, e.g., P. Oslo 2.17 = Pap. Choix 7 (136 ce, Prosopites).

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

81

bolic interpretation not alluded to by the preacher. After all, the lamps and dishes, and the illustrations impressed on them, were produced some two to three centuries later, when the elements of the vineyard narrative, involved in a dialogue between real-life pictures and metaphoric reality, might well have been elaborated. In this case, the marauder of Christian souls, the Devil — as is already made clear in our preacher’s interpretation of the scene — would suffer his comeuppance in much the same fashion as any secular robber. In any case, the core point that must be emphasized is that the relationship between verbal and material images, and the mix of real-life and metaphorical elements in them, was strongly dialogical. Neither the preacher’s words nor the ARS images were pure. Both were mixtures of the real and the ideological, and both borrowed from each other. Finally, there is a significant representational difference between the time of the rural preacher of the later third century and Augustine, the eminent Bishop of Hippo, in the later fourth and early fifth. In all of the earlier tropes, Christ himself is the watchman in the vineyard — something that is a direct and linear progression in metaphor from the figure of Christ who was raised high on the wooden cross on Mount Zion in Jerusalem. And that is the way that the trope is played with by almost all other writers who use the militant version of the metaphor. In Augustine’s sermons, however, it is now the bishop who has become the lookout raised on high on the pole. It is he who is now the speculator who looks after the well-being of his people, Christ’s people on earth. The bishop has become the one who both spots the external demonic threats to the integrity of his people and wards them off. It is the bishop who espies faults within the people, and it is he who trims and weeds out these vices with a mixture of advice and discipline. Raised on high and with the ability to see outward in all directions through holes pierced in a wall and yet not himself be seen, he could mount surveillance over all around him. The bishop was now the church’s eye in the sky. If there are distant precursor elements of a panopticon both in the design of the speculatorium and in its function, this should not surprise us given the kind of soft pastoral power that the bishops were forging for themselves.59 The target of pacific governance set as an ideal for themselves perhaps more naturally suggested this kind of observational defence of the community as a good one with which to link with the community. Within this ideal, the modern concept of the panopticon is perhaps not an exaggerated one. From the very beginning of African expositions of the relationship between the individual and the new divinity, emphasis was placed on 59

Foucault, Security, Territory, Population, pp. 118–34, esp. pp. 125–26.

82

Brent D. Shaw

the fact that he could see everyone and everything. He was always watching and always seeing. As Tertullian phrased the matter when he addressed his fellow Africans, because of God’s all-seeing constant surveillance, you should fear him, the speculator omnium, much more than you do that other overseer, the Roman proconsular governor seated high on his point of view on the Byrsa at Carthage.60 This agrarian image of God as the speculator omnium who knows even the inner thoughts and hidden actions of every individual was embraced by later African writers from Minucius Felix to Lactantius.61 At some point, the bishops of the church in Africa began to draw on this powerful rural imagery. They did it not to explain the position of the all-seeing divinity from the elevated position of his cross on Calvary, but to describe their own role as overseers of the church. Both the analogy of the bishops as filial linear descendants of Christ and the apostles and their actual position as episkopoi responsible for their dioceses and congregations suggested that they, too, should benefit from this metaphor — one which a majority of the listeners in their congregations would know from personal experience with rural affairs. The idea was also suggested by the actual historical development of the office of bishop which, taking its cues from the existing magisterial functions of organized governmental bodies, assumed the title of overseer or episkopos as a primary designation of their status and duties.62 The anonymous author of our third-century sermon repeatedly appeals to Mount Zion as a speculatio, a high lookout over the world.63 But he manifestly means to compare the position of Christ high on the cross on his lookout on Mount Zion with the figure of the earthly watchman of the vineyard with whom his listeners were so closely acquainted in their daily lives. By the time that we reach the late fourth and early fifth centuries, the bishops have inserted themselves into this picture. The image of the good guardian was often evoked by bishops. In his abortive debate with Emeritus, the dissident Bishop of Caesarea, Augustine defined who a bishop was: a man who was chosen by the people to lead them. Just like 60 Tertullian, Apologeticum xlv. 7, ed. by Dekkers and others, p. 160: ‘Enimvero nos, qui sub Deo, omnium speculatore, dispungimur quique aeternam ab eo poenam providemus […] non diuturni, verumtamen sempiterni, eum timentes, quem timere debebit ipse, qui iudicat, Deum, non proconsulem’. 61 Minucius Felix, Octavius xxxii. 9; Lactantius, Divinae Institutiones vi. 18. 12; cf. De opificio Dei viii. 3. 62 See Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, pp. 24–25, referring to standard works by Mohrmann, ‘Episkopos-speculator’. 63 E g. Ps.-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sinon ii. 1, vi. 1, vii. 1, vii. 2 (at length), ix. 1, xii. 1, xiii. 2 (ed. by Burini, pp. 146, 160, 162, 164, 168, 178, 180).

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

83

the Lord, the bishop is stationed on an elevated lookout from which he can see everything, like the man seated high over the vineyards whose task was to guard the harvest.64 The elevated image of the lookout could be linked to the title of episcopus given to the bishop, which literally meant someone who oversees the welfare of others. In this metaphor it was not only the militant lookout but the guardian of the vineyard that they used to convey the picture of their responsibilities to their parishioners. In considering the term episcopus, Augustine explains.65 Custodiebat, custos erat, vigilabat, quantum poterat, super eos quibus praeerat. Et episcopi hoc faciunt. Nam ideo altior locus positus est episcopis, ut ipsi superintendant, et tamquam custodiant populum. Nam et graece quod dicitur episcopus, hoc latine superintentor interpretatur; quia superintendit, quia desuper videt. Quomodo enim vinitori altior fit locus ad custodiendam vineam, sic et episcopis altior locus factus est. Et de isto alto loco periculosa redditur ratio, […] et pro vobis oremus, ut qui novit mentes vestras ipse custodiat. Quia nos intrantes vos et exeuntes possumus videre; usque adeo autem non videmus quid cogitetis in cordibus vestris, ut neque quid agatis in domibus vestris videre possumus. Quomodo ergo custodimus? Quomodo homines; quantum possumus, quantum accepimus […]. Laboramus in custodiendo, sed vanus est labor noster, nisi ille custodiat qui videt cogitationes vestras. [He [the apostle Paul] was mounting guard; he was a guard, and he was keeping watch, to the best of his abilities, over those over whom he had been placed. And we bishops also do this. For a higher place is allocated to bishops so that they might superintend the people and, on this basis, keep watch over them. For what is called episcopus in Greek means an over-see-er, a superintentor in Latin, because a bishop ‘looks down’ from an elevated position. Just as in a vineyard, a higher place is provided for the vineyard guard so that he can maintain guard over the vineyard. Exactly like this, a higher place is given to us bishops. And it is from this higher place that any dangerous things are reported […]. We pray on your behalf, since the one who knows your minds can mount guard on your behalf. We are able to see you entering and leaving, but we cannot see what you are thinking in your hearts, and we are not able to see what you are doing inside your homes. In what way, then, do we mount guard? In as much as we are mere mortals, we work hard to protect you, as much as it is in our power to do. […] But our work is in vain unless the one who is able to see your thoughts also guards you.]

Augustine then advances to connect the image of the bishop as the watchman of the vineyard with other images of the bishop as a shepherd and a teacher. 64 65

Augustine, Gesta cum Emerito Donatistarum episcopo 7; cf. note 36, above. Augustine, Enarr. in Psalm. 126. 3, ed. by Dekkers and Fraipont, pp. 1858–59.

Brent D. Shaw

84

These two roles, but especially that of the shepherd, were strong tropes for Christians since both had foundational roots in the Old Testament.66 But the way in which Augustine specifically glossed the idea of the bishop as an overseer for his parishioners was the same one that is found in the pseudo-Cyprianic preacher of a much earlier age. The theme is one which Augustine elaborated several times when he was considering the duties and the powers of a bishop. That a bishop could be represented as a lookout or an overseer obviously suggested itself from his very title. It was a way that even Augustine’s biographer described the bishop: ‘And he did this [i.e. acting as a judge and protector of his flock] as one having been established by the Lord as a watchman, a specula­ tor, over the House of Israel, preaching the good word.’67 As noted above, the biblical type that lay behind this idea of the speculator was not only a humble agrarian image but rather a more militant picture drawn of such a function by the prophet Ezekiel.68 The militant idea is the dominant image that is found throughout the imaging of the function of the bishop in almost all writers outside of Africa. And, needless to say, it is found in African writers as well. In one of the best known and most extensive purposeful explanations of the duties of a bishop that was made in a sermon delivered to his parishioners at Hippo on the anniversary of his own appointment to the office, Augustine repeatedly had recourse to the picture of the bishop as an explorator or military scout.69 Indeed, the reading of the passage from Ezekiel in the liturgy of the time seems conventionally to have prompted other bishops like Caesarius of Arles to make similar metaphoric explications of their own positions as bishops.70 This was one picture of the bishop as a watchman over the church, as a guardian of his flock, that was accepted by Augustine. It was famously drawn upon by him in a well-known passage in the City of God.71 At the end of quoting the 66

On the vocabulary of the shepherd, see Mohrmann, ‘Episkopos-speculator’, pp. 232–33. Possidius, Vita S. Augustini xix. 5, ed. by Bastiaensen, p. 182: ‘Et faciebat hoc tamquam speculator a Domino constitutus domui Israel, praedicans verbum’. 68 See note 13, above. 69 Augustine, Sermo. 339; at length specifically at Sermo. 339.2, where he uses the image of the military explorator repeatedly; commented on extensively by Mohrmann, ‘Episkoposspeculator’, p. 241–43. 70 Caesarius of Arles, Sermo. 1. 11 (above, note 21); and 231. 2. It would be nice if the latter sermon were truly original, but it is for all intents and purposes a copy of Augustine’s sermon delivered on his own natalis as bishop (Serm. Frang. 2 = Miscellanea Agostiniana, ed. by Morin and Casamassa, pp. 189–94, see note 69, above) where appeal is made to the Ezekiel passage, but now claiming the responsibility for being the lookout for the people. 71 Augustine, De civ. i. 9, with reference to Ezekiel. 67

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

85

Ezekiel passage at length, Augustine tells Christians that they are to interpret watchman or speculator as bishop or episkopos. It was the specific biblical image and background to which Jerome also appealed in his commentary on the book of Ezekiel. Here Jerome interpreted the speculator as the Hebrew prophet, but now in the church he was the bishop (episcopus) or priest (presbyter) who was chosen by the people and who, by reading Scripture, was able to foresee the future and so be able to announce it to the people and correct the wrong-doer.72 The image of the bishop as speculator was closely connected to the image of Zion or Jerusalem. Zion was the primal watchtower where the watchman could cast his eyes over very distant prospects. Even if these watchmen were sometimes placed in high trees, the image was still a military one. For Augustine, however, the church had become God’s watchtower on earth.73 And if that was so, then the bishop himself became the human watchman of the church in this earthly time. We can only guess at the factors that were involved in the shift that led African bishops to appropriate the agrarian metaphor of the vineyard guard. The origins of the image seem reasonably clear. By a convergence of different Old and New Testament texts, preachers and exegetes in Africa had happened upon the idea that an appeal could be made to local images drawn from the rural economy of their own time and so to make more vivid to their listeners the picture of the omniscient seeing and watchfulness of their God. Once formed, it became a trope in its own right. The taking of this image for themselves by bishops was a process that involved not only this rural agricultural stream of the metaphor but also the military-civic image of the watchman. Both were used initially to project the idea of a protective all-seeing deity. Since the bishop was the earthly analogue of that deity, and he was even named an episcopus, the emergence of a more powerful and authoritative bishopric in the Christian empire of Late Antiquity must have logically suggested that the bishops themselves could claim a share of the imagery. Of the two pictures, however, the one preached to his parishioners by the anonymous preacher of the later third century was to remain an African innovation that was shared by African bishops and preachers to the end of Antiquity. 72 Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem x. 33.  1–9,  ed.  by Glorie, pp.  466–69: ‘Speculator terrae Iudaeae, vel res potest intellegi, vel propheta; speculator autem ecclesiae, vel episcopus, vel presbyter, qui a populo electus est et, scripturarum lectione, cognoscens et praevidens quae futura sint, annuntiet populo et corrigat delinquentem’. Only part of a long use of the ‘military’ metaphor of the speculator. 73 Augustine, Enarr. in Psalm. 101. 4, ed. by Gori, p. 51, on Sion as the original speculatio: ‘Specula dicitur ubi ponunt custodes. Fiunt istae speculae in saxis, in montibus, in arboribus, ad hoc ut de loco eminentiore longe videatur. Sion ergo speculatio, ecclesia speculatio’.

86

Brent D. Shaw

Works Cited Primary Sources Augustine, De civitate dei, vol. ii, libri XI–XXII, ed. by Bernhard Dombart and Alfons Kalb, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 48 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1955) —— , De Genesi contra Manichaeos, ed.  by Dorothea Weber, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 91 (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1998) —— , Enarrationes in Psalmos CI–CL, ed.  by Eligius Dekkers and Johannes Fraipont, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 40 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1956) —— , Enarrationes in Psalmos 101–150, Pars 1: Enarrationes in Psalmos 101–109, ed. by Franco Gori, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 95.1 (Vienna: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2011) —— , Gesta cum Emerito Donatistarum episcopo, in Sancti Aureli Augustini scripta contra Donatistas, ed.  by Michael Petschenig, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 53 (Vienna: Tempsky, 1910), pp. 179–96 —— , Miscellanea Agostiniana: Testi e Studi pubblicati a cura dell’Ordine eremitano di S. Agostino nel XV centenario della morte del santo dottore, ed. by Germain Morin and Antonio Casamassa (Rome: Tipografia poliglotta vaticana, 1930) —— , Sermones, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series Latina, ed. by J.-P. Migne, 221 vols (Paris: Migne, 1844–65), xxxviii —— , Sermones selecti duodeviginti, ed. by D. Cyril Lambot, Stromata Patristica et Mediaevalia, 1 (Utrecht: Spectrum, 1950) —— , Speculum, in S. Aureli Augustini Hipponensis Episcopi: Liber qui appellatur Speculum; et Liber de divinis scripturis sive Speculum quod fertur S. Augustini, ed. by Franz Weihrich, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 12 (Vienna: Geroldi, 1887), pp. 3–285 Beatus of Liebana, Tractatus de Apocalipsin, Pars Prior, ed.  by Roger Gryson, Corpus Scriptorum Series Latina, 107B (Turnout: Brepols, 2012) Caesarius of Arles, Sermones: Césaire d’Arles, Sermons au peuple (1–20), ed. by Marie-José Delage, Sources Chrétiennes, 175 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1971) Carmina Latina Epigraphica, ed. by Franciscus Buecheler (Leipzig: Teubner, 1895–97) Pseudo-Cipriano, Trattati, ed. by Carlo dell’Osso (Rome: Città Nuova editrice, 2013) Pseudo-Cyprian, De duobus montibus Sina et Sion: Ps.-Cipriano, I due monti Sinai et Sion, ed. by Clara Burini (Fiesole: Nardini editore, 1994) —— , De montibus Sina et Sion, in S. Thasci Caecili Cypriani Opera Omnia. Pars 3 Opera spuria. Indices. Praefatio, ed. by Wilhelm August Hartel, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 3.3 (Vienna: C. Geroldi, 1868), pp. 104–19 Isidore of Seville, Etymologarium sive Originum Libri XX, ed. by Wallace Martin Lindsay (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1985) Jerome, Cantici Canticorum: Vetus Latina translatio a S. Hieronymo ad Graecum Hexap­ larem emendata, ed. by Alberto Vaccari (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 1959)

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

87

—— , Commentariorum in Hiezechielem libri XIV, ed. by François Glorie, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 75 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1964) Possidius, Vita S. Augustini, in Vita di Cipriano, Vita di Ambrogio, Vita di Agostino, ed. by Antonius A. R. Bastiaensen, Vite dei Santi, 3 (Milan: Mondadori, 1989), 127–241 Tertullian, Adversus Marcionem, in Tertullian, Opera, vol.  i, Opera catholica, Adversus Marcionem, ed. by Eligius Dekkers and others, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 1 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1954), pp. 441–726 —— , Apologeticum, in Tertullian, Opera, vol. i, Opera catholica, Adversus Marcionem, ed. by Eligius Dekkers and others, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 1 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1954), pp. 85–171 Vetus Latina, vol. xii.2, Esaias 40–66, ed. by Roger Gryson (Freiburg: Herder Verlag, 1993–97)

Secondary Studies Austin, N. J. E., and Nikolas Boris Rankov, Exploratio: Military and Political Intelligence in the Roman World from the Second Punic War to the Battle of Adrianopole (London: Routledge, 1995) Bailey, Donald Michael, A Catalogue of Lamps in the British Museum, vol.  iii, Roman Provincial Lamps (London: British Museum Publications, 1988) —— , ‘Pottery’, in Roman Crafts, ed. by Donald Strong and David Brown (London: Duckworth, 1976), pp. 93–104 Bejaoui, Féthi, Céramique et religion chrétienne: Les thèmes bibliques sur la sigillée africaine (Tunis: Institut National du Patrimoine, 1997) Bessi, Benedetta, ‘Un brano de al-Mas’udi e il significato del gallo nel mondo semitico: alcune osservazioni’ (unpublished typsescript provided by the author) Brown, Peter, ‘Conclusions’, in Le Problème de la christianisation du monde antique, ed. by Hervé Inglebert, Sylvain Destephen, and Bruno Dumézil (Nanterre: Picard, 2010), pp. 405–15 Bussière, Jean, Lampes antiques d’Algérie, vol.  ii, Lampes tardives et lampes chrétiennes, Monographies instrumentum, 35 (Montagnac: Éditions Monique Mergoil, 2007) Camps, Gabriel, ‘Le Coq et la coquille’, Bulletin archéologique du comité des travaux histor­ iques et scientifiques, 22 (1987–89), 35–61 Chadwick, Henry, ed., The Role of the Bishop in Ancient Society: Protocol of the Thirty­Fifth Colloquy (Berkeley: Center for Hermeneutical Studies in Hellenistic and Modern Culture, 1980) Corssen, Peter, ‘Ein theologischer Traktat aus der Werdezeit der kirchlichen Literatur des Abendlandes’, Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, 12 (1911), 1–37 Delattre, Alfred Louis, Lampes chrétiennes de Carthage (Lille: de Brouwer, 1890–91) Ennabli, Abdelmajid, Lampes chrétiennes de Tunisie: Musées du Bardo et de Carthage (Paris: Éditions du Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 1976) Fantar, Muhammad, Eschatologie phénicienne­punique: Collection, notes et documents (Tunis: Ministère des affaires culturelles, 1970) Foucault, Michel, Security, Territory, Population: Lectures at the Collège de France, 1977–78, ed. by Michel Senellart, trans. by Graham Burchell (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2007)

88

Brent D. Shaw

Gauckler, Paul, and others, Catalogue de Musée d’Alaoui (Supplément), fasc. 3 (Paris: Leroux, 1910) Gsell, Stéphane, ‘Découvertes d’antiquités récemment faites en Algérie’, Bulletin archéolo­ gique du Comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques, 1901, clx–clxiii Hermann, John J., and Annewies van den Hoek, Light from the Age of Augustine: Late Antique Ceramics from North Africa (Cambridge, MA: Harvard Divinity School, 2002) Hoeflich, Michael H., ‘The Speculator in the Governmental Theory of the Early Church’, Vigiliae Christianae, 34 (1980), 120–29 Hoek, Annewies van den, and John  J. Hermann, Pottery, Pavements, and Paradise: Iconographic and Textual Studies on Late Antiquity, Supplements to Vigiliae Chris­ tianae, 122 (Leiden: Brill, 2013) —— , ‘Thecla the Beast Fighter’, Studia Philonica Annual, 13 (2000), 212–49 Laato, Anni Maria, Jews and Christians in ‘De duobus montibus Sina et Sion’: An Approach to Early Latin Adversus Judaeos Literature (Åbo: Åbo Akademis Forlag, 1998) Leclercq, Henri, ‘Dendrites’, in Dictionnaire d’archéologie chrétienne et de liturgie, vol. iv.1 (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1920), cols 582–83 Leschi, Louis, ‘Basilique et cimetière donatistes de Numidie (Aïn-Ghorab)’, Revue Africaine, 88 (1936), 27–42 —— , Etudes d’épigraphie, d’archéologie et d’histoire africaines (Paris: Arts et Métiers graphiques, 1957) Merlin, Alfred, ‘Supplément au Catalogue des lampes du Musée Alaoui (deuxième série) (suite et fin)’, Revue Tunisienne, 114 (1916), 43–57 Merlin, Alfred, and Raymond Lantier, Catalogue du Musée d’Alaoui (2e supplément) (Paris: Leroux, 1921) Mohrmann, Christine, ‘Episkopos-speculator’, in Études sur le latin des chrétiens, vol. iv, ed. by Christine Mohrmann, Storia e Letteratura Raccolta di Studi e Testi, 143 (Rome: Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1977), pp. 231–52 Monceaux, Paul, Histoire littéraire de l’Afrique chrétienne depuis les origines jusqu’à l’invasion arabe, vol. ii, Saint Cyprien et ses temps (Paris: E. Leroux, 1902; repr. Brussels: Culture et civilisation, 1966) Pillinger, Emily, ‘Inventa est blandae rationis imago: Visualizing the Mausoleum of the Flavii’, Transactions of the American Philological Association, 143 (2013), 171–211 Quasten, Johannes, Patrology, vol.  ii, The Ante­Nicene Literature after Irenaeus (Westminster, MD: Christian Classics, 1992) Rapp, Claudia, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 37 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005) Shaw, Brent  D., Bringing in the Sheaves: Economy and Metaphor in the Roman World (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2013) —— , ‘Cult and Belief in Punic and Roman Africa’, in The Cambridge History of Religions in the Ancient World, vol. ii, From the Hellenistic Age to Late Antiquity, ed. by Michele Salzman and William Adler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 235–63 —— , Sacred  Violence: African Christians and Sectarian Hatred in the Age of Augustine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011)

Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator

89

Soden, Hans von, Das Lateinische Neue Testament in Afrika zur Zeit Cyprians (Leipzig: J. C. Hinrichs’sche Buchhandlung, 1909) Stewart-Sykes, Alistair C., Original Bishops: Office and Order in the First Christian Communities (Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 2014) Stuiber, Alfred, ‘Die Wachhütte im Weingarten’, Jahrbuch für Antike und Christentum, 2 (1959), 86–89 Tortorella, Stefano, ‘Il repertorio iconografico della ceramica Africana a rilievo del iv–v secolo d. C’, Mélanges de l’école française de Rome, 117 (2005), 173–98 Trost, Catherine, and Marie-Christine Hellmann, Lampes antiques, vol. iii, Fonds général: lampes chrétiennes (Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, 1996) Turner, Charles Henry, ‘Adversaria Patristica’, Journal of Theological Studies, 7  (1906), 597–600 Verbraken, Pierre-Patrick, ‘Le Sermon LXXXVIII de saint Augustin sur la guérison des deux aveugles de Jéricho’, Revue Bénédictine, 94 (1984), 71–101 Weidemann, Konrad, Spätantike Bilder des Heidentums und Christentums (Mainz: Verlag des Römisch-Germanischen Zentralmuseums, 1990)

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City: The Case of Libanius and John Chrysostom’s Antioch Jaclyn Maxwell*

D

uring the fourth and fifth centuries, the upper classes embraced Christianity, even though certain beliefs and institutions posed challenges to traditional socioeconomic order — for instance, bishops were calling on Christians to give freely to the poor, while ascetics exemplified the spiritual rewards of rejecting wealth and worldly ambitions in favour of a simple life.1 In addition to questioning the elite values of holding public offices and displaying wealth, Christian authorities also re-examined the role traditional education would play in Christian society.2 Aside from concerns about ‘pagan’ content, educated Christians had to reconcile their classical, sophisticated paideia — a major factor determining elite identity — with the ideal of *

I would like to thank Wendy Mayer and Philip Rousseau for their insightful comments on an earlier version of this essay. 1 For an overview of the scholarship on poverty and almsgiving in Late Antiquity, see Allen, Neil, and Mayer, Preaching Poverty in Late Antiquity, pp. 15–33. On pagan almsgiving, see Parkin, ‘“You do him no service”’. On the complex attitudes towards and uses of wealth in the late Roman world, see Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle. 2 For excellent collections of essays on elites in Late Antiquity, see Arethusa, 33.3 (2000) and Lizzi Testa, Le trasformazioni delle élites in età tardoantica. On the social status of bishops, see Lizzi Testa, ‘Privilegi economici e definizione di “status”’; Rapp ‘The Elite Status of Bishops’. On the change and continuity in elite values, see Daley, ‘Building a New City’. Jaclyn Maxwell is Associate Professor, History, Ohio University. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 91–114 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118159

Jaclyn Maxwell

92

simple Christian wisdom from tentmakers and fishermen.3 But did these new values regarding humility and poverty lead upper-class, educated Christian thinkers to transform their attitudes about their own status and about their social inferiors? Would leading Christians, who modelled themselves in part after the Apostles, consider simple, uneducated workers more favourably than their pagan peers did? Or, did pagan and Christian worldviews have more in common than not, with social norms taking precedence over religious ideals that challenged the status quo?4 Increasingly, studies of religion and society in Late Antiquity demonstrate that people with different religious affiliations shared a great deal in common, even though their differences were occasionally brought to centre stage.5 By turning our attention away from religious conflicts, we can gain a better understanding of more typical social interactions in a late antique city. In the case of late fourth-century Antioch, we are fortunate to have numerous texts by Libanius (314–391), the pagan professor of rhetoric, and by John Chrysostom (c. 349–407), the priest who became famous in the same city for his captivating sermons and strict way of life.6 Despite their obvious differences, both men were from well-off families and became local leaders whose fame reached the imperial court in Constantinople. Libanius’s uncle served on the city council and sent him to study rhetoric in Athens, where he made friends and acquaintances who later became influential in the local and imperial government. He turned down positions in Athens and Constantinople in order to establish a long career as the leading rhetoric professor in Antioch.7 Chrysostom, whose father had been a civil servant in the Roman army, was raised by his widowed 3

On education and social status, see Maxwell, ‘The Attitudes of Basil and Gregory of Nazianzus’. On earlier Christian intellectuals’ responses to the stereotyping of Christians as uneducated, see Pietzner, Bildung, Elite und Konkurrenz. 4 Ray Van Dam, who always keeps his discussions of theologians grounded in their social and economic contexts, observes how upper-class values and self-presentation played an important role in the conflict between the Cappadocian Fathers and less prestigious ‘heretics’, Becoming Christian, pp. 9–45. 5 On Chrysostom and Libanius in particular, see Sandwell, Religious  Identity in Late Antiquity. For a study of the shared culture of Christian and pagan intellectuals, see Elm, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church. 6 On Antioch in Late Antiquity, see Festugière, Antioch païenne et chrétienne; Liebeschuetz, Antioch; Kondoleon, Antioch; Sandwell and Huskinson, Culture and Society; Cribiore, Libanius the Sophist; Shepardson, Controlling Contested Places; and the essays in Bergjan and Elm, Antioch II. The Many Faces of Antioch. 7 For recent essays on Libanius’s life and works, see Van Hoof, Libanius.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

93

mother. She supported his studies with an orator (probably, but not definitely, Libanius), providing him with the opportunity to pursue the career paths open to educated men.8 Soon after he finished his studies, however, Chrysostom dedicated his life to Christianity, starting as an assistant to his bishop and as a lector, followed by several years living an ascetic life in and around Antioch before his ordination as priest in 386. Although preaching was usually the bishop’s responsibility, Chrysostom often took on this responsibility as a priest in Antioch, gaining widespread renown and, ultimately, the episcopate of Constantinople (398–405). Chrysostom and Libanius were both leading public speakers in Antioch whose positions gave them a measure of freedom of speech, or parrēsia, allowing them to critique authority figures and fellow citizens. Their writings offer examples of how these two men interacted with different social groups in their city, how they used their influence with peers and superiors, and how they envisioned a better society. 9 A comparison of their attitudes about social status can tell us about the relationships among social groups in a major city as well as the common ground of traditional and Christian social attitudes.

Libanius Most of Libanius’s letters are concerned with asking for favours, recommending students for jobs, intervening with authorities, providing condolences, congratulations, or thank-you notes.10 But his world was not entirely confined to rhetoric students, government officials, and wealthy families. Many of his orations demonstrate that the life of a rhetoric professor could be very much connected with the rest of society.11 Libanius acknowledged the ordinary people of his city 8

For a more detailed account of Chrysostom’s biography, see Allen and Mayer, John Chrysostom, pp. 3–11. On Greek education and culture as a factor in careers in the fourth century, see Van Hoof, ‘Performing Paideia’. 9 For an in-depth study of these two men with a focus on their religions, see Sandwell, Religious Identity in Late Antiquity. 10 See the introduction and commentary in Libanius, Briefe, ed. by Fatouros and Krischer; Petit, Les Étudiants de Libanius; Cribiore, The School of Libanius, pp. 83–110, 213–22. 11 On Libanius’s interaction with the broader society, see Wiemer, ‘Der Sophist Libanios’; Petit, Libanius et la vie municipale; Liebeschuetz, Antioch, pp. 1–39. For all of Libanius’s works: Libanii opera, ed. by Foerster. For translations, see Libanius, Selected Orations, ed. and trans. by Norman, and Libanius, Autobiography and Selected Letters, ed. and trans. by Norman; Libanius, Antioch as a Centre, ed. and trans. by Norman; and Libanius, Selected Letters, ed. and trans. by Bradbury.

Jaclyn Maxwell

94

in various contexts, referring to them as ‘τοῖς πολλοῖς καὶ τῷ δήμῳ καὶ οἷς ἦν ἐν ταῖς χερσὶν ὁ βίος’ (the ordinary folk, the commons, and those who make a living by their hands),12 or simply as ‘τῷ πλήθει’ (the masses).13 In several orations, he voiced the concerns of the oppressed, pleading with his social peers and superiors to have pity on the lower classes. Most famously, he defended the peasants when Christian monks were out to destroy their ancestral temples. He also attempted to protect peasants from forced labour; he defended the bakers of Antioch from exploitation during a food shortage; he advocated for prisoners who were dying from the cramped conditions of the jails. He lamented the fact that many people suffered in poverty while a well-off minority enjoyed the wealth that they had gained at the expense of the poor. In these cases, his social commentary was not so different from that of Christian preachers who defended the powerless. Libanius’s orations paint dramatic pictures of the social problems of the time — he did not just mention these issues in passing. In several cases, he attempted to convey the voices of the poor and suffering. In a short speech within a speech, he spoke as a peasant who was angry that his draught animals had been seized by the wealthy for urban construction projects.14 Elsewhere, he voiced the sorrow of a prisoner who had no relatives, friends, or money.15 Speaking as a worker burdened with paying for the oil lamps used for street lighting, he complained about the rising price of oil and stagnant wages of the factory workers. In the same speech, we hear Libanius channel the voice of an impoverished widow, frightened by the demands placed on her by city officials: ‘πῶς ἂν ἅψαι δυναίμην; πόθεν ἂν ἔλαιόν μοι γένοιτο τὸν πολὺν ἤδη χρόνον ἐλαίου μὴ γεγευμένῃ;’ (How can I light the lamps? Where can I get the oil from? For a long time now I have not tasted of a drop of it).16 Another striking feature of Libanius’s orations is his view that the defence of the poor was a praiseworthy stance for political officials. He commended a governor in Palestine for being lenient in court cases and allowing prisoners to drink wine.17 A good governor should be ‘βοηθήσοντα πένησιν, οὐκ ἐπιτρίψοντα’ 12

Libanius, Orationes (Or.) 36. 4, ed. by Foerster, iii, 228; Libanius, Antioch as a Centre, ed. and trans. by Norman, p. 126. 13 Libanius, Or. 45. 22, ed. by Foerster, iii, 369; Libanius, Selected Orations, ed. and trans. by Norman, ii, 181. 14 Libanius, Or. 50. 4. 15 Libanius, Or. 45. 10. 16 Libanius, Or. 33. 36, ed. by Foerster, iii, 183–84; Libanius, Selected Orations, ed. and trans. by Norman, ii, 227. 17 Libanius, Or. 45. 30.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

95

(a helper of the poor rather than their oppressor).18 Libanius’s defence of the weak often went hand in hand with a critique of the powerful. He accused the wealthy and powerful of abusing the legal system to intimidate or get rid of their enemies.19 He contrasted the unnecessary luxury of the wealthy with the suffering of the poor and cited the enjoyment of luxury as a direct cause of the poverty of many.20 Libanius condemned this sort of behaviour as a way of attacking his enemies, so these complaints were also self-serving. Nevertheless, it is significant that the defence of the poor and the condemnation of the abuses by the upper classes clearly gave Libanius a claim to moral authority. In all of these instances, Libanius’s depiction of the urban populace is sympathetic rather than derogatory. When Libanius was contemptuous of others and used insulting terms, it had more to do with education and culture than it did with social and economic class per se. While he embraced the idea that the elite should protect the rest of their community, he generally did not approve of people trying to climb up the social ladder. In his speech defending the peasants’ ancestral temples from the attacks by Christian monks, he ridiculed the monks, describing them as ‘τῶν τὰς μὲν πυράγρας καὶ σφύρας καὶ ἄκμονας ἀφέντων, περὶ δὲ οὐρανοῦ καὶ τῶν τὸν οὐρανὸν ἐχόντων ἀξιούντων διαλέγεσθαι’ (These people who have cast aside tongs, hammers and anvils and now claim to discourse upon heaven and its occupants).21 This remark should not be read as expressing a general contempt for workers (or for Christians), but as a jibe against uneducated men who claimed to be experts in philosophy. In Libanius’s view, ‘discoursing upon heaven’ and similar pursuits were for experts. In one of his letters, he refers to monks as ‘κολοιοί’ (crows) and mocks their lack of rhetorical skill: he speculates that if Julian had returned successfully from Persia, ‘ἦλθεν ἂν καὶ νέφος κολοιῶν, γέλως ἐμοί τε καὶ σοί, λέγειν μὲν οὐκ ἐπισταμένων, παίειν δὲ ἄλλους ἐπιχειρούντων ἀντὶ τῆς αὑτῶν ἀμαθίας’ (a crowd of crows would have flocked around, and made themselves a laughing stock for you and me, for though they have no ability in speaking, they try to attack others in return for their own stupidity).22 18 Libanius, Or. 33. 43, ed. by Foerster, iii, 187; Libanius, Selected Orations, ed. and trans. by Norman, ii, 233; cf. Or. 20. 38 and Or. 21. 2. Libanius describes the crowd’s acclaim for a governor’s leniency after a riot: Or. 22. 26. 19 Libanius, Or. 45. 3–4. 20 Luxury vs. suffering: Libanius, Or. 45. 34; Or. 33. 29; luxury as cause of poverty: Or. 23. 18. 21 Libanius, Or. 30. 31, ed. by Foerster, iii, 103; Libanius, Selected Orations, ed. and trans. by Norman, ii, 129. 22 Epistle to Scylacius (Epistula 1220), ed. by Foerster, xi, 301; Libanius, Autobiography and

96

Jaclyn Maxwell

As a teacher, though, Libanius believed that rhetorical education and ability was a legitimate way for men to be elevated to a higher station in society (or to maintain their already high status). Making an exception to his usual embrace of the status quo, Libanius points out that a good rhetorical education could help disguise low social origins. Following a discussion of students who had abandoned their studies, Libanius praises the practical value of his art: οὗτοι συγκρύπτουσι μὲν δυσγένειαν, κρύπτουσι δὲ ἀμορφίαν, πλοῦτον δὲ φυλάττουσι, λύουσι δὲ πενίαν, ἀρκοῦσι δὲ πόλεσιν εἰς σωτηρίαν πάντων ὄντες ὅπλων ἐν πολέμοις χρησιμώτεροι καὶ πάσης πολυχειρίας ἐν μάχαις ἰσχυρότεροι. οἱ τούτους ἔχοντες πρὸς τὰ μαντεῖα πολλάκις ἁμιλλῶνται τῷ τὸ μέλλον δύνασθαι προορᾶν· ὅ γὰρ ἐκείνους τὰ πνεύματα, τοῦτο τούτοις ἡ γνώμη. μόνους δὲ τοὺς παιδείᾳ διενεγκόντας φαίη τις ἂν καὶ ἀθανάτους εἶναι φύσει μὲν τελευτῶντας, δόξῃ δὲ ζῶντας. [Eloquence helps to conceal lowly origin: it hides ugliness, protects wealth, relieves penury and suffices cities for their protection, since in war it is more useful than any equipment and in battle is more potent than any superiority of numbers. The possessors of it often vie with the oracles in their ability to foresee the future. What inspiration is to the prophet, their intellect is to them. Only those who excel in education can be described as immortal too, for though they die in the course of nature, they live on in their fame.]23

Eloquence and formal training could offer a legitimate and effective way to conceal and transcend one’s lowly origins. But other careers would only make lowly people look like overly ambitious upstarts. Libanius’s concern for rhetoric’s loss of prestige is well known.24 The rhetoric teacher worried about the growing popularity of other areas of study, considering them to be threats to his own cultural values and his livelihood. When he discussed these other disciplines, namely shorthand and law, he tarred them by associating them with lower-class people seeking a shortcut to undeserved privileges and fortunes. In one oration, in the course of complaining about rhetoric not getting its proper respect, he refers to shorthand teachers making fortunes, when they had more in common with cobblers and carpenters.25 In his view, these successful shorthand teachers were wealthy and pompous far beyond their merits. Selected Works (Ep. 120. 5), ed. and trans. by Norman, ii, 227. On the connection between paid­ eia and religious identity, see Limberis, ‘“Religion” as a Cipher for Identity’. 23 Libanius, Or. 23. 21, ed. by Foerster, ii, 504; Libanius, Selected Orations, ed. and trans. by Norman, ii, 261. 24 Cribiore, The School of Libanius, pp. 205–13; Libanius, Or. 31. 26–28. 25 Libanius, Or. 31. 33.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

97

Education and social mobility are central to Oration 62, ‘Against the Critics of his Educational System’. Libanius complains that the emperor Constantius had unjustly ignored the merits of rhetoric students, in favour of lowly people: ‘ὁ τοῦ μαγείρου παῖς, ὁ τοῦ κναφέως, ὁ περιτρέχων ἐν στενωποῖς, ὁ τρυφὴν ἡγούμενος τὸ μὴ πεινῆσαι, οὖτος ἐξαίφνης ἐφ’ ἵππου λαμπροῦ λαμπρὸς καὶ ὀφρὺς ἠρμένη καὶ πλῆθος ἀκoλούθων οἰκία μεγάλη, γῆ πολλή, κόλακες, συμπόσια, χρυσός’ (The cook’s son, or the laundry man’s, the street urchin, the creature who thought he was in clover if he wasn’t actually starving, was all of a sudden a fine man on a fine horse, nose in the air, with a mass of attendants, a great household, wide estates, toadies, parties, gold).26 This sort of social mobility was a problem in itself, but according to Libanius, it also lowered the motivations of rhetoric students.27 Libanius describes the young men from the factories as the type that should study law: τὸν μὲν γὰρ ἄλλον ἅπαντα χρόνον τοὺς μὲν ἀπὸ τῶν ἐργαστηρίων νέους, οἷς ἡ φροντὶς ὑπὲρ τῆς ἀναγκαίας τροφῆς, ἦν ἰδεῖν εἰς Φοινίκην ἐπὶ τῷ τοὺς νόμους λαβεῖν ἰόντας, οἱ δὲ ἐξ εὐδαιμόνων οἰκιῶν οἷς γένος ἐπιφανὲς καὶ χρήματα καὶ πατέρες λελειτουργηκότες, ἔμενον ἐν τοῖς ἡμετέροις. καὶ ἐδόκει τὸ μὲν τοὺς νόμους μανθάνειν τῆς χείρονος τύχης, τὸ δὲ μηδὲν προσδεῖσθαι τούτων τῆς ἀμείνονος εἶναι σημεῖον, ἀλλὰ νῦν πολὺς πολλῶν ὁ δρόμος ἐπ’ ἐκεῖνο, καὶ νεανίσκοι λέγειν εἰδότες καὶ κινεῖν ἀκροατὴν ἔχοντες εἰς Βηρυτὸν θέουσιν ὡς ἂν προσληψόμενοί τι. [Always before this, you could see youngsters from the factories whose concern was for their daily bread, going off to Phoenicia to gain a knowledge of law, while those of well-to-do houses, with illustrious family, property and fathers who had performed civic services, stayed at school here. It was thought that to learn law was a mark of lower status, while not to need it indicated a higher standing, but now there is a mass stampede towards it, and lads who know how to speak and are able to move an audience race to Berytus with the idea of getting some advantage.]28

The youths from the factories chose law out of desperation: this was not an honourable reason to choose a profession. Their success, in turn, dragged down the aspirations of better men, who should have (in Libanius’s view) taken the higher ground and focused on rhetoric. Libanius complained that success and fortune had become disconnected from high birth and traditional elite education: money had become more important than eloquence for a political career. 26

Libanius, Or. 62. 11, ed. by Foerster, iv, 352; Libanius, Antioch as a Centre, ed. and trans. by Norman, p. 92. 27 Libanius, Or. 62. 15–16. 28 Libanius, Or. 62. 21, ed. by Foerster, iv, 356–57; Libanius, Antioch as a Centre, ed. and trans. by Norman, p. 95. On Berytus as a centre of legal studies, see Jones Hall, Roman Berytus.

Jaclyn Maxwell

98

Capable and dignified advocates struggled to find clients, while the opportunistic ones succeeded.29 In the same oration, Libanius offers a wonderful example of the sort of man who was disrupting the proper scheme of things. This self-made man would be a hero of sorts in many cultures today, but for Libanius, he was the epitome of his society’s declining standards: ἄνθρωπος δέ τις γάρου κάπηλος καὶ τοῦτο ποιῶν διὰ τῆς θαλάττης, Ἡλιόδωρος ὄνομα αὐτῷ, κατ’ αὐτὴν τὴν ἐμπορίαν ἥκων ποτὲ καὶ εἰς Κόρινθον δίκης τινὸς οὔσης φίλῳ παρ’ ᾧ κατέλυε νοσοῦντος ἐκείνου τάξιν εἰσῆλθε λαβὼν καὶ ἠκροᾶτο τῶν συνηγόρων, ἐλπίδος δὲ αὐτῷ πρὸς τὴν ἀκοὴν γενομένης, ὡς ἄρα καὶ αὐτὸς ἔσται τῶν βοηθούντων, εἰ προσέχοι ταῖς δίκαις τὸν νοῦν, μερίζει τὴν ἐπιμέλειαν εἴς τε τοῦ γάρου τὴν πρᾶσιν εἴς τε τὴν ἀκρόασιν τῶν δικῶν καὶ χρόνος βραχὺς καὶ ῥήτωρ ἐξαίφνης Ἡλιόδωρος. καὶ δύναμις ἐξ ἀναιδείας τὸ μὲν πρῶτον οὐ πάνυ μικρά, μετὰ ταῦτα δὲ μεγάλη, χρόνου δὲ προϊόντος μεγίστη. καὶ τῶν μὲν ἐκ τοῦ γάρου σκωμμάτων οὐκ ἀπήλλακτο, τῶν δὲ σκωπτόντων περιῆν καὶ οἰκίαν ἐώνητο καὶ ἀνδράποδα καὶ γῆν. καὶ πρῶτος ἀγὼν πρὸ τῶν δικαστηρίων τοῖς ἔνδον ἀγωνιουμένοις ἦν Ἡλιοδώρου τὴν ἀσπίδα προσλαβεῖν. οὕτως ἀνὴρ τῷ μηδὲν ὀκνεῖν εὐδοκίμει. διεξιὼν δὲ πᾶν δικαστηρίου μέτρον τελευτῶν ἐν τοῖς βασιλείοις ἔλεγεν οἷα λέγειν τὸν τοιοῦτον ἀνάγκη, τὸ νικᾶν δὲ καὶ ἀπὸ τούτων εἶχε […]. ὁ δὲ καὶ ἦρχεν ὡς δὴ τὰ τῶν ῥητόρων πεπονηκώς. οὕτως οὐδὲν θαυμαστόν, ὦ φιλότης, ἀμαθίαν ἐν δίκαις ἀφορμὴν εἰς πλοῦτον γενέσθαι. πολλῶν δὲ ἔχων μνησθῆναι τούτῳ παραπλησίων περὶ τούτου μόνου διῆλθον, ἐπειδὴ τοὺς μὲν ὀλίγοι τινὲς ἔγνωσαν καὶ τάχ’ ἄν τις ἠπίστησε λέγοντος, περὶ δὲ τοῦδε πολλοὺς ὑπάρχει μοι πανταχόθεν καλεῖν μάρτυρας. [One fellow, named Heliodorus, a hawker of fish-pickle who plied his trade by sea, in the course of his trade once came to Corinth. The friend with whom he was lodging was involved in a law-suit and happened to fall ill, so Heliodorus took his place and entered court, listened to the pleaders, and conceived the hope, upon hearing them, that he too could become a successful pleader if he paid attention to law-suits. So he divided his interests between the sale of fish-pickle and listening to law-suits, and in a short time, Heliodorus suddenly made his appearance as an orator. Influence came as a result of his impudence at first, in no small measure; it became greater thereafter, and as time went on, reached its peak. He never managed to get rid of jokes about fish-pickle, but he got the better of the jokers, bought himself a house, slaves and land. Before any court action, the prime concern for the litigants who would take part in it was to get Heliodorus for their shield and defense. Such a name does a man get from sticking at nothing. He went the rounds of every type of court and he finished up in the palace making the speeches that a man of his kind must make, and as a result of these too he attained pre-eminence. 29

Libanius, Or. 62. 39–42.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

99

[He bought estates, slaves, horses and cattle]. He even became a governor, for it was held that he had been through the mill of oratory! So, my dear man, it is no cause for surprise that ignorance in law-suits is a means of attaining wealth. Although I could mention many similar instances, I have confined my account to him alone, since not many people know of them, and my story might not be believed, whereas about him I can call many witnesses from all over the place.]30

This anecdote is part of Libanius’s argument that the later careers of his students cannot be used as a reliable gauge of his abilities as a teacher. Ideally, a successful career went hand in hand with a great education: a good governor would need rhetorical training. But, in reality, governors were not necessarily deserving of their posts. Libanius ends this oration with insults aimed at his opponent who had criticized his ability as a teacher. He accuses this man of getting rich by ruining families, ‘οὐ χήρας οἰκτείρων, οὐκ ὀρφανοὺς ἐλεῶν’ (without compassion for widows, without pity for orphans). This man ‘τὸ χρυσίον ἐλάμβανε παρὰ γυναικῶν καὶ παιδαρίων γυμνῶν. εἶθ’ οἱ μὲν ἀπῄεσαν προσαιτήσοντες’ (took his gold from women and naked children. Then they would go away and beg for their living).31 Libanius goes on to accuse the man of buying speeches rather than writing them himself. Here, he depicts the depraved rich person as undereducated and cruel to the poor. Libanius clearly wanted to be seen as a protector of the lower classes, both rural and urban, and condemned wealthy people who abused their power and wallowed in luxury. It is important to remember that his sympathy for the poor is tied to a basic acceptance of the existing social structure.32 For Libanius, anyone moving out of their proper station would be an unwelcome aberration: a fish-pickle merchant absolutely should not become a legal advocate, a profession which Libanius believed should be the domain of upper-class people trained in rhetoric. In his view, the motives propelling the upward mobility of the sons of carpenters would always be based on greed and desperation, which would lead to less than honourable conduct when these sorts of men achieved positions of power. Yet, as we have seen, he allowed for the possibility that rhetorical training could hide one’s humble origin: perhaps social mobility would 30

Libanius, Or. 62. 46–49, ed. by Foerster, iv, 369–71; Libanius, Antioch as a Centre, ed. and trans. by Norman, pp. 101–02. 31 Libanius, Or. 62. 64, ed. by Foerster, iv, 379; Libanius, Antioch as a Centre, ed. and trans by Norman, p. 107. 32 See Libanius, Or. 47, ‘On Protection Systems’, in which Libanius objects to peasants taking matters into their own hands.

Jaclyn Maxwell

100

be acceptable as long as it was completely unnoticeable, when people lost all trace of a lower-class accent and could blend in seamlessly with the elite. In a similar vein, Libanius did not approve of people without access to education presuming to have their own ideas about intellectual matters. Uneducated men discoursing on philosophy (which is how he viewed the Christian monks) were in the same category as fish-pickle merchants becoming advocates or governors: in both cases, these men lacked credentials, skills, and social acceptability. In his view, such men were untrustworthy because they could only be inspired by base motives and they could only succeed through deception.

John Chrysostom Not unlike Libanius, Chrysostom sympathized with the problems of the lower classes.33 Although he is particularly well known for his preaching about almsgiving and poverty, his concern extended to the manual labourers and others who were neither destitute nor wealthy. These groups, as well as the members of the elite, were part of his congregation in Antioch, and he sometimes addressed them directly.34 In one instance, he singles out the workers, contrasting them favourably with the wealthy, describing how, from the vantage point of their workshops, they witnessed the parade of ‘πονηροὺς καὶ φαύλους ἀνθρώπους’ (wicked and despicable people) with their ostentatious clothes, whose wealth was the result of their unchecked greed.35 On other occasions, he addresses the wealthy, encouraging them to be less disdainful of the blacksmiths, shoemakers, and farmers who were their fellow Christians.36 Chrysostom was not always precise about what type of person he was addressing: ‘the poor’ could refer to beggars, workers, or formerly wealthy people who had fallen on hard times.37 In many of the following examples, the juxtaposition between the rich and the 33

For an overview of John Chrysostom’s career and writings, see Allen and Mayer, John Chrysostom. On his interaction with the community, see Leyerle, ‘John Chrysostom on Almsgiving’; Hartney, John Chrysostom; Maxwell, Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity. 34 Mayer, ‘Who Came to Hear John Chrysostom Preach?’; Maxwell, Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity, pp. 65–87. For examples of Chrysostom referring to the poor and workers as Christians: Homiliae in Matthaeum (Hom. in Mt.) 15. 1, ed. by Migne, lvii, col. 223, and 15. 11, lvii, col. 237. 35 Chrysostom, In Kalendas, ed. by Migne, col. 957. 36 Chrysostom, Homiliae in I Corinthios (Hom. in I Cor.) 20. 5; Hom. in Mt. 59. 4. 37 See Allen, Neil, and Mayer, Preaching Poverty in Late Antiquity, p. 86, especially n. 99.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

101

poor can be best understood as reflecting the tension between the rich and everyone else — manual labourers, artisans, and the destitute. While addressing a congregation that spanned social and economic boundaries, the preacher frequently took up the topics of misused wealth and the abuse of the poor in his sermons. Some of these discussions were spurred by laypeople’s questions about how disparities in wealth could be reconciled with Christian theology and ethics. In particular, people wanted to know if the possession or lack of wealth reflected God’s judgement. In response, Chrysostom assured his congregation that earthly wealth was not a reward for virtue: he acknowledged that sinful wealthy people certainly existed. He explains that God permitted sinful people to be rich because this world is not the place of judgement: ‘Ταῦτ’ οὖν εἰδότες ἅπαντα φιλοσοφῶμεν, καὶ μὴ λέγωμεν, ὅτι εἰ τὸν δεῖνα ἐφίλει ὁ Θεὸς, οὐκ ἂν αὐτὸν ἀφῆκε γενέσθαι πένητα’ (knowing these things let us be wise. Let us not say that if God loved so and so, he would not have allowed him to become poor).38 Chrysostom assures his listeners that wealthy people would undergo a more rigorous judgement in the afterlife.39 Chrysostom did not, however, fundamentally object to this world’s unequal distribution of wealth and power. His ideal Christian society would not have been a classless society, because wealth and poverty each had a role to play in salvation: poverty taught virtue to the poor, and the rich possessed wealth in order to help the poor.40 Drawing on the same ideas found in pagan moral philosophy, Chrysostom attempted to convince his listeners that the poor were actually the lucky ones, while the rich suffered. The possession of wealth led to problems: anxiety over guarding possessions, overeating, bad sleep, health problems, and the never-ending desire for more wealth.41 The poor, on the other hand, had a relatively easy life: they did not have to worry about the envy of the masses or their servants’ plots against them. Manual labourers, due to their honest work and simple food, could sleep well at night, while wealthy people suffered from indigestion caused by luxurious food.42 But when Chrysostom 38

Chrysostom, De Lazaro (De Laz.) 1, ed. by Migne, col. 980; cf. Hom. in Mt. 75. 4. Chrysostom, De Laz. 1. Re: judgment of rich and poor, cf. Hom. in Mt. 75. 5. 40 Chrysostom Hom. in I Cor. 29. 6. Chrysostom had to address questions from his congregation about economic inequality: see Maxwell, ‘The Voices of the People’. 41 Chrysostom, Hom. in Mt. 63. 2–4. People should stop wanting wealth and redefine ‘wealth’ as good works: Hom. in Mt. 74. 4–5; poverty is a great teacher: Hom. in Mt. 83. 3–4. On poverty in God’s plan and the advantages of poverty: De Anna Homiliae 5. Similar ideas about wealth and poverty were expressed by Stoics and Cynics; see Brunt, ‘Aspects of the Social Thought’. 42 Chrysostom, Hom. in Mt. 38. 3, 53. 6. For comparison of poor biblical figures to wealthy, evil ones: Hom. in Mt. 90. 4. For a similar discussion, see Theodoret, De Providentia 6. 39

Jaclyn Maxwell

102

told his congregation that they should be glad that they did not possess wealth and power, he knew that they were not convinced because they were laughing at his sermon.43 In one instance, Chrysostom expresses his frustration with his congregation’s questions about why some people were rich and others were not: ‘Πόσων ἀκούω λεγόντων, Μὴ ἔστω πενία! Ἐπιστομίζωμεν τοίνυν τοὺς τὰ τοιαῦτα δυσχεραίνοντας· […] πενία γὰρ μυρία εἰς τὸν βίον ἡμῶν εἰσήγαγεν ἀγαθὰ’ (How many do I hear say, ‘let there be no poverty!’ Therefore, let us stop the mouths of those who murmur such things […] for poverty brings innumerable good things into our state of life).44 In another discussion, he tries to explain that earthly status was ultimately unimportant anyway, and that even pagan philosophers had arrived at this conclusion and understood the truth about wealth and poverty.45 Although Chrysostom did not object to the existence of social and economic disparity, he believed that these differences were not ultimately important: aside from their wealth, the elite were no different from everyone else. On the one hand, their ancestors had been menial labourers and shopkeepers, and on the other, they were exposed to war, famine, and disease, just like everyone else.46 Even if Chrysostom did not side with the people crying ‘let there be no poverty!’, he was critical of how his society functioned. His critiques of the abuses by the wealthy and his promotion of almsgiving did not simply aim to save the souls of the wealthy, but they aimed to change behaviour and relieve the suffering of the lower classes.47 Although the possession of wealth was not a sin, failing to distribute riches and becoming richer by making others poorer were both sins.48 In one instance, after describing the sins typical of soldiers and artisans, he identified landowners as the worst group because of their mistreatment of 43

‘Καὶ οἶδα μὲν ὅτι πολλοὶ γελῶσι τούτων λεγομένων’ (I know that many laugh when these things are said). Chrysostom, Hom. in Mt. 90. 3–4, ed. by Migne, lviii, col. 791. More critique of the rich: Hom. in I Cor. 13. 8; cf. Hom. in Mt. 35. 5; De Laz. 6. 4–5. 44 Chrysostom, Ad populum Antiochenum 15. 10, ed. by Migne, col. 158. Cf. Hom. in I Cor. 29. 7–9. 45 Chrysostom, Hom. in I Cor. 29. 9. 46 Chrysostom, Hom. in Mt. 58. 3. 47 In contrast, Sitzler, ‘Identity’, argues that the discussions of almsgiving are mainly for the benefit of the wealthy people’s souls. On Chrysostom’s concern about social justice and the fair distribution of worldly and spiritual goods, see Ritter, ‘Between “Theocracy” and “Simple Life”’, pp. 173–75. 48 Chrysostom, Hom. in I Cor. 40. 3.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

103

their workers. Landowners treated their workers more like mules than human beings and forced them into perpetual debt. Chrysostom went on to tell his wealthier listeners to cancel the debts owed to them.49 Chrysostom attempted to shame the rich out of their luxurious living by calling the men slavish and feminine and, because of their excessive concern for money making, comparing them to prostitutes.50 In another rebuke, he reminded the wealthy that they actually possessed the money of the poor: whether they had earned it or inherited it, they were required to give it back to the poor and not to waste it on worthless luxuries.51 Taking this idea even further, Chrysostom argues that wealthy people drove thieves to lives of crime, and their hoards of wealth rightfully belonged to the poor: ‘Οὐ γὰρ ὑμεῖς ποιεῖτε τοὺς λῃστάς; […] οὐ γὰρ ὑμεῖς ποιεῖτε τοὺς δραπέτας καὶ τοὺς ἐπιβούλους, καθάπερ δέλεαρ αὐτοῖς τὸν ὑμέτερον προτιθέντες πλοῦτον;’ (Aren’t you the ones who make them robbers? […] Aren’t you the ones who make fugitives and conspirators, setting your wealth before them just like bait?).52 Chrysostom’s support of the earthly status quo was not entirely consistent: if God had created poverty and wealth, and if the rich heeded his admonitions and consistently gave to the poor, then God-given economic disparity would largely be evened out. In order to comfort the non-elite, he emphasized that earthly conditions were unimportant or that wealth was a burden. But in response to abuses, he attacked the excesses of the elite and called on them to relieve the suffering of others. God had permitted some to be wealthy and some to be poor, but there were limits to how much people should profit or suffer from their stations in life.

John Chrysostom on Education and Social Status While Chrysostom could argue that the poor were often morally superior to the wealthy, his discussions of education do not suggest that the distinctions of class, status, and culture could or should be erased, even within the context of monastic life. John Chrysostom (and many of his contemporaries) invoked the 49

Chrysostom, Hom. in Mt. 61. 3. Leyerle, ‘John Chrysostom on Almsgiving’, pp. 34–37; Maxwell, Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity, pp. 153–54. 51 Chrysostom Hom. in Mt. 77. 3–5. 52 Chrysostom, Hom. in I Cor. 21. 5, ed. by Migne, col. 176. Cf. Hom. in Mt. 35. 5, 77. 3–5; Hom. in I Cor. 13. 8. 50

104

Jaclyn Maxwell

image of the simple, illiterate Apostle or holy man in order to exalt Christian teachings and to disparage pagan culture.53 But Chrysostom’s esteem for illiterate teachers would be tempered when it came to offering advice regarding education for upper-class youths. Particularly in his treatises on education (Against Opponents of the Monastic Life and On Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring up their Children), Chrysostom does not propose that wealthy Christians forgo the traditional education expected of their class.54 The illiterate and poor Apostles should be emulated, but only within reason. In Against the Opponents of the Monastic Life, Chrysostom promotes the monastic life as an option for parents seeking the best for their sons, an alternative superior to the traditional classical education. He addresses Book ii to pagan parents, focusing his arguments on the case of a hypothetical wealthy man and his only son. Here, Chrysostom draws on appropriate pagan cultural examples of philosophers who rejected wealth and worldly concerns.55 As a consolation to the rich man, he points out that a monk who had rejected his family’s wealth would win the best possible reputation.56 Just after this reassurance of social superiority even in poverty, Chrysostom addresses the wealthy man’s fears that his son would dishonour himself by associating with lowly men: Εἰ γὰρ ταπεινοὶ καὶ ἐκ ταπεινῶν ὄντες τινὲς ἀγροίκων υἱοὶ καὶ χειροτεχνῶν, ἐπὶ τὴν φιλοσφίαν ταύτην ἐλθόντες, οὕτως ἐγένοντο τίμιοι πᾶσιν, ὡς μηδένα τῶν ἐν τοῖς μεγάλοις ὄντων ἀξιώμασιν αἰσχυνθῆναι πρὸς τὸ καταγώγιον τούτων ἐλθεῖν, καὶ λόγων μετασχεῖν καὶ τραπέζης, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ μεγάλων τινῶν ἀγαθῶν, ὅπερ οὖν καὶ ἔστιν, ἀπολαύσαντας οὕτω διατεθῆναι, πολλῷ μᾶλλον, ὅταν ἀπὸ λαμπροῦ μὲν ὁρμώμενον γένους, λαμπρᾶς δὲ οὐσίας, τοσούτων δὲ ἐλπίδων, πρὸς ἐκείνην ἴδωσιν ἐλθόντα τὴν ἀρετὴν, τοῦτο ἐργάσονται. ῞Ωστε ὃ μᾶλλον πενθεῖς, τὸ ἐκ τοιούτων ἐπ’ ἐκεῖνα βαδίσαι, τοῦτό ἐστιν ὃ μάλιστα πάντων αὐτὸν εὐδόκιμον ποιεῖ, καὶ πάντας οὐχ ὡς ἀνθρώπῳ, ἀλλ’ ὡς ἀγγέλῳ τινὶ προσέχειν ἀναπείθει λοίπόν. Οὐ γὰρ δὴ ταῦτα, ἃ περὶ τῶν ἄλλων ὑποπτεύουσιν, ὑπονοήσουσι καὶ περὶ τούτου, ὅτι τιμῆς ἐρῶν, καὶ χρημάτων ἐφιέμενος, καὶ λαμπρὸς 53 On Paul’s lowly status, see Chrysostom, De laudibus Pauli 4, ed. by de Melleray, pp. 202– 12. On the triumph of Christian teachers over Greek philosophers, see Rylaarsdam, Imitating Divine Pedagogy, pp. 31–37, 196–201; on Paul’s status and education, pp. 159–61. Mitchell, The Heavenly Trumpet, pp. 240–48. 54 On Chrysostom’s use of Greek paideia in a Christian context, see Tloka, Griechische Christen—christliche Griechen, pp. 145–225. 55 Chrysostom, Adversus oppugnatores vitae monasticae (Adv. opp.) ii. 4–5, ed. by Migne, cols 336–40. His encouragement of Christian education was directed to pagans as well as Christians, even though, as Sandwell, Religious Identity in Late Antiquity, pp. 63–90, demonstrates, Chrysostom envisioned Christians as definitively separate from pagans. 56 Chrysostom, Adv. opp. ii. 2. 6.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

105

ἐκ ταπεινοῦ γενέσθαι ἐπιθυμῶν, ταύτην εἵλετο τὴν ὁδόν· ταῦτα γὰρ εἰ καὶ περὶ τῶν ἄλλων λεγόμενα ψευδῆ τέ ἐστι καὶ πονηρίας ῥήματα, ἐπὶ τοῦ σοῦ παιδὸς οὔτε ὑπόνοιαν δυνήσεται παρασχεῖν. [For if humble people of humble origin, the sons of farmers and craftsmen, by embarking on this philosophy become so honored by all that no one in the highest ranks is embarrassed to go to their little hut and to share their conversation and table, but if they enjoy such fine treatment, as if they possessed the greatest goods (which, indeed they do), how much more will they do this when they see someone from a splendid family, endowed with splendid possessions, who has such great hopes, approaching this virtue! Thus the very thing which you regret, namely that he has gone from his former state to the present one, is that which more than anything else makes him illustrious. Moreover, this is what convinces everyone to regard him not as a man, but as an angel. For they will not have the same suspicions about your son which they have about the others, namely that he has chosen this path out of a desire for honor, a longing for money and a wish to become famous from a humble origin. Even if these false and evil words are said about others, there could never be room for such suspicion in the case of your son.]57

Chrysostom makes his message clear: the monastic life rejects worldly values of wealth and honour, but those with great wealth and honour to spare will be admired appropriately for their particular sacrifices. For them alone, the motives for leading an ascetic life would be acknowledged as pure. Chrysostom’s view is based on the idea that the lowly life is truly great, yet monks recruited from the elite should not be mistaken for lowlifes. Erasing social boundaries was not the goal of an ascetic life. In Book iii, Chrysostom addresses Christian parents who were wealthy enough to take slaves and private teachers for granted. Throughout this part of the treatise, Chrysostom discusses education in terms of moral instruction based on exposure to good stories and songs and good behaviour modelled by family members, with assistance of the slaves. This training would be in addition to, not instead of, the education administered by the tutors and pedagogues. Chrysostom describes the widespread embrace of the practicality of rhetorical training in well-off Christian families: the parents urge their sons on, ‘καὶ τῶν ἐν τοῖς Ὀλυμπιακοῖς ἀγῶσι παιδοτριβῶν συνεχέστερον ἐπιφωνοῦντες αὐτοῖς τήν τε ἐκ τῆς ἀπαιδευσίας πενίαν, καὶ τὸν ἀπὸ τῆς παιδεύσεως πλοῦτον’ (by shouting to them more frequently than coaches do in the Olympic games that poverty comes from lack of education and that wealth comes from education).58 These 57 58

Chrysostom, Adv. opp. ii. 8, ed. by Migne, col. 344; trans. by Hunter, p. 114. Chrysostom, Adv. opp. iii. 8, ed. by Migne, col. 363; trans. by Hunter, p. 143.

Jaclyn Maxwell

106

parents would be repelled by the suggestion that they should send their boys to live with the monks. Chrysostom was realistic: he claims only to expect most of these boys to adopt a moderate life, not an ascetic life: ‘οὔπω γὰρ τὴν ἄκραν τίθημι φιλοσοφίαν, ἀλλὰ τὴν πολλοῖς ἐφικτήν’ (for I am not treating the height of philosophy, but only what is accessible to most people).59 He goes on to address the question of how moral education (philosophy and asceticism) related to traditional education (grammar and rhetoric). Some parents would agree to let their sons take up Christian philosophy (a monastic life) only after they had rhetoric under their belts. Chrysostom contends that rhetorical skill should be seen as secondary, or unnecessary, or even harmful if not coupled with morality. He points out that even pagans had such arguments against rhetoric as the core of one’s education, citing Socrates and Diogenes as examples.60 Next, Chrysostom presents the example of the Apostles to the Christian parents reluctant to forgo traditional schools: Τοὺς μεγάλους ἄνδρας καὶ ἁγίους ἐκείνους, τοὺς πρώτους, ὅτε γράμματα οὐκ ἦν, τοὺς μετ’ ἐκείνους, ὅτε γράμματα μὲν ἦν, ἐμπειρία δὲ λόγων οὐδέπω τοὺς μετὰ τούτους, ὅτε καὶ γράμματα ἦν καὶ ἐμπειρία λόγων. Ἀμφοτέρων δὲ ἦσαν τότε ἄπειροι ἐκεῖνοι· οὐ μόνον γὰρ τῆς τῶν λόγων παιδεύσεως, ἀλλὰ καὶ αὐτῆς τῆς τῶν γραμμάτων ἐμπειρίας ἐκτὸς ἦσαν· ἀλλ’ ὅμως ἐν αὐτοῖς τούτοις, οἷς μάλιστα ἡ τῶν λόγων ἰσχὺς ἀναγκαία εἶναι δοκεῖ, μετὰ τοσαύτης περιουσίας τοὺς ἐν αὐτῇ κρατοῦντας παρήλασαν, ὡς παίδων ἀνοήτων αὐτοὺς φανῆναι χείρους. ῞Οταν γὰρ τὸ πείθειν ἐν τοῖς λόγοις ᾖ, καὶ οἱ μὲν φιλόσοφοι μηδὲ ἑνὸς περιγίνονται τυράννου, οἱ δὲ ἀγράμματοι καὶ ἰδιῶται τὴν οἰκουμένην ἐπιστρέφωσιν ἅπασαν εὔδηλον ὅτι παρὰ τούτοις τὰ νικητήρια τῆς σοφίας ἐστὶ, τοῖς ἀγραμμάτοις καὶ ἰδιώταις, οὐ παρ’ ἐκείνοις τοῖς τὰ ἑκάτερα διηκριβωκόσιν. Οὕτως ἡ ὄντως σοφία καὶ ἡ ὄντως παίδευσις οὐδὲν ἕτερόν ἐστιν, ἀλλ’ ἢ ὁ τοῦ Θεοῦ φόβος. [Those great and holy persons, those at the beginning, who did not know letters; then, the ones who came after them, who knew letters, but who were not yet skilled in rhetoric; and, finally, after them those who both knew letters and were skilled in rhetoric. The first [Christians] were ignorant in both areas; not only were they not trained in rhetoric, but they were even illiterate. Nonetheless, in those very areas where the power of rhetoric seems to be most necessary, they surpassed the most skilled orators, making the orators look worse than uneducated children. For since persuasiveness is the essence of rhetoric, and since the philosophers have not 59

Chrysostom, Adv. opp. iii. 9, ed. by Migne, col. 363; trans. by Hunter, p. 143. Chrysostom, Adv. opp. iii. 11. Cf. Homiliae in Ephesios (Hom. in Eph.) 21, and Libanius’s stress on the importance of morality in the study of rhetoric: Festugière, Antioch païenne et chré­ tienne, pp. 113–14. Both references cited in Chrysostom, Adv. opp., trans. by Hunter, p. 149, nn. 55 and 56. 60

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

107

won over a single tyrant, but since the unlettered and ignorant have overturned the whole world, it is quite clear that the unlettered and ignorant have won the prize of wisdom, not those who have a perfect knowledge of letters and rhetoric. Thus true wisdom and true education is nothing other than the fear of God.]61

This, one might think, would be the last word: the Apostles had rendered traditional education meaningless, and lack of education would no longer bear any social stigma. But Chrysostom follows this discussion of the illiterate Apostles by reassuring Christian parents: ‘Καὶ μὴ μέ τις νομιζέτω νομοθετεῖν ἀμαθεῖς τοὺς παῖδας γίνεσθαι· ἀλλ’ εἴ τις ὑπὲρ τῶν ἀναγκαίων παρέχοι θαῤῥεῖν, οὐκ ἂν ἑλοίμην κωλῦσαι καὶ τοῦτο ἐκ περιουσίας γενέσθαι’ (And no one should think that I am mandating that children should be unlearned! If someone could guarantee that the essentials would be cared for, I would not object to their receiving an education in addition to this).62 Chrysostom concedes that it would be inappropriate to forbid traditional education. He illustrates this point with a story of a young man who was taught by a monk, who was disguised as a tutor so that his uncooperative father would not find out. The boy’s religious devotion did not cause him to become unrefined in his appearance or behaviour — Chrysostom assures the parents that the boy appeared completely normal in public and that he confined his asceticism to his private quarters and spent part of his time focused on pagan learning.63 In this account, the boy’s study of Scripture and prayer was carried out in addition to his other studies, and he did not appear like a typical monk. It is a story of an ascetic succeeding in the face of adversity, but it also presents an argument that the ascetic life did not necessarily challenge the maintenance of a respectable social status. In another treatise dealing with education, On Vainglory and the Right Way for Parents to Bring up their Children, the target audience is again well-off — the sort of people who owned slaves, hired educators, and suffered from the temptations of luxury items. In one section, Chrysostom describes the sort of things a young boy would treasure: silver pencils and wooden tablets held together with bronze chains.64 Chrysostom does not counsel against the possession of such things, but suggests ways for the boy to be trained to control his tem61 Chrysostom, Adv. opp. iii. 12, ed. by Migne, col. 368; trans. by Hunter, p. 151. See Hunter’s comments on this theme in his introduction, pp.  48–50. Cf.  De Laz. 3, where Chrysostom describes the apostles as illiterate fishermen. 62 Chrysostom, Adv. opp. iii. 12, ed. by Migne, col. 368; trans. by Hunter, p. 151. 63 Chrysostom, Adv. opp. iii. 12. 64 Chrysostom, De inani gloria et de educandis liberis (De inan.) 73, ed. by Malingrey, p. 176.

Jaclyn Maxwell

108

per when slaves damaged or lost them. In this treatise on education, one of the most prominent topics is the interaction between the free boy and slaves: ‘Ἀλλ’ ὁμήλικες καὶ δοῦλοι καὶ ἐλεύθεροι τοῦτο ποιείτωσαν, ἵνα ἐν ἐκείνοις μανθάνῃ τὴν ἐπιείκειαν’ (let his companions in age, whether slave or free, [provoke him], that he may learn equability amongst them).65 While the advice consistently directs the boy towards humane treatment of slaves, it also reaffirms the superiority of the free boy over the slaves.66 At the very end of this treatise, Chrysostom offers a couple of words on the education of girls (otherwise unmentioned), but does not account for the education of slaves or lower-class people. The interaction with slaves is so integral to the education of a free youth that it is difficult to imagine how this advice could be applied in other social-economic contexts. We see a hint of Chrysostom’s ideas about education for the lower classes in one of his homilies on Ephesians, in which he encourages wealthier people to include religious training in addition to rhetoric, and claims that an education in the Scriptures ‘καὶ τῷ πένητι καὶ τῷ πλουσίῳ δυνατὸν ποιεῖν’ (is possible for the poor man and the rich man alike to accomplish).67 He argues that a poor man who is ‘ὁ ὄντως φιλόσοφος’ (a true philosopher) could outshine his pagan counterparts, in particular the Cynics. As further encouragement, Chrysostom offers the example of a lowly, uneducated philosopher: ‘Οὗτος ἦν ἀνὴρ ἄγροικος, ταπεινὸς καὶ ἐκ ταπεινῶν· οὐδὲ ὅλως τῆς ἔξωθεν παιδείας ἔμπειρος, ἀλλὰ τῆς ἀπλάστου φιλοσοφίας πεπληρωμένος’ (This man was a rustic, humble and from humble parents, completely inexperienced in worldly education, but filled with unembellished wisdom). Moreover, when this man visited the city, he was greeted with more excitement than sophists or orators.68 But, despite such a role model, Chrysostom does not seriously expect members of the upper class to raise their children to be illiterate.

65

Chrysostom, De inan. 68, ed. by Malingrey, pp. 166–68; trans. by Laistner, p. 114. Chrysostom, De inan. 66–69, 72–74,  ed.  by Malingrey, pp.  164–70, 174–76. On Chrysostom’s immersion in a worldview defined by slavery, see de Wet, Preaching Bondage; on education’s role in the formation of future slave-owners, pp. 141–54. 67 Chrysostom, Hom. in Eph. 21, ed. by Migne, col. 151. 68 Chrysostom, Hom. in Eph. 21, ed. by Migne, col. 153. His example of an uneducated, yet wise, Christian is the martyr Julian, whom he praises in his Panegyricum in Julianum martyrem. 66

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

109

Conclusions By examining the two contemporaries side by side, we can see the subtleties of the changes that were taking place. Both men addressed the powerful people in their society and called on them to act appropriately towards the powerless. Both of them could empathize with the vulnerable members of their society, and both attempted to use their rhetorical skills to persuade others to feel this way as well. Moreover, Libanius’s attitude towards and advocacy for his social inferiors is a corrective to the notion that pagan society was typically unfeeling towards the unfortunate and that Christian charity was revolutionary in this respect. Because of his emphasis on almsgiving, one might expect Chrysostom to have had an emphatically Christian vision of the ideal relationship of elites with non-elites. But a comparison with Libanius indicates that, in many ways, these two outspoken leading men in Antioch had similar attitudes towards prevailing social norms. Chrysostom, like Libanius, understood the elites’ desire to maintain their social standing and the important role that traditional education played in this. The simplicity of Jesus’s Apostles and contemporary Christian ascetics added a new element to Chrysostom’s understanding of education and social class. But this element of Christian piety appears not to have replaced traditional social expectations, but to have coexisted, however uneasily, with the status quo. An uneducated Christian peasant might be celebrated in sermons for possessing true wisdom and superseding pagan philosophers, but upper-class Christians would still need an upper-class education. This sort of contradiction is apparent whenever we find classically educated Christian intellectuals praising simplicity with eloquence and distancing themselves from their own classical educations.69 When Chrysostom addressed wealthy Antiochenes in his treatises on education, he promoted Christian ascetic ideals, but he did so by appealing to their upper-class sensibilities and without challenging their place in society. One of the key advantages enjoyed by wealthy Christians was the opportunity to choose whether or not to embrace the virtue of self-denial, such as in the case of a son of a wealthy family joining a monastery. At the same time, the upper classes could also choose whether or not to abuse their wealth and power. If the virtue or sinfulness of an action stemmed, at least in part, from motive and choice, this meant that the lower classes had less room to manoeuvre either way. Moreover, according to this perspective, people could learn to be virtuous 69

See Cameron, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire, pp. 84–88; Rubenson, ‘Philosophy and Simplicity’.

Jaclyn Maxwell

110

if they chose to do so; at the same time, however, advanced education beyond listening to sermons would not be equally available to everyone.70 This regard for the motives or attitudes behind actions was another aspect of the worldview shared by both Chrysostom and Libanius and many of their contemporaries.71 Deeply embedded elite social values withstood the rise of asceticism and Christian almsgiving, and thus the transition from pagan to Christian society was less disruptive than we might assume. Chrysostom and Libanius show us that Christian leaders and pagan moralists could offer similar warnings about the dangers of wealth and power and both could sympathize with the struggles of the lower classes. Traditional ideas about elite identity, particularly the role of education, also endured, but became more complicated under the influence of Christianity. As a part of the gradual cultural changes that took place during this period, the egalitarian elements of Christian teachings were largely reconciled with the world in which people actually lived, where inequality and stratification continued.

70

See Danassis, Johannes Chrysostomos, pp. 62–80. For earlier views of virtue and learning, cf. Pseudo-Plutarch, De liberis educandis 8: poor children were limited due to fortune and resources, not basic ability. 71 For a discussion of Chrysostom’s understanding of mindset (gnômê) — and its proper education — as the key to a moral way of life, see Laird, Mindset, Moral Choice and Sin. This emphasis on internal motives of virtues can also be found in Libanius and other Greek thinkers: pp. 135–91.

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

111

Works Cited Primary Sources Chrysostom, John, Ad populum Antiochenum, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. xlix —— , An Address on Vainglory and The Right Way for Parents, in Christianity and Pagan Culture in the Later Roman Empire, trans. by Max Laistner (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1951), pp. 85–122 —— , Adversus oppugnatores vitae monasticae, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. xlvii —— , Adversus oppugnatores vitae monasticae, in A  Comparison between a King and a Monk/Against the Opponents of the Monastic Life: Two Treatises by John Chrysostom, trans. by David G. Hunter (Lewistown, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1988), pp. 77–176 —— , De Anna Homiliae, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. liv —— , De inani gloria et de educandis liberis: Jean Chrysostome, Sur la vaine gloire et l’éducation des enfants, ed. by Anne-Marie Malingrey, Sources Chrétiennes, 188 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1976) —— , De laudibus Pauli: Jean Chrysostome, Panégyriques de saint Paul, ed. by C. C. S. O. de Melleray, Sources Chrétiennes, 300 (Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf, 1982) —— , De Lazaro, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. xlviii —— , Homiliae in I Corinthios, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by JacquesPaul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. lxi —— , Homiliae in Ephesios, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by JacquesPaul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. lxii —— , Homiliae in Matthaeum, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by JacquesPaul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vols lvii–lviii —— , In Kalendas, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. xlviii —— , Panegyricum in Julianum martyrem, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), vol. l Libanius, Antioch as a Centre of Hellenic Culture as Observed by Libanius, ed. and trans. by Albert F. Norman, Translated Texts for Historians, 34 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000) —— , Autobiography and Selected Letters, ed. and trans. by Albert F. Norman, Loeb Classical Library, 478–79, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992) —— , Briefe, ed. by Georgios Fatouros and Tilman Krischer (Munich: Heimeran Verlag, 1980) —— , Libanii opera, ed. by Richardus Foerster, 12 vols (1903–27; Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1985–98)

112

Jaclyn Maxwell

—— , Selected Letters of Libanius: From the Age of Constantius and Julian, ed. and trans. by Scott Bradbury, Translated Texts for Historians, 41 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2004) —— , Selected Orations, ed. and trans. by Albert F. Norman, Loeb Classical Library, 451– 52, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1969–77) Plutarch, Moralia, vol.  i, Loeb Classical Library, 197 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1927)

Secondary Studies Allen, Pauline, and Wendy Mayer, John Chrysostom (London: Routledge, 2000) Allen, Pauline, Bronwen Neil, and Wendy Mayer, Preaching Poverty in Late Antiquity: Perceptions and Realities (Leipzig: Evangelische Verlagsanstalt, 2009) Bergjan, Silke-Petra, and Susanna Elm, eds, Antioch II. The Many Faces of Antioch: Intel­ lectual Exchange and Religious Diversity in Antioch (ce 350–450), Civitatem Orbis Mediterranei Studia, 3 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018) Brown, Peter, Through the Eye of a Needle: Wealth, the Fall of Rome and the Making of Christianity in the West, 350–550 ad (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2012) Brunt, Peter A., ‘Aspects of the Social Thought of Dio Chrysostom and of the Stoics’, Proceedings of the Cambridge Philological Society, 189 (1973), 3–34 Cameron, Averil, Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991) Cribiore, Raffaella, Libanius the Sophist: Rhetoric, Reality and Religion in the Fourth Century (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2013) —— , The School of Libanius in Late Antique Antioch (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2007) Daley, Brian, ‘Building a New City: The Cappadocian Fathers and the Rhetoric of Philanthropy’, Journal of Early Christian Studies, 7 (1999), 431–61 Danassis, Antonios, Johannes Chrysostomos: pädagogisch­psychologische Ideen in sei­ nem Werk, Abhandlungen zur Philosophie, Psychologie und Pädagogik, 64 (Bonn: Bouvier Verlag, 1971) Elm, Susanna, Sons of Hellenism, Fathers of the Church: Emperor Julian, Gregory of Nazianzus, and the Vision of Rome, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 49 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012) Festugière, André-Jean, Antioch païenne et chrétienne: Libanius, Chrysostome et les moines de Syrie (Paris: E. de Boccard, 1959) Hartney, Aideen, John Chrysostom and the Transformation of the City (London: Duckworth, 2004) Jones Hall, Linda, Roman Berytus: Beirut in Late Antiquity (London: Routledge, 2004) Kondoleon, Christine, ed., Antioch: The Lost Ancient City (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2000) Laird, Raymond, Mindset, Moral Choice and Sin in the Anthropology of John Chrysostom, Early Christian Studies, 15 (Strathfield: St Paul’s Publications, 2012)

Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City

113

Leyerle, Blake, ‘John Chrysostom on Almsgiving and the Use of Money’, Harvard Theological Review, 87 (1994), 29–47 Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G., Antioch: City and Imperial Administration in the Later Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972) Limberis, Vasiliki, ‘“Religion” as a Cipher for Identity: The Cases of Emperor Julian, Libanius, and Gregory Nazianzus’, Harvard Theological Review, 93 (2000), 373–400 Lizzi Testa, Rita, ‘Privilegi economici e definizione di “status”: il caso del vescovo tardoantico’, Rediconti Morali dell’Accademia Nazionale dei Lincei, 11 (2000), 55–103 —— , ed., Le trasformazioni delle élites in età tardoantica: Atti del convegno internazionale, Perugia, 15–16 Marzo 2004 (Rome: Bretschneider, 2006) Maxwell, Jaclyn, ‘The Attitudes of Basil and Gregory of Nazianzus towards Uneducated Christians’, Studia Patristica, 47 (2010), 117–22 —— , Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity: John Chrysostom and his Congregation in Antioch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) —— , ‘The Voices of the People of Antioch in John Chrysostom’s Sermons and Libanius’ Orations’, in Antioch II. The Many Faces of Antioch: Intellectual Exchange and Religious Diversity in Antioch (ce 350–450), ed.  by Silke-Petra Bergjan and Susanna Elm, Civitatem Orbis Mediterranei Studia, 3 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2018), 281–96 Mayer, Wendy, ‘Who Came to Hear John Chrysostom Preach? Recovering a Late FourthCentury Preacher’s Audience’, Ephemerides Theologicae, 76 (2000), 73–87 Mitchell, Margaret M., The Heavenly Trumpet: John Chrysostom and the Art of Pauline Interpretation (Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 2002) Parkin, Anneliese, ‘“You do him no service”: An Exploration of Pagan Almsgiving’, in Poverty in the Roman World, ed. by Margaret Atkins and Robin Osborne (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), pp. 60–82 Petit, Paul, Les Étudiants de Libanius (Paris: Nouvelles Éditions Latines, 1957) —— , Libanius et la vie municipale a Antioche au iv siècle après J.­C. (Paris: Geuthner, 1955) Pietzner, Katrin, Bildung, Elite und Konkurrenz: Heiden und Christen vor der Zeit Constantins, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum, 77 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2013) Rapp, Claudia, ‘The Elite Status of Bishops in Late Antiquity in Ecclesiastical, Spiritual, and Social Contexts’, Arethusa, 33.3 (2000), 379–99 Ritter, Adolf Martin, ‘Between “Theocracy” and “Simple Life”: Dio Chrysostom, John Chrysostom and the Problem of Humanizing Society’, Studia Patristica, 22 (1989), 170–80 Rubenson, Samuel, ‘Philosophy and Simplicity: The Problem of Classical Education in Early Christian Biography’, in Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity, ed. by Tomas Hägg and Philip Rousseau, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 31 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), pp. 110–39 Rylaarsdam, David, Imitating Divine Pedagogy: The Coherence of John Chrysostom’s Theology and Preaching (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014)

114

Jaclyn Maxwell

Sandwell, Isabella, Religious  Identity in Late Antiquity: Greeks, Jews and Christians in Antioch (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) Sandwell, Isabella, and Janet Huskinson, eds, Culture and Society in Later Roman Antioch (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2004) Shepardson, Christine, Controlling Contested Places: Late Antique Antioch and the Spatial Politics of Religious Controversy (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2014) Sitzler, Silke, ‘Identity: The Indigent and the Wealthy in the Homilies of John Chrysostom’, Vigiliae Christianae, 63 (2009), 468–79 Tloka, Jutta, Griechische Christen—christliche Griechen: Plausibilisierungsstrategien des antiken Christentums bei Origenes und Johannes Chrysostomos, Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum, 30 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2005) Van Dam, Raymond, Becoming Christian: The Conversion of Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003) Van Hoof, Lieve, ed., Libanius: A Critical Introduction (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014) —— , ‘Performing Paideia: Greek Culture as an Instrument for Social Promotion in the Fourth Century A.D.’, Classical Quarterly, 63 (2013), 387–406 Wet, Chris L. de, Preaching Bondage: John Chrysostom and the Discourse of Slavery in Early Christianity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2015) Wiemer, Hans-Ulrich, ‘Der Sophist Libanios und die Bäcker von Antiocheia’, Athenaeum, 84 (1996), 527–48

The Authority of Tradition: Governors and their Capitals in Late Antique Asia Minor Garrett Ryan*

I

n the early fifth century, Stephanus, proconsul of Asia, decided to rebuild the Library of Celsus, a ruinous monument in the heart of Ephesus.1 Clearing away a jumble of houses, he carefully restored the colonnaded façade and built a reflecting pool over the shattered front steps. Finely carved antique reliefs were set up along the outer face of the new basin, and a short verse inscription was incised over the shimmering pool: ‘δέρκε[ο πῶς] κ̣ό̣σ̣μ̣η̣σε τόσοις χρυσαυγέσιν ἔργοις καὶ Σ̣[τέφανο]ς̣ Πτελέην καὶ Πτελέη Στέφανον’ (see with what great and lustrous works Stephanus adorns Ephesus, and Ephesus adorns Stephanus).2 * I first encountered the late antique city in one of Ray’s graduate seminars. This contribution cannot begin to repay him for the interest he sparked there, or for his guidance and advice in the years since. I would like to thank Young Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin for inviting me to contribute to this volume. 1 On the late antique restoration of the Library of Celsus, see Foss, Ephesus after Antiquity, p.  65; Bauer, Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike, pp.  280–303; and Auinger and Rathmayr, ‘Zur spätantiken Statuenausstattung’, p. 250. The following abbreviations are used for epigraphic corpora: ALA = Roueché, Aphrodisias in Late Antiquity; IvE = Die Inschriften von Ephesos, ed. by Wankel and others. Translations of Libanius’s Oration in Praise of Antioch are taken from Downey, ‘Libanius’ Oration’. All other translations are mine. 2 IvE 5115.

Garrett Ryan has taught in the History and Classics Departments of the University of Michigan and Wayne State University. He is the creator of toldinstone.com, a public history project that explores the ancient Mediterranean world. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 115–139 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118160

116

Garrett Ryan

Stephanus was one of the many late antique governors in the provinces of Asia Minor who restored the public buildings and spaces of his capital. At first glance, this practice might seem to require little explanation. Through at least the early fifth century, the civic elites responsible for underwriting gubernatorial building projects usually had both the resources and the will to do so.3 Governors, moreover, were ambitious men at a critical point in their careers. Restoring prominent structures like the Library of Celsus was a highly visible way of advertising good service and munificence — and much cheaper than new construction. However, the practical difficulties of a project like Stephanus’s should not be overlooked.4 There was the risk, first, that it would be unpopular. Late antique governors were responsible for maintaining roads, baths, walls, and aqueducts. If these amenities were neglected in favour of prestige architecture, local discontent was all but guaranteed. In addition, since building projects were ultimately financed by the civic elite, an inordinately expensive programme of restoration was likely to incur resentment. The work, finally, might not be done in time. Imperial officials were forbidden to attach their names to an incomplete project: a governor who left before his building programme was finished stood to be deprived of all credit. But governors needed the emperor’s favour to advance; and to gain the emperor’s favour, they required the goodwill of their elite subjects. Restoring the public spaces and buildings of their capitals was an effective means of garnering local approval and attracting imperial attention. For different but convergent reasons, both the emperors and civic elites associated the monumental public architecture of the early imperial era with a time-honoured way of life, vision of society, and model of empire. Roman emperors had always presented themselves as conservators of order and tradition; and in the wake of the third century crises, they made the restoration of bygone glories fundamental to their public image. Likewise, late antique civic elites, steadily losing ground to officious bureaucrats and upstart bishops, came increasingly to view identifica3 Until relatively recently, the monumental centres of most cities in western Asia Minor were thought to have decayed more or less steadily from the fourth or even late third century, neglected by increasingly impoverished, Christian, or disinterested civic elites. Increasingly sensitive archaeological work, however, has pushed the real onset of civic decline into ‘late’ Late Antiquity — roughly the mid-fifth century and onwards. A number of important urban centres seem to have retained much of their classical infrastructure through the early seventh century. See the surveys of Jacobs, Aesthetic Maintenance of Civic Space and Niewöhner, ‘Urbanism’. 4 The complex dynamics that guided a late antique governor’s benefactions are surveyed in Slootjes, The Governor and his Subjects, pp. 80–85.

The Authority of Tradition

117

tion with a cultivated and prosperous past as the last sure prop of their status. By restoring built environments that both emperors and local notables associated with the halcyon days of the early empire, a governor could simultaneously present himself as an effective administrator and an enlightened patron. In the period surveyed by this essay — the early fourth through mid-fifth centuries — the (re)construction and significant use of traditional civic spaces functioned, like the era’s classicizing rhetoric, as a carefully modulated means of talking with and about power.5 Monumental public spaces in the classical mould not only expressed adherence to traditional values; they also created a landscape for the performance and appreciation of those values. The colonnaded and statue-studded avenues and fora of Constantinople are the bestknown products of the imperial government’s conviction that classicizing public spaces were both symbols and stages of authority. The projects undertaken by governors in their provincial capitals manifested the same idea, but in a manner conditioned by a complex dialogue between imperial and local authorities over the significance of the classical architectural ‘language’. This essay explores how late antique governors were pressured from both above and below to create classicizing cityscapes in their capitals. The first section describes the colonnaded streets and plazas reconstructed by fourth- and early fifth-century governors as responses to traditionalist imperial legislation. The second outlines how classically educated civic elites reinforced and nuanced the drive to build the past into the present.

Polis as Symbol In the wake of Diocletian’s reforms, governors became the single most important patrons of civic building in their provinces. 6 Capable of calling on tax revenues, the fortunes of local notables, and even imperial largesse to finance projects, they had considerable resources at their disposal. They also had pressing reasons to undertake large-scale projects, since maintenance of civic infrastructure, particularly in their capitals, was a substantial part of their duties. Most late antique governors, moreover, aspired to a higher post in the imperial administration, which a suitably popular and well-advertised construction programme might be instrumental in gaining. Many governors, finally, regarded building projects as fitting and lasting memorials to their services and virtues. 5 Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity, remains the best discussion of how the conventions of classical rhetoric were adapted to the changed power dynamics of Late Antiquity. 6 Slootjes, The Governor and his Subjects, pp. 77–89, collects the ancient evidence.

Garrett Ryan

118

So long as they ensured basic maintenance of the cities in their care, governors had considerable discretion over what and where to build. On a basic level, however, their decisions were limited by the need to gratify the emperor and his court. Though only required to consult the emperor when undertaking projects that were exceptionally large or drew on imperial funds, governors were expected to notify him of all completed building programmes.7 It was thus in their interest to ensure that their undertakings were at least broadly consonant with imperial policy. Since the emperors, as we shall see, were committed to a traditional image of the provincial city, governors had particular reason to restore elements of the civic built environment that evoked the validating power of the past. Maintaining an Urban Ideal Roman legislation on the appearance of provincial cities had a long history. Although concern for civic finances inspired a series of increasingly tight controls on public building,8 second- and third-century emperors generally supported the practice of euergetism, and occasionally even sponsored the undertakings of individual notables.9 The imperial administration always insisted, moreover, that cities not neglect basic maintenance of the existing urban fabric,10 and strictly forbade the demolition of civic buildings for construction material.11 Though initially intended to forestall speculative building, this legislation always had an aesthetic dimension. Hadrian instructed the city council of Lydian Stratonicaea, for example, to ask a certain Tiberius Claudius Socrates to either repair his house or grant it to one of his neighbours, lest it be ruined by time or neglect.12 Pliny, likewise, felt the need to assure Trajan that every major project underway in the cities of Bithynia was wor7

Codex Theodosianus, ed. by Mommsen and Meyer (CTh), xv. 1. 2. Cassius Dio 52. 30. 3; Pliny, Epistulae 10. 24; Digesta (Dig.) 50. 10, 12. 9 Imperial support for euergetism: Dig. 50. 12; CTh xv. 1. 24; Plutarch, Moralia 802D, 811C, 819A. Endorsement of a local notable’s project: e.g. IvE 1491–93. 10 Insistence on maintenance of the urban fabric: Dig. 30. 41. 6, 50. 4. 4, 50. 10. 7–8; cf. 1. 18. 7, 39. 2. 4, 50. 12. 1. 11 Scriptores Historiae Augustae, ed. by Hohl, Hadrianus 18. 2; cf. Dig. 30. 1. 41, 30. 41. 6; Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, ed. by Dessau, no. 6043. On the motives behind this legislation, see Phillips, ‘The Roman Law’ and Garnsey, ‘Urban Property Investment’, pp. 133–36. 12 Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes, ed. by Cagnat, iv, no. 1156a = Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, ed. by Dittenberger, no. 837. 8

The Authority of Tradition

119

thy of his reign.13 Implicit in these statements was a sense that the appearance of every provincial city redounded in some way to the glory of emperor and empire. This idea, given urgency by widespread urban decay in the wake of the political and financial crises of the third century, continued to underpin late antique imperial pronouncements on the restoration of cities. As preserved in the Theodosian Code, however, these pronouncements differ in several significant respects from their early imperial antecedents. They are unprecedentedly broad in scope, to the point of approximating an empire-wide urban policy. They emphasize the theme of renewal, repeatedly evoking a bygone and more prosperous time. And they outline a vastly expanded role for the governor as an agent of imperial policy. The fourth- and fifth-century imperial constitutions on civic maintenance in the Theodosian Code insist on the preservation of traditional public spaces and buildings with striking frequency and vehemence.14 This is especially apparent in constitutions on the public spaces of Rome and Constantinople. Emperors repeatedly enjoined prefects of Rome to devote their resources to the restoration of old buildings, and vociferously condemned the practice of despoiling monuments for construction material.15 In the rapidly expanding city of Constantinople, where private encroachment on public space was a more pressing problem than ruin and spoliation, a series of emperors instructed their prefects to remove market stalls and dwellings from the city streets. Such private structures, proclaimed a constitution of 389, ‘compromise the elegance of public space’ by impinging on ‘structures raised for the adornment of our distinguished city’.16 The aesthetic component of this legislation is underscored by a later constitution stipulating that every market stall built into a public portico be revetted with marble to improve its appearance.17 A decree celebrating the imperially funded construction of a new portico, likewise, justified the clearance of private buildings for the project on the grounds of civic beauty.18 13

E.g. Pliny, Epistulae 10. 23, 37, 39. Useful discussions of imperial legislation on the demolition and maintenance of public buildings include Janvier, La Législation du Bas­Empire; Alchermes, ‘Spolia in Roman Cities of the Late Empire’; and Winter, Staatliche Baupolitik, pp. 24–53. 15 CTh xv. 1. 11, 19, 27, 29, 30. 16 CTh xv. 1. 25: ‘turpe est publici splendoris ornatum privatarum aedium adiectione conrumpi et ea, quae conspicuae urbis decori vel nostri temporis vel prioris saeculi aetate creverunt, aviditate cogendae pecuniae sociari’. Cf. CTh xv. 1. 25, 45–47. 17 Codex Justinianus viii. 10. 12. 6b. 18 CTh xv. 1. 50. 14

Garrett Ryan

120

The same standards were applied to provincial cities. Constantius II, in response to complaints that governors — taking a leaf out of Constantine’s book — were stripping the cities of their provinces to beautify their capitals, exhorted a proconsul, ‘nemo propriis ornamentis esse privandas existimet civitates: fas si quidem non est acceptum a veteribus’ (let no man assume that cities may be deprived of their ornaments, since it was not considered just by the ancients).19 Other emperors reiterated the message, stipulating that a city’s ‘signorum vel marmorum vel columnarum materiam’ (statues, marble, and columns) were an inalienable part of its heritage.20 Even temples and their idols were protected from wanton demolition, on the grounds that they were embellishments of the city.21 As at Rome, destruction of old buildings — and especially public buildings — for construction material was strictly prohibited; only vacant sites ‘quae nullum usum civitatibus ornatumque praeberent’ (of no use or adornment to the city) could be built upon by private citizens. 22 In keeping with the theme of preservation, maintenance of all public buildings and spaces — including temples — was declared a duty of the curial class. 23 Even the statues of past emperors were to be carefully replaced if the building or space in which they stood was renovated.24 As at Constantinople, imperial constitutions sought to emphasize the distinctiveness and monumental appearance of public space: officials were repeatedly urged to demolish any private structures impinging on porticoes or other public buildings.25 Since at least the mid-imperial era, governors had been responsible for ensuring that the public buildings of their cities were well maintained.26 Only in the wake of Diocletian’s reforms, however, did governors gain enough discretionary power over civic tax revenues to build extensively in their own right.27 As the constitutions collected in the Theodosian Code indicate, they were expected to devote most of the funds at their disposal to renovation 19

CTh xv. 1. 1. CTh xv. 1. 14; cf. CTh xv. 1. 37, 43. 21 CTh xvi. 10. 15, 18, 25; cf. xv. 1. 36; Prudentius, Contra Symmachum i. 499–505. See Lepelley, ‘Le Musée des statues divines’, on the aesthetic preservation of pagan monuments. 22 CTh xv. 1. 41. Compare CTh xv. 1. 43; Codex Justinianus viii. 10. 2–3, 7; viii. 11. 1, 5, 16, 22; xi. 30. 4. 23 CTh xv. 1. 41. 24 CTh xv. 1. 44. 25 CTh xv. 1. 22, 38, 39. 26 Dig. 1. 16. 7. 1. 27 CTh xv. 1. 18, 26, 32, 33. 20

The Authority of Tradition

121

projects.28 A governor, as one imperial letter insists, ‘ut ornamenta urbium ac decora marmorum, quae in aliquo senium temporis sentiunt, ad speciem pristinam et usum congruae utilitatis instaurent’ (was to restore the ornaments of cities and their marble embellishments to their former appearance and to their suitable and useful service).29 To a certain extent, the association of all cities with the monumental and statue-studded public places characteristic of the mid-imperial era was probably automatic: by the fourth century, ageing prestige architecture of this sort could be found in virtually every substantial urban centre. Yet it was ultimately because the emperors identified traditional, monumental public spaces as emblematic of both civic health and Roman power that governors were expected to devote such a significant portion of their resources to restoring their capitals.30 Imperial Spaces The restoration projects undertaken by fourth- and fifth-century governors in two Asian provincial capitals, Ephesus and Aphrodisias, illustrate the impact of the imperial urban ideal.31 By the beginning of the fourth century, both cities possessed a full complement of grand and rather dilapidated public buildings that afforded governors considerable scope for restoration projects. Ephesus, capital of the province of Asia throughout the imperial era, had long been one of the largest and wealthiest urban centres in the Mediterranean world.32 A series of catastrophic earthquakes, however, had left much of the city centre in ruins.33 Aphrodisias, capital of Caria from at least the late third century, likewise suffered extensive damage to its public buildings and spaces in the late third and early fourth centuries from earthquakes and flagging 28

CTh xv. 1. 2, 3, 15–17, 20, 21, 28, 31. CTh xv. 1. 16. 30 Procopius’s description of Justiniana Prima (De aedificiis iv.  1.  21–24) encapsulates the traditional nature of the urban ideal with which emperors sought to associate themselves. Compare the building projects of late antique emperors in Rome (e.g. Muth, ‘Rom in der Spätantike’). 31 On the concentration of late antique governors’ building activities in their provincial capitals, see Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Roman City, pp. 37–38. 32 Useful surveys include Foss, Ephesus after Antiquity; Bauer, Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike, pp. 269–300; Auinger and Rathmayr, ‘Zur spätantiken Statuenausstattung’; and Ladstätter and Pülz, ‘Ephesus in the Late Roman and Early Byzantine Period’. 33 Ladstätter and Pülz, ‘Ephesus in the Late Roman and Early Byzantine Period’, pp. 395–98. 29

Garrett Ryan

122

finances.34 Although late antique governors restored a wide range of public buildings and spaces in both cities,35 they showed particular interest in rebuilding plazas and thoroughfares. Such repairs were of course highly visible, and to some degree necessary. They were also instrumental, however, in evoking — and associating the governor with — the traditional urban image implicit in imperial legislation on provincial cities. In late antique Ephesus, governors were routinely involved in the reconstruction and embellishment of monumental streets and squares. A number of these projects were very substantial. In the fifth century, for example, the proconsul Eutropius was honoured for ‘πάτρην | μαρμαρέαις κοσμήσας | ἐυστρώτοισιν ἀγυιαῖς’ (adorning [the city] with avenues well paved in marble) — a considerable expense for a basically aesthetic improvement.36 On a still grander scale, governors were responsible for rebuilding the harbour street and the Lower Agora after both spaces suffered earthquake damage.37 The names given to the restored spaces — the Arcadiane and the Forum of Theodosius, respectively — indicate that both projects were carried out with imperial funding. A governor may also have been responsible for the four columns bearing imperial statues erected in the Lower Agora shortly after its restoration.38 Governors of Caria restored or embellished three monumental squares in Aphrodisias. Probably in the late fourth century, the governor Flavius Pelagius Ioannes rebuilt the portico surrounding the North Agora, the city’s traditional political heart. Ioannes personally donated at least one column, and seems to 34

On the history and monuments of late antique Aphrodisias, see Ratté, ‘New Research’. See, for example, the activities of late antique governors in the theatre of Ephesus (IvE 2043–45). 36 IvE 1304.4–5. 37 The exact circumstances under which both spaces were rebuilt are unclear; it is certain, however, that the work was overseen by the resident governors. On the Lower Agora, renamed Forum of Theodosius in Late Antiquity (IvE 1534), see Reisch, Forschungen in Ephesos, iii, 13–15; Bauer, Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike, pp. 275–78; and Ladstätter and Pülz, ‘Ephesus in the Late Roman and Early Byzantine Period’, pp. 404–05. On the Arcadiane, see Bauer, Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike, p. 423, and Schneider, ‘Bauphasen der Arkadiane’. In both cases, the reconstruction seems to have been very extensive; compare the honorific inscription for a late antique governor who set up (that is, re-erected) 250 columns along an earthquake-damaged colonnaded street (Nollé, Side in Altertum, no. 156). 38 At least one late antique emperor was honoured with a more modest statue along the porticoes of the Lower Agora (Bauer, Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike, pp. 275–76). The Arcadiane received its own tetrakionion with dynastic statues in the early sixth century (IvE 1306) and featured at least one life-sized imperial portrait set up by a governor or other Roman official at street level (IvE 316). 35

The Authority of Tradition

123

have encouraged a number of local notables to follow his example.39 A few decades earlier, the governor Helladius restored the massive Hadrianic Baths, giving particular attention to the grand forecourt — a space that had the appearance, and some of the public functions, of an agora.40 Along the forecourt’s colonnades, Flavius Eutolmius Tatianus, Prefect of the East in the late fourth century, worked with the governor Antonius Priscus to set up at least three statues commemorating members of the Theodosian imperial family.41 Later, a governor named Tatianus had a restored statue of his grandfather, the prefect Tatianus, set up nearby.42 The third Aphrodisian public space reconstructed by late antique governors was the Tetrastoon, a plaza abutting the theatre. Sometime in the mid-fourth century, the governor Antonius Tatianus erected a peristyle, likely on the foundations and with the materials of an earthquakedamaged predecessor. 43 Whatever its antecedents, the Tetrastoon quickly acquired associations with Roman power: Tatianus himself set up statues to Julian and Valens in front of the newly erected colonnades.44 Remarkably, and quite possibly at the instigation of the governors themselves, the citizens of Aphrodisias repeatedly set up honorific statues for governors in all three of the newly restored plazas. Shortly after Ioannes’s restoration of the North Agora, at least two statues commemorating governors were set up within one of the reconstructed stoas. One honoured Oecumenius, a governor of Caria; the other was dedicated to Alexander, a native Aphrodisian who had become governor of a neighbouring province.45 Although the forecourt of the Hadrianic Baths does not seem to have been a favoured location for honorific statues in the mid-imperial era, governors and other imperial officials were routinely honoured there after Helladius’s restoration.46 The Tetrastoon, finally, became a favourite place to set up honorific statues for governors; at least three are known to have stood in front of Tatianus’s colonnades.47 39

Ioannes’s column: ALA 29; a local notable follows suit: ALA 30. ALA 17–18. 41 ALA 25–27. 42 ALA 37. 43 ALA 20. On the Tetrastoon itself, see Erim, Aphrodisias, pp. 88–91. 44 ALA 20, 21. 45 ALA 31, 32. 46 ALA 23–27. On the late antique appearance of honorific statues in the Hadrianic Baths, see Smith, ‘Statue Life in the Hadrianic Baths’, pp. 209–20. 47 ALA 41, 62, 64. 40

Garrett Ryan

124

That both governors and local notables chose to set up statues of emperors and governors in the restored streets and plazas of Ephesus and Aphrodisias may seem unremarkable. Such places, after all, were traditional locations for honorific sculpture.48 A number of circumstances, however, point to a more significant connection. The role played by imperial funding in several of our examples suggests at least passive support from the emperor himself for the restoration of public places — a circumstance that governors would have good reason to commemorate.49 More generally, the long-standing practice of reading, and occasionally monumentalizing, imperial decrees in the agoras of provincial capitals may have conferred on these spaces a special association with Roman power.50 Perhaps the single most important motive behind the concatenation of imperial and gubernatorial statues, however, is the simple fact that monumental streets and squares were the most important points of contact between governors and the local populace. Acclamations for governors were regularly staged at the Arcadiane and Marble Street at Ephesus, and the forecourt of the Hadrianic Baths and Tetrastoon at Aphrodisias.51 Equally prominent were the trials governors customarily held in the agoras of their capitals.52 Even where they were not settings for formal applause or official justice, monumental streets and squares were eminently suited to the processions that formed a critical part of a late antique governor’s self-presentation.53 Yet it was the fact that this backdrop was not only monumental, but also traditional, that made monumental streets and squares suitable places for the 48

Imperial statues were also associated with agoras. In their famous appeal to Constantine, the inhabitants of Orkistos mention their town’s ‘forum istatuis veterum principum ornatum’ (Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, ed. by Dessau, no. 6091.26–7) as a sign of its former civic status. 49 Indirect corroborating evidence may be provided by the dedicatory inscription of a nymphaeum abutting the Upper Agora, which records a restoration ‘commanded’ by the emperors Constantius II and Constans (IvE 1317). 50 See, for example, the proclamation of a decree of Theodosius II in the Ephesian agora during the Council of 431 (Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum (ACO) i. i. v. 14). On the display of imperial decrees at Ephesus, see Feissel, ‘Épigraphie administrative et topographie urbaine’. 51 Aphrodisias: acclamations in the Tetrastoon (ALA 75–78) and Hadrianic Baths (ALA 61, 82). On the Ephesian acclamations, see Roueché, ‘Looking for Late Antique Ceremonial’. 52 At Ephesus, late antique governors likely tried cases in or in the vicinity of the so-called Neronian Hall, which adjoined the Lower Agora (Feissel, ‘Épigraphie administrative et topographie urbaine’, p. 131). The basilica adjoining the South Agora (restored, as we shall see, by a fourth-century governor) was probably the primary place of judgement at Aphrodisias, but cases that drew large audiences may well have been tried in the North Agora or even in the Tetrastoon. 53 Dey, The Afterlife of the Roman City, pp. 65–103.

The Authority of Tradition

125

performance of Roman power. The official ideal of the provincial city, as we have seen, was centred on grand public spaces in the mid-imperial mould. Governors needed to please the emperor; and restoring the monumental public spaces of a city may well have seemed an attractive means of doing so, particularly if the emperor could be convinced to finance the project. By propping up the shattered colonnades of a grand plaza or avenue, a governor could create in epitome the classical city idealized in imperial legislation. Likewise, by personally setting up statues of the emperor in these settings, or encouraging local notables to do so, he could associate himself and his imperial master with spaces emblematic of ancient and enduring authority.

Polis as Artefact The emperor was not the only audience a governor had to please. The local notables who hosted and worked with him were, particularly in the short term, at least as important. A governor needed the approval and cooperation of these men to win approval or secure funding for any restoration. Moreover, since a governor could not put his own name on a building project, only the civic elite could commemorate his efforts. These circumstances accorded local notables a considerable degree of control over his actions. The projects a governor undertook were guided by a complex array of factors. Practical considerations came foremost. If some critical piece of civic infrastructure — such as an aqueduct or bath — had been damaged by earthquake or become dilapidated, local pressure might virtually compel him to devote his resources to it. Conversely, a governor might be hesitant to undertake an expensive but inessential project, which would require him to draw heavily on the resources of local notables and was sure to be correspondingly unpopular. Scale was another consideration. A governor would not undertake any project that threatened to outlast his tenure of office, since his successors would be credited with its completion. An additional criterion was what might be called ideological efficiency. If a project was to properly commemorate a governor’s largesse, it had not only to be prominent, but also capable of demonstrating the virtues of its sponsor. Within these fairly elastic criteria, the initiative of local notables was critically important. The governor, as we have seen, had to please the emperor; but the emperor was far away and likely to be satisfied with virtually any project that demonstrated the regime’s efficacy and did not imperil civic finances. Local notables had more specific interests. Although individual members of the civic elite had diverse backgrounds and agendas, most shared at least two

Garrett Ryan

126

things: a rhetorical education, and a desire to maintain the social advantages of an increasingly unappealing political position. These commonalities underpinned widespread support for any restoration project that stood to bolster the cultural credentials and validate the status of the curial class. The Mirror of Rhetoric Most local notables in the provincial capitals of Asia received a traditional rhetorical education. In the course of this training, they spent years situating themselves in an imaginary city, where the debates and trials of classical democracy were staged amid the elaborate public architecture of the mid-imperial era.54 This image, drawn largely from centuries-old handbooks and speeches, was distant from late antique realities. It presented local notables, however, with a powerful image of the polis as a monumental and orderly place, where civic tradition and citizen virtue found full expression in the built environment. Libanius’s monody on Nicomedia provides a useful point of departure. Lamenting the damage caused by the terrible earthquake of 358, the orator recalls the city’s former appearance: εἰσιοῦσα δὲ εἰς τὴν θάλατταν ταῖς ἄκραις, ἐπιβαίνουσα μὲν τῆς χηλῆς, ἀναβαίνουσα δὲ ἐπὶ τὸν λόφον, στοῶν δύο δυάσι διειλημμένη διηκούσαις τοῦ παντός, λάμπουσα μὲν δημοσίοις κατασκευάσμασι, τοῖς δὲ ἰδίοις συνεχὴς ἐκ τῶν ὑπτίων ἐπὶ τὴν ἄκραν οἷον κυπαρίττου κλάδοι ἄλλος ἐπ’ ἄλλῳ […]. βουλευτήρια δὲ καὶ χωρία λόγων καὶ ἱερῶν πλῆθος καὶ λουτρῶν μεγέθη καὶ λιμένος καιρὸν εἶδον μέν, δηλῶσαι δὲ οὐκ ἂν δυναίμην.55 [[The city] extended down to the shore and swept up the hillside, quartered by stoas that ran throughout. Its public buildings were beautiful, and its houses were closely serried, rank on rank, from harbour to citadel […]. I have seen, but lack the capacity to describe, the [city’s] public meeting places, its schools of rhetoric, its many temples, its great baths, its beautiful harbour.]

Later in the speech, Libanius lists some of the structures destroyed by the earthquake: ‘ποῦ νῦν στενωποί; ποῦ στοαί; ποῦ δρόμοι; ποῦ κρῆναι; ποῦ δὲ ἀγοραί; ποῦ μουσεῖα; ποῦ τεμένη;’ (Where are the avenues? The stoas? The walkways? The fountains? The agoras? The libraries? The temples?).56 By Libanius’s description, Nicomedia — endowed with an orderly cityscape, colonnaded streets, 54

On the urban ideal in late antique Greek rhetoric, see especially Saradi, ‘The Kallos of the Byzantine City’ and Saradi, The Byzantine City in the Sixth Century. 55 Libanius (Lib.), Orationes (Or.) 61. 7–8, ed. by Foerster. 56 Lib., Or. 61. 17.

The Authority of Tradition

127

and impressive public buildings — was the very picture of classical urbanism. Although an almost complete lack of archaeological evidence makes the accuracy of this image impossible to judge, it is clear that Libanius modelled his presentation of Nicomedia on the descriptions of Smyrna preserved among the works of the famous second-century orator Aelius Artistides.57 Even in the second century, the image of the polis in epideictic oratory had been more indicative of the political goals of Greek elites than of built reality. By emphasizing grand public buildings and monumental streets and squares,58 Second Sophistic orators had sought to evoke a cohesive and harmonious citizen body, implicitly dominated by a cultivated elite.59 Their late antique imitators endeavoured to reference the same, now consciously anachronistic, ideal. Rehearsing this image of city not only advertised an orator’s knowledge of classical and classicizing literature; it asserted his commitment to an ancient conception of the community. Like their Second Sophistic exemplars, late antique orators postulated a close connection between the sociopolitical condition and appearance of a city, presenting a set of traditional public buildings as signs of communal stability and prosperity.60 Certain monuments were particularly desirable for their practical and symbolic value. In his oration on Antioch, for example, Libanius expatiates on the city’s porticated streets, praising not only their beauty, but also their service in facilitating social contact among citizens.61 Yet a city’s whole ensemble of public buildings had symbolic value,62 bespeaking the existence of a community — or rather, of a group of educated men within the community — that continued to respect and preserve the physical imprint of a glorious Hellenic past. Educated Greek notables sought to model gubernatorial largesse by emphasizing the cultural credentials to be gained by the right kind of benefaction.63 In 57

Aristides, Orationes 17–22; see the discussion of Karla, ‘Die Klage über die zerstörte Stadt’. E.g. Menander Rhetor II, 382. 15–16, 383. 7–9, 386. 22–9; Hermogenes (Spengel), Progymnasmata ii. 4, 5–9. 59 On the aims and organization of civic encomia in Second Sophistic rhetoric, see Pernot, La Rhétorique de l’éloge, pp. 178–216. See Ryan, ‘Building Order’, on the political implications of constructed unity and harmony in Second Sophistic encomia. 60 E.g. Procopius, De aedificiis ii. 10. 22. 61 Lib., Or. 11. 201–17. 62 E.g. Procopius, De bello gothico vii. 22. 8–14. 63 E.g. Menander Rhetor II, 426. 4–5, 427. 6–10. For governors, restoring the right parts of a city was the equivalent of quoting classical poetry: it was a way of demonstrating participation in a cultural ideal. Compare Van Dam, Kingdom of Snow, pp. 80–87. 58

Garrett Ryan

128

his oration praising Antioch,64 for example, Libanius observes that the Roman officials who have bestowed buildings on the city ‘σὺν εὐφροσύνῃ τὸν ὑπόλοιπον ζῶσι χρόνον ἔχοντες […] ὡς οὔποτε αὐτοὺς λήθη καταλήψεται τῶν ἔργων αὐτοῖς ἐν τῷ καλλίστῳ τῶν ὑπὸ τὸν ἥλιον ἑστηκότων’ (spend the rest of their lives in happiness […] [knowing] that oblivion could never overtake them, since their works stand in the fairest of all places under the sun [Antioch]).65 Officials, he continues, were sometimes generous to the point of spending money from their personal fortunes: ‘πανταχόθεν κάλλη λίθων ἀθροίσαντες ἐγκατέμιξαν οἰκοδομημάτων κάλλη τῷ ἄστει δίκην ἀστέρων ἐκλάμποντα’ (collecting handsome stones from everywhere, they sprinkled beautiful buildings about in the city so that they shone forth like stars).66 Building could create tensions between civic and imperial initiative; Libanius warns the governor Modestus, for example, that the elaborate and immensely expensive portico he is constructing will win him more criticism than praise.67 Yet despite the risk of such excesses, Libanius and his contemporaries clearly expected governors to embellish the traditional centres of civic life. And in Antioch, as in the provincial capitals of Asia Minor, governors complied.68 Rebuilding the Past While it is impossible to directly connect any restoration at Ephesus or Aphrodisias with an image of the polis originating in traditional epideictic rhetoric, there is abundant evidence for the agendas of traditionally inclined local notables guiding governors’ projects. In the late fifth century, for example, the governor Dulcitius worked closely with a local magnate named Ampelius on a painstaking reconstruction of the so-called Agora Gate at Aphrodisias.69 Dulcitius rebuilt this elaborate two-storey structure, which had been virtually destroyed by an earthquake, from the ground up. His attention to the sculp64

On Libanius’s Antioch, see Petit, Libanius et la vie municipale, pp.  217–94, and Liebeschuetz, Antioch. 65 Lib., Or. 11. 193. 66 Lib., Or. 11. 194. 67 Lib., Epistulae 617. 3; cf. 196, 242. Compare Lib., Or. 33. 14. 68 On the building programmes of governors in Libanius’s Antioch, see Liebeschuetz, Antioch, pp. 132–36. 69 On the Agora Gate, see Erim, Aphrodisias, pp.  125–30, and Smith, Aphrodisias  II, pp. 58–60. On the dating of the gate’s reconstruction, see Wilson. ‘Water, Nymphs, and a Palm Grove’, pp. 132–33.

The Authority of Tradition

129

tural programme was particularly impressive: he carefully restored the statues of Antoninus Pius and long-dead citizens that had occupied the gate’s niches, and imported honorific statues from other parts of the city to replace lost portraits.70 Throughout, he seems to have benefited from the support and advice of Ampelius, who was rebuilding the adjacent South Agora at the same time. When the restored gate was completed, Dulcitius and Ampelius were honoured with side-by-side classicizing epigrams.71 A number of other restoration projects indicate that this sort of cooperation was fairly common. In the early fifth century, Flavius Anthemius Isidorus, proconsul of Asia, restored a second-century honorific statue dedicated to a certain Piso that stood beside a prominent street in Ephesus.72 Isidorus may have wished to claim Piso as an ancestor, or simply to revive a prominent landmark. Equally likely, however, is the possibility that Isidorus was trying to ingratiate himself — probably on local advice — with the Ephesian elite by restoring a memento of the civic past. A comparable case is that of the governor Flavius Constantius, who restored the basilica of Aphrodisias in the mid-fourth century. Upon the conclusion of his project, Constantius set up monumental sculptures with clear connections to local identity near the basilica’s main entrance.73 To one side of the door was placed a sculptural group representing Achilles’ murder of Troilus, a Trojan prince regarded as a local hero; on the other stood a colossal female figure likely intended as a personification of Aphrodisias or Caria. Apparently at the same time, explanatory labels were added to relief panels in the upper storey that depicted mythological founders of Aphrodisias. Both the labels and the new sculptures complemented the original decoration of the building, which celebrated the prominence of Aphrodisias in the master narratives of Greek myth. It is virtually certain that Constantius devised this careful programme in close concert with local notables. Yet the initiative for projects connected with the civic past was not invariably local. Governors had their own cultural credentials to prove. In 358/59 ce, Flavius Quintilius Eros Monaxius, governor of Caria, constructed a gate for the new city walls of Aphrodisias. Taking sculpture from monuments dis70

E.g. Smith, Aphrodisias II, nos. 3, 53–54, 58. ALA 38–40. On the classicizing flavour of late antique epigrams for governors, see the classic treatment in Robert, ‘Épigrammes relatives à des gouverneurs’ and the more recent studies of Horster, ‘Ehrungen spätantiker Statthalter’; Slootjes, The Governor and his Subjects, pp. 129–41; and Agosti, ‘Cultura greca’. 72 Knibbe, ‘Die statuarische Wiederauferstehung’. 73 ALA 235; discussion in Smith and Hallett, ‘Troilos and Achilles’, pp. 167–72. 71

Garrett Ryan

130

assembled to provide material for the wall, he built a rich array of reliefs into the walls on either side of the gate.74 In the dedicatory inscription cut into the lintel, Monaxius identified himself as a native of Crete, and thus — referencing a mythical connection between the Cretans and the Carians — as kin to the citizens of Aphrodisias.75 Mentioning this kinship myth advertised Monaxius’s education in a manner bolstered by the reliefs flanking the gate, conveying a message of general association with Hellenic history and culture.76 The Library of Celsus, mentioned at the beginning of this essay, provides perhaps the clearest example of how restoring a civic monument could contribute to a governor’s self-presentation. The library was built in the early second century to honour Tiberius Iulius Celsus Polemaeanus, an adoptive citizen of Ephesus who had served as proconsul of Asia.77 Two equestrian statues of Celsus flanked the elaborate aedicular façade, which featured eight statues in two registers. The four lower niches bore personifications of Celsus’s virtues. The upper four featured three images of the man himself — each, perhaps, in different dress — and a cuirassed statue of his son Aquila.78 The cumulative effect of the library façade impressively commemorated both Celsus’s brilliant official career and his cultural pursuits — a combination of obvious interest to late antique governors. 74

De Staebler, ‘The City Wall’, pp. 298–301; cf. Jacobs, Aesthetic Maintenance of Civic Space, pp. 202–04. 75 ALA 19.7–9. 76 Compare the Nymphaeum of Trajan at Ephesus, restored by an unknown governor around the end of the fourth century (IvE 600a; commentary in Quatember, Forschungen in Ephesos, pp. 25–26, and Auinger and Rathmayr, ‘Zur spätantiken Statuenausstattung’, pp. 250– 51). To replace shattered sculptures, the governor added at least three statues to the nymphaeum’s façade (Quatember, Forschungen in Ephesos, pp. 72–78). Although the newly added statues were reused from various sources, they appear to have been at least broadly consonant with the original sculptural programme. 77 The Library of Celsus was first published in Wilberg and others, Forschungen in Ephesos, v.1. More recent general treatments of the building’s architecture and meaning include DorlKlingenschmid, Prunkbrunnen in kleinasiatischen Städten, p. 191; Chi, ‘Studies in the Programmatic Statuary of Roman Asia Minor’, pp. 63–83; and Sauron, ‘La Bibliothèque de Celsus à Éphèse’. 78 See Wilberg and others, Forschungen in Ephesos, v.1, 47–60, on the sculpture of the library façade. Smith, ‘Cultural Choice and Political Identity’, pp. 73–75, notes the culturally charged juxtaposition of Greek and Roman elements in the building’s decor. Of the statues in the upper register, only that of Aquila (Strocka, ‘Celsus oder Aquila?’) has survived. The supposition that Celsus was represented in different garments — perhaps in a cuirass, a toga, and a himation — is made by analogy with the funerary monument of Philopappus at Athens (Smith, ‘Cultural Choice and Political Identity’, pp. 70–73).

The Authority of Tradition

131

After a late third-century earthquake destroyed the library’s interior, the remains of the building were apparently integrated into a private home for several decades. Not until the early fifth century, when the governor Stephanus converted it into a nymphaeum, did the library again become a public monument. Stephanus sealed the interior, stabilized the façade, and constructed a reflecting pool over the former library steps.79 His decision to face the basin with relief panels taken from the so-called Parthian Monument — probably an altar celebrating the victories of Lucius Verus over the Persians — may have been motivated by the fact that the Parthian reliefs were the best ready-made panels available. It is at least as likely, however, that Stephanus chose to use the reliefs because they enhanced the visible antiquity and cultural associations of his restored nymphaeum. Moreover, rebuilding the library allowed the governor to assimilate himself to a predecessor who had effectively combined official service and cultural pursuits. Stephanus seems to have devoted particular attention to replacing the statues of Celsus’s virtues, which had apparently been destroyed by the third-century earthquake.80 He must have scoured Ephesus to find four statues that were not only female and approximately the right size, but also the right (i.e. mid-imperial) vintage.81 By setting a new dedicatory inscription directly above these repurposed antiques, Stephanus claimed the virtues of Celsus, administrator and gentleman, as his own.

Epilogue: Enter the Bishop For much of the fourth and fifth centuries, associations of a traditional urban ideal with both imperial authority and Greek elite culture encouraged governors in the provinces of Asia Minor to restore the public spaces of their capitals. After the mid-fifth century, however, this dynamic began to change. Although the emperors continued to be interested in the symbolic power of 79

On the widespread habit of rebuilding public monuments as fountains, see Jacobs and Richard, ‘“We Surpass the Beautiful Waters”’, pp. 12–22. 80 Wilberg and others, Forschungen in Ephesos, v.1, 56–57. 81 Three of the new statues were set on the old bases, which still bore their dedications to (respectively) the sophia, arête, and episteme of Celsus (IvE 5108, 5109, 5111). The fourth base, however, features an obviously late antique inscription to the ennoia of Philippos (IvE 5010). The identity of this man is unclear. Unless it can be imagined that Stephanus imported the base with its statue from somewhere else, it must be assumed that Philippos was either a local notable or imperial official who assisted Stephanus, and sought to associate himself with the ideal of cultivated service so impressively displayed on the façade of the Nymphaeum.

Garrett Ryan

132

classical cityscapes, civic notables region-wide were becoming poorer and less influential — and correspondingly disinvested in euergetism.82 As builders and benefactors, the old elite families were progressively replaced by men with a qualitatively different relationship with both the imperial government and the traditional urban fabric: bishops.83 Some bishops, particularly those from elite backgrounds, were active patrons of traditional construction projects. Theodoret of Cyrrhus mentions financing two bridges, an aqueduct, and street-side colonnades with the revenues of his see.84 To such men, the construction of churches may have seemed a natural extension of civic euergetism. The epitaph of Iulius Eugenius, a fourth-century Pisidian notable turned bishop, expatiates in very traditional terms about the church he built in his native city, which was graced with the trappings of a grand classical building: ‘στοῶν τε καὶ τ[ετ]ραστόων καὶ ζωγραφιῶ̣[ν] καὶ κεντήσεων κὲ ὑδρείου καὶ προπύλου καὶ πᾶσι τοῖς λιθοξοϊκοῖς ἔργοις ’ (stoas, porticoes, paintings, mosaics, a fountain, an atrium, and all the stonecutters’ wares).85 The elaborate encomia that Choricius of Gaza composed for two churches financed by the local bishop indicate the same continuity with both the ethos of euergetism and traditional aesthetics — perhaps most clearly when Choricius instructs his listeners to pause at the gracefully arched vestibule of one church, and admire the ‘κιόνων γὰρ ἐκ Καρύστου τεττάρων κατὰ μέγεθός τε καὶ θέσιν

ὑπεραιρόντων τοὺς τῆς ἀγοραίου στοᾶς χρώμασί τε καλλωπιζομένων ἐμφύτοις ἁψίδα φέρουσι μίαν οἱ μέσοι’ (four columns of beautifully coloured Carystian

marble, looming over the colonnades of the agora by virtue of their size and position).86 The self-presentation of wealthy and ambitious bishops, likewise, often reinforced the cultural and political associations of traditional public spaces.87 The 82

For a detailed treatment of the decline of the curial class, see Laniado, Recherches sur les notables municipaux, pp. 1–130. Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Roman City, pp. 104– 09, provides a useful survey. 83 On the processes by which bishops came to be leading citizens of many Roman cities, see Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity. 84 Theodoret, Epistulae 81. Avramea, ‘Les Constructions profanes’, surveys the secular construction projects of bishops in the late antique east. 85 Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua 170. 15–17, ed. by Calder. The inscription is discussed in Wischmeyer, ‘M. Iulius Eugenius’. 86 Choricius, Laudatio Marciani 1. 18 (Foerster and Richsteig, Choricii Gazaei Opera). 87 Bishops’ palaces indicate the same continuity with contemporary elite practice. Antoninos, Bishop of Ephesus at the end of the fourth century, was censured for stripping mar-

The Authority of Tradition

133

Acts of the Ephesian Council of 431 show scheming parties of bishops, working closely with comes domesticorum Candidianus and other imperial officials, using the classical urban fabric much like the governor and his staff.88 On the Lower Agora, where governors tried cases, heralds proclaim Cyril’s triumph in the theological dispute, and crowds of adherents are organized to hail the triumph of orthodoxy and harass recalcitrant Nestorians.89 Cyril’s triumphal procession, likewise, wends along the same monumental streets that framed the governors’ progresses.90 Yet even bishops deeply implicated in the traditional culture and values of Greek civic elites interpreted urban space in a distinctive light. John Chrysostom contrasts the temporal beauty of Constantinople’s monumental avenues with the heavenly splendour of the newly arrived relics of Saint Phocas: ‘Λαμπρὰ γέγονεν ἡμῖν χθὲς ἡ πόλις, λαμπρὰ καὶ περιφανὴς, οὐκ ἐπειδὴ κίονας εἶχεν, ἀλλ’ ἐπειδὴ μάρτυρα πομπεύοντα ἀπὸ Πόντου πρὸς ἡμᾶς παραγενόμενον’ (our city became glorious yesterday, glorious and far-famed, not because it has columns [i.e. colonnaded streets], but because we have received the martyr from Pontus).91 Likewise, though Eusebius draws on the resources of classical encomium to describe the cathedral of Tyre as an impressive and fitting temple for the one true God, he regards the metaphorical edifice faith creates in every Christian soul as much more important.92 The degree to which the rise of the bishop could reshape perceptions of the classical urban fabric is particularly clear in the Syriac History of John.93 In this work, the converted Roman governor ‘Tyrannus’ helps the Apostle — and proto-bishop — John transform the physical and spiritual landscape of Ephesus. Having instructed the people to assemble in the theatre, the governor ble and columns from a ruined church for reuse in his private palace (Palladios, Dialogus de vita sancti Ioannis Chrysostomi 13. 164–67). 88 For a useful survey of the council, see Harreither, ‘Die Synoden von Ephesos’, pp. 82–87. 89 ACO i. i. v. 14 (crowds), i. i. v. 120 (heralds). 90 ACO i. i. i. 118. 91 Chrysostom, De sancto hieromartyre Phoca, ed. by Migne, col. 699. 92 Eusebius, Historia ecclesiastica x. 4. 37–45 (physical temple), 56–69 (metaphorical temple). On the organizing principles of Eusebius’s encomium, see Schott, ‘Eusebius’ Panegyric on the Building of Churches’. 93 Connolly, ‘The Original Language’, asserts on linguistic grounds that the History of John was originally composed in Syriac, likely around the end of the fourth century. Though the traditions that shaped the narrative were probably Syrian, the author seems to have been familiar with Ephesian topography.

Garrett Ryan

134

refuses to sit in his customary throne by the stage, instead urging the Ephesians to gather around John in the uppermost seats. The Apostle erects a cross at the theatre’s highest point, causes a font to be carved into the seats, and baptizes the multitude.94 Later, when John’s presence forces the demons in the Temple of Artemis to confess the supremacy of Christianity, the goddess’s statue is torn down, and her worshippers follow John to the theatre to be baptized.95 That same day, with the governor’s blessing, the images of Artemis over the city gates are replaced with crosses.96 After the mid-fifth century, as fewer beneficiaries of a traditional rhetorical education became bishops, ecclesiastical munificence was virtually restricted to religious buildings. As local elites withered, governors were left as almost the sole potential patrons of large-scale restorations. Even in their capitals, however, governors now had little motivation to undertake such projects. The decay of the old curial class not only reduced the revenues they could draw upon; it also eliminated the local audience their projects had been intended to impress. In Constantinople and a few provincial cities, emperors continued to sponsor the restoration and construction of monumental streets and squares. 97 But these spaces, progressively stripped of all but the most general associations with authority and tradition, were little more than exercises in a dead language.

94 95 96 97

Wright, Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, pp. 31, 38. Wright, Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, pp. 43–51. Wright, Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, p. 55. Dey, The Afterlife of the Roman City, pp. 127–220.

The Authority of Tradition

135

Works Cited Primary Sources Chrysostom, John, De sancto hieromartyre Phoca, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series graeca, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 161 vols (Paris: Garnier, 1857–66), l, cols 699–706 Codex Theodosianus, in Theodosiani libri XVI cum Constitutionibus sirmondianis, ed. by Theodor Mommsen and Paul Martin Meyer (Berlin: Weidmann, 1905) Die Inschriften von Ephesos, ed. by Hermann Wankel and others, Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 11–17.4 (Bonn: Habelt, 1979–84) Inscriptiones Graecae ad res Romanas pertinentes, ed. by Rene Cagnat (Paris: E. Leroux, 1906–27) Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae, ed. by Hermann Dessau, 3 vols (Berlin: Weidman, 1892–1916) Libanius, Orationes, in Libanii Opera, vol. iv, ed. by Richard Foerster (Leipzig: Teubner, 1908), pp. 329–41 Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua, vol. i, ed. by William M. Calder (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1928) Nollé, Johannes, Side in Altertum: Geschichte und Zeugnisse, Inschriften griechischer Städte aus Kleinasien, 44 (Bonn: Habelt, 2001) Roueché, Charlotte, Aphrodisias in Late Antiquity: The Late Roman and Byzantine Ins criptions Including Texts from the Excavations at Aphrodisias Conducted by Kenan T. Erim, Journal of Roman Studies Monographs, 5 (London: Society for the Promotion of Roman Studies, 1989) Scriptores Historiae Augustae, ed. by Ernest Hohl (Leipzig: Teubner, 1927) Sylloge Inscriptionum Graecarum, ed. by W. Dittenberger, 3rd ed. (Leipzig: Hirzel, 1915–24) Wright, William, Apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, Edited from Syriac Manuscripts in the British Museum and Other Libraries, vol.  ii: The English Translation (London: Williams and Norgate, 1871)

Secondary Studies Agosti, Gianfranco, ‘Cultura greca negli epigrammi epigrafici di età tardoantica’, in Atti della giornata di studio in onore di Laura Casarsa, ed. by Lucio Cristante and Ireneo Filip (Trieste: Edizioni Università di Trieste, 2008), pp. 3–18 Alchermes, Joseph, ‘Spolia in Roman Cities of the Late Empire: Legislative Rationales and Architectural Reuse’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 48 (1994), 167–78 Auinger, Johanna, and Elisabeth Rathmayr, ‘Zur spätantiken Statuenausstattung der Thermen und Nymphäen in Ephesos’, in Statuen in der Spätantike: Akten des interna­ tionalen Workshops in München am 11. und 12. Juni 2004, ed. by Franz Alto Bauer and Christian Witschel (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2007), pp. 237–69 Avramea, Anna, ‘Les Constructions profanes de l’évêque d’après l’épigraphie et les textes d’Orient’, in Actes du XIe congrès international d’archéologie chrétienne, ed.  by Noël Duval (Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1989), pp. 829–35

136

Garrett Ryan

Bauer, Franz Alto, Stadt, Platz und Denkmal in der Spätantike: Untersuchungen zur Ausstat­ tung des öffentlichen Raums in den spätantiken Städten Rom, Konstantinopel und Ephesos (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1996) Brown, Peter, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992) Chi, Jennifer Y., ‘Studies in the Programmatic Statuary of Roman Asia Minor’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, New York University, 2002) Connolly, Richard Hugh, ‘The Original Language of the Syriac Acts of John’, Journal of Theological Studies, 8 (1907), 249–61 De Staebler, Peter D., ‘The City Wall and the Making of a Late-Antique Provincial Capital’, in Aphrodisias Papers 4: New Research on the City and its Monuments, ed. by R. R. R. Smith and others, Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary Series, 70 (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2008), pp. 285–318 Dey, Hendrik W., The Afterlife of the Roman City: Architecture and Ceremony in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015) Dorl-Klingenschmid, Claudia, Prunkbrunnen in kleinasiatischen Städten: Funktion im Kontext (Munich: Pfeil, 2001) Downey, Glanville, ‘Libanius’ Oration in Praise of Antioch (Oration XI)’, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society, 103 (1959), 652–86 Erim, Kenan, Aphrodisias: City of Venus Aphrodite (New York: Facts on File, 1996) Feissel, Denis, ‘Épigraphie administrative et topographie urbaine: L’Emplacement des actes inscrits dans l’Éphèse protobyzantine (ive–vie s.)’, in  Efeso paleocristiana e bizantina—Frühchristliches und byzantinisches Ephesos, ed. by Renate Pillinger, and others (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1999), pp. 121–32 Foerster, R., and E. Richsteig, Choricii Gazaei Opera (Leipzig, 1929) Foss, Clive, Ephesus after Antiquity: A Late Antique, Byzantine, and Turkish City (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979) Garnsey, Peter, ‘Urban Property Investment’, in Studies in Roman Property, ed. by Moses Finley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1976), pp. 123–36 Harreither, Reinhardt, ‘Die Synoden von Ephesos’, Mitteilungen zur Christlichen Archä­ ologie, 8 (2002), 78–94 Horster, Marietta, ‘Ehrungen spätantiker Statthalter’, Antiquité Tardive, 6 (1998), 37–59 Jacobs, Ine, Aesthetic Maintenance of Civic Space: The ‘Classical’ City from the 4th to the 7th c. ad, Orientalia Lovaniensia Analecta, 193 (Leuven: Peeters, 2013) Jacobs, Ine, and Julian Richard, ‘“We Surpass the Beautiful Waters of Other Cities by the Abundance of Ours”: Reconciling Function and Decoration in Late Antique Fountains’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 5 (2012), 3–71 Janvier, Yves, La Législation du Bas­Empire romain sur les édifices publics (Aix-en-Provence: La Pensée Universitaire, 1969) Karla, Grammatiki, ‘Die Klage über die zerstörte Stadt Nikomedeia bei Libanios im Spiegel der Mimesis’, in Theatron: Rhetorical Culture in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. by Michael Grünbart (Berlin: Walter De Gruyter, 2007), pp. 141–56

The Authority of Tradition

137

Knibbe, Dieter, ‘Die statuarische Wiederauferstehung des Kaiserpriesters Ti.  Claudius Piso Diophantos unter dem christlichen Statthalter Fl.  Anthemius  Isidorus’, in Via Sacra Ephesiaca II, ed. by Dieter Knibbe and Hilke Thür (Vienna: Österreichisches Archäologisches Institut, 1995), pp. 100–102 Ladstätter, Sabine, and Andrea Pülz, ‘Ephesus in the Late Roman and Early Byzantine Period: Changes in its Urban Character from the Third to the Seventh Century ad’, in The Transition to Late Antiquity, on the Danube and Beyond, ed. by Andrew Poulter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007), pp. 391–433 Laniado, Avshalom, Recherches sur les notables municipaux dans l’empire protobyzantin, Travaux et mémoires du Centre de recherche d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, Monographies, 13 (Paris: Association des Amis du Centre d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, 2002) Lepelley, Claude, ‘Le Musée des statues divines: La Volonté de sauvegarder le patrimoine artistique païen à l’époque théodosienne’, Cahiers archéologiques, 42 (1994), 5–15 Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G., Antioch: City and Imperial Administration in the Later Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1972) —— , The Decline and Fall of the Roman City (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) Muth, Susanne, ‘Rom in der Spätantike—die Stadt als Erinnerungslandschaft’, in Erinnerungsorte der Antike: Die römische Welt, ed.  by Elke Stein-Hölkeskamp and Karl-Joachim Hölkeskamp (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2006), pp. 438–56 Niewöhner, Philipp, ‘Urbanism’, in The Archaeology of Byzantine Anatolia: From the End of Late Antiquity until the Coming of the Turks, ed. by Philipp Niewöhner (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017), pp. 39–59 Pernot, Laurent, La Rhétorique de l’éloge dans le monde gréco­romain (Paris: Institut d’Etudes Augustiniennes, 1993) Petit, Paul, Libanius et la vie municipale à Antioche au ive siècle après J.­C. (Paris: Geuthner, 1955) Phillips, E.  J., ‘The Roman Law on the Demolition of Buildings’, Latomus, 32 (1973), 86–95 Quatember, Ursula, Forschungen in Ephesos, vol. xi.2, Das Nymphaeum Traiani in Ephesos (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2011) Rapp, Claudia, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 37 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005) Ratté, Christopher, ‘New Research on the Urban Development of Aphrodisias in Late Antiquity’, in Urbanism in Western Asia Minor: New Studies on Aphrodisias, Ephesos, Hierapolis, Pergamon, Perge, and Xanthos, ed.  by David Parrish, Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary Series, 45 (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2001), pp. 116–47 Reisch, Emil, ed., Forschungen in Ephesos, iii (Vienna: A. Hölder, 1923) Robert, Louis, ‘Épigrammes relatives à des gouverneurs’, in Hellenica: Recueil d’épigraphie, de numismatique et d’antiquités grecques IV: Épigrammes du Bas­Empire, ed. by Louis Robert (Paris: Librairie d’Amérique et d’Orient, 1948), pp. 35–110

138

Garrett Ryan

Roueché, Charlotte, ‘Looking for Late Antique Ceremonial: Aphrodisias and Ephesos’, in 100 Jahre österreichische Forschungen in Ephesos: Akten des Symposions Wien 1995, ed. by Herwig Friesinger and Fritz Krinzinger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1999), pp. 161–68 Ryan, Garrett, ‘Building Order: Unified Cityscapes and Elite Collaboration in Roman Asia Minor’, Classical Antiquity, 37 (2018), 151–85 Saradi, Helen G., The Byzantine City in the Sixth Century: Literary Images and Historical Reality (Athens: Distributed by the Society of Messenian Archaeological Studies, 2006) —— , ‘The Kallos of the Byzantine City: The Development of a Rhetorical Topos and Historical Reality’, Gesta, 34 (1995), 37–56 Sauron, Gilles, ‘La Bibliothèque de Celsus à Éphèse: Étude de sémantique architecturale et décorative’, in Neronia  VIII: Bibliothèques, livres et culture écrite dans l’empire romain de César à Hadrien, ed. by Yves Perrin (Brussels: Latomus, 2010), pp. 374–85 Schneider, Peter, ‘Bauphasen der Arkadiane’, in 100 Jahre österreichische Forschungen in Ephesos: Akten des Symposions Wien 1995, ed. by Herwig Friesinger and Fritz Krinzinger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1999), pp. 467–78 Schott, Jeremy M., ‘Eusebius’ Panegyric on the Building of Churches (HE 10.4.2–72): Aesthetics and the Politics of Christian Architecture’, in Reconsidering Eusebius: Collected Papers on Literary, Historical, and Theological Issues, ed. by Sabrina Inowlocki and Claudio Zamagni, Vigiliae Christianae, Supplements, 107 (Leiden: Brill, 2011), pp. 177–98 Slootjes, Daniëlle, The Governor and his Subjects in the Later Roman Empire, Mnemosyne, Supplements, 275 (Boston: Brill, 2006) Smith, R. R. R., Aphrodisias II: Roman Portrait Statuary from Aphrodisias (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2006) —— , ‘Cultural Choice and Political Identity in Honorific Portrait Statues in the Greek East in the Second Century a.d.’, Journal of Roman Studies, 88 (1998), 56–93 —— , ‘Statue Life in the Hadrianic Baths at Aphrodisias, ad 100–600: Local Context and Historical Meaning’, in Statuen in der Spätantike: Akten des internationalen Workshops in München am 11. und 12. Juni 2004, ed. by Franz Alto Bauer and Christian Witschel (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2007), pp. 203–35 Smith, R. R. R., and Christopher Hallett, ‘Troilos and Achilles: A Monumental Statue Group from Aphrodisias’, Journal of Roman Studies, 105 (2015), 124–82 Strocka, Volker Michael, ‘Celsus oder Aquila? Zur Panzerstatue  Istanbul 2453’, in A  Festschrift for Orhan Bingöl on the Occasion of his 67th Birthday, ed.  by Görkem Kökdemir (Ankara: Bilgin Kültür Sanat Yayıncılık, 2003), 597–610 Van Dam, Raymond, Kingdom of Snow: Roman Rule and Greek Culture in Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002) Wilberg, Wilhelm, and others, eds, Forschungen in Ephesos, vol.  v.1, Die Bibliothek (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichisches Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1953) Wilson, Andrew I., ‘Water, Nymphs, and a Palm Grove: Monumental Water Display at Aphrodisias’, in Aphrodisias Papers 5: Excavation and Research at Aphrodisias, 2006– 2012, ed. by R. R. R. Smith and others, Journal of Roman Archaeology, Supplementary Series, 103 (Portsmouth, RI: Journal of Roman Archaeology, 2006), pp. 100–135

The Authority of Tradition

139

Winter, Engelbert, Staatliche Baupolitik und Baufürsorge in den römischen Provinzen des kaiserzeitlichen Kleinasien (Bonn: R. Habelt, 1996) Wischmeyer, Wolfgang, ‘M. Iulius Eugenius: Eine Fallstudie Zum Thema “Christen und Gesellschaft im 3. und 4. Jhdt”’, Zeitschrift für die neutestamentliche Wissenschaft, 81 (1990), 225–46

Peter beyond Rome: Achilleus of Spoleto, Neon of Ravenna, and the Epigramma Longum Dennis Trout

O

ver the course of the fourth century imperial and episcopal initiatives began to transform the sprawling city that still symbolized ‘the grandeur and longevity of the Roman Empire’ into the papal city whose claims to primacy would rest ever more heavily upon its possession of the bodies of Peter and Paul.1 In a startling burst of Constantinian building activity basilicas arose in the Roman suburbs over the reputed tombs of Peter on the Vatican hill, Paul along the Ostian Way, and at the site ad catacumbas on the Via Appia, where, it could be said in the mid-fourth century, Peter and Paul had once ‘resided’.2 Thereafter various media — from gold glass medallions to apse mosaics — promoted a concept of concordia apostolorum intended to provide Christian Rome with twin founders whose harmony could serve as a medium 1 Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople, p. 1. For Peter’s later prominence consider, for example, the emphasis placed upon the Vatican complex in the eighth-century addition to the seventh-century Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae, ed. by Geyer and others, pp. 310–11. My thanks for help with this essay go to Professors Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis, Robin Jensen, Maureen Miller, and Clementina Rizzardi. 2 Damasus, Carmen (Carm.) 20. See Damasus of Rome, The Epigraphic Poetry, ed. by Trout, pp. 121–22: ‘hic habitasse prius sanctos cognoscere debes’. Founded as a basilica apostolorum, by the late sixth century the Constantinian funerary hall was also known as S. Sebastiano. On the Roman building projects of Constantine and his family, see Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital, pp. 70–129.

Dennis Trout is Professor, Department of Ancient Mediterranean Studies, University of Missouri. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 141–164 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118161

Dennis Trout

142

for patching over factional fissures,3 and whose monumentalized tombs, along with those of a host of Roman martyrs, would in time draw countless pilgrims to the city. At the same time, a papal ‘Petrine discourse’ zeroed in on Peter to develop in earnest claims to authority derived from Christ’s mandate in Matthew’s Gospel: ‘And I say to you, you are Peter and on this rock (petra) I will build my church and the gates of hell will not prevail against it. And I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven (regnum caelorum); what you forbid on earth shall be forbidden in heaven (in caelis) and what you allow on earth shall be allowed in heaven (in caelis)’.4 This project gained significant momentum during the pontificate of Damasus (366–84) and accelerated under his successors.5 By the mid-fifth century Leo I was sufficiently self-confident to present himself to his fellow bishops ‘as though he were Peter himself ’.6 During these same years inscribed poetry emerged as a novel medium for advancing the agenda of both papal and Roman primacy. Indeed, the Vatican basilica erected over Peter’s memorial, although initially sponsored by Constantine, was not only one of Christianity’s first major public buildings but also a precocious showcase of Latin monumental verse. Both the church’s triumphal arch and its apse boasted inscribed epigrams: one of two hexameters on the arch and one of four in the apse.7 During his pontificate Damasus would add at least two more metrical inscriptions to the complex, both linked to his construction of a baptistery.8 One of these credited Damasus’s work to the help of Peter, ‘sed praestante Petro cui tradita ianua caeli est’ (but with Peter as surety, to whom heaven’s door was entrusted), while also insisting ‘una Petri sedes unum verumque lavacrum’ (there is but one see of Peter and one true baptism).9 In the same years, a Damasan inscription at the Basilica Apostolorum on the Via Appia proclaimed Peter and Paul to be Rome’s ‘new stars’ (nova sid­ 3

Pietri, ‘Concordia apostolorum’; Brown, The Cult of the Saints, pp. 96–98. Matthew 16. 18–19: ‘et ego dico tibi quia tu es Petrus et super hanc petram aedificabo ecclesiam meam et portae inferi non praevalebunt adversum eam. et tibi dabo claves regni caelorum et quodcumque ligeraveris super terram erit ligatum in caelis et quodcumque solveris super terram erit solutum in caelis’. All scriptural citations from Biblia sacra iuxta vulgatam versionem, ed. by Weber and others. 5 Demacopoulos, The Invention of Peter, pp. 25–38. 6 Demacopoulos, The Invention of Peter, pp. 41–50, quotation on p. 42. See also Salzman, ‘Leo the Great’. 7 Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae (ICUR), ii, ed. by Silvagni, nos 4092 and 4094. 8 Damasus, Carm. 3 and 4, ed. by Trout, pp. 84–87. 9 Damasus, Carm. 4.3 and 4.5. 4

Peter beyond Rome

143

era). Both disciples may have arrived from the east, Damasus proclaimed, but their martyrdom made them cives (citizens) of Rome.10 Some seventy years later when Leo I (440–61) and Galla Placidia (Augusta 421–50) rebuilt the roof and triumphal arch of St Paul’s basilica on the Ostian Way, they included an image of Peter on the latter. It was flagged with an elegiac couplet: ‘ianitor hic caeli est, fidei petra, culmen honoris, | sedis apostolicae rector et omne decus’ (Here is heaven’s gatekeeper (ianitor caeli), the rock (petra) of faith, the pinnacle of honour, | the ruler (rector) of the apostolic see and all glory).11 Peter and Rome might well seem inseparable. Nevertheless, the papacy’s claims on Peter did not go unchallenged, and elsewhere than Rome epigraphic poetry was called into service to bolster the resistance. In Umbrian Spoleto (Spoletium), 130 km upcountry from Rome along the eastern branch of the Via Flaminia, the city’s early fifth-century bishop, Achilleus, dedicated a basilica to Peter and adorned it with verse. Two generations later Neon of Ravenna (c. 451–73) expressed in mural pictures and poetry his own bid for Petrine credentials. It is not simply their recognition of the appeal of monumental poetry that distinguishes Achilleus and Neon among the bishops of their day. At Milan, for example, Ambrose was also a busy versifier of buildings, as was Paulinus at Nola.12 Yet, these Milanese and Nolan projects were decidedly local.13 At Spoleto and Ravenna Achilleus and Neon inscribed inordinately long, elaborate epigrams that provocatively foregrounded the figure of Peter in ways that seem to pry at Rome’s grip on the ianitor caeli.14

10

Damasus, Carm. 20.7: ‘Roma suos potius meruit defendere cives | haec Damasus vestras referat nova sidera laudes’, ed. by Trout, pp. 121–22. 11 ICUR, ii, ed. by Silvagni, no. 4786a. 12 On Ambrose, see Ambrose, Opere poetiche e frammenti, ed. by Biffi and Biffi, pp. 93–121; for Paulinus’s Nolan verses, see those he included in his Epistula 32. 10–16. 13 This is true even of Ambrose’s somewhat mislabelled Basilica Apostolorum, dedicated in 386. The Ambrosian carmen (Ambrose, Opere poetiche e frammenti, ed. by Biffi and Biffi, no. III = Inscriptiones Christianae Italiae (ICI), vol. xiv, ed. by Binazzi, no. 1), installed there to celebrate the transfer of the relics of the martyr Nazarius to the basilica in 396, makes it clear that, although the cruciform building housed apostolic relics, it was dedicated to Christ. Nor is it certain that the basilica’s apostolic relics originally included those of Peter and Paul. See ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Cuscito. 14 Henriksén, ‘Dignus maiori quem coleret titulo’, estimating the average length of the inscribed Latin epigram at 10–15 lines and noting extreme rarity over twenty lines; ‘sheer length’ made a powerful statement (p. 716).

Dennis Trout

144

Figure 7.1. Romanesque church of S. Pietro, Spoleto, built on the site of the fifth-century church of Achilleus. View to east across Via Flaminia with foothills of Monteluco behind. Photo by Dennis Trout.

Achilleus and Spoleto Achilleus of Spoleto was no stranger to Rome or to Peter’s Vatican basilica. In March 419, when Rome was divided between the partisans of the archdeacon Eulalius and the priest Boniface, rivals for the papacy, the Ravennate court of Honorius and Galla Placidia commissioned Achilleus to conduct Rome’s Easter service (mysteria sacrae observationis) at the Lateran.15 By late spring, it seems, following the restoration of order at Rome and Boniface’s official appointment as pontiff,16 Achilleus was back in his own see, where in a cemetery outside Spoleto’s walls he began construction of a church dedicated to 15

Collectio Avellana (Coll. Avell.), 21, 22, and 23, ed. by Guenther, pp. 68–70, supply the evidence. Events are narrated and analysed by Pietri, Roma Christiana, pp. 452–60; Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, pp. 247–59; and Otranto, Per una storia, pp. 210–11. 16 Coll. Avell., epistula 33, ed. by Guenther, pp. 79–80, to the urban prefect Symmachus, dated 3 April 419 and received in Rome on 8 April.

Peter beyond Rome

145

St Peter (Figure 7.1).17 Though little remains of Achilleus’s fifth-century structure, the Romanesque church that stands in its place still commands a view from the lower slopes of Monteluco across the valley of the Tessino and the Via Flaminia, which pass between it and the town.18 On the one hand, that a church of St Peter should be built elsewhere than Rome in the early fifth century is not surprising. Shrines and basilicas dedicated to Peter and Paul in tandem arose across the West in the later fourth and fifth centuries, and it is often assumed that such basilicae apostolorum, especially in Italy, gestured in some fashion towards Rome.19 Indeed, one of Achilleus’s immediate predecessors in the Spoletine episcopacy, Spes, had recently founded a basilica apostolorum in one of Spoleto’s northern suburbs; Spes would himself be buried there.20 Two factors, however, distinguish Achilleus’s San Pietro: first, its dedication to Peter 17

The date of construction is not documented, but consensus places it after Achilleus’s 419 sojourn in Rome. See Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, pp. 259–60. I assume here the project unfolded in the 420s and 430s. ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 47.5 (mid-fifth century), is clear on Achilleus’s role: ‘omnia magnanimus pastor construxit Achilles’. The underlying cemetery was in use from the prehistoric through late Roman periods; see Giuntella, ‘Il suburbio di Spoleto’, pp. 870–72. 18 With few exceptions, material evidence for Umbria’s fourth- and fifth-century churches has generally been the victim of later destruction and overbuilding ; see Fiocchi Nicolai, ‘Tipologie monumentali’. 19 Josi, ‘La venerazione degli apostoli’, surveys the literary, epigraphic, and archaeological evidence for veneration of Peter and Paul through the sixth century. Rarely is it clear that physical structures are dedicated to Peter alone rather than to Peter and Paul together, though in 418 Augustine appears to have preached a sermon (Sermones 15; Augustine, Omnia Opera, cols 116–21) in a basilica of St Peter in Carthage. On the trend by which structures commonly founded as basilicae apostolorum eventually became identified with local martyrs and bishops, see D’Angela, ‘Il vescovo Spes’, p. 853; Violante and Fonesca, ‘Ubicazione e dedicazione’, esp. pp. 337–38. 20 On Spes (c. 400), his construction of SS. Apostoli, his invention of the relics of the martyr Vitalis at Terzo della Pieve (fifteen kilometres from Spoleto), and the carmen epigraphicum in which he celebrated that event, see de Rossi, ‘Spicilegio d’ archeologia cristiana’; Frutaz. ‘Spes e Achilleo vescovi’; D’Angela, ‘Il vescovo Spes’; ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, pp. 79–80, 114– 17; Otranto, Per una storia, pp. 206–08. For the epigram, whose quality prompted de Rossi, ‘Spicilegio d’ archeologia cristiana’, p. 94, to dub Spes ‘il Damaso del Umbria’, see ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 72 = Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, ed. by Bormann (CIL) 11.2.1, 4966. The marble tablet on which it was inscribed was broken into several pieces when, in 1597, the Bishop of Spoleto, Paolo Sanvitale, shipped it from Terzo della Pieve to Spoleto; only one fragment is still known (photo at ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 72). Spes’s own epitaph (ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 66, with photo), inscribed on grey limestone, does survive and is at this time on exhibit at Spoleto’s Museo Nazionale del Ducato (vidi).

Dennis Trout

146

alone at a time when relics had become nearly de rigueur for the founding of a new church;21 and, second, Achilleus’s justification of his venture by means of an extraordinarily long carmen epigraphicum. Achilleus’s rationale fills sixteen elegiac couplets, thirty-two lines of verse:22 antistes Christi domini devotus Achilles culmina magna pii struxit honore Petri. nemo putet vacuam venerandi nominis aulam sistere, quod non sit corporis ista domus. magna quidem servat venerabile Roma sepulchrum in quo pro Christi nomine passus obit. sed non et meritum monumenta includere possunt nec quae corpus habent saxa tenent animam. victor enim mundi superata morte triumphans spiritus ad summum pergit in astra Deum. cumque sit in Christo vita durante repostus ad Christum totus martyr ubique venit. ille suos sanctos cunctis credentibus offert, per quos supplicibus prestat opem famulis. quidnam igitur mirum magno si culmina Petro quolibet existant aedificata loco, cum quae per totum celebratur ecclesia mundum in fundamento fixa Petro maneat? namque illi Deus ipse caput qui corporis extat propterea petrae nomen habere dedit. dicens esto Petrus quoniam fundabo super te quam mihi nunc toto molior orbe domum. in te per cunctas consistit ecclesia gentes vincit et inferni carceris imperium. namque datis clavibus caelorum claudere portas et reserare dedit pro meritis hominum. 21

5

10

15

20

25

Jensen, ‘Saints’ Relics’. I present the text from ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, nos 45–46, where there is a full lemma and commentary. The epigram is preserved fully only in Cod. Vat. Pal. 833, the sylloge Laureshamensis (ICUR, vol. ii.1, ed. by de Rossi, pp. 113–14.79–80), which presents it as two separate poems. The Centulensis (ICUR, vol. ii.1, ed. by de Rossi, p. 80.10) preserves five lines. Both Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, p. 268, and Carletti, ‘Magna Roma­Magnus Petrus’, p. 142, have argued for the poem’s unity as a single epigram, as I number the lines here. Binazzi’s edition, however, maintains the division into two pieces with the break after the seventh couplet. Carletti, ‘Magna Roma­Magnus Petrus’, p. 144, offers an Italian translation. I assume Achilleus’s patronage if not authorship of the epigram; for doubts on the latter, see Carletti, ‘Magna Roma­ Magnus Petrus’, pp. 154–55. 22

Peter beyond Rome quaequam in terris fuerit sententia Petri, haec erit in caelis scripta notante Deo. dixit enim tu es magno mihi nomine Petrus et tibi caelorum fortia claustra dedi. hac dicione potens terra caeloque Petrus stat, arbiter in terris, ianitor in superis.23

147

30

[Achilleus, devoted bishop of Christ the Lord, erected this lofty building in honour of blessed Peter. Let no one suppose this hall stands empty of his venerated presence, because it does not house his body. Great Rome indeed preserves his venerable tomb, 5 where, having suffered for the name of Christ, he died. But monuments are not able to shut in favour as well; nor do the rocks that possess the body contain the soul. For as victor over the world, having vanquished death, triumphing, his spirit proceeded into the stars to God on high. 10 And since while living he was laid away in Christ, he came to Christ, fully a martyr everywhere. Christ offers his saints to all who believe, through whom he furnishes support to his suppliant servants. Why wonder then if lofty gables dedicated to great Peter 15 exist wherever it pleases to build them, since the church, which is celebrated through the whole world, remains fixed on Peter, its foundation? For God himself, who stands forth as the head of the body, on this account ordered him to have the name of the ‘rock’, 20 saying ‘Let you be Peter, since I will establish upon you the house that I am now building for myself through the whole world. Among all nations the church takes its stand on you and conquers the power of the prison infernal’. For, having given him the keys, he empowered him to close 25 and unlock the doors of heaven in accord with the merits of men. Whatever Peter’s judgement shall be on earth, so will it be written in heaven, with God making note. For he said, ‘You are Peter, great in my name, and I have given to you the mighty gates of heaven’. 30 Through this pronouncement Peter stands powerful on earth and in heaven, judge on earth, door-keeper in heaven above.]

23

Scriptural echoes include Colossians 3. 3 (‘vita vestra est abscondita cum Christo in Deo’) at line 11; i Corinthians 12. 12 and Romans 12. 4–5 at line 19; Matthew 16. 18–19 at lines 21–32.

Dennis Trout

148

Several scholars have already drawn attention to the debts this poem owes to epigrams that Achilleus had surely seen in Rome. There are clear echoes of the elogia of Damasus, for example, as well as of the verse inscription that decorated the triumphal arch of St Peter’s.24 Yet, Achilleus drew upon these models not to localize but to universalize Peter’s praesentia. The first seven couplets of his epigram assert Peter’s presence at the Spoletine church despite the fact that magna Roma possessed his tomb and relics. The Vatican basilica itself is referenced only indirectly, through the fifth couplet’s gesture towards the Roman church’s terse dedicatory epigram, but Achilleus’s allusion also shifts the language of victory and triumph from Constantine and the mundus to Peter and his spiritus.25 The Vatican’s ‘quod duce te mundus surrexit in astra triumphans | hanc Constantinus victor tibi condidit aulam’ (Because under your [Peter’s] leadership the world rose in triumph to the stars, | Constantine, victor, founded this hall for you) becomes at Spoleto, ‘victor enim mundi superata morte triumphans | spiritus ad summum pergit in astra Deum’ (For as victor [Peter] over the world, having vanquished death, triumphing, | his spirit proceeded into the stars to God on high). This manipulation has the double effect of aligning Achilleus’s Spoletine aula (line 3) with the Vatican aula while also allowing Peter’s victory — which propelled him in astra — to upstage Constantine’s. Yet in his effort to free Peter’s soul from the clutch of the Vatican tomb, Achilleus found his most effective ally, somewhat ironically, in Damasus, whose epigrams had simultaneously anchored the Roman saints to their tombs and granted them celestial transcendence. A marble plaque in the catacomb of S. Callisto, for example, reminded Damasus’s readers that although the veneranda sepulcra (venerated tombs) before them held the corpora (bodies) of the saints, the regia caeli (palace of heaven) harboured their animae (souls).26 Consequently, Achilleus’s fourth couplet assured readers that no monumentum (memorial) could ever fence in a saint’s meritum (favour), the telltale term with which Damasus repeatedly characterized the rewards received and favours dispensed by Rome’s martyr saints. On those terms, Peter could truly be totus martyr ubique (fully a martyr everywhere). The epigram’s remaining lines pursue this campaign through a poetic paraphrase of Matthew 16. 18–19, pushing Peter onto a world stage. Three locu24

Exegesis of Achilleus’s epigram unfolds at de Rossi, ‘Spicilegio d’ archeologia cristiana’, pp. 116–20; Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, pp. 266–84; ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi; and Carletti, ‘Magna Roma­Magnus Petrus’, pp. 144–49. 25 ICUR, vol. ii, ed. by Silvagni, 4092 = Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres, no. 1752. 26 Damasus, Carm. 16: ‘corpora sanctorum retinent veneranda sepulcra | sublimes animas rapuit sibi regia caeli’, ed. by Trout, 113–15. Compare Achilleus at lines 3–8.

Peter beyond Rome

149

tions in eight lines (17–24) define his field of action per totum mundum, toto orbe, and per cunctas gentes. Achilleus now mentions neither Rome nor Peter’s tomb. The adjective magnus slips from Rome (5: magna Roma) to Peter (15: magno Petro; 29: magno nomine Petrus) — not Peter of the Vatican but Peter of the Gospel. If Peter was, in fact, the fundamentum of a worldwide ecclesia, why wonder indeed that churches might be dedicated to him elsewhere than Rome (15–16).27 In papal hands, at least since the pontificate of Damasus, Matthew’s mandate had underwritten the claim that as Peter’s successors in the city of his execution and burial, Rome’s bishops were now vicarii (arbiters) in his place of Christendom’s ecclesiological and doctrinal disputes. The claim was stated afresh and forcefully, it has been noted, in Achilleus’s own day in letters sent by Pope Boniface to the bishops of Thessaly and Illyricum.28 In a few decades, Leo would effect the bold fusion of self and saint noted above. In short, although Achilleus’s lines deploy images and language integral to the primacy claims advanced by Rome’s bishops,29 his epigram works to a very different end. Had it been his intent to reinforce papal claims, he could easily have done so in verses that amount to an exegetical paraphrase of Matthew’s commissioning text.30 Rather, when the second half of the epigram is collated with the first, Rome’s insignificance as an intermediary between cunctis creden­ tibus (all who believe) and the saints ‘per quos [Christus] supplicibus prestat opem famulis’ (through whom [Christ] furnishes support to his suppliant servants) emerges as one of the poem’s central themes. Neither the Vatican tomb nor the cathedra Petri figure into this economy of access. So perhaps it is not merely coincidental that shortly after Peter appeared as arbiter in terris, ianitor in superis on the walls of Spoleto’s Petri sedes — a basilica overlooking a major highway carrying viatores between Ravenna and Rome31 — Pope Leo and Galla 27

This position is more fully developed at Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, pp. 272–76. Carletti, ‘Magna Roma­Magnus Petrus’, pp. 149–52. 29 For the parallels, see Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’; Carletti, ‘Magna Roma­Magnus Petrus’, p. 146. 30 Which is what Carletti, ‘Magna Roma­Magnus Petrus’, pp. 149–56, argues, denominating Achilleus’s epigram a ‘hymn to Rome’ (p. 152), but the praise is awfully faint. 31 The appeal to travellers and the designation of the church as a sedes Petri are explicit in an epigram inscribed in the church within several decades of Achilleus’s death. Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, p. 278, notes the confusion in the copy. See ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 47.1–3 (mid-fifth century), but modify with de Rossi’s emendation of L’s ‘quae meritis quae sancta fide distat ab illa’ in line three (ICUR, vol. ii.1, ed. by de Rossi, p. 114.81), which yields: ‘qui Romam Romaque venis hunc aspice montem | eque Petri sede posce viator opem. | quae meritis sanctaque fide nil distat ab illa’ (You who go to and from Rome look upon this hillside | 28

150

Dennis Trout

Placidia set Peter’s image, keys in hand, on the triumphal arch of the basilica surmounting Paul’s tomb on the Via Ostiense or that the epigram above that image began ianitor hic caeli est.

Neon and Ravenna At that moment in the 440s when Galla Placidia was inscribing her own name in verse, together with that of Rome’s bishop, on the triumphal arch of S. Paolo fuori le mura, Rome boasted a history of basilical metrical inscriptions that stretched back to the Constantinian period. North of the Apennines at Ravenna the practice seems only to emerge when Placidia — during whose twenty-five years of rule Ravenna was transformed from a modest provincial centre into a city worthy of the imperial court — decorated the walls of her new church of the Holy Cross with at least two verse texts, one of two hexameters and the other of four elegiac couplets.32 Placidia’s church of the Holy Cross as well as the new Ravennate basilica she dedicated to St John the Evangelist are imperial foundations that parallel the monumentalizing initiatives undertaken by the Constantinian dynasty a century earlier in Rome. Indeed, Placidia’s Holy Cross may purposefully recall in name that city’s S. Croce in Gerusalemme, a project associated with the patronage of an earlier empress, Helena, and a building in which Placidia installed a mosaic and at least one inscription.33 In essence, and, traveller, from this home of Peter seek support, | which [ops] because of merit and holy faith is not aloof from it [sedes] (or) which [sedes] in respect to merit and holy faith stands not far from that one [Roma]). The second line’s opem echoes Achilleus’s opem at ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 45.14. Contra Binazzi, sede must refer to the Spoletine church not the ‘basilica Romana’. See more below on this inscription. 32 On the ‘età placidiana’ at Ravenna, see Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, pp. 62–104; Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, pp. 15–18, 39–61. The two texts are CIL 11.274– 75 (LPR 41). Because the Liber Pontificalis Ecclesiae Ravennatis (LPR) of the ninth-century historian Agnellus is the primary source for so many of Ravenna’s inscriptions, its chapter numbers are also cited. For a critical edition of the LPR, see Agnellus of Ravenna, Liber Pontificalis Ecclesiae Ravennatis, ed. by Deliyannis, and for translation, see Agnellus of Ravenna, The Book of Pontiffs of the Church of Ravenna, trans. by Deliyannis. 33 Brubaker, ‘Memories of Helena’, p. 61. A fifteenth-century copy records the inscription with which Placidia embellished Helena’s S. Croce in Gerusalemme. The text, a quotation of Psalm 148. 11–12, memorializes her fulfilment of a vow; see ICUR, vol. ii.1, ed. by de Rossi, p. 435.107 (Petrus Sabinus), and Felle, Biblia epigraphica, p. 307. In its Latin cross plan, however, Placidia’s Santa Croce echoes Ambrose’s Milanese basilica apostolorum (S. Nazaro) and basilica virginum (S. Simpliciano); see Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, p. 74; Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, p. 17; and David, ‘Da Gerusalemme a Ravenna’. It is also likely that

Peter beyond Rome

151

Figure 7.2. Plan of Ravenna in the age of Neon. From Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, fig. 7. By permission of the author.

Galla Placidia’s Roman and Ravennate texts served similar and familiar ends, engaging the attention of literate viewers, promoting the civic and spiritual authority of their donor, and offering guidelines for thinking and seeing.34 Furthermore, in another parallel with fourth-century Rome, Ravenna’s fifth-century bishops, too, quickly saw the possibilities inherent in monumental verse. Neon, who was the city’s bishop from c. 451 to 473, a period when the imperial court was often absent from Ravenna and again resident in Rome, conducted a building campaign that included the reconstruction of the city’s baptistery and a major expansion of its episcopium or episcopal palace Ravenna’s little known basilica apostolorum (S. Francesco) dates in origin to the 430s of Galla Placidia, although the LPR (29–30) seems to assign it to Neon; see Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, 102–03, and Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, p. 18. 34 Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, p. 266: ‘una guida per la loro devozione’.

Dennis Trout

152

Figure 7.3. Hypothetical plan of Ravenna’s episcopium complex in the sixth century. 1. The Basilica Ursiana; 2. The Neonian baptistery; 3. Location of fourth-century episcopal residence? 4. Salustra Tower (Republican era); 5. Neon’s quinque accubita; 6. Chapel of S. Andrea / Capella Arcivescovile of Peter II (494–519); 7. Sixth-century tri-conch hall; 8. Baths. Adapted by C. Trout from Miller, The Bishop’s Palace. By permission of the author.

(Figure 7.2).35 He also adorned both with verse. The baptistery text, four hexameters, nods to Rome by taking its first line nearly wholesale from an epigram that Pope Sixtus III (432–40) had recently installed in the titulus Apostolorum on the Esquiline (S. Pietro in Vincoli).36 Like Placidia’s epigrams, Neon’s baptistery poem falls fully within the parameters of form, style, and content established in the previous century. The bishop’s other documented project, however, as well as the verses it contained, now appears — in the absence of any extant forerunners — as a completely startling enterprise. Within the precinct of the episcopium, to the east of the Basilica Ursiana (Cattedrale di Risurrezione), Neon constructed a fashionable, multi-apse dining hall and filled it with mosaics and poetry (Figure 7.3).37 35

Gillett, ‘Rome, Ravenna and the Last Western Emperors’. On Neon’s programme, see Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, pp. 88–105, and Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, pp. 18–19, 63–80. 36 CIL 11.255 (LPR 28): ‘cede vetus nomen novitati cede vetustas’; ICUR, vol. ii.1, ed. by de Rossi, pp. 110.67 and 134.3 (partial) (= Carmina Latina Epigraphica, ed. by Buecheler, pp. 422–34, no. 912: ‘cede prius nomen novitati cede vetustas’). 37 On Ravenna’s episcopium and dining hall, see Miller, The Bishop’s Palace, pp. 22–33 (‘our best evidence for a late-antique episcopium in Italy’); Rizzardi, ‘Le sale di rappresentanza’;

Peter beyond Rome

153

Agnellus, author of the ninth-century Liber Pontificalis Ecclesiae Raven­ natis, refers to Neon’s triclinium as the quinque accubita, the hall of the Five Couches (Fig ure 7.4).38 Although no physical traces of the structure now remain, Agnellus provides a brief description.39 Each sidewall, he observed, had marvellous windows, and the floor was paved in different kinds of stone, presumably opus sectile. Comparison with other sites demonstrates the trendiness of Neon’s tastes as well as the heights of his ambition. Tri-conch and multi-apse dining halls replete with semicircular stibadia or sigma couches distinguish secular palaces and grand villas throughout the Figure 7.4. Hypothetical plan of Neon’s late antique Mediterranean.40 Their quinque accubita. Adapted by C. Trout from plans and decor accentuated the Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, fig. 21. By authority of owner and host. Modern permission of the author. reconstructions of Neon’s design, following Agnellus’s description, suggest that the hall’s five apses were arranged two per long side with the fifth niche Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, pp. 100–101; Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, pp. 63–68; and Rizzardi, ‘Le residenze dei vescovi’. 38 LPR 29: ‘Domum infra episcopium Ursianae ecclesiae, quae vocatur Quinque Agubitas, a fundamentis construxit et usque ad effectum perduxit’. 39 LPR 29. On the domus quinque accubita specifically, see D’Ossat, ‘Sulla distrutta aula’; Montanari, ‘Iconologia del ciclo musivo’; Miller, The Bishop’s Palace, pp. 23–27; Rizzardi, ‘Le sale di rappresentanza’, pp. 227–31: ‘l’ambiente più importante e peculiare dell’antico Episcopio ravennate’ (p. 227) and in its mosaics ‘un importante messagio politico religioso’ (p. 231); Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, pp. 65–68; and Rizzardi, ‘Le residenze dei vescovi’, p. 138. Only Montanari shows any sustained interest in the epigrams, and his is a theological reading. 40 Dunbabin, ‘Triclinium and Stibadium’ and Rossiter, ‘Convivium and Villa in Late Antiquity’: ‘Stibadium-dining was clearly in high fashion’ (p. 205). Note the sigma couch on which Christ and the apostles recline in the mosaic of the Last Supper in S. Apollinare Nuovo; Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, p. 94.

Dennis Trout

154

set into the end wall, on axis with the entryway and reserved for the bishop’s stibadium.41 In design and execution, it is generally agreed, Neon’s hall of the Five Couches was a clear ‘espressione di ricchezza e di potere’.42 The room’s mosaic and epigraphic programme underscored that point. The long wall nearer the basilica, according to Agnellus, was decorated with both the historia of Psalm 148 (Laudate dominum de caelis)43 and scenes of the Flood (cataclismus). On the opposite wall appeared the multiplication of the loaves and fishes (e.g. Matthew 14. 13–21). At the front of the room, at the entry, the creation of the world (mundi fabrica) was on display. And at the opposite end, over or within the bishop’s apse, Neon set out the historia Petri apostoli. With the apparent exception of the scene that Agnellus describes as the historia Petri, the hall’s visual programme illustrated scriptural passages that explicitly (or exegetically) related to animals, food, or eating. Psalm 148, for example, calls upon ‘the beasts and all cattle; creeping things and flying fowl’, together with mankind and the earth, to praise the Lord.44 Genesis’s flood story offered not only the animal-packed ark but also God’s delivery of the earth’s beasts, fowl, and fishes into Noah’s control: ‘Every moving thing that lives shall be meat for you’.45 Finally, although Christ’s miraculous feeding of the crowds at Bethsaida is, perhaps, an obvious subject for an episcopal triclinium, even the creation story paraded living creatures of every kind along with God’s grant to man of dominion over them all.46 All these scenes of wildlife, domesticated animals, and food surely lent themselves to scriptural messaging as well as to vivid visual depiction, such as we find on the well-known Carrand diptych.47 41

See the plans and drawings at, e.g., Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, pp. 64–66. Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, p. 67. 43 The same Psalm from which Placidia had drawn her quotation for the inscription in Rome’s S. Croce in Gerusalemme. 44 Ps 148. 10: [Laudate dominum] ‘bestiae et omnia iumenta reptilia et aves volantes’. 45 Genesis 9. 2–3: ‘et terror vester ac tremor sit super cuncta animalia terrae et super omnes volucres caeli cum universis quae moventur in terra omnes pisces maris manui vestrae traditi sunt et omne quod movetur et vivit erit vobis in cibum’. 46 Genesis 1. 28: ‘et dominamini piscibus maris et volatilibus caeli et universis animantibus quae moventur super terram’. 47 On the ivory diptych from the Carrand collection depicting Adam naming the animals, see Weitzmann, Age of Spirituality, pp. 505–06, and Spier, Picturing the Bible, p. 64. For Christ’s multiplication of the loaves and fishes in early Christian art, see Mazzei, ‘Moltiplicazione dei pani’, pp. 220–21. At Ravenna the scene later appeared in the nave of S. Apollinare Nuovo (Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, p. 91) and on the Cathedra of Maximianus. 42

Peter beyond Rome

155

What about the historia Petri, however? Fortunately, Agnellus preserves the two long epigrams — twenty-four and twenty lines — that accompanied the scenes at the opposite ends of the room, the mundi fabrica and the histo­ ria Petri. Both permit appreciation of the sophistication of the room’s interlaced visual and textual programme, while the latter also clarifies the historia in question, suggesting how, like Achilleus at Spoleto, Neon turned to inscribed poetry to make a case for Peter’s relevance elsewhere than Rome. The mundi fabrica poem begins with God’s creation of the world, of the heavens, and of man (but not woman) — and with a resounding echo of Vergil and Ovid.48 Then, in striking bucolic images, epic language, and a smart neologism, words that surely correlated with the mosaic’s pictorial elements, it describes the natural bounty subjected to Adam’s control (13–20).49 isti cuncta simul silvarum praemia cessit; iussit in aternum foetus producere terram: huius oves niveae nitidae per gramina vaccae; huius et alticomis sonipes fulvique leones; huius erant passim ramosi in cornua cervi, pinnatique greges avium piscisque per undas. omnia namque Deus homini quaecumque paravit, tradidit et verbo pariter servire coegit. [To him at the same time he granted all the goods of the forests; he ordered the earth to produce fruit throughout the ages: his were the snowy sheep, the cows shining among the grasses; his as well the high-maned steeds and golden lions; his were the deer everywhere branching in antlers, and the feathered flocks of birds and the fishes throughout the waters. For God handed over to this man all things, whatsoever he contrived, and equally compelled them to follow his word.] 48

CIL 11.258 (LPR 29): ‘principium nitidi prima sub origine mundi’. Compare Vergil (Ver.), Georgics ii. 336: ‘non alios prima crescentis origine mundi’; and Ovid, Metamorphoses i. 3: ‘adspirate meis primaque ab origine mundi’. See also Lucretius v. 548 and Lucan vi. 611. Henriksén, ‘Dignus maiori quem coleret titulo’, p. 718, on the ‘intimate awareness of literary poetry’ generally displayed by the epigrammata longa. 49 It is likely that the mosaics were divided into panels or sequential scenes, correlating with episodes of the epigrams. See, e.g., Tibullus ii. 4. 2: ‘niveam […] ovem; Ver., Aeneid (Aen.) iv. 135, xi. 600, and xi. 638: sonipes, and throughout post-Vergilian epic; Ver., Eclogues vii. 30: ‘ramosa […] cornua cervi’; Ovid, Metamorphoses viii. 857: ‘piscis in unda’. On the other hand, the colourful alti­ comis is surprisingly novel; Thesaurus Linguae Latinae, s.v., alticomis gives only this appearance of the adjective; the Brepols Library of Latin Texts, Cross Database Search, alticom* adds a later use by Bede.

Dennis Trout

156

In a new world of such natural abundance, there was so much with which to load the table — yet the epigram ends with a sobering twist, a cautious reminder of the frailties of human nature within a convivial setting, especially one as highly charged as a bishop’s formal dining hall. hunc tamen in primis monitis celestibus olim observare suam legem et vitalia iussit; praecepit vetita [...] ne mandere poma. praeceptum spernens sic perdidit omnia secum. [In the first admonitions from heaven, however, he ordered him hereafter to keep his law and life-giving ways; he commanded him not to eat the forbidden fruits. Spurning the command, he destroyed everything together with himself.]

It is a stark ending to an otherwise luminous piece. But those lines, too, played to the tastes of an educated late Roman audience. The resonant final clausula echoed Lucan, whose Pompey, accepting defeat at Pharsalia, decided — in pointed contrast to Adam’s original sin — that he was unwilling to destroy everything ‘together with himself ’:50 nec, sicut mos est miseris, trahere omnia secum mersa iuvat gentesque suae miscere ruina. [But he desired not, as the wretched often do, to draw all things in destruction after him and make mankind share his ruin.]

Paraphrase and allusion also distinguish the epigram contra-poised at the hall’s other end over the bishop’s stibadium. Moreover, the historia Petri apos­ toli that it recounted carried a message that transcended its setting. A two-line introductory address yields to seven lines that take their cue from the story of Peter’s vision at Joppa (Acts 10. 11–16). Accipe, sancte, libens, parvum ne despice carmen, pauca tuae laudi nostris dicenda loquelis. euge, Simon Petre, et missum tibi suscipe munus, in quod sumere te voluit rex magnus ab alto. suscipe de caelo pendentia lintea plena,

5

50 Lucan, Civil War vii. 654–55, trans. by Duff. omnia secum also ends two lines in Ver. (Georgics iii. 343 and Aen. xi. 550); one in Ovid (Heroides xv. 135); another in Lucan (x. 461); one in Silius Italicus (8:333: trahit omnia secum); and two in Claudian (Panegyricus de quarto consulatu Honorii Augusti 244 and Carmina Minora 9.41). None are as contextually apt as Lucan vii. 654–55.

Peter beyond Rome missa Petro tibi; haec diversa animalia portant, quae mactare Deus te mox et mandere iussit. in nullis dubitare licet quae munda creavit omnipotens genitor, rerum cui summa potestas.

157

9

[Accept gladly, saint, and do not despise this little poem, a few things to be said in your praise with our words. Hail, Simon Peter! and take up this gift sent to you, in which the great king wished you to receive from on high. Take up these full linens hanging from the sky, sent to you, Peter; they bear different kinds of animals that God then ordered you straightaway to slaughter and eat. No doubt is permitted about things that the all-powerful father has created pure, he whose power over affairs is supreme.]

In the underlying New Testament episode Peter is awaiting a meal when suddenly he falls into mentis excessus (an ecstatic trance). He sees a ‘vas quoddam velut linteum magnum’ (vessel like a large linen sheet) descending from heaven. In it are all kinds of four-footed animals, reptiles, and birds. A voice rings out commanding him to occide et manduca (kill and eat). Three times he refuses to eat what he considers commune et immundum (common and tainted). In the sequel, Peter comes to understand the vision to mean that he must be willing to associate with Gentile as well as Jewish believers, considering no one unclean. In Neon’s tri­ clinium, however, the literal meaning — the gift of unrestricted diet — may have been paramount and, no doubt, offered a vivid subject for visual representation.51 Yet, while Neon’s paraphrase capitalized upon a literal rather than figurative reading of the episode, it also honoured the finer-edged sensibilities of sophisticated readers. Neon’s god is, like Vergil’s Jupiter, a rex magnus.52 The bishop replaced the New Testament’s occidere with mactare, a verb with epic overtones of animal sacrifice, one that had appeared sixteen times in Vergil’s corpus. Likewise, the poetic mandere substitutes for the New Testament’s manduco, the latter an archaic and post-Augustan verb, one not used by Vergil;53 while the passage’s final line — ‘omnipotens genitor, rerum cui summa potestas’ — is an unmistakable collage of Vergilian addresses to Jupiter.54 51

CIL 11.259 (LPR 29), though as yet I have located no visual parallels. Ver., Aen. v. 533: rex magnus Olympi, in the same metrical position as Neon’s rex magnus ab alto. 53 See Oxford Latin Dictionary, macto and mando. 54 Ver., Aen. x. 668: omnipotens genitor, x. 18: ‘o pater o hominum rerumque aeterna potestas’, x. 100: ‘tum pater omnipotens, rerum cui prima potestas’. Cf., e.g., Proba, Cento 29 and Paulinus of Nola, Carmen 6.1. 52

Dennis Trout

158

The second half of the poem, marked by repetition of the invocation, maintains this delight in paraphrase and intertextual gesturing, but also evolves into an unabashed hymn to Peter. euge, Simon Petre, quem gaudet mens aurea Christi, lumen apostolicum cunctos ornare per annos: in te sancta Dei pollens ecclesia fulget; in te firma suae domus fundamenta locavit principis aetherii clarus per saecula natus. cunctis clara tibi est virtus censura fidisque. bis senos inter fratres in principe sistis ipse loco legisque novae tibi dantur ab alto, quis fera corda domas hominum pectora mulces; christicolasque doces tu omnes esse per orbem. iamque tuis meritis Christi parat gloria regnum.

10

15

20

[Hail, Simon Peter! apostolic light, whom Christ’s golden mind takes pleasure in honouring through all the years: in you God’s holy church shines brightly; upon you the son of the heavenly prince, brilliant through the ages, has established the firm foundations of his house. Your power is evident to all and to the faithful your judgement. Among the twice six brothers you yourself stand in first place and new laws are given to you from on high, by which you tame wild hearts, sooth men’s spirits; and you teach all throughout the world to be Christ worshippers. And now through your merits Christ’s glory makes ready a kingdom.]

In these lines Neon’s epigram simultaneously flashes its literary heritage and openly bids for Petrine affiliation. In the Aeneid it is Apollo who ‘tames the wild heart’ of the Sibyl and the god-like Aeneas who ‘soothes the breasts’ of men.55 Like Achilleus, moreover, the poet of this epigram also slips Matthew’s commission into a universalizing frame, eschewing any mention of the Vatican tomb. Cut loose from Roman restrictions, Peter’s virtus (power) and censura (judgement) can be known cunctis (by all), as he teaches omnes […] per orbem (all throughout the world) to be christicolae (Christ worshippers). The image evoked by the words ‘legisque novae tibi dantur ab alto’, evoking the extrabiblical tableaux of the traditio legis, heightens the challenge. That scene-type, in which Peter receives a scroll from Christ, had appeared in Rome as early 55

Ver., Aen. vi. 80: fera corda domans. At i. 197, but just before (Aen. i. 153) by simile the phrase applied to Neptune. See also, e.g., Lucretius v.  1317; Statius, Silvae ii.  1.  230; Silius Italicus 17.46.

Peter beyond Rome

159

as the mid-fourth-century imperial mosaics of S.  Costanza and continued to be employed on sarcophagi produced there into the early fifth century.56 It also found its way to Ravenna, however, where it seems to have remained popular through mid-century. It appears, for example, on a small stone casket now in the Museo Arcivescovile as well as on full-scale sarcophagi.57 The epigram’s locution, therefore, suggests depiction of the traditio legis in the dining room’s accompanying mosaic. If so, that image would have further encouraged identification of Peter, depicted above, with Ravenna’s bishop reclining below, an assimilation some scholars have detected in the mosaic’s overall visual programme,58 and thus, a multimedia expression of ‘quella emulazione/competizione sempre viva fra la sede ravennate e quella romana’.59 In Ravenna’s epis­ copium it was Peter as dietician, princeps of the Apostles, fundamentum of a worldwide ecclesia, and guardian of Christ’s ‘new law’ who mattered. Rome, the epigram’s silence implies, had no special claim on any of these roles.

Conclusion Eventually both Spoleto and Ravenna built upon the Petrine foundations laid down by Achilleus and Neon. Ravenna enhanced its credentials by connecting the origins of its Christian community to Peter through elevation of the city’s reputed first bishop, Apollinaris. In the mid-sixth century the city’s bishops constructed a grand basilica at the site of Apollinaris’s tomb at Classe, where the saint’s image still looks out from the centre of the apse mosaic, flanked by twelve sheep, evoking both Apollinaris’s flock and the band of apostles.60 It may have been in the same years that composition of the Passio sancti Apollinaris fashioned Apollinaris as a disciple of Peter, who sent him from Rome to convert Ravenna to the worship of a god who was, in the Passio’s words, ‘non localiter 56

Couzin, The Traditio Legis, pp. 13–15. By far the bulk of Couzin’s catalogue (5–12) derives from or relates to Rome. 57 The marble casket is typically dated to the early fifth century; see Noga-Binai, The Trophies of the Martyrs, pp. 15–16, and Couzin, The Traditio Legis, p. 8. Ravenna sarcophagi with Peter and Paul include Dresken-Weiland, Repertorium der christlich­antiken Sarkophage, nos. 379 (standard traditio legis), 381, 382, 383, 389, and 390 (mid-fifth century; traditio legis to Paul); see also Couzin, The Traditio Legis, pp. 6–7. 58 Miller, The Bishop’s Palace, p. 26: ‘a not so subtle identification of the bishop with the Prince of the Apostles’. 59 Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, p. 68. 60 Deliyannis, Ravenna in Late Antiquity, pp. 259–74; Rizzardi, Il mosaico a Ravenna, pp. 146–65.

Dennis Trout

160

sed ubique’.61 Moreover, also in time, Achilleus’s S.  Pietro acquired its own Petrine relics, in this case, filings from the vincla Petri. Appropriately enough, the acquisition was advertised by the installation of two more epigrams within the church, five couplets all together.62 For the author or authors of these fifthcentury poems the relics confirmed the basilica’s status as a true sedes Petri, a place where Peter’s power to open heaven’s gates to the blessed was accessible to the faithful even as they journeyed to and from Rome.63 The epigrams that Achilleus and Neon had inscribed at Spoleto’s S. Pietro and Ravenna’s hall of the quinque accubita had prepared the way for both moves. Of course, Achilleus and Neon were not the only fifth-century bishops to enlist metrical inscriptions in their campaigns for cultural respectability and ecclesiastical authority. About the same time that Neon was melding pictures and words in his deluxe dining hall, at Tours north of the Alps, Perpetuus, the city’s bishop (c. 458–88), was adorning the walls of his new church of St Martin with poetry supplied by some of the age’s leading writers.64 In verses, images, and architecture, Perpetuus, in the words of Ray Van Dam, was engineering ‘a self-conscious revision and updating of the past’. At Tours Perpetuus’s reinvention aimed at laying to rest the image of Martin the unsavoury monk in favour of Martin the miracle-working bishop.65 At Spoleto and Ravenna the project aimed rather at finding a place for Peter beyond Rome.

61

For a critical edition of the passio, see Orioli, ‘La Passio sancti Apolenaris’, who quotes chs 1 and 3. Translation and discussion of dating at Everett, Patron Saints of Early Medieval Italy, pp. 139–70. Agnellus epitomized the passio at LPR 2–3. 62 ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, nos 47 (qui Romam Romaque) and 48 (solve iuvante Deo). Beginning with de Rossi, ‘Spicilegio d’ archeologia cristiana’, pp. 118–20, the tendency has been to date these epigrams and the acquisition of the vincula Petri they commemorate to the midfifth century, after Achilleus’s death and following the installation of Peter’s chains in the titu­ lus apostolorum on the Esquiline by Sixtus III (c. 432). See Maccarrone, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo’, pp. 267–68, 276–82. 63 ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 47.2: Petri sede. ICI, vol. vi, ed. by Binazzi, no. 48.2: ‘qui facis ut pateant caelestia regna beatis’. 64 Pietri, La Ville de Tours, pp. 798–822. Pietri, ‘Pagina in pariete reserata’. 65 Van Dam, Saints and their Miracles, pp. 18–20, quote p. 19.

Peter beyond Rome

161

Works Cited Primary Sources Agnellus of Ravenna, The Book of Pontiffs of the Church of Ravenna, trans. by Deborah Deliyannis (Washington, D.C.: Catholic University Press, 2004) —— , Liber Pontificalis Ecclesiae Ravennatis, ed. by Deborah Deliyannis (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006) Ambrose, Opere poetiche e frammenti: inni, iscrizioni, frammenti, ed. by Giacomo Biffi and Inos Biffi (Milan: Biblioteca Ambrosiana, 1994) Augustine, Omnia Opera, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series Latina, ed. by J.-P. Migne, 221 vols (Paris: Migne, 1844–65), xxxviii Biblia sacra iuxta vulgatam versionem, ed.  by Robert Weber and others (Stuttgart: Deutsche Bibelgesellschaft, 1994) Carmina Latina Epigraphica, vol. ii, ed. by Franciscus Buecheler (Leipzig: Teubner, 1897) Collectio Avellana: Epistulae imperatorum pontificum aliorum inde ab a. CCCLXVII usque ad a. DLIII datae Avellana quae dicitur collectio, pars I: ep. 1–104, ed. by Otto Guenther, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 35.1 (Vienna: Tempsky, 1895) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol. ii.1: Inscriptiones Aemiliae Etruriae Umbriae Latinae, ed. by Eugen Bormann (Berlin: Reimer, 1888) Corpus  Inscriptionum Latinarum, vol.  ii.2.1: Inscriptiones Aemiliae Etruriae Umbriae Latinae, ed. by Eugen Bormann (Berlin: Reimer, 1901) Damasus of Rome, The Epigraphic Poetry: Introduction, Texts, Translations, and Com­ mentary, ed. by Dennis Trout (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) Inscriptiones Christianae  Italiae,  vol.  vi, Regio  VI: Umbria, ed.  by Gianfranco Binazzi (Bari: Edipuglia, 1989) Inscriptiones Christianae  Italiae, vol.  xiv, Regio  XI: Mediolanum  II, ed.  by Giuseppe Cuscito (Bari: Edipuglia, 2013) Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae, vol. ii.1, ed. by Giovanni Battista de Rossi (Rome: Società alla Biblioteca Vallicelliana, 1888) Inscriptiones Christianae Urbis Romae, Nova Series, vol. ii, ed. by Angelo Silvagni (Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1935) Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres, vols. i–iii, ed. by E. Diehl (Berlin: Weidmann, 1925–31; rev. ed. 1961); vol. iv, Supplementum, ed. by J. Moreau and H. I. Marrou (Berlin: Weidmann, 1967) Lucan, The Civil War, trans. by J.  D. Duff, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1928) Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae, in Itineraria et alia geographica, ed. by P. Geyer and others, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 175 (Turnhout: Brepols: 1965), pp. 303–11 Orioli, Giorgio, ‘La Passio sancti Apolenaris secondo il codice petropolitano’, Ravenna studi e ricerche, 8 (2001), 13–62

162

Dennis Trout

Secondary Studies Brown, Peter, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity, enlarged edn (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2015) Brubaker, Leslie, ‘Memories of Helena: Patterns of Imperial Female Matronage in the Fourth and Fifth Centuries’, in Women, Men, and Eunuchs: Gender in Byzantium, ed. by Liz James (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 52–72 Carletti, Carlo, ‘Magna Roma­Magnus Petrus: L’ 'inno a Roma’ di Achilleo vescovo di Spoleto’ in Umbria cristiana: dalla diffusione del culto al culto dei santi (secc. iv–x). Atti del XV congresso internazionale di studi sull’alto medioevo, Spoleto 23–28 ottobre 2000 (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto medioevo, 2001), pp. 141–56 Couzin, Robert, The Traditio Legis: Anatomy of an Image (Oxford: Archaeopress Archaeology, 2015) Curran, John, Pagan City and Christian Capital: Rome in the Fourth Century (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000) D’Angela, Cosimo, ‘Il vescovo Spes e la basilica Spoletina dei SS. Apostoli’, in Atti del IX congresso internazionale di studi sull’alto medioevo (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto medioevo, 1983), pp. 851–67 David, Massimiliano, ‘Da Gerusalemme a Ravenna: Il culto della croce e la corte imperiale a Ravenna’, in Martiri, santi, patroni: per una archeologia della devozione: Atti X Congresso Nazionale di Archelogia Cristiana, Unversità della Calabria, Aula Magna, 15–18 settembre 2010, ed.  by Adele Coscarella and Paola De Santis (Arcavacata di Rende: Università della Calabria, 2012), pp. 687–95 Deliyannis, Deborah, Ravenna in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010) Demacopoulos, George, The Invention of Peter: Apostolic Discourse and Papal Authority in Late Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2013) D’Ossat, Gugliemo De Angelis, ‘Sulla distrutta aula dei quinque accubita a Ravenna’, Corsi di cultura sull’arte Ravennate e bizantina, 20 (1973), 263–73 Dresken-Weiland, Jutta, ed., Repertorium der christlich­antiken Sarkophage, vol. ii: Italien mit einem Nachtrag Rom und Ostia, Dalmatien, Museen der Welt (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 1998) Dunbabin, Katherine M. D., ‘Triclinium and Stibadium’, in Dining in a Classical Context, ed. by William J. Slater (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991), pp. 121–48 Everett, Nicholas, Patron Saints of Early Medieval  Italy, ad c.  350–800, Translated with an Introduction and Commentary (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 2016) Felle, Antonio, Biblia epigraphica: La sacra scrittura nella documentazione epigrafica dell’orbis christianus antiquus (iii–viii secolo) (Bari: Edipuglia, 2006) Fiocchi Nicolai, Vincenzo, ‘Tipologie monumentali dei santuari martiriali paleocristiani dell’ Umbria’, in Umbria cristiana: dalla diffusione del culto al culto dei santi (secc. iv–x). Atti del XV congresso internazionale di studi sull’alto medioevo, Spoleto 23–28 ottobre 2000 (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto medioevo, 2001), pp. 305–38

Peter beyond Rome

163

Frutaz, Armato Pietro, ‘Spes e Achilleo vescovi di Spoleto’, in Ricerche sull’Umbria tar­ doantica e preromanica, Atti del II convegno di studi Umbri (Gubbio: Centro di Studi Umbri, 1965), pp. 359–65 Gillett, Andrew, ‘Rome, Ravenna and the Last Western Emperors’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 69 (2001), 147–65 Giuntella, Anna Maria, ‘Il suburbio di Spoleto: note per una topografia nell’Alto Medioevo’, in Atti del IX congresso internazionale di studi sull’alto medioevo (Spoleto: Centro Italiano di Studi sull’alto medioevo, 1983), pp. 869–83 Henriksén, Christer, ‘Dignus maiori quem coleret titulo: Epigrammata longa in the Carmina Latina epigraphica’, in Epigramma longum: Da Marziale alla tarda antichità. From Martial to Late Antiquity. Atti del convegno internazionale, Cassino, 29–31 mag­ gio 2006, vol. ii, ed. by A. M. Morelli (Cassino: Edizioni dell’Università degli studi di Cassino, 2008), pp. 693–724 Jensen, Robin, ‘Saints’ Relics and the Consecration of Church Buildings in Rome’, Studia Patristica, 71 (2014), 153–69 Josi, Enrico, ‘La venerazione degli apostoli Pietro e Paolo nel mondo cristiano antico’, in Saecularia Petri et Pauli (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1969), pp. 149–97 Maccarrone, Michele, ‘Il vescovo Achilleo e le iscrizioni metriche di S. Pietro a Spoleto’, in Miscellanea Amato Pietro Frutaz (Rome: Tipografia Guerra, 1978), pp. 249–84 Mazzei, Barbara, ‘Moltiplicazione dei pani’, in Temi di iconografia paleocristiana, ed. by Fabrizio Bisconti (Città del Vaticano: Pontificio  Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2000), pp. 220–21 Miller, Maureen, The Bishop’s Palace: Architecture and Authority in Medieval Italy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000) Montanari, Giovanni, ‘Iconologia del ciclo musivo del Ravennate “Triclinium Neonianum”’, Studi Romagnoli, 44 (1993), 207–44 Noga-Binai, Galit, The Trophies of the Martyrs: An Art Historical Survey of Early Christian Silver Reliquaries (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008) Otranto, Giorgio, Per una storia dell’Italia tardoantica cristiana (Bari: Edipuglia, 2009) Pietri, Charles. ‘Concordia apostolorum et renovatio urbis (Culte des martyrs et propaganda pontificale)’, Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’École française de Rome, 73 (1961), 275–322 —— , Roma Christiana: Recherches sur l’Église de Rome, son organization, sa politique, son idéologie de Miltiade à Sixte  III (311–440) (Rome: École française de Rome, 1976) Pietri, Luce, ‘Pagina in pariete reserata: Épigraphie et architecture religieuse’, in La terza età dell’epigrafia, ed.  by Angela Donati (Faenza: Fratelli Lega, 1988), pp. 137–57 —— , La Ville de Tours du ive au vie siècle: Naissance d’une cité chrétienne, Collection de l’École Française de Rome, 69 (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1983) Rizzardi, Clementina, Il mosaico a Ravenna: Ideologia e arte, Studi e Scavi, nuova serie, 32 (Bologna: Ante Quem, 2011)

164

Dennis Trout

—— , ‘Le residenze dei vescovi di Ravenna dal tardoantico all’altomedioevo’, in Des domus ecclesiae aux palais épiscopaux: Actes du colloque tenu à Autun du 26 au 28 novem­ bre 2009, ed. by Sylvie Balcon-Berry, François Baratte, Jean-Pierre Caillet, and Dany Sandron (Turnhout: Brepols, 2012), pp. 133–45 —— , ‘Le sale di rappresentanza dell’Episcopio di Ravenna nell’ambito dell’edilizia religiosa occidentale ed orientale dal tardoantico all’alto medioevo’, in L’audience: Rituels et cadres spatiaux dans l’Antiquité et la haut Moyen Âge, ed. by Jean-Pierre Caillet and Michel Sot (Paris: Picard, 2007), pp. 221–39 Rossi, Giovanni Battista de, ‘Spicilegio d’ archeologia cristiana nell’Umbria’, Bullettino di archeologia cristiana, 2 (1871), 82–129 Rossiter, Jeremy, ‘Convivium and Villa in Late Antiquity’, in Dining in a Classical Context, ed. by William J. Slater (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991), pp. 199–214 Salzman, Michele, ‘Leo the Great: Responses to Crisis and the Shaping of a Christian Cosmopolis’, in The City in the Classical and Post­Classical World: Changing Contexts of Power and Identity, ed. by Claudia Rapp and H. A. Drake (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), pp. 183–201 Spier, Jeffrey, Picturing the Bible: The Earliest Christian Art (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2007) Van Dam, Raymond, Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2010) —— , Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993) Violante, Cinzio, and Cosimo Fonesca, ‘Ubicazione e dedicazione delle cattedrali dalle origini al periodo romanico nelle città dell’Italia centro-settentrionale’, in Il Romanico pistoiese nei suoi rapporti con l’arte romanica dell’occidente: Atti del I convegno interna­ zionale di studi medioevali di storia e d’arte (Pistoia: Centro di studi storici Pistoia, 1967), pp. 303–406 Weitzmann, Kurt, ed., Age of Spirituality: Late Antique and Early Christian Art, Third to Seventh Century (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1979)

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond Virginia Burrus

‘H

istory remembers Constantine’s victory at the battle of the Milvian Bridge’, writes Ray  Van Dam, thereby opening a meditation on the role of memory in constructing the past.1 ‘Memories are wonderfully malleable and dynamic’, he observes. ‘Ostensibly about the past, they serve as commentaries on the present and perhaps also as hopes for the future’.2 Van Dam works backwards through the sedimented layers of individual and communal recollection that mediate our own encounters with the emperor Constantine’s famous battle and vision. He eventually arrives at a new understanding of that battle — one that requires us to remember Constantine’s rival Maxentius and Maxentius’s own memories, as well as Constantine and his. But that is not Van Dam’s only or even his primary goal in Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge. ‘Historical analysis is a journey, with many guides but no predetermined outcome, no fixed route, and not even a certain destination’, he notes.3 He invites his readers to attend to the journey itself — to the process by which history is ever made and remade: it is memories all the way down, so to speak. Moreover, the media of memory are diverse and multifaceted. For the cultural historian, the textual looms large, but ritual and artistic media, for example, also play powerful roles. Van Dam opens one chapter with a vivid description 1 2 3

Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, p. 1. Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, p. 12. Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, p. 17.

Virginia Burrus is Bishop W. Earl Ledden Professor of Religion at Syracuse University. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 165–188 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118162

Virginia Burrus

166

of a seventeenth-century sculpture: ‘His horse is spooked and rears back, but Constantine looks up. A radiance brightens his face, and he raises his hands in admiration. Perhaps he is praying’. He brings the point home: ‘We visualize the moment of Constantine’s vision of the cross in the sky as just such a spectacular epiphany because we have already seen Bernini’s luminous marble statue of the emperor astride his horse’.4 Bernini’s Constantine has become an unavoidable part of our collective memory of the fourth-century emperor’s momentous conversion, whether we are aware of it or not, Van Dam suggests. When history remembers Constantine’s daughter Constantina (and most often it does not), it remembers her healing at Agnes’s tomb. Consider the exquisite late fourteenth-century Royal Gold Cup currently housed in the British Museum (Figure 8.1).5 Fittingly, perhaps, its scale is much smaller and more intimate than Bernini’s massive sculpture. Solid gold and standing just over nine inches high, the precious vessel is decorated with enamelled scenes from the life and miracles of the virgin martyr Agnes. One of these shows Constantina, identifiable by her royal crown, asleep on top of Agnes’s sarcophagus, while Agnes appears to her in a dream, saying ‘Si in Christum credideris sanaberis’ (If you believe in Christ, you will be healed). The subsequent, and last, scene in the cycle shows Constantina kneeling before her father, as if beseeching him, and the caption reads ‘Hec est virgo sapiens una de numero prudencium’ (This is a wise virgin, one among the number of the prudent). The scenes on the cup condense and refocus a narrative recorded in the late fifth- or early sixth-century Passion of Agnes, which is among the novelistic Roman martyrologies known collectively as the Gesta martyrum romanorum.6 According to the passio, Constantina — or Constantia, as she is misremembered in this text and others — is covered from head to toe in terrible sores; her disease is not explicitly named as leprosy, but this seems implied. In her 4

Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, p. 19. ‘The Royal Gold Cup’, the British Museum online collection, [accessed 15 August 2017]. 6 It is a bit misleading to speak of the Gesta as a distinct corpus. As Kate Cooper notes, ‘The gesta as we know them are anonymous hagiographical romances, each spun around the death of one or more saints, and by no means constituting an official or even integrated corpus. Each text bears its own complex relationship to a variety of sources and often to other texts in the group. Each has its own independent manuscript tradition. Although various of the gesta can be found together in the medieval liturgical books know as legendarii and passionarii, there seems to have been no convention whatsoever of treating them as a fixed corpus’ (Cooper, ‘The Martyr, the Matrona, and the Bishop’, p. 306). 5

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

167

Figure 8.1. The Royal Gold Cup, France, scenes from the martyrdom of Saint Agnes, London, British Museum. c. 1370–80. © Trustees of the British Museum. See also Plate I, p. xiii.

desire to be cured, she yields to advice that she visit the virgin martyr’s tomb at night, observing the time-honoured practice of incubation. Though she is not yet a Christian, she is rewarded with a vision of the holy Agnes. ‘Constanter age Constantia’ (Act with constancy, Constantia), the saint urges her, ‘et crede Dominum Iesum Christum filium Dei esse saluatorem tuum, per quem modo consequeris omnium vulnerum, quae in tuo corpore pateris, sanitatem’ (and believe that the Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, is your saviour, through whom alone you will gain recovery from all the sores that you suffer on your body). Upon waking, Constantina discovers herself free of disease. Her father, brothers, and indeed all of Rome rejoice with her; the passio even hints that Constantina’s cure wins the city to Christianity. ‘Coronatur ciuitas tota; fit laetitia militantibus et priuatis atque uniuersis audientibus haec: infidelitas gentium confundebatur’ (The city was decorated with wreaths, and delight filled the hearts of both soldiers and civilians and all of those present: faith overcame the poison of faithlessness). Constantina then asks that her father and brothers have a basilica built in honour of Agnes, and that a mausoleum for Constantina herself be constructed in the same location.7 Henceforth the 7

Cf. Liber Pontificalis 34.23, ed. by Duchesne, p. 180, which reports that Constantine ‘fecit basilicam sanctae martyris Agnae ex rogatu filiae suae et baptisterium in eodem loco, ubi et

168

Virginia Burrus

emperor’s daughter lives a life dedicated to virginity, modelling herself on her saintly patron and inspiring others to do the same.8 The enamels on the Royal Gold Cup memorialize two moments in this narrative: Constantina at Agnes’s tomb, and Constantina with her father. In the first, Agnes addresses Constantina; in the second, Constantina addresses Constantine. We ‘hear’ Agnes’s words to Constantina, promising healing. We also ‘hear’ Constantina’s words to her father, commemorating Agnes as saint and virgin, in the language of liturgy. Her declaration not only invokes the parable of the wise and foolish virgins (Matthew 25. 1–13) but also recites an antiphon from the Common of Virgins, derived from the passio and in widespread liturgical use in medieval Europe.9 Yet the images are not fully controlled by the inscribed text. After all, Constantina is not depicted participating in the divine office. Kneeling before Constantine, with one hand she grasps the emperor’s hand, while she points towards the vision of Agnes with the other. Is she telling him about her healing? Is she making a request? Viewers familiar with her story might ‘know’ that she is asking Constantine to build a basilica dedicated to the virgin martyr. Viewers familiar with Roman topography might ‘know’ that a church still stands on the site. Would they also know Constantina herself as a virgin saint? Might they hear the antiphon celebrating not Agnes but the princess, or perhaps both at once? Memories move both backwards and forwards in time; they shuttle between image, text, and monument, and between what is already known and what might yet be imagined. We remember Constantina, then, because we remember Agnes, and we remember Agnes, in part, because of the basilica that Constantina is said to have asked to be built near the site of her tomb. There is more to be said about the memories that are attached to Agnes’s tomb and basilica. Moreover, as with Constantine himself, there are also alternate and competing memories: baptizata est soror eius Constantia cum filia Augusti a Siluestrio episcopo’ (built the basilica of the holy martyr Agnes at the request of his daughter, and a baptistery at the same place, where his sister Constantia was also baptized along with the emperor’s daughter by Bishop Silvester). 8 Passio Agnetis 15–16; AASS, Jan. ii, 353. References to the Acta Sanctorum (AASS) are to the digital version of the original edition: . 9 See the ‘Cantus Index: Catalogue of Chant Text and Melodies’, [accessed 15 August 2017]. As James Borders notes, liturgical chants for virgin martyrs based in Scripture rather than in passiones feature the parable of the wise and foolish virgins prominently; such chants may well reflect early medieval Roman tradition, given the Roman reluctance to incorporate hagiographical texts into the liturgy (Borders, ‘Gender, Performativity, and Allusion’, p. 28).

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

169

history does not, in fact, always remember Constantine at the Milvian Bridge or Constantina at Agnes’s tomb, though it often does. Memories may be relocated, as with the translation of saint’s relics. They may also be detached from specificities of place, evoking instead generic spaces suggestive of translocal identities. Here, following Van Dam’s lead, I want to explore how Constantine’s daughter is remembered, and how memories of Constantina have served not only as reconstructions of the past but also ‘as commentaries on the present and perhaps also as hopes for the future’.10 Like Van Dam, I shall sometimes pursue a ‘backward narrative’.11

Creating a Modern Archive: The Bollandists Remembering the saints in modernity has involved the compilation of a vast scholarly archive — the Acta Sanctorum, a project initiated by Jean Bolland (1596–1665) and continued to this day, albeit in different forms, by the Jesuit Society of the Bollandists. In 1658, when the third ‘February’ volume of the Acta Sanctorum was published, the Bollandists listed Constantina under the feast day of 18 February; lacking a vita for the saint, they recorded excerpts from the passiones of Agnes and of Gallicanus, John, and Paul.12 Two and a half centuries later, the dossier for this saint was significantly expanded, as several new manuscripts came to light. First, in 1878, the French National Library purchased a tenth-century hagiographical manuscript from the Spanish monastery of Santo Domingo de Silos. Included in the collection was an anthology of eight female saints’ Lives, the first of which was a Vita sanctae Constantinae virginis.13 This manuscript (BnF, MS n.a.lat. 2178) initially entered the public record through the efforts of cataloguers of the French collection,14 and by 1898, the Life of Constantina was listed in the Bollandists’ new reference tool, Biblioteca hagiographica latina, under the entry for Constantia, al. Constantina, 10

Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, p. 12. Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, p. 17. 12 AASS, Feb. iii, 67–71. 13 For more on this anthology and the manuscripts that transmit it, see The Life of Saint Helia, ed. by Burrus and Conti, pp. 6–9. The Life of Constantina is preserved (in whole or in part) in four manuscripts produced in tenth-century northern Spain — BnF, MS n.a.lat. 2178; Madrid, Escorial, MS a.I.13; Madrid, Escorial, MS a.II.9; and Madrid, Biblioteca de la Real Academia de al Historia, MS 13. 14 Delisle, ‘Manuscrits de l’abbaye de Silos’, p. 85, and Catalogus codicum hagiographicorum latinorum in Bibliotheca Nationali Parisiensi, p. 475. 11

Virginia Burrus

170

filia Constantini.15 As early as 1900, the Abbé C. Narbey of Clichy had published an edition of the Life of Constantina based on the Paris manuscript.16 Narbey introduces the vita as an authentic, eyewitness account of the fourthcentury princess’s life, written by an author who is sincere if not infallible. One might say the same of Narbey, whose work is markedly out of step with the historical-critical acumen and ambition of the Bollandists of his day. Indeed, the famous hagiographer Hippolyte Delehaye (1859–1941), elected president of the Bollandist Society in 1912, makes it clear that ‘the Bollandists have no connection whatever’ to Narbey’s publication, lamenting its ‘utter lack of critical value’ and declaring that ‘the principles on which the author has worked are singularly disconcerting’.17 If Narbey shares with the early twentieth-century Bollandists a zeal for comprehensiveness, he lacks their commitment to a more sophisticated literary and historical study of the hagiographical tradition. Narbey and the self-consciously ‘modern’ Bollandists remember the saints differently and for different reasons, it would seem. For the Bollandists, they are grist for the mill of philological study and classification, for Narbey, moving exemplars of piety and faith. A second manuscript discovery took place in 1884, when Mariano Rampolla del Tindaro (1843–1913), then apostolic nuncio to Spain, later cardinal, visited the Royal Library of San Lorenzo del Escorial outside Madrid. During his brief stay in the nearly deserted monastery, the librarians showed him several Visigothic codices that had been part of Philip II’s founding collection in the sixteenth century. One of these in particular caught his eye: a tenth-century manuscript (Escorial, MS a.II.9) containing eight female hagiographies, including the long-lost Life of Melania the Younger. Rampolla’s critical edition of the Life of Melania would not appear until 1905, when he had once again taken up his scholarly labours after losing a bid for the papacy.18 He never returned to the other text in the collection that he had transcribed and intended to publish — namely, the Life of Constantina — though in 1909 Escorial librarian Guillermo Antolín still hoped he might.19 Antolín was by then aware of the Paris manuscript containing the same eight female hagiographies but does not seem to 15

Bibliotheca hagiographica latina antiquae et mediae aetatis, i, 291. Narbey, Supplément aux Acta sanctorum, pp. 131–52. 17 Delehaye, The Work of the Bollandists, pp. 267, 269. 18 Santa Melania Giuniore, ed. by Rampolla del Tindaro. On Rampolla’s ‘almost-papacy’ and the subsequent reception of his edition of the Life of Melania, see the account of Penn, ‘Afterlives’, pp. 246–48. 19 Antolín, ‘Estudios de códices visigodos’, p. 121. 16

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

171

have known of Narbey’s edition of the Life of Constantina. If Rampolla’s memorialization of Melania is any indication, the cardinal might have remembered Constantina as an exemplar of the triumph of ascetic virtue over ‘the contagion of sensuality and vice’.20 While the Life of Constantina — to which we shall return — was attracting the attention of at least a few scholars, two other texts had also surfaced, following publication of catalogues of the libraries of Rome and the Vatican.21 These texts have received virtually no scholarly attention. One is a twelfth-century Life of Constantia authored by the Roman scholar Nicolaus Maniacoria. The other the Bollandists titled simply an Epitome of the Life.22

Constantina in Early Medieval Rome: The Memory of Buildings The Epitome of the Life of Constantina is not, in fact, an epitome of any known vita. Rather it is a brief text assembled from excerpts, summaries, and supplements of two prior texts already mentioned — the late ancient passiones of Agnes and of Gallicanus (the latter frequently paired with the Passion of John and Paul). Much as the seventeenth-century Acta Sanctorum would do, the Epitome stitches these two textual traditions together and surrounds them with other materials, so as to create a narrative in which Constantina is a central rather than supporting character. The account of Constantina’s healing and conversion, transmitted by the Passion of Agnes, requires a prequel, and the text opens with a condensed account of Constantina’s family and upbringing: Piae memoriae Constantinus ex Fausta Herculii filia quattuor filios legitur habuisse, Constantinum scilicet, Constantium, et Constantem, ac beatam Constantiam. Hic octauo decimo imperii sui anno a beato Silvestro baptizatus, et in baptismate a leprae morbo mundatus, summum ponteficem imperialibus honorauit insignibus, Romanam ecclesiam possessionibus ditauit et priuilegiis conmuniuit, ac pleraque deo salutari suo templa construxit. Filios autem suos Constantinum, uidelicet Constantium, et Constantem caesares constituit, et regalibus insignibus initiauit. Constantiam uero mundanarum fecit imbui scientia litterarum, adeo ut eius ingenium philosophi mirarentur. 20

See Penn, ‘Afterlives’, p. 248. Poncelet, Catalogus codicum hagiographicorum latinorum bibliothecarum Romanarum, and Poncelet, Catalogus codicum hagiographicorum latinorum bibliothecarum Vaticanae. 22 Bibliotheca hagiographica latina antiquae et mediae aetatis, supplementi editio altera auc­ tior, p. 81, and Bibliotheca hagiographica latina antiquae et mediae aetatis: Novum supplemen­ tum, pp. 222–23. 21

Virginia Burrus

172

[We read that Constantine, of sacred memory, had four children from Fausta, the daughter of [Maximianus] Herculius, namely, Constantine, Constantius, and Constans, as well as the blessed Constantia. In the eighteenth year of his reign, having been baptized by the blessed Sylvester and through baptism cleansed of the disease of leprosy, he honoured the supreme pontiff with the imperial insignia, enriched the Roman church with properties and strengthened it with privileges, and built numerous temples for the God who had healed him. Moreover, he appointed his sons, namely, Constantine, Constantius, and Constans, as Caesars and consecrated them with royal insignia. He even had Constantia so thoroughly instructed in the knowledge of secular literature that the philosophers admired her intellect.]23

Here our author introduces a narrative tradition about Constantina’s father that (as Van Dam relates) came to rival the story of the Milvian Bridge for much of the medieval period, especially in the West — namely, the tradition of the Roman pope Silvester’s baptism of Constantine.24 Silvester (pope 314–35) is said not only to have baptized Constantine, following the emperor’s receipt of a vision of the apostles Peter and Paul, but also thereby to have cured the emperor of leprosy; subsequently, the emperor funds basilicas on the Vatican hill and in the Lateran palace, among others. (This legend will, of course, have an infamous subsequent history as part of the later forgery known as the Donation of Constantine.) Having evoked this particular memory of Constantine, the Epitome cuts to an excerpt from the Passion of Agnes: ‘Erat enim haec regina, sed ita obsessa uulneribus ut a capite usque ad pedes nulla membrorum pars libera remansisset’ (She was indeed a queen but so covered with sores from head to toe that no part of her limbs remained unaffected). Where the Passion of Agnes mimics the emperor Constantine’s story, with its elements of vision, miraculous 23

Marco Conti, Dennis Trout, and I are working on critical editions and translations of both the Epitome and the Life of Constantina. All translations are ours. According to the Bibliotheca hagiographica latina online database, , the Epitome is preserved in seven manuscripts, all of which we have consulted in creating the critical edition on which our translation is based: Rome, Biblioteca Vallicelliana, MS X (1176–1225), MS VII (1276–1325), codex H 06 (1576–1625), and codex H 25 (1600–1629); and BAV, Arch.Cap.S.Pietro, MS A 6 (alias E) (1301–1400), MS A 9 (alias H) (1339), and MS A 8 (alias G) (1401–1500). 24 See  Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, pp.  20–25. The Liber Pontificalis (c.  540) transmits the story in similarly brief outline: Silvester is said to have ‘baptizavit Constantinum Augustum, quem curavit Dominus a lepra’ (baptized the emperor Constantine, whom the Lord cured of leprosy) (34.2, ed. by Duchesne, p. 170); it is assumed to be dependent on the (probably) fifth-century Acts of Silvester. The latter were incorporated into the so-called Symmachan Forgeries, roughly contemporaneous with both the Gesta martyrum and the Liber Pontificalis. The dating, origins, and evolution of the Acta have been much discussed and debated. Canella, ‘Gli Actus Silvestri tra Oriete e Occidente’, n. 1, provides a thorough and up-to-date bibliography.

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

173

cure of leprosy, conversion, and building projects, so that the daughter effectively displaces the father,25 the Epitome acknowledges both stories and highlights the parallels between them: ‘Quod utique diuina prouidentia factum esse creditur, ut uidelicet sicut idem morbus fuit patri causa percipiendi baptismatis, sic esset et illi causa seruandae uirginitatis’ (And it is believed that this surely happened through divine providence, namely, so that as the same disease had been the reason for her father to receive baptism, so it might be the reason for her to preserve her virginity). Having inserted Constantina into the frame of the Silvester legend, the Epitome cuts back to the Passion, excerpting the account of the princess’s healing and conversion at Agnes’s tomb, discussed above. The narrative of healing, ending with Constantina’s vow of virginity, transitions smoothly to an excerpt from the beginning of the Passion of Gallicanus. This portion of the text recounts how Constantine’s general, Gallicanus, leads the Roman army to victory over the Persians in Syria and subsequently asks Constantine for the hand of his daughter in marriage. Given that the Scythians are now threatening the Roman borders, Constantine feels pressure to comply with the general’s desires; yet he fears that his daughter, as a vowed virgin, will refuse any offer to marry. Surprisingly, Constantina proposes that he consent to the engagement, on the condition that Gallicanus be asked to send his two daughters, Attica and Artemia, to stay with Constantina while receiving two of Constantina’s most trusted palace attendants, the eunuch brothers John and Paul, in their place. By the time Gallicanus returns from battle, Gallicanus’s daughters have received baptism and dedicated themselves to lives of virginity, while Gallicanus has himself been converted to Christian chastity, under the influence of John and Paul. The story of Constantina and Gallicanus thus rounds out the story of Constantina and Agnes, giving us a saint who is not only closely associated with one of Rome’s most prestigious virgin-martyr cults but is also herself a virtual virgin martyr, having escaped the threat to her virginity and faith that marriage to Gallicanus would have presented. The Epitome caps its narrative with an account of Constantina’s death, here figured as a marriage to Christ, as befits a virgin associated with martyrs: ‘Porro beata Constantia in sancta uirginitate permanens transacto tempore hiemis et inchoante tempore ueris, hoc est duodecimo Kalendas Martias, parata intrauit ad nuptias. Corpus uero eius in pretioso labro porphiretico sepultum est et ibidem ipsa petente a patre et fratribus ecclesia columnis et musiuo ac lapidibus decorata in eius honore fabricata est’ (Then the blessed Constantia, continuing in her sacred virginity, as wintertime passed and springtime was beginning, 25

Jones, ‘Agnes and Constantia’, p. 135.

Virginia Burrus

174

that is, twelve days before the Kalends of March, being prepared, entered into marriage. Her body was buried in a precious sarcophagus of porphyry, and as she had asked her father and brothers, a church adorned with columns, mosaics, and stones was built in the same place in her honour). The care taken in registering the precise date of the empress’s death indicates its importance as Constantina’s natale or feast day, celebrated on the twelfth of the Kalends of March, that is, 18 February. The Epitome is preserved in medieval collections of passiones and vitae of saints edited for use in the divine office; that it survives in a mere seven such manuscripts, all of them currently in Roman or Vatican libraries, suggests that the cult of Constantina remained very local. The care taken in describing the place of Constantina’s burial is also significant. As Dennis Trout has argued, the ‘creative elaborations’ of the Roman Gesta martyrum are ‘tightly anchored to concrete places of memory within the Roman cityscape’, a cityscape initially constructed through the buildings, monuments, and inscriptions of the Constantinian period.26 In general, the development of the cult of saints in Rome was strongly centred on local saints, their tombs, and the monuments that marked these sites. Literary invention often followed the lead of architectural invention, as with the Gesta. It is thus not surprising that building plays a strong role in the history of Constantina’s cult and legend. A dedicatory poem seemingly composed by the empress herself indicates that Constantina — not her father — commissioned the massive ambulatory basilica dedicated to Agnes in the mid-fourth century whose ruins are still visible. This impressive imperial monument likely played a large part in Agnes’s great popularity,27 a popularity that added lustre to Constantina’s reputation in turn, through the elaboration of the fiction of her miraculous healing in the Passion of Agnes. But the story does not end there. The fourth-century basilica was likely in ruins by the second quarter of the seventh century, when it was superseded by a lavish and more compact basilica erected by Pope Honorius (pope 625–38) directly over the virgin martyr’s tomb. The imperial mausoleum that had been attached to the original basilica survived, and survives to this day, as a freestanding edifice. Indeed, the round domed structure still dazzles visitors, who enter to discover a light-filled central hall separated from a shadowy, barrelvaulted ambulatory by twelve pairs of columns, spoils from the classical past; the walls would once have been covered in a colourful marble veneer, and the mosaic decoration of the ambulatory vault remains particularly striking, as does the porphyry sarcophagus (the current one a replica of the original in 26 27

Trout, ‘From the Elogia of Damasus to the Acta Martyrum’, p. 313. Thacker, ‘Rome of the Martyrs’, p. 28.

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

175

the Vatican Museum) housed in a niche in the ambulatory wall opposite the entrance. A pilgrim’s guide written around the time of the construction of Honorius’s new basilica refers to this mausoleum as a ‘church’: ‘Et iuxta eandem viam basilica sanctae Agnes mirae pulchritudinis, ubi ipsa corpore iacet. Propeque ibi soror eius Emerentiana, in alia tamen basilica, dormit. Ibi quoque singulari ecclesia Constantia, Constantini filia, requiescit’ (Next to the [via Nomentana] the basilica of saint Agnes of marvellous beauty, where she herself lies in the body. And near there her sister Emerentiana sleeps, though in another basilica. And there as well in a remarkable church [singulari ecclesia] rests Constantina, the daughter of Constantine).28 Describing it as ‘columnis et musiuo ac lapidibus decorata’ (adorned with columns, mosaics, and stones), as we have seen, the Epitome also calls Constantina’s resting place an ecclesia or church, a designation subtly inconsistent with the excerpt from the Passion of Agnes referring to the commissioning of a ‘basilica’ for Agnes and a ‘mausoleum’ for the empress herself.29 Did the mausoleum-turned-church perhaps play an important role in transforming a saint’s patron into a patron saint? A suggestive parallel is provided by the mausoleum of Helena, which was attached to a large Constantinian basilica dedicated to the martyrs Marcellinus and Peter, who were buried nearby. Later, possibly also under Pope Honorius,30 a new and much smaller basilica dedicated to Marcellinus and Peter was constructed directly over the tombs of the two martyrs. At this point, the original basilica came to be associated with Helena’s name, and the entire complex was known as ‘ecclesia [...] sanctae Elenae ubi ipsa corpore iacet’ (the church of saint Helena, where she herself rests in her body);31 there ‘multi martyres pausant’ (many martyrs rest), we are told, including ‘sancta Helena in sua rotunda’ (saint Helena in her rotunda).32 When seventh-century viewers encountered the fourthcentury imperial mausolea, they ‘could not imagine […] a grand monument in a cemetery that was not a church’,33 or a prominent tomb that was not that of a saint. Sometimes, as Jean Guyon notes, ‘it is the basilica that creates the saints’.34 28

De locis sanctis martyrum 21: Damasus of Rome, The Epigraphic Poetry, ed. by Trout, p. 149. Note that the Liber Pontificalis entry for Nicholas  I (pope 858–67) also refers to Constantina’s mausoleum as a church. 30 Guyon, Le Cimetière aux deux lauriers, pp. 452–55. 31 De locis sanctis martyrum 16: Damasus of Rome, The Epigraphic Poetry, ed. by Trout, p. 131. 32 Notitia ecclesiarum urbis Romae 16: Damasus of Rome, The Epigraphic Poetry, ed. by Trout, p. 131. 33 Guyon, Le Cimetière aux deux lauriers, p. 261. 34 Guyon, Le Cimetière aux deux lauriers, p. 262. Guyon here has in mind an earlier stage in 29

176

Virginia Burrus

A more complicated but also suggestive parallel is that of the late fourthcentury basilica dedicated to Saints Nereus and Achilleus, which comes to be referred to in the seventh century as ‘ecclesia [...] sanctae Petronellae’ (the church of Saint Petronella).35 The insinuation of Petronella may have been due to the existence of a nearby tomb in the catacombs depicting two women, one of whom is labelled Petronella Martyr.36 Alternately, the painting may have come later, since Petronella is identified not as the deceased but as a martyr welcoming the deceased to paradise. Philippe Pergola speculates that Petronella was a donor-patron of the basilica, perhaps buried in a sumptuous sarcophagus in a prominent location therein, and later mistaken for a martyr herself.37 If Pergola is right, the story demonstrates how, as Alan Thacker puts it, ‘invention could accrete around a distinguished grave’,38 and a patron could be transformed into a saint. Indeed, the sarcophagus that was housed in the church of Saint Constantia may also have played a significant role in the making of this saint, its precious porphyry announcing the preciousness of the body contained within. And while some recent scholars have speculated that the body might have belonged not to Constantina but to her sister Helena,39 earlier Christians did not doubt that it was Constantina’s. When, in 1256, Alexander IV (pope 1254–61) transferred the remains of Constantina’s body, along with those of Attica and Artemia, from the sarcophagus to a newly consecrated altar, the transformation of royal founder to holy relic was complete.40 By then, Constantina — or rather, Constantia, as she was now remembered — had already been memorialized by the Epitome, which tethers the saint not only to a particular place but also to a particular moment in the flow of the liturgical year.

the history of this complex, by which an impressive imperial basilica not initially associated with the cult of martyrs came to be attached to Marcellinus and Peter, due to the proximity of their tombs, thereby enhancing the reputation of the two martyrs considerably. 35 De locis sanctis martyrum 8: Damasus of Rome, The Epigraphic Poetry, ed. by Trout, p. 97. 36 Goodson, ‘To Be the Daughter of Saint Peter’. 37 Pergola, ‘Petronella Martyr’. 38 Thacker, ‘Loca Sanctorum’, p. 15. 39 Stanley, ‘New Discoveries at Santa Costanza’, suggests that Constantina was originally buried in the basilica of Agnes, positing that the mausoleum is of a later date. Given that its decoration is not definitively Christian, might the mausoleum have been built later, by the emperor Julian, as a burial place for his wife, Constantina’s sister, Helena? See Mackie, Early Christian Chapels in the West, p. 146. 40 Rasch and Arbeiter, Das Mausoleum der Constantina, p. 10.

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

177

When would the Epitome have been composed? The texts of the Gesta mar­ tyrum that it cites and incorporates are in circulation by the early to mid-sixth century. Thacker proposes that the writing of Gesta was revived in the later sixth and seventh centuries, ‘especially in instances where the cult centre itself had been embellished or reconstructed’.41 Might Pope Honorius’s erection of a new basilica at Agnes’s tomb, and the consequent detachment of Constantina’s mausoleum from Agnes’s church, have, at least indirectly, provided the impetus for the composition of this brief epitomized vita of Agnes’s neighbour on the Via Nomentana? Thenceforth, visiting pilgrims would have encountered not a funerary chapel and a patron but a church and a saint, demanding a story to be told and a feast day to be celebrated. As Catherine Chin points out, Roman buildings often enjoyed a longevity that far exceeded those of the humans who ‘built, maintained, and passed [them] on to others’. Those buildings extended the reach of human action but they also ‘demanded of those humans the protection of new caretakers, manipulating human action in ways that aligned human ability with nonhuman duration’, suggests Chin.42 Many human generations have laboured to sustain Constantina’s mausoleum, which has enabled the monument to make genealogical claims on their behalf, its enduring materiality linking an evershifting present to a venerable past, at once classical, imperial, and Christian. The memories of buildings can be long, but without humans they are inaudible. Buildings need humans to give their memories voice — another kind of making, maintaining, and transmitting to others. Just as columns, tiles, and stones come together, stand, shift, fall apart, and are replaced by others, in an ongoing — if often extremely gradual — process of deterioration and renewal that constitutes the life of a building symbiotic with humans, so too do the stories accumulate and fade into forgetfulness, divide and reunite, shrink and grow. Buildings convey memories, but both buildings and memories can and do transform, through creative processes of fragmentation and combination, condensation and expansion that characterize all epitomizing art.

Constantina beyond Rome: Dialogue and Drama If the Epitome recalls a distinctly Roman saint, the Life of Constantina remembers Constantina differently. Here the saint is not attached to a particular 41 42

Thacker, ‘Rome of the Martyrs’, p. 48. Chin, ‘Apostles and Aristocrats’, p. 30.

178

Virginia Burrus

city or site. The difference is all the more striking in that the Life also draws on memories of Agnes, Silvester, Gallicanus, and John and Paul. But where the Epitome excerpts, adapts, and summarizes portions of the Passions of both Agnes and Gallicanus, the Life incorporates the entirety of the text of the Passion of Gallicanus, John, and Paul, while expanding the first part of Gallicanus’s narrative considerably. Agnes is mentioned only twice and briefly, once at the beginning of the narrative and once in a prayer taken over from the Passion of Gallicanus. At the same time, Pope Silvester is introduced in a new role, as we shall see, one that ignores his connection to Constantine while buttressing Constantina’s authority as a monastic teacher and leader. But the most significant expansion of the text is the development of the relationship between Constantina and Gallicanus’s daughters, Attica and Artemia, and the inclusion of a lengthy dialogue featuring Constantina, Attica, Artemia, and ten other girls. The narrative picks up where the Passion of Agnes leaves off: ‘Constantinae uirginis sacratissimae gesta mirabilia […] ad aedificationem uirginum Christi conscribimus […]. Haec namque, recuperata sui corporis sanitate, seipsam obtulit Christo’ (We are recording the marvellous deeds of the most holy virgin Constantina […] for the edification of the virgins of Christ […]. For after recovering her bodily health, she offered herself to Christ).43 The text goes on to sing her praises as the leader of a convent and an exemplum for the virgins who follow her, describing the monastic lifestyle that she fosters. The virgins fast until the ninth hour on Wednesday and Friday. During meals, passages from the prophets and wisdom literature are read (but not the rest of the Old Testament, which might give the false impression of advocating unchaste living ); the entirety of the New Testament is also read in order. Times of prescribed rest — in particular, the rest following the meal at the ninth hour (approximately 3:00 p.m.) — are to be strictly observed, so that times of prescribed wakefulness may be observed with equal strictness. The first, third, sixth, and ninth hours of the day are set apart for prayer and praise of God, along with the twelfth hour of the day, the third hour of the night, midnight, dawn, and morning — a whopping nine daily offices, making emphasis on an afternoon nap understandable.44 43 Vita Constantinae i. 1. 1. As noted above, Marco Conti, Dennis Trout, and I are working on critical editions and translations of both the Epitome and the Life of Constantina. All translations are ours. Section numbers follow Narbey’s edition. 44 Vita Constantinae i. 1. 2.

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

179

Where does Constantina receive knowledge of this regula vivendi? From none other than Pope Silvester, a man who has never studied grammar or rhetoric but who has made himself the disciple of the martyr Timothy, we are told. The moral of the story — and it is made explicit — is that even someone as erudite as Constantina, schooled in both Latin and Greek letters, has need for instruction in the teachings of the church and its holy scriptures, lest she fall into the errors of heresy. Yet the introduction of the figure of Silvester serves not only to humble Constantina but also to exalt her, by interpolating her into a chain of apostolic succession: ‘didicit quid ageret, qualiter legeret, a Siluestro papa instructa; ab eo utique, qui a Timotheo instructus fuerat, quem instruxerat Iacobus, apostolus Christi. Sicque est in omnibus erudita, ut nihil eam de Scripturis dominicis praeteriret’ (She learned what to do and how to read after being instructed by Pope Silvester, by him, that is, who had been instructed by Timothy, whom James, apostle of Christ, had instructed. And she was so learned in everything that nothing in the Scriptures of the Lord escaped her).45 The Silvester narrative may reflect the influence of the early sixth-century edition of the Liber Pontificalis, which reports not only that Silvester was a disciple of Timothy but also that he, Silvester, baptized Constantina as well as her aunt Constantia in the basilica dedicated to Agnes.46 In the Life, which is much more interested in pedagogy than in sacraments or buildings, baptism is replaced by instruction, it would seem. Constantina is remembered for her teacher, and as a teacher. Having demonstrated Constantina’s erudition and apostolic pedigree, the Life addresses its readers directly: ‘O quam beatae eritis Christi uirgines, quae studueritis huius sanctae uirginis Constantinae Augustae exemplum adripere!’ (O how blessed you will be, virgins of Christ, who strive to embrace the example of this holy virgin, Constantina Augusta!). The apostolic chain of transmission continues, for those who know how to make themselves disciples. The readers invoked are not only virginal but also ‘nobilis, diues, praepotens, pulchra’ (noble, rich, very powerful, and beautiful). They are likely to face opposition to their choice of a life of holy chastity, but they should not forget that the fruitfulness of virginity exceeds that of ordinary propagation.47 At this point, the narrative thread is resumed, with a parting appeal to the power of Constantina’s example: ‘Sed reuertamur ad Constantinam Augustam, et ut tu, uirgo Christi, quae studio aedificationis tuae, lectionis huius historiam discis, 45 46 47

Vita Constantinae i. 1. 3. Liber Pontificalis 34.23. Vita Constantinae i. 1. 4.

Virginia Burrus

180

consideres primo omnium quod et nobilitate et opibus et gloria et potentia te antecedat ista, cuius memoratur historia. […] Nunc ad textum reuertamur historiae’ (But let us go back to Constantina Augusta, so that you, virgin of Christ, who in your desire for edification are learning the story contained in this reading, may consider, first of all, that she, whose story is reported here, precedes you in nobility and wealth and glory and power. […] Now let us return to the text of our story).48 That ‘text’ is the first part of the Passion of Gallicanus, the same part excerpted and summarized by the Epitome. But whereas the Passion does not claim to give more than an abridged version of ‘qualiter autem Attica et Artemia ab ea sint susceptae et informatae atque ad hoc adductae ut mundum contemnerent et diuinis se studiis traderent et multas alias uirgines secum ad Dominum traherent’ (how Attica and Artemia were received by her and educated, and led to the resolution of despising the world and devoting themselves to divine studies, and drew many other virgins to the lord with them),49 the Life expands upon that very narrative. It does so first by inserting an epistolary exchange between Attica and Artemia and their aunt Octavia, offered as proof of how Constantina has instructed the girls; a polyphonic intertextuality is thus mobilized, even if the intertexts are entirely fictive. Aunt Octavia’s letter attempts to persuade the girls not to forsake their plans to marry. Octavia suspects her nieces of ‘nescio quibus deceptae prestigiis’ (having been deceived by some kind of tricks). After all, Octavia argues, the Bible supports marriage: ‘Nam et Abraham Sarram habuit, et Isaac Rebeccam, et Iacob Rachelem, et Ioseph Asenech, et Moyses Sefforam, et Dauid Michol’ (For Abraham had Sarah, and Isaac Rebecca, and Jacob Rachel, and Joseph Aseneth, and Moses Zipporah, and David Michal).50 The girls resist, assuring their aunt of the empress’s graciousness and urging her to send their cousins and any other noble virgins she might know to visit Constantina. ‘Satis enim affabile pietatis eius est, quando ad salutandum eam uirgines ueniunt’ (For it is quite pleasing to her piety when virgins come to pay homage to her).51 In a surprisingly quick capitulation, 48

Vita Constantinae i. 1. 5. In fact, most versions are even more severely abridged: ‘But how she [Constantina] converted Attica and Artemia to the Lord I pass by, out of eagerness to swiftly relate the Martyrdom of Gallicanus’ (AASS, June. v, 38). Our Life appears to be based on a version reflected in only a small family of manuscripts; the citation given in the text is based on BAV, MS Barb. lat. 586, fols 179r–181r. 50 Vita Constantinae i. 1. 7. 51 Vita Constantinae i. 1. 8. 49

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

181

Octavia yields to her nieces’ request and sends her two daughters and four others. Upon receiving the girls, the empress insists that they stay with her for the whole day; moreover, she begs that they bring even more girls to her. A ‘multitudino uirginum’ (multitude of virgins) subsequently arrives, and Constantina ‘iubet’ (orders) them to stay with her for three days. Her aim, we are told, is ‘per conuiuium, per conloquium, per affabilitatem […] uniuscuiusque mentem aduertere, et sibi amicabili conciliare affectu’ (through meals and conversation and closeness […] to guide the mind of each and make them her friends through her tender affection); she kisses them ‘ueluti germanas’ (as her sisters); and finally she sends them away ‘plenas muneribus’ (loaded with gifts). She also asks for a gift in exchange: namely, ‘ut pro captu ingenii sui singulas sententias scriberent de summo bono et de ultimo malo, et hoc ei munus post quinque dies afferrent’ (that they, according to the capacity of their mind, would write down their personal opinions about ‘the highest good’ and ‘the ultimate evil’, and then present this gift to her after five days).52 The virgins are so overcome by their love for Constantina that the five days seem like a year to them. But eventually the girls return to the palace, texts in hand. Again, the Life creates fictional intertexts that introduce multiple voices, palpable in their materiality: we are told that the sententiae are handwritten by each one. The virgins make up a swelling crowd of 120 or so, all of whom ‘ita familiares eius effectae sunt, quasi essent cubiculariae eius, cum eas solus Dei amor in amore Augustae deuinxisset’ (had become so intimate with her [Constantina] that they were like the servants of her bedchamber, since the love of God alone had united them in their love for the Augusta). And now the performance as such begins. Twelve girls step forward to read their brief senten­ tiae aloud. Some are very short: Artemia, for example, proposes that ‘Summum bonum uita est, et ultimum malum mors’ (The highest good is life and the ultimate evil is death). Nonetheless, it takes more than one day to hear all twelve, for as Attica (the first to read) asserts, their little texts require interpretation. Constantina agrees to respond to each: as Attica puts it, Constantina’s discourse will allow them to comprehend fully what they themselves have written.53 Their brevity is matched by her loquacity, and the queen’s scripturally larded discourses get longer and longer, becoming virtual sermons. Despite Attica’s initial framing, Constantina’s speeches are ultimately less interpretive than performative and productive. Textual expansion itself becomes part of the drama, in other words. When she finishes her last discourse, the assembled 52 53

Vita Constantinae i. 1. 9. Vita Constantinae i. 2. 10.

Virginia Burrus

182

virgins applaud and joyfully declare her victory complete.54 Constantina’s performance is a triumph of rhetorical, exegetical, and theological virtuosity. Like Constantina’s virgins, readers of the Life may find themselves submitting to the power of the empress’s persuasive theatre, joining the swelling crowd of her virginal followers, at least in fantasy. No longer remembered at Agnes’s tomb, Constantina can be present anywhere that her Life is read. The text itself evokes settings that are elite, learned, monastic, and female. Not cities, and not even specific places — these are, rather, kinds of places, suggestive of a translocal network and communicating a sense of being part of something recognizably ‘universal’. We remember Constantina in the monastery, then, but we also remember her engaged in a form of public oratory and disputation, defending the choice of virginity rather than marriage, much like Helia in a vita also preserved in the same anthology of female saints’ Lives.55 While the Life strongly evokes a monastic context, it also seems to partake in broader liturgical cultures of performance and celebration that shaped the context for the reading of saints’ Lives in sixth- and seventh-century Gaul, for example.56 The evidence of the Luxeuil Lectionary suggests the development of a Gallic hagiographic style that is ‘slow and leisurely, with large elements of debate and controversy’, frequently including long prayers, dialogue, and contentious debates.57 While it is hard to imagine ordinary congregants sitting through a reading of the entirety of a text like the Life of Constantina in one sitting, a monastic setting might allow for both a more patient audience and readings distributed across more than one daily office. Figures like Radegund and her hagiographer Baudonivia remind us of the high levels of literacy of some Gallic nuns. Under such circumstances, as Rosamond McKitterick puts it, ‘if […] the life of a female saint, patron of a nunnery or house of canonesses, is in question, why should we suppose that the author is male rather than female?’58 Based on Aldhelm’s inclusion of the story of Constantina and Gallicanus in his On Virginity, it would seem that the Passion of Gallicanus was known in England by the end of the seventh century.59 54

Vita Constantinae i. 3. 25. The Life of Saint Helia, ed. by Burrus and Conti. 56 On the celebration of saints’ feast days in Merovingian Gaul, see Hen, Culture and Religion in Merovingian Gaul, pp. 84–89. 57 Dunn, The Gallican Saint’s Life, p. 89. 58 McKitterick, ‘Women and Literacy’, p. 25. 59 Joyce Salisbury suggests that at least a portion of the Vita was accessible to Aldhelm (Salisbury, Church Fathers, p. 68). This is an intriguing possibility, yet I do not see clear signs 55

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

183

It might of course have reached Gaul sooner, where it could have formed the basis for a monastic Life. The dramatic possibilities and potential appeal of the story to nobly born religious women is evidenced, moreover, by the German canoness Hrotswitha’s tenth-century play Gallicanus. Might we then imagine the Life of Constantina being produced in a sixth- or seventh-century Gallic monastic context, even perhaps being the work of a female author?

Remembering Constantina Now History sometimes still remembers Constantina (though most often it does not). Joyce Salisbury is one of the very few to have engaged the Life of Constantina in the century and more since the text first entered the scholarly archive. Writing in 1991, her engagement is explicitly feminist. She remembers Constantina as an ‘independent virgin’ who exemplifies ‘a violation of social expectations’.60 Elite Roman daughters were traditionally highly valued, expected to be obedient and loyal to their fathers, not least by complying with paternal need for strategic connection through marriage. As Salisbury points out, the Life not only shows Constantina defying such expectations — the expectations of none less than an emperor — but also shows that same emperor ‘seeking his daughter’s advice’ regarding how to resolve the conflict between his need to make an alliance with Gallicanus and her need to remain a virgin.61 Salisbury is well aware that the Life is a literary fiction. Indeed, she stresses that ‘the real Constantina’ was utterly ‘unlike the legendary Constantina’, even ‘the precise opposite’, insofar as she was not only a pawn in her father’s dynastic strategies, marrying twice, but was also accused of being politically ruthless (even murderous) herself, which Salisbury likewise deems ‘expected behaviour’. What interests Salisbury is that Constantina was nonetheless remembered otherwise: ‘Christians assumed that their religion permitted them to overturn social expectations’.62 Salisbury’s source for the character of the historical Constantina is Ammianus Marcellinus. Although she initially seems to distance herself from his perspective (‘if Ammianus Marcellinus is to be believed’), that perspective quickly becomes the negative ‘reality’ to be contrasted with the positive ‘legend’.63 But that the English poet knew our Life, though he is clearly familiar with the tradition associated with the Passion of Gallicanus. 60 Salisbury, Church Fathers, p. 65. 61 Salisbury, Church Fathers, p. 62. 62 Salisbury, Church Fathers, pp. 65–68. 63 Salisbury, Church Fathers, p. 66.

Virginia Burrus

184

should we believe Ammianus? In a passage that Salisbury cites, the late ancient historian describes Constantina as ‘Megaera quaedam mortalis’ (a Megaera in mortal guise) who ‘inflammatrix saevientis adsidua, humani cruoris avida nihil mitius quam maritus’ (constantly aroused the savagery of [her second husband] Gallus, being as insatiable as he in her thirst for human blood). Subsequently he notes that ‘cum eum potius lenitate feminea ad veritatis humanitatisque viam reducere utilia suadendo deberet’ (she ought rather, with womanly gentleness, to have recalled him by helpful counsel to the path of truth and mercy).64 Ammianus’s language, comparing Constantina to one of the Furies, is blatantly hyperbolic; he makes no attempt to hide his dislike for both Gallus and his wife. Moreover, he leans heavily into the rhetorical trope of womanly influence, as Kate Cooper has described it well: ‘To imply that a man had been led astray by a bad woman, or had refused to listen to a good one, served as authorization for dismissing out of hand the objections he might raise to one’s own agenda’.65 A more critical reading of Ammianus, together with other sources, might suggest rather that we view Constantina as operating independently as best she could, to further her own interests and those of her family, during a period of dynastic crisis.66 Others remember the ‘real Constantina’ more positively for different reasons. Dennis Trout has offered a view of Constantina as a discerning patron and poet. ‘It was almost surely in the 340s that the empress Constantina founded the first Roman basilica dedicated to the martyr Agnes and installed therein a precocious fourteen-hexameter inscription’, he begins his account.67 Though the dedicatory epigram has been known since its publication in the late nineteenth century, it has remained ‘in the shadows’, writes Trout, ‘as unappreciated as the initial stirrings of a parallel coup through which later and better known Christian poets such as Prudentius and Paulinus of Nola would lay solid claim to the city’s literary heritage’. Demonstrating the literary sophistication of her classicizing yet innovative verses, Trout intends to restore Constantina ‘to the list of notable early Latin Christian poets’,68 and in particular to the list of epigraphic poets whose inscribed verses would eventually cover Rome’s Christian monuments. Acknowledging the same negative portrait that inspired 64 65 66 67 68

Ammianus Marcellinus, Res Gestae xiv. 1. 2, 8. Cooper, ‘Insinuations of Womanly Influence’, p. 163. See Bleckmann, ‘Constantina, Vetranio, and Gallus Caesar’. Trout, ‘Vergil and Ovid at the Tomb of Agnes’, p. 263. Trout, ‘Vergil and Ovid at the Tomb of Agnes’, p. 264.

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

185

Salisbury’s critique of the ‘real’ Constantina — ‘the malicious one left by a scandalized Ammianus’ — Trout concludes that ‘the empress would seem to deserve better’.69 Intriguingly, one point on which the layered and multifaceted memories of Constantina often seem to agree is her erudition. The Epitome reports that Constantine invested her brothers with political power but ‘Constantiam uero mundanarum fecit imbui scientia litterarum, adeo ut eius ingenium philosophi mirarentur’ (had Constantia so thoroughly instructed in the knowledge of secular literature that the philosophers admired her intellect). The Life asserts that she was ‘graecis latinisque studiis liberalibus eruditam’ (educated in Greek and Latin liberal studies) and ‘in omnibus esset et litterarum disciplinis instructa’ (had been educated in all literary disciplines), as well as being instructed by a pope;70 it goes on to showcase her eloquence and theological acumen in her dialogue with the virgins. And if I, a woman and a scholar, find myself retrieving such memories of Constantina as a learned — and, yes, independent — woman, is that any surprise? As Van Dam reminds us, memories allow us to link ‘a mythologized past with present concerns and a coveted future’.71 We remember in order to be and to become.

69 70 71

Trout, ‘Vergil and Ovid at the Tomb of Agnes’, p. 277. Vita Constantinae i. 1. 3. Van Dam, Remembering Constantine, p. 18.

186

Virginia Burrus

Works Cited Manuscripts Madrid, Biblioteca de la Real Academia de al Historia, MS 13 Madrid, Escorial, MS a.I.13 Madrid, Escorial, MS a.II.9 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France [BnF], MS n.a.lat. 2178 Rome, Biblioteca Vallicelliana, codex H 06 Rome, Biblioteca Vallicelliana, codex H 25 Rome, Biblioteca Vallicelliana, MS VII Rome, Biblioteca Vallicelliana, MS X Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana [BAV], Arch.Cap.S.Pietro, MS A 6 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana [BAV], Arch.Cap.S.Pietro, MS A 8 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana [BAV], Arch.Cap.S.Pietro, MS A 9 Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana [BAV], MS Barb. lat. 586

Primary Sources Damasus of Rome, The Epigraphic Poetry: Introduction, Texts, Translations, and Commen­ tary, ed. by Dennis Trout (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015) De locis sanctis martyrum, in Itineraria et alia geographica, ed.  by F.  Glorie, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 175 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1965) Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction et commentaire, vol.  i, ed.  by Louis Duchesne (Paris: Thorin, 1886) The Life of Saint Helia: Critical Edition, Translation, Introduction, and Commentary, ed. by Virginia Burrus and Marco Conti (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014) Narbey, Constant, Supplément aux Acta sanctorum pour des vies de saints de l’epoque méro­ vingienne 2 (Paris: Le Soudier, 1912) Santa Melania Giuniore, senatrice romana: documenti contemporei e note, ed. by Mariano Rampolla del Tindaro (Rome: Tipografia Vaticana, 1905) Supplément aux Acta sanctorum pour des vies de saints de l’epoque mérovingienne 2, ed. by Constant Narbey (Paris: Le Soudier, 1912)

Secondary Studies Antolín, Guillermo, ‘Estudios de códices visigodos’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia, 54 (1909), 55–67, 117–28, 204–46, 265–315 Bibliotheca hagiographica latina antiquae et mediae aetatis, Subsidia hagiographica, 6 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1898–1901) Bibliotheca hagiographica latina antiquae et mediae aetatis: Novum supplementum, Subsidia hagiographica, 70 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1986) Bibliotheca hagiographica latina antiquae et mediae aetatis, supplementi editio altera auc­ tior, Subsidia hagiographica, 12 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1911)

Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond

187

Bleckmann, Bruno, ‘Constantina, Vetranio, and Gallus Caesar’, Chiron, 24 (1994), 29–68 Borders, James, ‘Gender, Performativity, and Allusion in Medieval Services for the Consecration of Virgins’, in The Oxford Handbook of the New Cultural History of Music, ed. by Jane F. Fulcher (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2011), pp. 17–38 Canella, Tessa, ‘Gli Actus Silvestri tra Oriente e Occidente: Storia e diffusione di una leggenda constantiniana’, Enciclopedia constantiniana (Treccani — La cultura italiana, 2013),

[accessed 15 August 2017] Catalogus codicum hagiographicorum latinorum in Bibliotheca Nationali Parisiensi, Subsidia hagiographica, 2 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1889–93) Chin, Catherine M., ‘Apostles and Aristocrats’, in Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family, ed. by Catherine M. Chin and Caroline T. Schroeder (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017), pp. 19–33 Cooper, Kate, ‘Insinuations of Womanly Influence: An Aspect of the Christianization of the Roman Aristocracy’, Journal of Roman Studies, 82 (1992), 150–64 —— , ‘The Martyr, the Matrona, and the Bishop: The Matron Lucina and the Politics of Martyr Cult in Fifth and Sixth Century Rome’, Early Medieval Europe, 8 (1999), 297–317 Delehaye, Hippolyte, The Work of the Bollandists through Three Centuries, 1615–1915 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1922) Delisle, Léopold, ‘Manuscrits de l’abbaye de Silos acquis par le bibliothèque nationale’, in Mélanges de paléographie et de bibliographie, ed. by Léopold Delisle (Paris: Champion, Librarie, 1880), pp. 53–116 Dunn, E.  Catherine, The Gallican Saint’s Life and the Late Roman Dramatic Tradition (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1989) Goodson, Caroline, ‘To Be the Daughter of Saint Peter: S.  Petronilla and Forging the Franco-Papal Alliance’, in Tre imperi, tre città: identità, cultura materiale e legittimazi­ one a Venezia, Ravenna e Roma, 750–1000, ed. by Veronica West-Harling (Turnhout: Brepols, 2015), pp. 159–82 Guyon, Jean, Le Cimetière aux deux lauriers: Recherches sur les catacombes romaines (Rome: École française de Rome, 1987) Hen, Yitzhak, Culture and Religion in Merovingian Gaul, a.d. 481–751 (Leiden: Brill, 1995) Jones, Hannah, ‘Agnes and Constantia: Domesticity and Cult Patronage in the Passion of Agnes’, in Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome, 300–900, ed. by Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 115–39 Mackie, Gillian V., Early Christian Chapels in the West: Decoration, Function, and Patronage (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003) McKitterick, Rosamund, ‘Women and Literacy in the Early Middle Ages’, in Rosamund McKitterick, Books, Scribes, and Learning in the Frankish Kingdoms, 6th–9th Centuries (Aldershot: Variorum, 1994), no. XIII (43 pp.) Penn, Michael, ‘Afterlives’, in Melania: Early Christianity through the Life of One Family, ed. by Catherine M. Chin and Caroline T. Schroeder (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2017), pp. 245–59

188

Virginia Burrus

Pergola, Philippe, ‘Petronella Martyr: Une évergète de la fin du ive siècle?’, in Memoriam sanctorum venerantes: Miscellanea in onore di Monsignor Victor Saxer, Studi di antichità cristiana, 48 (Vatican: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1992), pp. 627–36 Poncelet, Albert, Catalogus codicum hagiographicorum latinorum bibliothecae Vaticanae, Subsidia hagiographica, 11 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1910) —— , Catalogus codicum hagiographicorum latinorum bibliothecarum Romanarum praeter quam Vaticanae, Subsidia hagiographica, 9 (Brussels: Société des Bollandistes, 1909) Rasch, Jürgen J., and Achim Arbeiter, Das Mausoleum der Constantina in Rom, Spätantike Zentralbauten in Rom und Latium, 4 (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2007) Salisbury, Joyce E., Church Fathers, Independent Virgins (London: Verso, 1991) Stanley, David J., ‘New Discoveries at Santa Costanza’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers,  48 (1994), 257–61 Thacker, Alan, ‘Loca Sanctorum: The Significance of Place in the Study of the Saints’, in Local Saints and Local Churches in the Early Medieval West, ed. by Alan Thacker and Richard Sharpe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), pp. 1–43 —— , ‘Rome of the Martyrs: Saints, Cults and Relics, Fourth to Seventh Centuries’, in Roma Felix: Formation and Reflections of Medieval Rome, ed. by Éamonn Ó Carragáin and Carol Neuman de Vegvar (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 13–49 Trout, Dennis, ‘From the Elogia of Damasus to the Acta Martyrum: Restaging Roman History’, in Attitudes towards the Past in Antiquity: Creating Identities. Proceedings of an International Conference Held at Stockholm University, 15–17 May 2009, ed. by Brita Alroth and Charlotte Scheffer (Stockholm: Stockholm University, 2014), pp. 311–20 —— , ‘Vergil and Ovid at the Tomb of Agnes: Constantina, Epigraphy, and the Genesis of Christian Poetry’, in Ancient Documents and their Contexts: First North American Congress of Greek and Latin Epigraphy (2011), ed. by John Bodel and Nora Dimitrova (Leiden: Brill, 2015), pp. 263–82 Van Dam, Raymond, Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011)

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

T

he logjam on the Tiber began before the holy bishop Gregory’s incarceration in Rome, but his liberation coincided with that of the logs. So claimed the imaginative hagiographer and abbot of St Saba Leontios who, around 800, recorded Bishop Gregory of Agrigento’s deeds.1 According to the Vita of Gregory (died c. 630), after a long ecclesiastical trial proved the bishop had not committed fornication, the pope himself (that other Gregory, now known as the Great) pleaded with the Sicilian to unjam by his prayers ‘τόν ἁριφμόν δέκα πάνυ ὡραῖα σφόδρα’ (ten very beautiful logs) that had gotten stuck between the river’s banks ‘ὡς πεπηγότα ἥ ὡς ὑπὸ σιδήρου ἀσφαλιθέντα’ (as if fixed there or secured by iron) and blocked all naval traffic in Rome, causing the city great distress. Once miraculously dislodged, the logs were hauled from the river. The Romans, gathered on the Tiber’s banks for the occasion by the pope, discovered that the trunks bore an inscription.2 It equitably assigned five of the 1

Leontios of Agrigento, Life of St Gregory of Agrigento, 78 and 89, ed. by Berger, pp. 237, 251–52, with commentary on pp. 386–93. An English translation is A Translation of Abbot Leontios’ Life of Saint Gregory, trans. by Martyn, pp. 226–28, who argues (pp. 20–26) for Leontios’s reliability and for dating this text to the seventh century. 2 Ancient Mediterranean carpenters often assembled the semifinished elements of wooden architectural structures close to the felling site, and marked the lumber for easier reassembly Benjamin Graham is Assistant Professor, Department of History, University of Memphis. Paolo Squatriti is Professor, History, Romance Languages, and Program in the Environment, University of Michigan. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 189–219 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118163

190

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

Figure 9.1. The Italian Peninsula in the First Millennium. Reproduced with permission.

logs to the apostle Peter and five to the apostle Paul. The logs were duly dragged off to the corresponding churches according to this mandate. Thus Leontios’s mostly fantastic Vita of Gregory of Agrigento is a testament to a genuine, ongoing problem for postclassical Rome. For the city struggled to obtain materials suitable for roofing its grand basilicas, especially wood beams of appropriate size. This essay considers the burden and rewards of roofing in the Mediterranean’s metropolis during a ‘long’ Late Antiquity. It examines the bonds between exercising at the construction site: Courtenay, ‘Timber Roofs and Spires’, p. 183. Inscriptions celebrating Justinian and Theodora (the patrons) and Stephanos of Aila (the master builder) grace the sixth-century roof beams of St Catherine’s on Sinai: Forsyth and Sears, ‘George H. Forsyth’, p. 146. Apparently Constantine’s beams at St Peter’s bore the letters CON: Lanciani, Pagan and Christian Rome, p. 138.

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 191

or demonstrating power and maintaining roof structures, especially over Rome’s major churches. To prove that roofing involved far more than mere weatherproofing, we follow two analytical paths. We begin by reconstructing some ecological and logistical dimensions of roofers’ performance of authority in postclassical Rome. We conclude by tracing the connections between rulerly rhetoric, roofing, and the assertion of dominion, particularly in the Liber Pontificalis. Throughout, the point is that covering basilicas was never a neutral act (see Figure 9.1).3

Roofs, Ecology, and Power Few students of Rome’s early Christian architecture have considered the relevance of woodland ecology to the history of the massive basilicas that signalled the late ancient city’s pivot towards Christianity. Yet a basilica’s most vulnerable and fragile component, its roofing, was made out of wood, and so linked the spaces of Christian liturgy with the sites where trees grew. Whereas the basilica of Maxentius in the Forum had spanned great widths with the cement panelling that Roman bath-builders favoured, it was unique in Rome.4 Traditional basilicas (like temples) relied on cheaper, easier to deploy wood for their covering. In such roofs, tie beams that extended between the side walls of basilicas bound together triangular wood trusses; like the tie beams, the rafters that supported a lattice of smaller poles (called purlins), on which rested the (usually) terracotta tiles that kept out the elements, necessitated substantial logs; they were set at a low angle (20–25 degrees) to prevent the tiles from sliding off. Particularly because Roman builders insisted on single logs for the truss’s tie beams, a basilica roof called for a small forest of big trees.5 This held true whether it was coffered 3

In the time between the composition of this chapter and its publication, the roofing timbers of Notre-Dame de Paris caught fire. The collapse of the building’s roof beams and flèche reminded twenty-first-century observers of the fragility of large churches’ wooden tops. The subsequent scramble to fund Notre-Dame’s roof restoration suggests that roofing projects remain a good storage for social capital. As ever, big roofs are political. 4 Perhaps the surge in masonry ceilings c. 300 depended on lumber shortages near Rome (Royal, ‘The Levenzo I Wreck’, pp. 130–32; Lancaster, ‘Roman Engineering and Construction’, p. 275). However, Mensing and others, ‘2700 years of Mediterranean Environmental Change in Central Italy’, pp. 88–89, argue Rome outsourced deforestation to other parts of the empire and Apennine valleys remained bosky. 5 It was possible to span ample spaces with two beams and a reinforced joint, but classical carpenters eschewed this solution: Meiggs, Trees and Timber, p. 242. Ninth-century repairs at St Paul’s evidently replaced some long tie beams with two shorter ones, using a Jupiter joint: Rondelet, Traité théorique, p. 170.

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

192

to hide the structural elements or (as appears to have been more normal) left ‘open’ so visitors to the building could see the superstructure.6 Either because of economics, technology (building cement-coffered ceilings was tricky), or ideology (to distinguish their creations from those of Constantine’s enemy), early Christian architects opted for old-fashioned woodintensive roofing over the first basilicas. This choice was fateful, because the wood lasted a long time, but nowhere near as long as did the mortar, bricks, and marbles that made up the rest of the church. A wood roof was perishable, or at least decomposed faster than the rest of a basilica. Eternal Citizens long after the original construction would inevitably face the task of repairing the roof and replacing its components as they wore out, including its big, heavy beams. Therefore, basilicas’ roofs were time bombs. If the average life span of a dry and well-aired oak beam in the Mediterranean region can exceed two hundred years, few other species match that kind of longevity.7 Abies alba (silver fir) was the tree whose tall, even, knot-free trunk Roman architects preferred for roofing material (especially for tie beams); its regular, straight grain makes it less prone to warping and splitting as it ages, but even silver fir normally sags and even splits after about 150 years.8 In addition, most roofs did not live out their lives in the best of conditions. They were liable to burn, whether because of lightning strikes or mishandled interior illumination; they could be damaged in earthquakes; tiles might shift in high winds or because birds sought shelter or prey under them, and then let in water; the cement in the walls that supported them could corrode them; they might seem delicious to insects, whose voracity could compromise the wood’s structure, or seem safe to rodents, who dug dwellings in them;9 exceptionally, rioters could dismantle them in order to pelt a church’s occupants from above.10 Thus the deteriora6

Most scholarship on early church roofing focuses on the aesthetic question of coffering: see for instance Deichmann, ‘Untersuchungen zu Dach’; Valeriani, ‘Ceilings in Basilicas’. 7 On wood life spans, see Adam, La Construction romaine, pp. 91–92. 8 Ancient predilections for Abies: Courtenay, ‘Timber Roofs and Spires’, pp. 184–86, 201; Valeriani, ‘Historic Carpentry in Rome’, p. 2024. Theophrastus launched the literary tradition that extolled fir for roofing, which Vitruvius, Pliny, and the agronomists joined. Camardo and Notomista, ‘The Roof and Suspended Ceiling’, pp. 39–50, discuss an exceptionally wellpreserved Roman roof of silver fir. 9 Bonanni, Numismata, p. 36, peddles the story, purportedly from a 1339 chronicle entry, of workmen at St Peter’s discovering the cavernous nests of ‘numberless’ rats in the tie beams, as well as ‘pine martens, and foxes with their dens, and those who saw it couldn’t believe it’. Indeed, this beam, like Noah’s ark, was unnaturally predator-heavy. 10 Riotous supporters of Ursinus in the dispute with Pope Damasus apparently climbed

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 193

tion of the upper, wooden parts of Christian basilicas was a regular, natural process, only accelerated by the vicissitudes of history. This explains why the only surviving late antique roof in the (more or less) Mediterranean world is that of St Catherine in Sinai: a desert environment alone offered the conditions that extended wood beams’ life beyond a couple of centuries.11 In Rome, the oldest intact roof dates to the Renaissance.12 And there are twenty-one recorded repairs to the roof of St Paul’s Outside the Walls, celebrated as the one ancient roof to survive ‘intact’ into modern times: on average, an overhaul every sixty-six years of its 1400-year life.13 Though each such intervention probably involved only a few trusses, by 1823 little of the original woodwork can have remained.14 As Ray Van Dam has nicely shown, particularly where provisioning the Eternal City was concerned, Roman rulers did not always behave in what econo mists would call rational ways.15 Hence also in supplying the ‘artificially outsized’ capital with building materials, they never skimped.16 Thus the great Roman basilicas that marked Rome’s skyline from the 330s were unmatched in number, ornamentation, and especially in size: they perpetuated the gigantism of earlier imperial patronage. For instance, two basilicas built in the early 300s, St Peter’s and St John in the Lateran (until the 900s known as San Salvatore), were respectively 123 and 100 m long and had naves 25 and 18 m wide; St Paul Outside the Walls, built at the end of the fourth century, was 128 m long, with a 25 m wide nave. As Krautheimer observed, ‘hugeness’ was the whole point in imperially sponsored Christian building in Rome.17 The construction onto the roof of the ‘basilica Liberii’ and shot tiles down on their opponents. But the episode mimics accounts from across the late antique Mediterranean and is suspect: see Deichmann, ‘Untersuchungen zu Dach’, p. 257. 11 How the sixth-century builders obtained thirteen eight-metre fir beams (and twentysix cypress rafters) in the arid Sinai remains an open question. For useful discussion of it, see Forsyth and Sears, ‘George H. Forsyth’, pp. 146–49, and fig. 21. 12 Valeriani, ‘S. Cecilia in Trastevere’, p. 32. 13 Camerlenghi, ‘Interpreting Medieval Architecture through Renovations’, pp. 259–60. St Paul’s burned to the ground in July 1823 when a carpenter working on its beams forgot his candle at the end of the day. 14 A beam at St Peter’s ‘as old as the halleluja’ in 1339 was ‘all wrapped in bindings’ that represented a millennium of minor repairs: Bonanni, Numismata, p. 36. 15 Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople, pp. 16–24, 42–43. 16 Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople, p. 8. 17 Krautheimer, Rome, p. 26. Bigness remained a feature of first-millennium Roman church building (Krautheimer, Rome, pp. 35, 46, 87, 122, 133). Ward-Perkins, ‘Old and New Rome

194

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

of Christian places of worship on truly imperial scale during the fourth and fifth centuries endowed Rome with buildings that contributed immeasurably to the late antique city’s prestige; but it also saddled the post-imperial city with buildings that stretched Rome’s later capacity for maintenance, for the ineluctable repairs. Their scale helps to explain why so many of the grand buildings with which emperors had endowed Rome in the early part of the first millennium gradually collapsed in the postclassical period. Unlike high imperial patrons, postclassical Rome’s administrators relied on local, or at most regional, systems of supply for almost every resource. The problem was the lack of proportion between the urban infrastructure inherited from a city of (they say) a million inhabitants and the needs and capabilities of early medieval Rome’s forty thousand citizens.18 Temples, fora, theatres and amphitheatres, palatial residences, and huge public baths slowly lost their social relevance and could be left to fall apart (the famous exception is the Pantheon). Even bridges, whose utility lasted longer, were permitted to decay, so that for much of the postclassical period Romans had only three ancient bridges within the city to cross the Tiber on (classical Rome had seven). And despite the enthusiasm of the Liber Pontificalis for recording papal restorations of aqueducts, in the postclassical centuries that very useful bit of infrastructure too was mostly ignored and gradually disintegrated.19 Among the large imperial-era monuments, only the Aurelian walls, whose eighteen-kilometre circuit was comically big for later Rome’s defence, continued to deserve bricks, mortar, and care throughout the early Middle Ages.20 But the materials needed to fix the wall were readily available in situ, and keeping enemies out of the city did not, like roofing basilicas, require a complicated set of political and ecological arrangements that connected Rome with the Apennine highlands of central Italy, or even remoter places (see Figure 9.2). Late antique basilicas differed from Rome’s other grand masonry monuments. Like the temples, and unlike most other imperial-age buildings, they had massive wood roofs. And unlike the temples, they were designed to facilitate indoor activities, so the condition of their roofs was important to their functioning. Moreover, the basilicas were the shrines of the city’s most revered Compared’, shows that even the most determined late ancient patrons struggled to equal the scale of Rome’s monumental buildings. 18 See Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople, pp. 5–9 and 50, for Rome’s population fluctuation. 19 Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages, pp.  38–91, and CoatesStephens, ‘The Walls and Aqueducts’. 20 Dey, The Aurelian Wall.

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 195

Figure 9.2. Early Medieval Central Italy and the Papal territories. Reproduced with permission.

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

196

saints, and between their walls the founders and protectors of the Christian community were really present through their relics. The saints’ burials demanded honour. If late antique rulers could ‘easily offend traditional expectations’ of the Romans and neglect ancient monuments, this was not true of the grand churches.21 In effect, Christian imperial magnificence had saddled people of a later age with a gigantic form of maintenance work that they could not escape.22 Over the basilicas, roofs that let in debris, birds, sunlight, or rainfall were simply inconceivable. Writing in the mid-tenth century, Liudprand of Cremona captured this best when he proved the utter inadequacy of Pope John XII by pointing out that during his pontificate the roofs of the apostles’ churches in Rome leaked ‘non stillatim’ (not just a few drops) but ‘supra ipsa etiam sacrosancta altaria imbrem’ (downpours onto the very altars), and that the pious feared death lurking in the roofs, so creaky and precarious were the beams.23 What Liudprand’s satire made explicit at the end of the first millennium applies to the whole postclassical epoch: poorly maintained roofs on basilicas signified deep moral failings and potentially delegitimized those responsible for keeping these soaring wooden structures in good repair.24 For the city’s later administrators, then, an awkward legacy of Rome’s late antique political and religious centrality was the recurring postclassical ‘serious headache’ of repairing enormous roofs.25 The size of the tie beams and rafters straddling the naves and aisles of Roman basilicas made these objects as heavy and unwieldy as the monolithic columns favoured by Roman builders. The eight grey granite pillars in front of the 21

Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople, p. 40. Constantine evidently knew his monuments required upkeep, and may have created endowments specifically for their maintenance: Marazzi, I ‘Patrimonia Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae’ nel Lazio, pp. 25–47. 23 Liudprand of Cremona, Historia Ottonis 4, ed. by Chiesa, p. 171: ‘sanctorum apostolorum ecclesiae, quae non stillatim pluviam, sed totus intrinsecus supra ipsa etiam sacrosancta altaria imbrem admittunt. Quanto nos terrore tigna afficiunt! Cum divinam opem eodem deposcimus, mors in tectis regnat, quae nos orare multa volentes impedit atque domum Domini mox linquere cogit’. In the 780s Pope Hadrian I used similar rhetoric to motivate Charlemagne and obtain roofing materials (lead, as well as beams): Codex Carolinus 78, ed. by Gundlach, p. 610, claimed St Peter’s ‘tempus verni ab aquis nimis invalescit’. Thorough commentary is in Hack, Codex Carolinus, pp. 847–53, who mentions the letters’ ‘Dramatisierung’ and ‘Dringlichkeitsrhetorik’. 24 McCormick, Charlemagne’s Survey of the Holy Land, pp.  45, 144–48, shows the keen interest in, and anxiety about, church roof maintenance in Carolingian court circles. Charlemagne criticized Byzantine roof repair in the Libri Carolini: people who could not fix leaky roofs were ideologically unreliable (pp. 195–96). 25 Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages, p. 62. 22

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 197

Pantheon are 14.15 m high and have a diameter of 1.48 m; their weight has been calculated as 50 tons each. Even the cylinders of marble into which Trajan’s column was segmented weigh between 25 and 77 tons.26 Similarly, a silver fir tie beam of 25 m, with sides 50x30 cm, would weigh roughly 3 tons (depending on how seasoned the wood was).27 The log from which to hew such a beam, complete with its bark, would be over 30 m long and weigh almost twice as much.28 Moving long logs, roof beams, and monoliths required immense labour; and if the wood weighed somewhat less than the granite, and floated on water, in a basilica it had to be lifted higher (some basilica roofs are 30 m above the ground). Since the naves of monumental basilicas like St Peter’s had twenty trusses (at St Paul’s each truss used two beams) and forty rafters, even without considering all the beams used in the aisles there was a lot of heavy lumber to lift and shift.29 Thus, to form an idea of how Roman labourers and beasts of burden moved roof beams from the banks of the Tiber to the basilicas, or how the loggers further upstream dealt with the logs Rome required, it is entirely appropriate to look at the base of the hippodrome obelisk in Constantinople, where sculptors memorialized the achievement of the emperor Theodosios, who had the obelisk brought from Egypt to the New Rome on the Bosporus, and erected on the Hippodrome’s spina. The logistics were comparable. So were the economic and social complications: in the late 590s, when Pope Gregory the Great supplied several shiploads of long beams to Alexandria’s arsenal, and sought from Calabria twenty logs ‘valde necessarias’ (urgently needed) for the roofs at St Peter’s and St Paul’s, he was justifiably proud of his achievement.30 Getting 26

Lancaster, ‘Roman Engineering and Construction’, pp. 258–59. The calculation is based on data from the US Forest Service, Forest Products Laboratory Technical Notes B-15 (1919), ; our thanks to Bill Banzhaf for this reference. The size of St Paul’s tie beams is clear from eighteenth- to nineteenth-century accounts (48 × 31cm × 30 m). Early medieval Romans knew ‘green’ (unseasoned) wood should not be used in roofing: Codex Carolinus 65, ed. by Gundlach, p. 593, from ad 779–80. 28 Meiggs, Trees and Timber, pp. 332–34, believed logs were squared at timber yards, not at work sites. 29 For the burden of maintaining a large basilica over the long term, see Camerlenghi, St. Paul’s Outside the Walls. 30 Alexandria: Gregory the Great, Registrum epistularum vi. 61, vii. 28, ix. 76, x. 21, ed. by Norberg, pp.  435, 550, 733, 855–56. Rome: Gregory the Great, Registrum epistularum ix. 25–28, ed. by Norberg, pp. 675–78: ‘trabes necessariae omnino’ and ‘trabes valde necessarias’. Gregory’s interventions at St Paul’s endured less than a century before a certain Eusebius claimed to (again) fix the roof there with ‘shingles, decking, nails, and all the required materials’. On dating this endeavour, see Liverani, ‘S. Paolo F.L.M. e i restauri di Eusebius’. 27

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

198

beams to cover the great churches of Rome no doubt compelled all Rome’s postclassical rulers to perform similar organizational and diplomatic feats. In a ‘sweat-powered’ economy, to move by land heavy and cumbersome objects like thirty-metre tree trunks or twenty-five-metre beams was both expensive and hard.31 Waterways were decisive. In classical times lumber had floated down the Tiber, presumably from forests in the middle and upper reaches of the river’s watershed.32 But then much wood also moved towards Rome by sea. From the sixth century, the rivers remained without rivals, and after Gregory I’s pontificate we hear of few sea-faring logs associated with Rome.33 In postclassical times, labour scarcity and Rome’s reduced political footprint gave gushing waterways relatively close to towering forests in the central Apennines new import. In practice the Tiber River, and its navigable tributaries like the Aniene, were the prime conveyors of lumber for Roman basilica roofs. Imagining a logjam in the eighth century, Leontios reflected the ongoing importation of logs from north and east of Rome along the region’s main waterways. Indeed, when in the 780s Pope Hadrian I nagged Charlemagne about an old promise to send ‘major beams’ to Rome for church roof repair, he suggested that supplies ‘in partibus Spoletii’ (from the lands of Spoleto) were best since ‘in nostris finibus tale lignamen minime reperitur’ (such lumber is scarcely found in Rome’s territory).34 The duchy of Spoleto included the basin of the Nera River, which originates in the Sibillini range of the Apennines, flows into the Tiber at Orte, and is one of Italy’s most constant and bountiful watercourses: today it contributes two-thirds of the Tiber’s annual average flow and greatly improves its navigability downstream.35 In Late Antiquity, Rome’s far-flung networks of procurement shrank, and with them the ecological possibilities for roofing. When the Roman Empire flourished, huge trees might come from an array of places, including the Alps, Corsica, and the Calabrian Sila.36 Generations later, Roman roof repairers had 31

Russell, The Economics of the Roman Stone Trade, pp. 96–109, usefully compares overland and water transport for large, heavy items. Meiggs, Trees and Timber, pp. 332–46, 354–56, judiciously weighed pros and cons of water and land transport for wood. 32 Harris, ‘Bois et déboisement’, p. 123, on this movement in early Roman history (integrated with wood imports from Ostia in imperial times: pp. 124–31). 33 Diosono, ‘Il commercio del legname’, offers the best survey of Tiber valley wood supply in Antiquity and the Middle Ages. See also Meiggs, Trees and Timber, pp. 336–37, 354. 34 Codex Carolinus 65, ed. by Gundlach, p. 593. 35 Spoleto was an important purveyor to ancient Rome: Meiggs, Trees and Timber, pp. 245, 371, 378. 36 In the second century it proved impossible to procure trunks long enough to reroof the

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 199

to turn to central Italy’s mountains. In the Apennines few species of tree grow tall enough without tapering to afford a beam long enough to span the nave of a basilica like St Peter’s. Norway spruce (Picea excelsa) grows fast to well over 20 m tall, and would have been a suitable source of tie beams. But despite Pliny, it was rare in ancient Italy.37 A better prospect would be mature silver fir, so admired by Roman builders, and whose tendency in mixed woodlands to shed its lower branches keeps its trunk free of knots, easier to square. In central Italy this tree only grows well at high elevations (800–1800 m asl), because it requires deep, cool soils, low temperatures, and much water.38 Abies alba is also a patient tree and can take eighty years to grow a stem capable of offering a 25 m beam.39 Its ecological requirements reduced the possible sites for procurement and made getting trees long enough to become tie beams into the lowland city of Rome especially difficult. But silver fir appears to have been the tree of choice for the long components of basilicas’ roofs.40 Indeed, the tie beams of St Paul’s, a few of which seem to have survived from late ancient times to 1823, when the church burned down, were called silver fir by French architects of the Napoleonic period.41 In sum, the end of empire created a tighter ecological bond between Rome, its rulers, and the highland forests of central Italy. The inelastic demand for roofing elements compelled the powerful in Rome, including eventually the bishops, to worry about areas with the special environmental characteristics Augustan-era Diribitorium (at 31 m the widest wood covering in Rome): Meiggs, Trees and Timber, p. 255. 37 Chiarugi, ‘Ricerche sulla vegetazione’, pp. 131–33. Pliny references from Natural History xvi. 14, 18, and 25. 38 Fenaroli, Alberi, p. 60. Pavari, Esperienze e indagini. Conifer pollen was scarce in the Apennines near Rieti, but increased c. 400, c. 600, and in the tenth century: Mensing and others, ‘2700 years of Mediterranean Environmental Change in Central Italy’, p. 84. 39 Adam, La Construction romaine, p. 91. Pavari, Esperienze e indagini, p. 92 (referring to growth rates in the Calabrian Serre). 40 There is little research on the species currently supporting Roman church coverings, but chestnut, oak, and silver fir prevail. See Camerlenghi, ‘Interpreting Medieval Architecture through Renovations’, p. 275, and Brandenburg, Cramer, and Valeriani, ‘Indagini architettoniche’. Most such wood is early modern, but a short chestnut beam from the NE crossing at S. Stefano Rotondo (p. 185), replaced in 1984, has growth rings that date it to the sixth decade of the fifth century. Observers in the 1300s thought Constantine used oak (arbore) at St Peter’s: Bonanni, Numismata, p. 36. 41 Letarouilly, Édifices de Rome moderne, pp. 83–84. Rondelet, Traité théorique, pp. 168–78, who inspected St Paul’s before 1823, is the key identifier of the fir: Courtenay, ‘Timber Roofs and Spires’, p. 200. The detailed French drawings of St Paul’s roof derive from G. Panini’s 1741 painting of the church now in Moscow (see Figure 9.3).

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

200

Figure 9.3. Giovanni Paolo Pannini, Interior of San Paolo fuori le mura, 1750. See also Plate II, p. xiii.

needed to grow the right kind of tree. Procuring roofing material was challenging, but those who solved the eco-logistical conundrum won great rewards.

Reading Early Medieval Roof Beams Late antique Rome was full of people vying to fill the shoes of the emperor, from senatorial families to barbarian kings to the city’s bishops.42 Until well into the fifth century popes, in fact, faced serious obstacles to expressing their power in monuments, including a decentralized church patrimony, a competitive aristocracy, and legislation that excluded their participation in renovation works.43 In Rome the institutions of empire were deeply rooted, making 42 In the late fifth and early sixth century, the senate ‘was corporately more concerned with the city administration than with the wider aspects of government’, Llewellyn, Rome in the Dark Ages, p. 26. 43 Marazzi, I ‘Patrimonia Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae’ nel Lazio, p. 33.

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 201

magistrates like the urban prefect far more influential in the maintenance of the city’s fabric than popes.44 In Symmachus’s late fourth-century dispatches to the emperor, we can trace the long line of civic officials that managed the process of repairing the pons Theodosii and building a new roof at St Paul Outside the Walls, jobs commissioned simultaneously by the emperor.45 Although he was headquartered in Ravenna, Theoderic the Ostrogoth’s classicizing instincts drove him to care for Rome’s monumental architecture, including the public infrastructure that connected the Tiber ceramic industry with Roman wharves (the portus Licini) whence urban buildings got their roofing tiles.46 A decade later, the Gothic king ordered the construction of a navy from the resources of Italy, ‘ubi tanta lignorum copia suffragatur’ (where the abundance of wood lends itself to such things).47 While we have no trace of Theoderic using his prodigious arboreal patrimony to build roofs, Cassiodorus’s letters highlight an enduring non-papal control of both the infrastructure and resources necessary to make a physical mark in Rome.48 In the mid-fifth century, the architectonic arm of papal power began to flex in small ways, beginning with the construction of St Mary ‘ad praesepe’ and the completion of a large roofing project. In the 440s Pope Leo restored the roof on St Paul’s, no doubt to ensure better protection for the series of mosaic papal portraits he installed along the nave walls.49 He recorded the act on a slab of marble that hung over the main door.50 Still, it took the convulsions of the Gothic War for the popes finally to emerge as masters of timber in the Eternal City. By 596, Pope Gregory could exert authority not only over his see, 44

On late antique praefecti urbis and their role maintaining buildings in Rome, see Chastagnol, La Préfecture urbaine, pp. 335–71. 45 Symmachus, Relationes, ed. by Seeck, pp. 299–301. At this time urban prefect Symmachus was charged with finishing an inquiry into engineering delays on the pons Theodosii and cleared Cyriades, a senator and ‘comes et mechanicae professor’. This episode sheds light on how large building projects were conducted in the late fourth century; the emperor paid two Roman senators (both of whom were accused of charging exorbitant prices and then doing a bad job), and the quality control was overseen by the urban prefect. 46 Cassiodorus, Variae 1.25, ed. by Mommsen, p. 28. On Theoderic’s programme of restoration more generally, see Johnson, ‘Toward a History’. 47 Cassiodorus, Variae 5.16, ed. by Mommsen, pp. 152–53. Apennine rivers likely delivered the lumber to Classe: a few decades earlier Sidonius claimed they spewed more logs into the Adriatic than water (Sidonius, Poems and Letter, trans. by Anderson, p. 98). 48 Ecclesiastical roofing was not the only administrative task late antique popes struggled to appropriate: Humphries, ‘From Emperor to Pope?’. 49 Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, pp. 98–99, 162–63. 50 The inscription in the triumphal arch refers to Leo’s zeal (studio) for this church’s splendour.

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

202

but also over other Mediterranean patriarchs through his control of trees. That year he sent the first in a series of five letters to Eulogius, Bishop of Alexandria, who wanted timbers for making ships.51 Gregory ended one epistle with a bit of bravado, claiming that he could have sent bigger timbers, but for the inadequate ship on which they were to be ferried to Egypt (presumably supplied by Eulogius).52 Emphasizing his ecological mastery, Gregory later declined to accept payment from Eulogius, saying that because ‘nos enim ea quae transmittimus ligna non emimus’ (we did not purchase those timbers that we send over), biblical injunction preventing him from profiting on the gift.53 Of course such timbers were not free, even for Peter’s vicar. Letters written by Gregory in the year 599 present the best evidence for the connections and resources required to obtain timbers capable of spanning Roman basilicas during the early Middle Ages. The pontiff initiated the process of acquiring twenty timbers to replace beams in the basilicas of St Peter and St Paul by writing to the magister militum of Naples, Maurentius, who was expected to facilitate the exchange by spurring the Lombard duke of Benevento into action, and helping the subdeacon Savinus cut and move logs in Calabria.54 Lacking sufficient labour to move the Calabrian timbers to the sea for their journey to Rome, which involved crossing from the Lombard highlands of the region to the Byzantine port of Vibo, Gregory also sent a letter to the papal estate’s wealthy neighbour, asking that he piously contribute the sweat of his tenants and oxen to help deliver the future beams to the Tyrrhenian coast.55 Men and oxen for tugging the felled timbers were also to come from a local bishop called Stephen, whose burdensome obligations were laid out in a separate letter.56 Thus, to get roof elements to Rome a patron had to deal with bishops, Lombard potentates, 51

See note 30, above. For background, see Martyn, ‘Six Notes’. Gregory the Great, Registrum epistularum vii. 37, ed. by Norberg, pp. 485–86: Gregory said it was shameful (verecundum) to send small pieces of timber to Alexandria. In the same letter, Gregory briefly mentioned that, in addition to the timber, he sent along six Aquitanian cloaks and two cloths. If Gregory’s treatment of the gifts serves as any indication of their value, the timbers were far more impressive than the textiles. 53 Gregory the Great, Registrum epistularum viii. 28, ed. by Norberg, p. 550. Gregory cited Matthew 10. 8 on ‘freely’ receiving/giving. 54 Gregory the Great, Registrum epistularum ix. 125, ed. by Norberg, pp. 675–76. 55 Gregory the Great, Registrum epistularum ix. 126, ed. by Norberg, pp. 676–77. Noyé, ‘Les premiers siècles’, p. 460, identifies Vibona as the beams’ embarkation point. The Serre still have south Italy’s main fir woodland. 56 Gregory the Great, Registrum epistularum ix. 128, ed. by Norberg, p. 678. 52

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 203

retired imperial officials, lumberjacks, labourers, beasts of burden, and carters, as well as shippers and merchants. In Pope Leo’s inscription and the letters of Pope Gregory, we can detect the very real pressures and possibilities of roofing in the postclassical period. When necessary, late antique pontiffs could summon the resources and connections to bring large timbers to Rome, where they were elevated for a few centuries before the relentless cycle would begin again. Given that trusses were replaced on a ‘need-to’ basis (thus Gregory brought only twenty beams for both St Paul’s and St Peter’s) — there seem to have rarely been whole ‘tear offs’ from early medieval buildings — a building’s composite roof structure was a metaphor for the collective efforts to honour a holy patron of the earthly patrons that had come before. The repetitive nature of repairing roofs and their piecemeal construction made roofing concerns rhetorically potent not only for individual pontiffs, whose life spans could not match those of the beams, but also for the institution of the papacy in the early Middle Ages. As Leontios’s story of the Tiber logjam shows, early medieval timber logistics created a space for the expression of holiness, as well as patronage. The presence of roofing narratives in various genres from Rome and elsewhere confirms church-covering was a widely understood idiom of power in the first millennium. According to Jonas, for instance, Columban carried huge fir beams on his shoulders from places in the Val Trebbia where ‘aditum plaustrorum denegabat’ (even beasts of burden could not approach), in order to raise ‘tecta itaque templi culmina’ (the highest roof of the church) at Bobbio.57 In the same period, historians like Gregory of Tours expressed Merovingian sanctity through miraculously lengthened roofing beams.58 For Rome, the Liber Pontificalis (LP), a serial biography of the city’s bishops from Peter to the ninth century, offers precisely the kind of institutional history of the papacy where 57

Vita Columbani, ed. by Krusch, p. 222. The first and most prominent miracle of Saint Laurentius in Gregory of Tours’s Liber in Gloria Martyrum (41) pertained to a roofing beam. In rehabilitating a church that housed the saint’s relics his followers ‘silvas adeunt, incisa levigataque ligna, trabes efficient, inpositisque plaustris ad locum exhibent’ (went to the forest, cut and planed trees, made beams, placed them on carts, and brought them to the shrine). At the building site, however, one beam was found to be too short, until Laurentius miraculously lengthened it. Not wanting to waste any of the holy wood, the locals splintered the remaining timber and used it as medicine. For this episode, see Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, trans. by Van Dam, pp. 40–41, with the Latin ed. by Krusch, pp. 515–16. Van Dam, ‘Images of Saint Martin’, was among the first to think seriously about the material settings of hagiography, weaving together church murals, sonic space, and the written words of Gregory of Tours. 58

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

204

we might expect to find descriptions of the roofing exploits of successive popes. Yet roof beams were deployed surprisingly late in the LP’s nine-hundred-year narrative of Roman bishops, despite their potency as an expression of patronage in the postclassical age. How should we read the LP’s early neglect of the rhetoric of roofing? To understand the Liber Pontificalis’s take on roofs requires understanding the book itself. For despite a claim of continuity from Peter onwards, the text had its origins in the sixth century, around the start of the Gothic War. From there, it seems to have been periodically brought up-to-date until enthusiasm for the project faded in the ninth century. Although the pre-530s material was ancient history to the first writers, they seem to have used earlier, authentic documents — possibly church inventories — in order to fill in the biographies of popes in the post-Constantinian era. Like identifying the text’s sources, identifying the authors of the biographies is a thorny issue, although most agree that they were routinely clerics from the Lateran patriarchate.59 It is even possible that the responsibility for recording lives of Rome’s pontiffs passed between offices, and that several accounts were completed well after a pope’s death.60 The project of the LP, then, was not about celebrating the achievements of any one pope — authors were often critical of individual decisions — but about demonstrating the continuity and importance of the office of Bishop of Rome whose excellent administration the text puts in the spotlight. For the earliest redactors of the LP, those of the 530s and 540s, the buildings of Rome and the precious vessels that filled them were the primary grammar for expressing pontifical influence. In fact, a lexical stability for terms of construction in the first five centuries of pontiffs — these include fecit, construxit, restauravit, constituit, dedicavit — mark the first half of the LP as the work of a single author who used those words with some precision.61 Despite the centrality of structural achievements in this narrative, timber beams were of little importance in this early part of the LP’s effort to establish the authority of Rome’s bishops, with two exceptions. First, in the biography of Pope Silvester the largest single expenditure by Constantine in the Lateran basilica was directed towards the ‘camera’ of that building, a suspended 59

Noble, ‘A New Look’, believed the text derived from the notarial office of the Lateran. Geertman, ‘Documenti, redattori e la formazione’, on the other hand, thought that the LP derived primarily from the vestiarium. 60 Geertman, ‘La genesi del Liber Pontificalis romano’. 61 After the first redaction (c. 540), the words used to describe papal building activities become more fluid. See Geertman, More Veterum, pp. 184–93.

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 205

ceiling.62 This was a massive wooden grid that hung from the tie-beams and framed a matrix of coffered panels, sometimes painted and gilded.63 Given its role hiding the trusses of that basilica and the lateral tension such a structure would add to the long beams across the nave, it is certainly appropriate to categorize the ‘camera’ as part of the roofing apparatus. However, it was not the technological or logistical wonder of the ‘camera’ that enchanted the LP’s first redactor, but its reflective properties — it carried five hundred pounds of gold foil, the author proudly reported. The significance of mixed materiality also shapes the interpretation of the second exception to the general lack of attention to beams in the first redaction of the LP. In the life of Pope Hormisdas (514–23), the author claimed that the pontiff erected a traba (beam) at the basilica dedicated to the apostle Peter, which ‘ex argento cooperuit, qui pens. lib. Ī XL’ (he covered in silver, weighing 1040 pounds).64 As with the gilded ceiling at the Lateran basilica, Hormisdas’s beam was remarkable not for its great length, weight, or girth, but rather for the amount of silver it carried. In both instances, the precious metals actually disguised the organic nature of the roof. This metal-covered beam, like other similar gleaming beams elsewhere in the LP, probably was located near the transept, possibly framing the apse or signalling the space reserved for clerics.65 These ornamented beams, then, might best be interpreted as part of the luminescent climax of a basilica around the altar, where artificial lighting, polished marble revetment, glass tesserae, and gold and silver liturgical equipment set off a distinct and special space. 62

Liverani, ‘“Camerae” e coperture’, pp. 13–27. The Lateran’s original coffered ceiling no longer exists, but compelling archaeological discoveries from Herculaneum suggest in miniature what this ceiling would have looked like: Camardo and Notomista, ‘The Roof and Suspended Ceiling’. The significance of resplendent ceilings in late antique and early medieval contexts can be detected in the poetry of Prudentius and the apse inscription in St Stephen Rotondo, which told viewers ‘Aspicis auratu caelesti culmine tectum Astriferumque micans preclare lumine fultum’ (You look on a golden roof with heavenly apex and a starry face shining with brilliant light). See Thunø, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome, pp. 214 and 48–49. 64 Liber Pontificalis (LP), ed. by Duchesne, p. 271. 65 Other metallic beams in the LP help to contextualize Hormisdas’s. In the biography of Gregory III (ch. 5), for instance, the silvered beam was explicitly placed on a set of onyx columns in front of the presbyterium of St Peter’s basilica. In the biography of Leo III (ch. 59), the covered beam, also in St Peter’s basilica, came under the triumphal arch and weighed 1453 lbs., a number in the same ballpark as Hormisdas’s beam. These parallels suggest that the silvered beams were not technically roof beams, but rather formed architraves for a chancel delineation called a fastigium. On that structure, see Geertman, ‘Il fastigium lateranense e l’arredo presbiteriale’. 63

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

206

Though they experienced firsthand Rome’s sagging, postwar urban fabric and the very real roofing interventions of popes like Gregory or Hormisdas, until about 640 authors of the LP saw little need to record feats of timber, as opposed to adornment of ceilings. Since early medieval narrators outside of the Lateran patriarchate dedicated much space to issues of roofing, the LP’s relative indifference to such matters up to the 640s is striking. It is important to recall, however, how brief those individual biographies are, and in their frequent excision of seemingly important things (in addition to roof beams) like councils and shifts in doctrine the LP represented ‘an exceptional effort of compression’.66 Of course the goal of the biographers was not strict historicity (certainly not in any sense we would recognize), but rather ideological. Narrative patterns, not singular details, betray the process of biographical abridgment from the LP’s first redaction through the seventh century. For the early authors, continuity in papal benefactions in the form of precious metals, the consecration of bishops and priests, and the construction of new religious buildings were the primary demonstrations of solicitude. From the middle of the seventh century, however, the use of timber increasingly rebalanced the scales: other rhetorical modes of authority developed. It was the biographers of Pope Honorius (625–38) who changed tack. They described the pope repairing sixteen trabes (beams) of the twenty tie-beams in the basilica of St Peter.67 Honorius then covered that church with bronze tiles taken from the Temple of Venus and Roma in the Forum. Though Honorius’s triumphant roof repairs found no imitation in the decades following (for reasons we discuss below), the theme re-emerged in the life of Sergius (687–701). According to his biographer, that pope repaired the roof on the porticos around St Paul’s by replacing beams in that structure from trees brought from Calabria, replicating Gregory I’s achievement.68 Sergius also was credited with roofing St Cosmas and Damian with lead sheets, as well as putting a cover on the basilicas dedicated to St Eufemia in Rome and St Aurea in Ostia.69 Sergius’s 66

Costambeys and Leyser, ‘To Be the Neighbour of St Stephen’, p. 268. LP 72, ed. by Duchesne, p. 323. 68 LP 86, ed. by Duchesne, p. 375: ‘Hic tegnum et cubicula universa in circuitu basilicae beati Pauli apostoli, quae longa per tempora vetustate confecta fuerant, studiosius innovavit ac reparavit’. Duchesne, n. 33, puts this as the portico. The LP here inaugurated the term Calabria (vs. Bruttium). 69 LP 86, ed. by Duchesne, p. 375–76: ‘trullum vero eiusdem basilicae fusis chartis plumbeis cooperuit atque munivit […]. Hic basilicam sanctae Eufemiae, quae per multa tempora fuerat distecta, cooperuit ac renovavit. His basilicam sanctae Aureae in Hostis, quae similiter fuerat distecta vel disrupta, cooperuit suoque studio renovavit’. 67

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 207

author was so attentive to building tops that he staked claim to a neologism, distecta – unroofed, the term applied to St Eufemia and St Aurea’s basilicas before Sergius’s work there. The twin lives of Popes Gregory II and Gregory III pick up the roofing enthusiasm from Sergius’s life, and together they represent the apex of timber-mania in the LP before the advent of Charlemagne. Like his predecessor, Gregory II added parts for a new roof at the basilica of St Paul, which he covered ‘allatis de Calabria trabibus’ (with tall beams from Calabria).70 Likewise, Gregory II’s author inserted new kinds of language about the dysfunctional nature of Rome’s roofs, saying that the pontiff had to spring into action at the church of St Laurence because ‘trabibus confractis’ (with cracked beams) it was near to ruin, much like the Holy Jerusalem Church (Santa Croce) which wore its neglect on top: it was distecta before he rounded up new beams for it.71 And in Gregory III’s biography, we see the patron rewarding those who supported his ascendency to Peter’s throne, since one of his first acts was renewing the roof at the titular church of St Chrysogonus, his previous station before elevation at the Lateran: roofing had secured its place in Rome’s eighth-century political economy and narratives. After the reward to his mother church, the hum of new roofs going up in the biography of Gregory III is constant: he ‘fecit […] tectum’ (fashioned a [new] roof ) at the basilica of the blessed St Andrew at St Peter’s, ‘construxit […] novis fabricis cum tecto’ (constructed [the basilica of St Callistus] from new material with a roof ), ‘tectum […] a novo construxit’ (constructed a new roof ) in the basilica of SS Processus and Martinianus, and ‘tectum noviter restauravit’ (newly restored the roof ) of the church of blessed martyr Genesius. For St Paul’s and St Mary Major, the author enumerates trabes (beams) — five each — that the pontiff replaced in those buildings.72 Indeed, so frequently do the authors of the eighth-century LP describe repairs to the roof that some scholars have assumed that phrase was shorthand for general repairs to the buildings.73 70

LP 91, ed. by Duchesne, p. 397. LP 92, ed. by Duchesne, p. 397. 72 LP 92, ed. by Duchesne, p. 419: ‘Item in ecclesia beati Pauli apostoli mutavit trabes num. V atque totum eiusdem basilicae tectum ab arco altaris et usque ad regias recursit ac restauravit. Mutavit autem trabes in sancta Dei genetrice ad Praesepe num. V’. 73 Tectum, in this argument, is a form of synecdoche for the whole building. Thus, when Sergius repaired a ‘roof ’, he in fact tidied up the walls and flooring, too. Given its late development in the biographies of the LP, this seems like an unlikely innovation. For discussion, see Liverani, ‘“Camerae” e coperture’, p. 20, and Deichmann, ‘Untersuchungen zu Dach’. 71

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

208

Given the LP’s ideological grounding, we ought not treat the rise in pontifical roofing activity in the seventh century as random architectural remembrances, but rather attempt to interpret the authors’ attention to such matters as a deliberate response to deeper historical shifts. The long absence of roofing matters (with the exception of metallic coatings), followed by the series of beams lifted by popes from Honorius to Hadrian, was sparked by an institutional effort to renegotiate the shared nature of political power in Rome. As recently argued by McKitterick, the seventh- and eighth-century authors of the LP deliberately shaped the vitae to represent a Western version of orthodoxy, vis-à-vis their Byzantine (Monothelite) counterparts.74 The idiom of roofing laced throughout the later seventh- and eighth-century pontificates was an ecologically informed discourse that could be used to signal both approval of and displeasure with the emperor. Buildings and their constitutive parts gained rhetorical value in Rome during this era because political power was mediated through Chapter 25 of Justinian’s Pragmatic Sanction, a document that transferred ownership of public property to Constantinople after the Gothic Wars.75 The Pragmatic Sanction established the legal terms of cooperation between popes and emperors. Early in the seventh century those two institutions could find common ground and political victories through the agreement. The conversion of the Pantheon into a church under Boniface IV (608–15) was the first recorded instance of imperial permission for the bishops to use public property. Shortly thereafter Honorius I (625–38) successfully negotiated papal harvesting of imperial roof tiles from the Temple of Venus and Roma. While the minutiae of roofing might seem an odd point for these authors to note (Abu Bakr’s invasion of Byzantium received less attention, for instance), their significance lies in the record of harmonious property transfer as set out in the Pragmatic Sanction. Roof elements were symbolic of how post-imperial Rome might be managed. It was in the same biography that the first elevation of timbers appeared under the imperially sponsored guidance of Pope Honorius. Wooden beams finally found resonance among the authors of the LP because they spoke both to ecological mastery, increasingly in local terms, and to a recalibration of relations with Constantinople.76 74

McKitterick, ‘The Papacy and Byzantium’, pp. 256–62. Novellae, ed. by Schoell and Kroll, pp. 799–802. In addition to public property, it explicitly stated that the Byzantine administration had an obligation to maintain the Tiber banks, the Forum, the Port of Rome, and the aqueducts. 76 In this period religious and political beams converged also in the True Cross, commonly referred to as holy wood or beams. For context, see Baert, A Heritage of Holy Wood, pp. 133–93. 75

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 209

Cooperation between pope and emperor was short lived due to the explosive disagreement over Monothelitism in the mid-seventh century.77 Pope Martin I, who convened the anti-Monothelite-council at the Lateran in 649, was arrested at the Lateran and forcibly exiled by Constans II, ending the age of collaboration. Constans II later launched an expedition into southern Italy, where he beat back Lombard incursions; during it he honoured Peter’s vicar with a twelve-day visit to Rome. The LP’s account of the emperor, however, was tinged with the language of resentment. The author strangely recounted Constans’s visit to Rome by noting that he stripped the city of its bronze ornament.78 More specifically, he peeled off the bronze tiles from the porch of the Pantheon, by then known as the church of St Mary ‘ad martyres’.79 Readers of the Pragmatic Sanction knew that building was still technically the property of Constantinople, making Constans’s de-roofing perfectly legal; but the LP writer’s attention to roof tiles served as a statement about the kind of patron Constantinople had become. Architectural despoliation, and specifically deroofing, was an apt metaphor for an emperor who had undermined papal authority on a number of fronts.80 The Pantheon’s roof neatly encapsulated both a perverse exercise of imperial authority and a bishopric hamstrung by the city’s absentee landlord. The practical impact of the Pragmatic Sanction was to ‘shutter’ a good portion of real estate in Rome, where many grand and august buildings had trickled into the fisc over the course of Late Antiquity. When Theodosius outlawed all pagan practices in 392, cities in the East went to work dismantling and alienating temples. In Rome, on the other hand, public temples were not allowed to fall into private hands. A long line of emperors — from Constantius and Constans to Arcadius and Honorius to Leo and Majorian — issued more laws directing Rome’s urban prefect to prevent alienation of such property.81 Theoderic maintained imperial precedence and worked actively to preserve the public buildings under his care.82 A string of legislation entangled a vast range of pagan buildings in Rome in the imperial fisc. One of the unintended consequences of the Pragmatic Sanction, then, was that Constantinople took control not just of Rome’s useful (and ideologically potent) armature, but also of a pool of 77 78 79 80 81 82

Ekonomou, Byzantine Rome and the Greek Popes, pp. 113–41. Ekonomou, Byzantine Rome and the Greek Popes, pp. 158–81. LP 78, ed. by Duchesne, p. 343. Noble, ‘Rome in the Seventh Century’. Schuddeboom, ‘The Conversion of Temples in Rome’, pp. 178–79. Cassiodorus, Variae 3.31, ed. by Mommsen, pp. 95–96.

210

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

neglected structures that had been held in legal limbo for more than two centuries. Rome’s unusual history of temple preservation created the specific context for the celebration of the Pantheon’s transfer to papal control in 609. But for every Pantheon, hundreds of other imperial buildings bearing evident signs of neglect and decay had no recourse to alienation.83 The most obvious sign that Rome’s chief landlord was elsewhere, and distracted, could be seen best in the most vulnerable component of any building, its roof. The period after the Lateran Council of 649 and the arrest of Pope Martin saw a brief rapprochement of Rome and Constantinople, culminating in peace with the Lombards and the Sixth Ecumenical Council of 680–81.84 Authors of the LP were keen to note cordial diplomatic relations between the two, and emperors stayed mostly out of Roman affairs for two decades. The contested election of Pope Sergius (over the exarch’s candidate), however, and his intransigent attitude regarding attendance at the Quinisext Council, drew the emperor’s attention back onto the Eternal City. Ostensibly to bring Sergius to Constantinople for forced participation in the council, Justinian II sent his spatharius (sword-bearer) to collect the pope at Rome. This time, however, the soldiers of the Pentapolis and Ravenna rose up to defend the pontiff from extradition. The dynamics of the papal-Byzantine alliance had shifted; when aligned with Italian allies, Rome could stand against Constantinople.85 Indeed, Sergius’s beams represent the assertion of a new degree of papal independence, freed from the constraints of Byzantine legalities. In fact, even the adjective invented in Sergius’s biography to describe the need for pontifical interventions — distecta (an unroofed building) — seems deliberately to invoke Constans’s pillaging of the Pantheon’s roof. Put succinctly, a roofing pope like Sergius had particular resonance at the end of the seventh century, as his deeds captured the notion of a caring and watchful patron that would protect the city’s infrastruc83 There is some thin evidence for imperial building and restoration activity in Rome: Coates-Stephens, ‘Byzantine Building Patronage’. Of the public places where Coates-Stephens identifies evidence for Byzantine patronage — the Ponte Salario, the Column of Phocas (and by extension the space of the Forum), the aqueducts, the walls, and the imperial palace — only the palace required vigilance associated with timber roofing. This stands in contrast to the range of ‘entertainment buildings’ with no signs of repair, the theatres, amphitheatres, and thermae. As suggested above, if pagan temples are added to this list, the vastness of derelict imperial property in Rome was overwhelming. Buildings with collapsing roofs, a good proportion owned by the emperor, dotted Rome’s seventh-century skyline. 84 Noble, The Republic of St Peter, pp. 1–14. 85 This was the opening phase of ‘the birth of the papal state’, amply discussed in Noble, The Republic of St Peter, pp. 1–60.

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 211

ture and its inhabitants. The crafted image of an institution that maintained the city’s holy buildings established a deliberate antithesis to the legal basis for Byzantine power in Rome, the Pragmatic Sanction. Simultaneous developments from the papal offices support interpreting the LP’s beams as a deliberate rhetorical feature that called attention to the material fabric of Rome, especially its holy sites, and the best ways to maintain it. For instance, Sergius’s beams line up chronologically with the development of the Ordo Romanus I, the rubric for stational liturgies in the Roman church.86 This ordo included processions that linked the Lateran basilica with the city’s other papal churches through the movements of the pope and his entourage; by the end of Sergius’s pontificate, there were 102 stations a pope visited throughout Rome over the course of a year.87 Such processions were not themselves new — they had existed for several generations — but the creation of a written document that metaphorically wove together the pope and Rome’s churches came from the same patriarchate that narrated the LP’s first major roofer.88 Moreover, this ordo has been interpreted as formal ceremonial meant to rival its imperial counterpart, an attempt to replace the civic rituals that were supposed to forge a sense of community in an earlier period.89 Given the centrality of beams for expressing notions of patronage and authority in early medieval Italy, it makes sense that the LP’s next ‘wave’ of roofing projects came in the vita of Pope Hadrian. His term overlapped with the final failure of the Byzantine emperor to protect papal lands from the Lombards, with the military conquests of Charlemagne in northern Italy, and with the ever more explicit establishment of papal sovereignty in central Italy. In fact, the life of Hadrian and his successor, Leo III, contain more accounts of roofing repairs than the rest of the LP combined. In one compelling episode, the author of Hadrian’s life described the efforts of the pontiff ’s vestiarius, Januarius, procuring proper timbers for the porticoes and nave at St Peter’s basilica.90 Read with that pontiff ’s letters to Charlemagne in this period, we 86 Ordo Romanus, ed. by Andrieu, pp. 66–108. Sergius initiated the inclusion of the Agnus Dei anthem in the liturgy, and it was included in the ordo before 800, suggesting that the document dates to his pontificate. 87 Saxer, ‘Recinzioni liturgiche’. 88 This was a long-term appropriation of ritual: Humphries, ‘From Emperor to Pope?’. 89 Llewellyn, Rome in the Dark Ages, pp. 126–27. 90 LP 97, ed. by Duchesne, p. 505: ‘Simili modo et in famosissima totque orbe terrarium preclara veneranda basilica beati Petri apostolorum principis, dum per olitana tempora vetustissimas trabes ibidem existebant, cernens isdem precipuus pontifex, mittens Ianuarium vestiarium

212

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

find Januarius collaborating with Charlemagne to acquire those beams.91 If, as Geertman believes, the vestiarius was the officer in the patriarchate responsible for writing up the biographies in the LP, we have here a satisfying denouement to earlier tensions between popes and Byzantine emperors. The LP evoked at length Hadrian’s glorious pontificate, during which Januarius had obtained huge logs for the roofs of Rome’s apostolic churches, quite possibly from the territories Charlemagne ‘confirmed’ to St Peter in 774.92 Hence the reorientation of the papacy, away from Constantinople and the lands subject to it, was mirrored in the sources of lumber supply for the roofs above Rome’s holy buildings.93 By procuring great beams to cover Rome’s basilicas from the central Apennines, Hadrian showed the Romans, as well as the Carolingians and Byzantines, who was the best earthly protector of Rome’s interests in the new geopolitical order.94 In the 790s, Charlemagne’s ‘survey’ of the Holy Land had required missi to examine Palestinian churches ‘starting from the roof ’. The pitiful condition of the buildings reflected in the report returned to him offered Charlemagne an opportunity to ‘outdo the Eastern emperors in their own backyard’.95 Perhaps taking cues from his new allies in Rome, and their subtle ideology of roofing, Charlemagne knew that the Byzantines were most vulnerable to attacks on their roofs. This was certainly a view authors of the LP since Sergius shared, and the biographer of Hadrian, Charlemagne’s favourite pope, adopted it with zeal.

Conclusion Getting a massive piece of wood off the mountainsides, into Rome, and on basilica roofs was an enormous undertaking, though it was only one part of the larger project of covering the city’s most important assets. Rome’s bishops, or at least their admiring biographers, underlined the achievement because suum, cognoscens eum idoneam personam, cum multitudine popoli, mutavit ibidem trabes numero XIIII; atque totum eiusem basilice tectum et portico a noviter restauravit’. 91 Codex Carolinus 65, ed. by Gundlach, p. 593. 92 See note 34, above. Though he received the lumber, that was all Hadrian managed, and Charlemagne retained control of Spoleto: Gasparri, Italia longobarda, pp. 124–53; West, ‘Charlemagne’s Involvement’. 93 Noyé, ‘L’Economie de la Calabre’, tracks Calabria’s gradual exit from Rome’s economic orbit. See also Hack, Codex Carolinus, pp. 852–53. 94 Gasparri, Voci dai secoli oscuri, pp. 135–50. 95 McCormick, Charlemagne’s Survey of the Holy Land, p. 195.

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 213

they thought it represented well their stewardship of the city, its saints, and its people. Even more, roofing Rome’s churches became a proof of the popes’ competence and legitimacy, and suggested just how inadequate were other authorities. If, as McKitterick maintained, the LP’s purpose is to ‘present the popes as taking the place of emperors’, then showing the popes taking responsibility for roofs was a fine tactic.96 Replacement parts for Rome’s monumental roofs depended on woodlands and their management, often in inaccessible places. Though purlins might derive from trees that grew close to Rome in the Tiber lowlands, after 600 most other elements, like tie beams and rafters, probably came from central Italian mountain forests. In this sense, roofing Rome’s grand basilicas reflected the increasing economic provincialization of post-imperial times. Curiously, the need to maintain roofs over Rome’s magnificent Christian basilicas may have also turned postclassical Rome’s rulers into conservationists, with a deep and abiding interest in the sustained health of central Italian woodlands, particularly those within dragging distance of a water course. In 1049 the monks of Farfa reminded Pope Leo IX that in 911–13 his predecessor Anastasius III had granted their monastery one in five of the ‘trabibus […] quae ad restaurandam sarta tecta matris ecclesiae, ex appenninis conducuntur alpibus’ (beams […] that are conveyed from the Apennine mountains to restore the roofs of the Mother church), and suggested Leo should uphold the tradition.97 The lumber’s haulers had entitlements, too.98 Farfa’s monks probably evoked repairs on St John’s roof after an earthquake in 896, when two luckless popes had failed to find beams long enough to span the great basilica’s nave.99 These episodes of tenth- to eleventh-century roof beam procurement reveal the many intermediaries who attempted to benefit from papal difficulties, and from their location along the waterways that might supply Rome with adequate lumber. But they also reveal that at the end of the first millennium roof beam transports from the Apennines to Rome had become customary, implying regular supplies, and therefore forest management. 96

McKitterick, ‘The Representation of Old Saint Peter’s Basilica’, p. 117. Regesto di Farfa, ed. by Giorgi and Balzani, p. 272: ‘ut etiam ex trabibus, quae ad restaurandam sarta tecta matris ecclesiae, ex appenninis conducuntur alpibus, nostro sancto coenobio, ex quinque concesserit unam’. 98 Specifically to a share of pious offerings from St Peter’s: Liber Censuum, ed. by Fabre and Duchesne, p. 430, which derives from Petrus Mallius, Descriptio Basilicae Vaticanae, ed. by Valentini and Zucchetti, p. 426: ‘in resarciendo tecto et mutandis trabibus dantur ii denarii papienses unicuique magistrorum et manualium in unoquoque die, donec opus compleatur. Quando sandalarii capiunt trabes ii solidos denariorium papiensium et iv libras cerae’. 99 Gaglione, ‘“Lignamina necessaria”’, p. 10. 97

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

214

It would not have been the only time when the pursuit of power fostered ecological sensitivity.100 The growing interest of postclassical Rome’s governors for well-preserved highland forests resembles that in Tokugawa, Japan, where potentates worried enough about a ready supply of scarce timber resources to spearhead Japan’s commitment to forest conservation.101 In both cases a religious imperative drove resource management. In the High Middle Ages, the development of the Massa Trabaria, a papally controlled region at the headwaters of the Tiber in the Apennines whose function was to grow, fell, and ship down the Tiber a regular supply of great, straight tree trunks for Rome’s churches, was the solution to a long-standing problem that was not uniquely Roman, but was felt most acutely in postclassical Rome because of its unusual architectural heritage.102 Even when the Norman conquest of southern Italy had reopened Calabrian forest resources to papal roofers, a closer, directly administered source of supply seemed useful.103 Whether or not the Massa Trabaria grew from woodland management practices of Antiquity and from imperial holdings, it was a sign that thirteenth-century popes, like late antique and early medieval administrators of Rome, took very seriously the responsibility to maintain basilica roofs free of leaks.

100

Carolingian legislation, for instance, protected woodlands so the Frankish elite could hunt there. 101 Reconstruction of traditional Shinto shrines and Buddhist monasteries motivated Tokugawa rulers’ conservation: Totman, The Green Archipelago, pp. 17–18, 45–47, 86–93. 102 Diosono, ‘Il commercio del legname’, pp. 272–74. The Massa Trabaria area was part of the Carolingian ‘donations’ to St Peter. 103 Gaglione, ‘“Lignamina necessaria”’.

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 215

Works Cited Primary Sources Cassiodorus, Variae, in Cassiodori Senatoris Variae, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctorum Antiquissimorum, 12 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1894), pp. 1–385 Codex Carolinus, ed. by Wilhelm Gundlach, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Epistolae, 3 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892) Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, trans. by Raymond Van Dam, Translated Texts for Historians, 4 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988) —— , Liber in Gloria Martyrum, ed. by Bruno Krusch, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptores Rerum Merovingicarum, 1.2 (Hanover, 1885), pp. 484–561 Gregory the Great, S. Gregorii Magni Registrum epistularum, ed. by Dag Norberg (Turnhout: Brepols, 1982) Leontios of Agrigento, Life of St Gregory of Agrigento: Leontios Presbiteros von Rom, Das Leben des heiligen Gregorios von Agrigent: kritische Ausgabe, Übersetzung und Kommentar, ed.  by Albrecht Berger, Berliner byzantinische Arbeiten, 60 (Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 1995) —— , A Translation of Abbot Leontios’ Life of Saint Gregory, Bishop of Agrigento, trans. by John Martyn (Lewiston: E. Mellen, 2004) Le Liber Censuum, vol. i, ed. by Paul Fabre and Louis Duchesne (Paris: A. Fontemoing, 1905) Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction et commentaire, ed.  by Louis Duchesne, vol.  i (Paris: E. Thorin, 1886) Liudprand of Cremona, Historia Ottonis, in Liudprandi Cremonensis Antapodosis, Homelia paschalis; Historia Ottonis; Relatio de legatione Constantinopolitana, ed. by Paolo Chiesa (Turnhout: Brepols, 1998), pp. 167–83 Novellae, in Corpus Iuris Civilis, vol. iii, ed. by Rudolf Schoell and Guilelmus Kroll (Berlin: Weidmann, 1895), pp. 1–756 Ordo Romanus: Les Ordines Romani du haut Moyen Âge, ed. by Michel Andrieu, 5 vols (Louvain: Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, 1931–61) Petrus Mallius, Descriptio Basilicae  Vaticanae, in Codice topografico della città di Roma, vol.  iii, ed.  by Roberto  Valentini and Giuseppe Zucchetti (Rome: Tipografia del Senato, 1946), pp. 375–442 Il Regesto di Farfa, vol. iv, ed. by Ignazio Giorgi and Ugo Balzani (Rome: Presso la Società, 1888) Sidonius, Poems and Letters, vol.  i, trans. by William Anderson (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1936) Symmachus, Relationes, in Q. Aurelii Symmachi quae supersunt, ed. by Otto Seeck, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctorum Antiquissimorum, 6.1 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1883), pp. 279–317 Vita Columbani, ed.  by Bruno Krusch, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Scriptorum Rerum Merovingicarum, 4 (Hanover: Hahn, 1902), pp. 64–108

216

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

Secondary Studies Adam, Jean-Pierre, La Construction romaine (Paris: Editions A. and J. Picard, 2005) Baert, Barbara, A Heritage of Holy Wood: The Legend of the True Cross in Text and Image, Cultures, Beliefs and Traditions: Medieval and Early Modern Peoples, 22 (Leiden: Brill, 2004) Bonanni, Philippo, Numismata Summorum Pontificium Templi Vaticani Fabricam Indi­ centia (Rome: D.A. Herculis, 1696) Brandenburg, Hugo, Johannes Cramer, and Simona Valeriani, ‘Indagini architettoniche e dendrocronologiche sui tetti delle chiese paleocristiane di Roma’, in Ecclesiae Urbis: Atti del Congresso internzaionale di studi sulle chiese di Roma, ed. by Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra Guiglia Guidobaldi (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2001), pp. 183–212 Camardo, Domenica, and Mario Notomista, ‘The Roof and Suspended Ceiling of the Marble Room in the House of the Telephus Relief at Herculaneum’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 28 (2015), 39–70 Camerlenghi, Nicola, ‘Interpreting Medieval Architecture through Renovations: The Roof of the Old Basilica of San Paolo fuori le Mura in Rome’, in Approaches to Byzantine Architecture and Decoration: Essays in Honor of Slobodan Ćurčić, ed. by Mark J. Johnson, Robert Ousterhout, and Amy Papalexandrou (Burlington: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 259–76 —— , St. Paul’s Outside the Walls: A Roman Basilica, from Antiquity to the Modern Era (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018) Chastagnol, André, La Préfecture urbaine à Rome sous le Bas­Empire (Paris: Presses universitaires de France, 1960) Chiarugi, Alberto, ‘Ricerche sulla vegetazione dell’Etruria marittima’, Nuovo giornale botanico Italiano, 43 (1936), 131–66 Coates-Stephens, Robert, ‘Byzantine Building Patronage in Post-Reconquest Rome’, in Les Cités de l’Italie tardo­antique (ive – vie siècle): Institutions, économie, société, culture et reli­ gion, ed. by Ghilardi Massimilliano, Christophe J. Goddard, and Pierfrancesco Porena, Collection de l’École française de Rome, 369 (Rome: École française de Rome, 2006), pp. 149–66 —— , ‘The Walls and Aqueducts of Rome in the Early Middle Ages, a.d. 500–1000’, Jour­ nal of Roman Studies, 88 (1998), 166–78 Costambeys, Marios, and Conrad Leyser, ‘To Be the Neighbour of St Stephen: Patronage, Martyr Cult, and Roman Monasteries, c. 600–900’, in Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome, 300–900, ed. by Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 262–87 Courtenay, Lynn, ‘Timber Roofs and Spires’, in Architectural Technology up to the Scientific Revolution, ed. by Robert Mark (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1993), pp. 182–231 Deichmann, Friedrich, ‘Untersuchungen zu Dach und Decke der Basilika’, in Charites: Studien zur Altertumswissenschaft, ed. by K. Schauenberg (Bonn: Athenäum-Verlag, 1957), pp. 249–64 Dey, Hendrik W., The Aurelian Wall and the Refashioning of Imperial Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011)

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 217 Diosono, Francesca, ‘Il commercio del legname sul fiume Tevere’, in Mercator Placidissimus: The Tiber  Valley in Antiquity, New Research in the Upper and Middle River Valley, ed. by Filippo Coarelli and Helen Patterson (Rome: Quasar, 2008), pp. 251–83 Ekonomou, Andrew J., Byzantine Rome and the Greek Popes: Eastern Influences on Rome and the Papacy from Gregory the Great to Zacharias, a.d. 590–752 (Lanham, MD: Lexington Books, 2007) Fenaroli, Luigi, Alberi (Florence: Giunti, 1998) Forsyth, Ilene, and Elizabeth Sears, ‘George H. Forsyth and the Sacred Fortress at Sinai’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 70 (2016), 117–50 Gaglione, Mario, ‘“Lignamina necessaria de Calabria ferenda”’, Archivio della Società Romana di Storia Patria, 128 (2005), 5–34 Gasparri, Stefano, Italia longobarda: il regno, i Franchi, il papato (Bari: Laterza, 2012) —— , Voci dai secoli oscuri: un percorso nelle fonti dell’alto medioevo (Rome: Carocci editore, 2017) Geertman, Herman, ‘Documenti, redattori e la formazione del testo del Liber Pontificalis’, in Atti del colloquio internazionale ‘Il Liber Pontificalis’ e la storia materiale (Roma, 21–22 febbraio 2002), ed. by Herman Geertman (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), pp. 267–84 —— , ‘Il fastigium lateranense e l’arredo presbiteriale: Una lunga storia’, in Atti del col­ loquio internazionale ‘Il Liber Pontificalis’ e la storia materiale (Roma, 21–22 febbraio 2002), ed. by Herman Geertman (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), pp. 29–43 —— , ‘La genesi del Liber Pontificalis romano: Un processo di organizzazione della memoria’, in Liber, Gesta, histoire: Écrire l’histoire des évêques et des papes, de l’Antiquité au xxie siècle, ed. by François Bougard and Michel Sot (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009), pp. 37–107 —— , More  Veterum: Il Liber Pontificalis e gli edifici ecclesiastici di Roma nella tarda antichità e nell’ alto medioevo (Groningen: Tjeenk Willink, 1975) Hack, Achim Thomas, Codex Carolinus: Päpstliche Epistolographie im 8. Jahrhundert, Päpste und Papsttum, 35 (Stuttgart: A. Hiersemann, 2006) Harris, William V., ‘Bois et déboisement dans la Méditerranée antique’, Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales, 66.1 (2007), 105–40 Humphries, Mark, ‘From Emperor to Pope? Ceremonial, Space, and Authority at Rome from Constantine to Gregory the Great’, in Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome, 300–900, ed. by Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 21–58 Johnson, Mark J., ‘Toward a History of Theoderic’s Building Program’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 42 (1988), 73–96 Krautheimer, Richard, Corpus basilicarum christianarum Romae, vol.  v (Rome: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1977) —— , Rome: Profile of a City, 312–1308 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1983) Lancaster, Lynne, ‘Roman Engineering and Construction’, in The Oxford Handbook of Engineering and Technology in the Classical World, ed. by John Peter Oleson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 256–84 Lanciani, Rodolfo, Pagan and Christian Rome (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1893) Letarouilly, Paul M., Édifices de Rome moderne, vol. i (Paris: Bance, 1860)

218

Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti

Liverani, Paolo. ‘“Camerae” e coperture delle basiliche paleocristiane’, in Atti del colloquio internazionale ‘Il Liber Pontificalis’ e la storia materiale (Roma, 21–22 febbraio 2002), ed. by Herman Geertman (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), pp. 13–28 Llewellyn, Peter, Rome in the Dark Ages (London: Faber and Faber, 1970) Marazzi, Federico, I ‘Patrimonia Sanctae Romanae Ecclesiae’ nel Lazio (secoli iv–x): struttura amminstrativa e prassi gestionali (Rome: Istituto Storico  Italiano per il Medioevo, 1998) Martyn, John R.  C., ‘Six Notes on Gregory the Great’, Medievalia et humanistica, 30 (2004), 1–25 McCormick, Michael, Charlemagne’s Survey of the Holy Land: Wealth, Personnel, and Buildings of a Mediterranean Church between Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2011) McKitterick, Rosamond, ‘The Papacy and Byzantium in the Seventh- and Early EighthCentury Sections of the Liber Pontificalis’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 84 (2016), 241–73 —— , ‘The Representation of Old Saint Peter’s Basilica in the Liber Pontificalis’, in Old Saint Peter’s, Rome, ed.  by Rosamond McKitterick, John Osborne, Carol  M. Richardson, and Joanna Story (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 95–118 Meiggs, Russell, Trees and Timber in the Ancient Mediterranean World (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1982) Mensing, Scott, and others, ‘2700 years of Mediterranean Environmental Change in Central Italy: A Synthesis of Sedimentary and Cultural Records to Interpret the Past Impacts of Climate on Society’, Quaternary Science Reviews, 116 (2005), 72–94 Noble, Thomas F.  X., ‘A  New Look at the “Liber Pontificalis”’, Archivum Historiae Pontificae, 23 (1985), 347–58 —— , The Republic of St Peter: The Birth of the Papal State, 680–825 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1984) —— , ‘Rome in the Seventh Century’, in Archbishop Theodore: Commemorative Studies on his Life and Influence, ed.  by Michael Lapidge (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), pp. 69–87 Noyé, Ghislaine, ‘Les premiers siècles de la domination byzantine en Calabre’, in Histoire et culture dans l’Italie byzantine: Acquis et nouvelles recherches, ed.  by André Jacob, Jean-Marie Martin, and Ghislane Noyé (Rome: École française de Rome, 2006), pp. 445–69 —— , ‘L’Economie de la Calabre du vie au viiie siècle’, Cahiers de recherches médiévales et humanistiques, 28 (2014), 323–78 Pavari, Aldo, Esperienze e indagini su le provenienze e razze dell’Abete bianco (Florence: Stazione Sperimentale di Selvicoltura, 1951) Rondelet, Jean, Traité théorique et pratique de l’art de bâtir, vol. iv.1 (Paris: Rondelet Fils, 1830) Royal, Jeffrey G., ‘The Levenzo I Wreck and the Transfer of Technology by Sea in the Late Roman Mediterranean’, in Maritime Studies in the Wake of the Byzantine Shipwreck at Yassiada, Turkey, ed. by Deborah Carlsson, Justin Leidwanger, and Sarah M. Kampbell (College Station: Texas A&M University Press, 2015), pp. 127–45

Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City 219 Russell, Ben, The Economics of the Roman Stone Trade (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013) Saxer, Victor, ‘Recinzioni liturgiche secondo le fonti letterarie’, in Atti del colloquio inter­ nazionale ‘Il Liber Pontificalis’ e la storia materiale (Roma, 21–22 febbraio 2002), ed. by Herman Geertman (Assen: Van Gorcum, 2003), pp. 1–9 Schuddeboom, Feyo L., ‘The Conversion of Temples in Rome’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 10 (2017), 166–86 Thunø, Erik, The Apse Mosaic in Early Medieval Rome: Time, Network, and Repetition (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015) Totman, Conrad, The Green Archipelago: Forestry in Pre­Industrial Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989) Valeriani, Simona, ‘Ceilings in Basilicas of Early Christian Origin in Rome’, in L’Architrave, le plancher, la plate­forme: Nouvelle histoire de la construction, ed. by Roberto Gargiari (Lausanne: Presses polytechniques et universitaires romandes, 2012), pp. 128–34 —— , ‘Historic Carpentry in Rome’, in Proceedings of the First  International Congress on Construction History. Madrid 20–24 January 2003 (Madrid: Instituto Juan de Herrera, 2003), pp. 2023–34 —— , ‘S. Cecilia in Trastevere und die Geschichte der römischen Dachtwerk’, Zeitschrift für Geschichte der Baukunst, 35 (2005), 32–46 Van Dam, Raymond, ‘Images of Saint Martin in Late Roman and Early Merovingian Gaul’, Viator, 19 (1988), 1–27 —— , Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2010) Ward-Perkins, Bryan, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages: Urban Public Building in Northern and Central Italy, ad 300–850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984) —— , ‘Old and New Rome Compared’, in Two Romes: Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity, ed. by Lucy Grig and Gavin Kelly (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 53–80 West, G. V. B., ‘Charlemagne’s Involvement in Central and Southern Italy’, Early Medieval Europe, 8 (1999), 341–67

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable? Premonitions of Constantinople and the Portability of Rome Anthony Kaldellis

J

ust as the founder of ancient Rome was accorded divine honours, the founder of New Rome, Constantinople, was regarded in Byzantine times as a Christian saint, one equal to the Apostles. Yet for all that Constantinople was founded by a saint, it was not regarded as a holy city on his account, nor did Constantine emerge as the patron saint and supernatural protector of his own City. The holy protector of Constantinople was the Virgin Mary, but she was not given that role until the early seventh century.1 Instead, for the first centuries of its existence and following classical modes of thought, New Rome supplied its own divine figure, a mirror image of the quasi-divine entity Roma, who was a personified protective Tyche of its self.2 Personified as the twin entities Roma and Konstantinoupolis, the cities functioned as their own divine protectors. Constantinople’s identity and holy essence was Rome, but a Rome that had somehow been duplicated and transferred to Thrace in a colossal feat of ‘copy and paste’. This chapter will examine the historical precedents and cognitive developments that allowed the Roman Empire to duplicate its capital city along with its essence. How could the Romans imagine making a ‘New Rome’? What had Rome become that it could be duplicated in this way? We will excavate the layers of Roman imagination about Rome that made 330 possible. 1 2

Mango ‘Constantinople as Theotokoupolis’. Bühl, Constantinopolis und Roma.

Anthony Kaldellis is Professor, Department of Classics, the Ohio State University. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 221–247 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118164

Anthony Kaldellis

222

The European settlement of the New World normalized the foundation of ‘new’ versions of Old World cities (e.g. New York) and regions (e.g. New England). In addition, numerous countries have built ‘artificial’ cities from scratch to serve as administrative capitals — a notorious case being Brasília — while others have had to relocate their capitals or royal courts. But only the Roman Empire built a duplicate version or branch-office of its capital in the provinces to function concurrently, and using the same name (‘New Rome’), as its original capital. Cities in the Greek East where emperors had resided before 330 were endowed with palaces and hippodromes. But Constantinople was also furnished with a senate parallel to that of Rome for its elites and a bread dole for its people. Bronze coins struck at the mint of New Rome refer to its own version of the populus Romanus. At the head of its main boulevard, the Mese, stood a massive tetrapylon that functioned as the symbolic ‘zero point’ of imperial geography. It was called a Miliareum Aureum, or Golden Milestone (later the Milion), to mirror the one in the old Roman Forum. Constantine also built a circular imperial forum along the Mese whose focal point was a colossal bronze statue of himself in the guise of the Sun God standing on a triumphal column of porphyry marble. This alluded to the colossal statue of the Sun God that stood next to the Coliseum in Rome, keeping watch over the triumphal arch built for Constantine by the senate and people of the Eternal City.3 Moreover, already in the fourth century, Constantinople was divided like Rome into fourteen administrative regions. To flesh out the picture, later Byzantine authors imagined that their City also had seven hills. Thus, Constantinople was endowed by its founder with many accessories that pointed directly at Rome, while his successors deepened, expanded, and elaborated on that act of duplication. In 530, the emperor Justinian declared that all cities must follow the legal order of Rome, and by Rome, he clarified, ‘we mean not only the old city but also our royal one’, that is, Constantinople.4 Constantinople was known as a New Rome or Second Rome from the start, even before it was formally inaugurated in 330. Historians used to urge caution about this, believing that the first unambiguous surviving statement to this effect was made by the Constantinopolitan senator, philosopher, and orator 3

Foundation of Constantinople: Dagron, Naissance d’une capitale; forum of Constantine: Kaldellis, ‘The Forum of Constantine in Constantinople’; statues of the Sun: Marlowe, ‘Framing the Sun’. 4 Justinian, Deo auctore 10: ‘omnes civitates consuetudinem Romae sequi, quae caput est orbis terrarum, non ipsam alias civitates. Romam autem intellegendum est non solum veterem, sed etiam regiam nostram’; regions: Matthews, ‘The Notitia Urbis Constantinopolitanae’.

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

223

Themistios in May 357. He said that Rome and Constantinople shared a common name and Tyche (or Fortuna, a personified version of its divine essence and protective spirit).5 But there can be little doubt that the equation was intended by the founder himself. A poem by the senator Publilius Optatianus Porphyrius implies that Constantine planned to build an altera Roma already in late 324, right after the war with his rival Licinius.6 Constantine himself decreed in a law that his City would be equal to Rome and known as ‘Second Rome’, and the text of this law was inscribed publicly in the Strategion next to an equestrian statue of himself.7 While this law does not survive, in another law of 334 Constantine declares that on God’s order he give his City ‘the eternal name’,8 which, stated without qualification, probably refers to the name of the Eternal City. Moreover, to commemorate the City’s inauguration, Constantine struck a medallion with his face on one side and the personified Tyche of Constantinople on the other. She is depicted as an enthroned woman wearing a mural crown, holding a cornucopia, and placing her right foot on a small warship (Constantine’s victory over Licinius featured heavy naval action). This figure of Constantinople paralleled the personified Tyche of Roma, depicted on other medallions, thus reinforcing the equivalence of the two cities on a symbolic plane.9 The Tyche of Constantinople was even given a sacred name in Greek, Anthousa, which we know from later texts. It was a translation of the sacred name of Rome, Flora.10 Both words mean ‘blossoming’ or ‘blooming’. This act of duplication must give us pause. It is too easy to accept it as a well-known fact and not think about how strange it was. Scholars have scrutinized the details of when Constantine built what, or how the demarcation of Constantinople was related to its consecration and inauguration. But those are technical details compared to the bigger question, which was fundamentally an act of the imagination. How was it possible to conceive the duplication of an existing city? And not just any city: Rome was not merely a ‘capital’ in a banal administrative sense. It was an imperial capital with a particular history rooted in Italy, with distinctive traditions and associations; it was unique and unrivalled. It is hard to see how it might be duplicated. Roman traditional5

Themistios, Oration 3.42a, 42c. Porphyrius, Carmen 4.6; cf. Barnes, ‘Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius’. 7 Sokrates, Ecclesiastical History i. 16: ‘δευτέραν Ῥώμην’. 8 Codex Theodosianus (CTh) xiii. 5. 7: aeterno nomine (late 334). 9 Lenski, ‘Constantine and the Tyche of Constantinople’. 10 Malalas, Chronicle xiii. 7; Ioannes Lydos, On the Months iv. 73, iv. 75; cf. CTh xv. 2. 4 (ad 389) and vii. 8. 14 (ad 427): Constantinople is called florentissima urbs. 6

224

Anthony Kaldellis

ists believed that Rome was the summit of the entire world. It received into itself all good things, becoming a microcosm, a World City or Cosmopolis. Its monuments alluded not only to its conquest of the world but to an appropriation of its histories, cults, and cultures. In the later fourth century, the historian Ammianus Marcellinus called Rome a templum mundi totius — a temple of the whole world. The Souda, a tenth-century Byzantine lexicon of classical studies, called it ‘the epitome of the whole world’.11 Why did Constantine construct another Rome rather than simply a City of Constantine, a new foundation of his own like so many other royal and imperial foundations before him? How did the Roman world accept or understand the duplication of its capital? What was it about the symbolic geography of empire and contemporary views of Rome and Romanness that enabled this act? For a city to be duplicated, it has first to be seen as an abstraction rather than a specific physical location. What kind of abstraction had Rome become? Historians have overlooked this cognitive dimension of the foundation of Constantinople, as the question has fallen through the cracks between disciplinary boundaries. Ancient historians often give the impression that for them Roman history ‘proper’ peters out around ad 300, at which point they pass the baton to different sets of scholars. Historians of Byzantium take the foundation of Constantinople for granted and look forward from it to later periods. As a result, we lack a connected history of the idea of Rome that explains how we get from the Tiber to the Bosporos in a single, continuous, and integrated story. In 1977, Fergus Millar traced a strand of that story by studying shifts in imperial travel.12 But since then, the rise of the field of ‘Late Antiquity’ has cast the question back into obscurity by creating a buffer zone between Antiquity and Byzantium in which questions of Roman identity are marginalized in favour of developments in religious history. Instead, we need to trace the evolution of thinking about Rome that enabled it to be duplicated in the Roman imagination, in fact already before Constantinople. Its duplication was possible because, over time, Rome had ceased to be just a physical city rooted in a particular topography. It had become an idea, the matrix of a global community of Romans spread throughout the empire. Unlike physical cities, ideas can be reproduced easily, almost infinitely. In this case, the prime vectors for the spread of the Roman idea were the assimilation of provincials into the global Roman community and their 11 Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae 17.4.13; Souda s.v. Rhome: ‘ἐπιτομὴ τῆς οἰκουμένης’. Cf. Edwards and Woolf, Rome the Cosmopolis. 12 Millar, The Emperor in the Roman World, pp. 15–57.

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

225

acceptance of Rome as signifying a normative political order. 13 This idea of Rome had been replicated on a vast scale across the empire before Constantine focalized it on Constantinople. ‘Rome’ could, in this sense, already be found wherever there were Romans. The goddess Roma herself, who was venerated in her own right in some contexts, might have claimed — to paraphrase one of her provincial subjects — that ‘Where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am among them’.14 Gatherings of Romans outside of Rome took various forms. There was the army, almost half a million strong by the time of Constantine, strung like a ribbon along the frontiers. For over a century, the emperors had likewise spent little time at Rome, travelling with their mobile courts and armies along the frontiers and through the provinces. Before that, colonies had acted as miniature extensions of Rome in the provinces — some of them claiming that they too had seven hills15 — until the non-Roman spaces between the colonies and the metropolis were filled in by Caracalla’s universal grant of citizenship in 212.16 Now Rome was everywhere because Romans were everywhere. This chapter will not tell that story. It will look instead at acts of imagination that enabled, or required, the Romans to think of Rome as being elsewhere than at Rome, whether they imagined it as a physical city or as something more abstract. These were premonitions of the New Rome built by Constantine. Our investigation will move backwards through time as we peel away the layers of Roman imagination. Rome went from being a small town on the Tiber — Roma — to an idea that bound together the entire Roman world from Britain to Arabia: Romanía, as it was called already in the early fourth century, if not earlier.17 We will start with the many New Romes that popped up in the century and a half before Constantinople. We will then consider Rome’s anxiety of dislocation during the late Republic and early empire, and, finally, we will reach the most primeval strata of ‘Romes before Rome’. Here we will strangely find ourselves back at Constantinople. * * * 13

Ando, Imperial Ideology and the Provincial Loyalty. Matthew 18. 20: ‘οὗ γάρ εἰσιν δύο ἢ τρεῖς συνηγμένοι εἰς τὸ ἐμὸν ὄνομα, ἐκεῖ εἰμι ἐν μέσῳ αὐτῶν’. 15 Beard, North, and Price, Religions of Rome, p. 315. 16 Ando, Citizenship and Empire in Europe. 17 Kaldellis, Romanland. 14

Anthony Kaldellis

226

Russell Crowe’s character in Gladiator, Maximus Decimus Meridius, is partly based on Tiberius Claudius Pompeianus, consul in ad 173. Born around 125, Pompeianus was a native of Antioch, but judging from his name his family had been Roman citizens since the reign of the emperor Claudius (41–54). A Roman of the East, he would have been bilingual in Greek and Latin, and he made his career in the imperial army. He fought against the Parthians in the 160s and spent the rest of his career commanding armies in the north against barbarians who invaded Pannonia during the reign of Marcus Aurelius (161–80). In these wars, he gained the emperor’s respect and trust to such an extent that Marcus gave him his own daughter Lucilla in marriage. Pompeianus kept a low profile during the dangerous reign of Marcus’s son Commodus (180–92). According to an unreliable later source, Pertinax offered him the throne after Commodus’s murder — we know that Pompeianus had previously sponsored Pertinax’s career — and the same offer was allegedly made later during that eventful year by Didius Julianus.18 Had he accepted (assuming that these stories were historical), Pompeianus would have been the first Roman emperor of Eastern origin. Pompeianus is credited with making one of the more interesting observations in Roman history. The scene was the Danubian frontier, in the summer of 180. Marcus Aurelius had brought his son and co-emperor Commodus with him from Rome to the front in 178, and after Marcus’s death in March 180 Commodus stayed on to negotiate peace with the barbarians. According to the historian Herodian, writing at least half a century later, some of Commodus’s advisors were trying to persuade the young emperor to return to Rome and its pleasures. This was opposed by Pompeianus, Commodus’s brother-in-law and leading general, at a meeting of the high command. Pompeianus did not want the war left unfinished, and he added that, besides, ‘Rome is wherever the emperor happens to be’.19 This might have been light flattery, suggesting that the emperor was more important than the physical city in determining the meaning of Rome, that Commodus could make his own Rome wherever he was. But it was also an idea backed by facts on the ground. Later in his brief speech, Pompeianus explains that the best elements of the senate were there too, along with the army and imperial treasury. There was, then, a mini-Rome already attending upon Commodus, on the move along the Danube. The general’s appeal failed, of course; Commodus returned to Italy, where he had spent most of his life. Rather than thinking of the frontier as Rome because he was there, Commodus later opted for the inverse solution: he wanted to change the 18 19

Historia Augusta: Pertinax iv. 10; Didius Julianus viii. 3. Herodian, History after Marcus Aurelius i. 6. 5: ‘ἐκεῖ τε ἡ Ῥώμη, ὅπου ποτ’ ἂν ὁ βασιλεὺς ᾖ’.

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

227

name of Rome to his own. But colonia Commodiana did not have the right ring, although his notion that it was a ‘colony of the entire world’ prefigured the universal extension of citizenship in 212.20 Commodus’s failure revealed the limits of how far one could change Rome itself while still residing in it.21 But transplanting it was a different matter. Pompeianus had spent most of his career with the armies, away from Rome. The idea of a mobile Rome was familiar to him by experience, and it was an idea that would eventually prevail in the later third and fourth centuries. Constantine realized that you could change Rome by making a new one. Let us imagine one of those Romes-on-the-move, which were the norm before the emperors settled in Constantinople in 380. As commander-in-chief, the emperor was usually accompanied by a sizable field army, which required a steady stream of supplies and armaments. These flowed to the imperial camp just as they flowed into Rome itself. This meant that imperial movements had to be planned and coordinated months in advance by a logistics staff. The emperor would also have carted his treasury with him and sometimes also a mint. A steady stream of revenue was brought to this city-on-the-move, to pay soldiers, officials, workmen, and staff. They, in turn, would spend that money along the way. This would have led to a temporary rise in local prices: the emperors were effectively travelling in a moving inflationary bubble. Everything was more expensive, just like at Rome! In addition, the emperor was accompanied by his legal team and a sizable archive. We know that he continued to receive petitions and legal queries from subjects from every part of the empire, to whom his team issued a stream of responses. Over nine hundred responses survive for the years 293–94, as the emperor Diocletian travelled through the Balkans (most are embedded in Justinian’s Codex).22 The legal staff was not always physically at the emperor’s side. Usually it was based in a nearby major city. The emperor’s city-on-themove was emitting a steady stream of orders, logistical plans, and legal responses at the same time that it was receiving a stream of supplies, revenue, information, official reports, embassies from cities and foreign leaders, and Roman petitioners. In the past, provincials who had business at the court would travel to Rome. Now they would travel to the frontier, to a moving Rome. They might miss it by a few days and have to hurry to catch up. And this was the peacetime norm of imperial travel. We have not factored civil and foreign wars into this picture. 20 21 22

Cassius Dio, Roman History lxxiii. 15: ‘κολωνία τῆς οἰκουμένης’. Angelova, Sacred Founders, pp. 63, 118. Connolly, Lives behind the Laws.

Anthony Kaldellis

228

Shortly before he died, Commodus placed Septimius Severus, a senator of North African origin and Punic heritage, in charge of the legions of Pannonia. In 193, Severus rebelled against Didius Julianus. In a speech to his soldiers, delivered not far from the scene of Pompeianus’s speech thirteen years earlier, Severus challenged them ‘to be the first [among his rivals] to seize Rome, where the hearth of empire is’.23 Severus succeeded in his march on Rome, but the sentiment behind his words lay on the wrong side of history. The ‘hearth of empire’ would become increasingly detached from Rome itself as emperors spent less and less time at Rome. Severus himself spent years abroad campaigning against rivals and barbarians. As the empire entered the crisis of the third century, dozens of provincial governors and generals would rebel against the emperor at Rome and establish their own rival centres of power. At first, their goal was to seize Rome itself, but before they could accomplish that, or if they failed, other cities would serve in the meantime. These too became temporary Romes. In March 238, the elder senator Gordian  I was proclaimed emperor in North Africa in a bid to replace Maximinus Thrax (235–38). Gordian was killed three weeks later, but Herodian’s account of his reign illustrates the extension of ‘Rome’ to North Africa. Gordian was acclaimed as Augustus by the people of the town of Thysdrus, who thereby executed a sovereign function of the populus Romanus. Of course, by now they were Roman citizens with the same stake in the res publica as all others. Their claim might be accepted or rejected by the rest of the Roman citizen body, but it was not on the face of it illegitimate (except from Maximinus’s point of view). Gordian then moved his regime to Carthage. Herodian’s description deserves to be quoted. This was, after all, Carthage, the ancestral enemy of Rome, albeit it too was now a city refashioned along Roman lines. It too could even claim to be a kind of Rome. Gordian knew that Carthage was the largest and most populous city [in North Africa], so that he could act there as if he were in Rome. For that city was second only to Rome in terms of its wealth, population, and size and was competing for second place with Alexandria in Egypt. He was followed by a full imperial retinue, the soldiers who were stationed there, and the tallest young men of the city walked ahead of him in the guise of the bodyguard at Rome. The fasces were garlanded with laurel wreaths, which is the mark that distinguishes an emperor from a private citizen, and a fire was carried before him in the procession, so that the city of the Carthaginians bore the visage and shared in the standing of Rome itself, at least for a short time and by way of a replica.24 23 24

Herodian, History after Marcus Aurelius ii. 10. 9: ‘ἔνθα ἡ βασίλειος ἔστιν ἑστία’. Herodian, History after Marcus Aurelius vii. 6. 1–2, emphases added: ‘ᾔδει μεγίστην

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

229

What is extraordinary about this passage is the language of simulation with which it is saturated. Gordian was acting in Carthage ‘as if ’ he were at Rome. The tall youth were functioning ‘in the guise’ of the bodyguard at Rome. And Carthage was a kind of ‘replica’ of Rome. All this, in other words, was an act of make-believe. The regime of Gordian was treating one thing as if it were another. Clifford Ando has written perceptively about how the Romans coped with aspects of reality that lay outside the original scope of their law by postulating such fictional equations. Over time, more and more of reality, including things, people, and territories, were treated ‘as if ’ they were Roman, subjected to Roman categories, and thereby became Roman for all legal intents and purposes.25 In 238, this was done to an entire city, one that had once been Rome’s arch-enemy. In the early fifth century, a Christian preacher in southern Gaul called Carthage ‘the greatest rival of Rome and a kind of Rome itself (quasi Romam) of the African world’.26 This sense of quasi Romam, as we see, had already been applied in 180 to a military camp by the Danube, in an even greater act of abstraction. All that camp needed was the emperor, some senators, and a mint. Alternate Romes could now be imagined in both the far north and the far south. As it travelled, Rome took aspects of its distinctive topography with it and formatted its new homes according to them. In the 220s, the Roman historian Cassius Dio observed that the term for a palation (palace) had its origin in the Palatine hill of Rome, but now referred to wherever the emperor happened to be residing.27 Many cities thereby acquired this feature of Roman topography. * * * In the second century, the historian Tacitus had looked back to the Year of the Four Emperors (68–69) and famously declared that it had revealed an τε οὖσαν καὶ πολυάνθρωπον, ἵν’ ὥσπερ ἐν Ῥώμῃ πάντα πράττοι· ἡ γὰρ πόλις ἐκείνη καὶ δυνάμει χρημάτων καὶ πλήθει τῶν κατοικούντων καὶ μεγέθει μόνης Ῥώμης ἀπολείπεται, φιλονεικοῦσα πρὸς τὴν ἐν Αἰγύπτῳ Ἀλεξάνδρου πόλιν περὶ δευτερείων. εἵπετο δὲ αὐτῷ πᾶσα ἡ βασιλικὴ πομπή, τῶν μὲν στρατιωτῶν, οἵτινες ἦσαν ἐκεῖ, καὶ τῶν κατὰ τὴν πόλιν ἐπιμηκεστέρων νεανίσκων ἐν σχήματι τῶν κατὰ τὴν Ῥώμην δορυφόρων προϊόντων· αἵ τε ῥάβδοι ἐδαφνηφόρουν, ὅπερ ἐστὶ σύμβολον ἐς τὸ διαγνῶναι τὰς βασιλικὰς ἀπὸ τῶν ἰδιωτικῶν, τὸ δὲ πῦρ προεπόμπευεν, ὡς ὄψιν καὶ τύχην ἔχειν πρὸς ὀλίγον, ὥσπερ ἐν εἰκόνι, τῆς Ῥώμης τῶν Καρχηδονίων τὴν πόλιν’. 25 Ando, ‘Fact, Fiction and Social Reality’. 26 Salvianus, On the Governance of God vii. 16. 67: ‘urbi Romae maxime adversariam et in Africano orbe quasi Romam’. 27 Cassius Dio, Roman History liii. 16. 5–6; see Millar, The Emperor in the Roman World, pp. 41–42.

Anthony Kaldellis

230

arcanum imperii (the secret or unspoken rule of empire): an emperor could be made elsewhere than at Rome.28 This was not so much a ‘secret’, of course, as a latent option that had not yet been activated. It may have been shocking at first, at least to some, but once it was out in the open it quickly became normal. Tacitus himself was writing under two emperors, Trajan and Hadrian, who were Romans from Spain. And there were many more arcana to come. Every time a boundary was crossed, the new development quickly became absorbed into the political mainstream. The Romans of the later second and third century, for instance, discovered that their emperor did not even have to be of Italian stock (e.g. Septimius Severus); that he could not only emerge elsewhere than at Rome, he did not then have to spend most or even any of his reign there (e.g. Maximinus Thrax); and that even Rome itself could be elsewhere than at Rome, as Ray Van Dam has observed.29 The mid-third century — an age of rebellions, military instability, and civil war — moved the bar further. Unfortunately, for all that it was a transformative era, it is also poorly documented. A fascinating but short-lived experiment took place at this time, a breakaway Roman empire in Gaul that lasted from 260 to 274. In modern scholarship it is often called the empire of the Gauls, but it did not claim to be anything other than the Roman Empire — it refused to recognize the emperor at Rome, and he it. From coins and scattered references in texts, we know that these counter-emperors in Gaul — especially Postumus and Tetricus — replicated many, and possibly all, of the institutions of the ‘core’ Roman Empire. Their capital seems to have been at Trier, which, to serve this purpose, must have taken on the guise of yet another fictional replica of Rome, a Rome of the imagination, just as Carthage had served Gordian as a ‘replica’ of Rome. Two aspects of the Gallic experiment stand out. First, the rulers of this splinter state had a thoroughly Roman understanding of power, empire, responsibility, and legitimacy. There was no ‘native nationalism’ at work in their rebellion. To the degree that they replicated Roman institutions on a smaller scale in a state that branched off from the core empire, historians can speak of a ‘fractal’ relationship between them: the same pattern repeated on greater or smaller scales.30 Second, the emperors in Gaul claimed to be nothing other than the Roman emperors, and if they were confined to Gaul that was due only to circumstance. They probably would have taken Italy if it were possible, but their 28 29 30

Tacitus, Histories i. 4. 2. Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine, p. 52. Ando, Imperial Rome, pp. 160–63, 212–14.

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

231

fifteen-year solo career revealed that Rome itself was no longer necessary to form a viable empire of the Romans in the provinces. Tacitus would have ranked that as yet another arcanum of empire, and it was another step along the path towards a New Rome. The third century revealed the empire as a unit constituted by acts of replication at every level of organization, making it physically divisible into equivalently Roman parts. As far as we know no one proposed that there might legitimately be two (or more) concurrent empires of the Romans, as would happen later, each ruled by its own Rome. In the third century, the empire could be physically divided, usually by force, but political legitimacy within it was theoretically indivisible. When rebels detached provinces to form smaller, fractal Roman states, this was viewed by the core as a ‘dismemberment’, implying a normative organic unity. The empire was supposed to be solidus, compact and consolidated.31 As a result, every emperor was in a state of permanent civil war with all his rivals. The war might at times be hot or cold, but the expectation was that it would eventually be resolved through the liquidation of all contenders but one. This turned out to be Diocletian (284–305), one of the great reformers in Roman history, who revealed more arcana of empire. The challenge that Diocletian faced when he seized the throne through violence was that too many army officers were trying to seize the throne through violence. In a breakthrough, he managed to solve this problem by turning it into its own solution. Instead of trying to suppress every real or potential rival, he came to terms with the idea of many emperors and took on a colleague, Maximian, as a co-Augustus, and eventually added two junior partners as Caesars to help the Augusti: Galerius and Constantius (the father of Constantine). This was remarkable. These men were not previously related and agreed not to promote their sons to the throne when it came to the succession. They intermarried to reinforce their ties to each other but, as Constantine would demonstrate later, ties of marriage were not a strong guarantee. What enabled the Tetrarchy to function with a single purpose for as long as it did was the commanding authority of Diocletian and a measure of trust. The arcanum that Diocletian’s Tetrarchy revealed was that imperial power, the very position of emperor itself, could be duplicated, and even quadruplicated. It could be invested in multiple unrelated individuals and yet still be counted as one and the same, or as multiple iterations of itself: divided in practice yet indivisible in principle. Unfortunately, we do not have good narrative sources for the Tetrarchy. What we have instead, in addition to the usual 31

Panegyrici Latini viii. 10. 2, viii. 20. 2; ed. and trans. by Nixon and Rodgers.

Anthony Kaldellis

232

coins, are a few orations in praise of the emperors, some laws issued by them, and some hostile Christian sources. We also have striking physical images. The most famous is in Venice, embedded in the corner of St Mark’s cathedral. The statue group originally came from Constantinople. We know this because the heel missing from one of the Tetrarchs was discovered there and is currently on display in the Istanbul Archaeological Museum, so this statue must have been among the loot carted away from the city by the Venetians after 1204. It shows the four emperors as virtually identical and interchangeable. The Augusti are bearded and clasp the shaven Caesars on the shoulder, but that is the extent of the differences among them. Each pair is a mirror image of the other. The four have a watchful, guarded pose. Their hands firmly grasp the pommels of their swords, which curve at the top into four equally watchful eagle heads. The group radiates an intimidating vigilance and a readiness to use violence jointly against anyone who seeks to disrupt their harmony. It is a striking expression of Roman imperial power, not only for its sheer militarism: it argues that the imperial position is a collegial affair, something to be shared among equals. Yet even while it is shared, through the fiction of ‘copy and paste’ it remains undivided and undiminished. Panegyrics for Maximian drive home the same message. The two that survive predate the decision to create two junior Caesars, so they are talking about a Dyarchy. They harp on the theme of harmony and concord between the two co-emperors, Maximian and Diocletian. They are called ‘brothers’, another quasi-legal Roman fiction that enabled two men who were not in fact related to act ‘as if ’ they were (just as New Rome would later be cast as Rome’s daughter). The orators try a number of variations and arguments on this theme. For example, ‘you are brothers in virtue, which is a surer tie than any tie of blood’. They also wrestled with the idea of a reduplicated imperial power: how could it be shared without being diminished in any one holder? The speaker of 289 was explicit about this: ‘such a great empire is shared between you without any rivalry; nor do you allow any distinction between you but plainly hold an equal share in the state […] you rule with one mind, and although your doubled divinity increases your royal majesty, by your unanimity you retain the advantage of an undivided empire’. The speaker of 291 emphasizes the emperors’ collegiate partnership: ‘each enjoys both his own command and his colleague’s […]. The gods cannot divide their favours between you: whatever is offered to one or the other belongs to both’.32 Even the emperors’ Christian critic Lactantius 32

Brothers: Panegyrici Latini x. 9. 3; speaker of 289: x. 9. 4 (‘sic fit ut vobis tantum imperium sine ulla aemulatione commune sit neque ullum inter vos discrimen esse patiamini’),

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

233

conceded that ‘two people could not combine in so loyal a friendship if there were not in them both a single mind, the same line of thought, an equal will, and identical opinions’.33 It was this kind of thinking, this mental mechanism of duplication, that would later enable the existence of two Romes and two Roman empires. They would be two, but still one in spirit. After all, it was not just the emperors who were multiplied. Each emperor had a corresponding court, staff, army, and territorial command, though the latter could be swapped out or rotated, as circumstances demanded. Nevertheless, the two Augusti roughly divided the empire between them into western and eastern zones, and each ruled his half with the assistance of a Caesar. Diocletian ‘divided the world into four parts’.34 This was another breakthrough, that an empire that was one in principle could, in practice, operate as two or four. This division remained the norm for the rest of the empire’s existence, until the final fall of the West. Sometimes there were three emperors, and on rare occasions after a civil war only one, but for most of the fourth century after Constantine and during the fifth there were two ‘co-emperors’, one in the East and one in the West. The Roman Empire was still regarded as a single state, and the laws passed by one emperor were in theory valid everywhere. Thus, through the fiction of duplication, an indivisible empire was divided in practice. This was a conceptual breakthrough on the path to Two Romes. In reality, the relationship between co-emperors or co-capitals was not perfectly harmonious, but the Tetrarchy revealed the arcanum of perfect duplication. The ‘single mind’ of Diocletian and Maximian was like the single Tyche that was later shared between Rome and New Rome.35 The reign of the Tetrarchy further marginalized the city of Rome and shifted the empire’s focus to the frontiers. This was part of the process by which the empire was ‘turned inside out’, to use Ray Van Dam’s memorable phrase.36 x. 11. 1–2 (‘rem publicam enim una mente regitis […] quamvis maiestatem regiam geminato numine augeatis, utilitatem imperii singularis consentiendo retinetis’); speaker of 291: xi. 6. 7 (‘ita duplices vobis divinae potentiae fructus pietas vestra largitur: et suo uterque fruitur et consortis imperio’), xi. 7. 3 (‘dividere inter vos dii immortales sua beneficia non possunt; quidquid alterutri praestatus amborum est’). 33 Lactantius (Lact.), De mortibus persecutorum (De mort.) viii. 1: ‘nec enim possent in amicitiam tam fidelem cohaerere, nisi esset in utroque mens una, eadem cogitatio, par voluntas, aequa sententia’; Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum, ed. and trans. by Creed. 34 Lact., De mort. 7.2: ‘in quattuor partes orbe diviso’. 35 Panegyrici Latini x. 11. 1–2: una mente. 36 Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople, p. 30.

Anthony Kaldellis

234

Italy was divided into provinces that now paid taxes, and the emperors spent most of their time along the frontier, rarely visiting Rome. When they did, their visits were brief and, if we can believe Lactantius, unpleasant.37 In other words, not only could emperors be made elsewhere than at Rome, they did not need to visit Rome even when it was within their domain. Meanwhile, the idea that Rome basically followed the emperor around — a conclusion reached by Pompeianus on the Danube and by Gordian I at Carthage — was taken to its logical conclusion as new mini-Romes proliferated throughout the provinces. The first of the two panegyrics of Maximian was delivered at Trier on the occasion of the celebration for the birthday of the city of Rome (21 April). The speaker says that the citizens of Rome are just going to have to ‘imagine’ that the emperor is among them to celebrate their city’s birthday. He then asks Rome not to be jealous of Trier, ‘on whom that man now confers a majesty similar to your own by celebrating your birthday with that customary magnificence which is your due’.38 Trier is stand-in for Rome here: the birthday of Rome was celebrated, via a kind of surrogacy, at Trier. The second speech was delivered before Maximian at Milan. The orator praises him for crossing the Alps more easily than Hannibal had done in the Second Punic War. Hannibal had brought terror, but Maximian shone like a sun over Italy. It is worth pondering this inversion. In the past, the army that crossed the Alps towards Rome was hostile, but now it was the army of the Roman emperor, who no longer resided in Italy. Yet while Hannibal had gone on to Rome, Maximian went only as far as Milan. Rome now had to send her senators there, ‘imparting to that city [Milan] a semblance of her own majesty, so that the seat of imperial power [sedes imperii] could then appear to be the place to which each emperor had come’. Rome had to move to Milan. This was the idea that Pompeianus proposed to Commodus, only now it had become reality. Yet the speech pushes this arcanum one step further. Specifically, the speaker claims that ‘wherever you are, even if you retire to one palace, your divinity abides everywhere; all lands and all seas are filled with you’.39 If Rome is where the emperor is, and if the emperor is everywhere, then Rome is everywhere. The whole empire is one 37

Lact., De mort. xvii. 2. Trier: Panegyrici Latini x. 13. 4: fingit; x. 14. 3: ‘cui nunc ille similitudinem maiestatis tuae confert natalem tuum diem celebrando in ea consuetudine magnificentiae tibi debitae’. 39 Hannibal: Panegyrici Latini xi. 9–10; Milan: xi. 12. 2 (‘civitati similitudinem maiestatis suae libenter impartiens, ut ibi tunc esse sedes imperii videretur quo uterque venerat imperator’); everywhere: xi. 14. 3 (‘ubicumque sitis, in unum licet palatium concesseritis, divinitatem vestram ubique versari, omnes terras omniaque maria plena esse vestri’). 38

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

235

big Rome. This Big Rome had received a name in Greek by the early fourth century (and possibly the late third). That name was Romanía, and it referred to the nation-state of the Romans in Late Antiquity and Byzantium. In the meantime, provincial cities where emperors resided rhetorically claimed or were given the status of New Rome. Diocletian built up his own capital Nikomedeia in Bithynia (100 kilometres from Byzantion) so that it became, according to Lactantius, ‘the equal of the city of Rome’. The new additions included basilicas, a hippodrome, mint, arms factory, and palaces. Ammianus adds that because of this Nikomedeia was regarded as one of the fourteen regions, or boroughs, of the Eternal City. These two reinforcing statements suggest that an equation or comparison with Rome had been made publicly by Diocletian (possibly that it was to be regarded ‘as if ’ it were one of Rome’s regiones, in a typical act of Roman legal-fictive imagining).40 We have seen the claims made for Milan and Trier, and similar ones were likely made for Galerius’s ‘capital’, Thessalonike. In sum, ‘a Tetrarch could turn any city where he settled into ‘his Rome’, thanks to a hippodrome and to chariot races, which, when a ceremony and races was held, transformed all of the people of the city into a populus Romanus that alone was able to assure the emperor of the popular legitimacy he needed’.41 Autun in Gaul (Augustodunum) revived the formal title ‘brother of Rome’ that it had received in the days of the Republic.42 Before founding Constantinople, Constantine himself had claimed that ‘my Rome is Serdica’. He used that city (near modern Sofia) as a base of operations before his defeat of Licinius.43 Nor did the foundation of Constantinople put an end to such comparisons. Towards the end of the fourth century, the poet Ausonius called Arles (in southern France) a ‘little Gallic Rome’, and, as we saw, in the early fifth century Salvianus called Carthage ‘a kind of Rome of the African world’.44 Such claims reflected the potential that any Roman city had to become the capital 40

Lact., De mort. vii. 8–10: ‘Nicomediam studens urbi Romae coaequare’; Ammianus, Res gestae xxii. 9. 3 (qua regio suggestion by Marion Kruse, pers. comm.). 41 Dagron, ‘From One Rome to the Other’, p. 32. For the monumental transformation of these cities into appropriate imperial capitals, see the bibliography cited by Potter, The Roman Empire at Bay, p. 638 n. 142, including archaeological reports. 42 Panegyrici Latini viii. 21. 2: ‘Romanae fraternitatis nomen’; ix. 4. 1: ‘fraterno populi Romani nomine’; cf. Caesar, Gallic War i. 33; Tacitus, Annals xi. 25. 43 Peter the Patrician, History fr. 211: ‘ἡ ἐμὴ Ῥώμη Σαρδική ἐστιν’: Peter the Patrician, The Lost History, trans. by Banchich, p. 144 = Anomymous Continuer of Cassius Dio fr. 15.1. 44 Ausonius, Order of the Noble Cities x. 2: Gallula Roma; Salvianus: see above.

Anthony Kaldellis

236

of the Roman Empire. When, in the early seventh century, the eastern empire was hard pressed by the Avars in the Balkans and the Persians in the east, the emperor Herakleios decided to relocate from Constantinople back to Carthage, his homeland, but he was dissuaded by the pleas of the patriarch and people.45 Finally, the imaginaire of new Rome shot past Constantinople itself and seeded fascinating experiments in the Carolingian Empire and beyond (e.g. Moscow, Paris, and Washington, D.C.).46 * * * The foundation of Constantinople was the culmination of a history of ‘New Romes’ that became increasingly crowded between ad 180 and 330. But the story told so far gives two misleading impressions. The first is that the idea of a mobile Rome was a distinctive development of the later empire. The second — asserted in our sources — is that only the presence of the emperor could make other cities into Romes. Now, to a certain degree the emperor stood metonymically for Rome. But Rome stood also for a community of citizens with a collective historical presence that was not necessarily defined by the emperor. Without them, whether they were soldiers or civilians, there could be no Romes, whether in Italy or the provinces. Conversely, in sufficient numbers they could constitute an alternative Rome even without an emperor — even before there were emperors. Let us take a few steps further back in time. The emperor Caligula (37–41) was credited with a wild scheme to relocate the government to Alexandria.47 Even if this was true, it cannot have been more than an offhand comment. There was no plan behind it, and no possibility that it would work in the first century ad. But Caligula was a genius of a specific sort: he had an unerring instinct for finding the pressure points in Roman political life, the psychopathologies created by the civil wars and the violent subordination of the senate to the Caesars. He found all the wounds that had not closed and the contradictions that imperial ideology had papered over rather than solved, and then he tore them open, thrust a dagger into them, and twisted it. No one knows why he did this, but it made his reign into a showcase of unfinished business: he exposed everything that the senate would rather be hidden, for the sanity of all. As it happened, Caligula’s paternal grandmother was Antonia, the daughter of Marcus Antonius, the triumvir whose defeat by 45

Nikephoros, Short History 8. Carolingian efforts: Kramer and Gantner, ‘Lateran Thinking’. 47 Suetonius, Gaius 49 (first to Antium); cf. Cassius Dio, Roman History lxiii. 27. 2: Nero proposed to kill the senators, burn Rome, move to Alexandria, and support himself as a singer. 46

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

237

Augustus at Actium in 31 bc was, and still is, seen by many as the beginning of the empire and the end of the Republic. This meant that Caligula could enact more contradictions: while holding the throne of the Caesars, he made gestures that seemed to stem from the anti-Caesarian tradition; for example he rehabilitated the works of authors who had been condemned for opposing the Caesars.48 The alleged plan to relocate to Alexandria, the headquarters of his great-grandfather Marcus Antonius, might have come from the same source. ‘Roman Alexandria’ was no laughing matter, no Caligulan whim. For years before the Battle of Actium the Roman world had been formally divided between two warlords, one based in Rome (Octavian) and the other in Alexandria (Antonius). The parallels to the formal division of the empire in the later empire are striking. There was in theory only one res publica Romana, but it was ruled from two centres of power, each with its own administration and Roman armies. Each had equal say in the appointment of consuls and other magistrates of the res publica. Their borders were exactly where they would lie later, between the eastern and the western empires of the fifth century ad.49 When Octavian made his move, his propaganda cast Antonius as a degenerate who had lost his Roman identity by falling under the spell of Cleopatra. Octavian preferred the image of a war against Egypt over that of a civil war against a Roman rival. But there was no hiding the fact that Alexandria had become an alternative Roman centre of power. Antonius celebrated a triumph there in 34, over Armenia. The city had Roman courts of law. In the final war with Octavian, Antonius had both consuls on his side, hundreds of senators — he formed an advisory council or ‘senate’ from them — and thirty legions of Roman citizens. From his standpoint, this undermined Octavian’s claim to represent the senate and people of Rome. In fact, it was not at all clear where ‘Rome’ was in this division. It was all too easy to imagine a Rome-in-Alexandria, a more legitimate one even than the one in Italy. That is why Octavian tried so hard to cast Antonius as an Egyptian rather than a Roman. It was even alleged in all the polemic that Antonius intended to hand Rome over to Cleopatra as a gift and transfer the Roman state to Egypt.50 Caligula knew exactly what ghost he was conjuring. 48

Suetonius, Gaius 16. Plutarch, Antonius 30; Appian, Civil War v. 65; Cassius Dio, Roman History xlviii. 32. 1, xlviii. 35. 1–3. 50 Triumph: Cassius Dio, Roman History xlix. 40. 3; Velleius Paterculus, History ii. 82. 4; courts: Plutarch, Antonius 58; Cassius Dio, Roman History l. 5. 2; consuls: l. 2. 7; council: l. 3. 2; representing Rome: l. 20. 6; transfer: l. 4. 1. Cf. Isaac, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity, p. 304. 49

Anthony Kaldellis

238

The reign of Augustus was marked by an insecurity that the capital of empire might relocate outside of Italy, and by nervous assurances ‘that hereafter Rome would never be anywhere but in Rome’.51 This anxiety left many traces in imperial literature. When Julius Caesar became dictator for life, there were rumours that he was planning to transfer the government to Alexandria, where his lover Cleopatra lived, or to Ilium (Troy), because of his genealogical connection to the Trojans through Aeneas. As for Caesar’s rival Pompeius, one of the cities with which he formed a special attachment during his eastern command, and which he used as a base of operations, was Mytilene, on the island of Lesbos. In Lucan he is even made to say, ‘here is my sacred home and hearth, here is Rome for me’.52 The very size of their empire offered Roman leaders many options for alternatives to Rome itself, which offered the advantage of ruling without the distractions of Roman politics at home. It was likely in this context of potential relocation that Livy, the historian writing under Augustus, composed the speech that he attributes to his hero Camillus at the end of Book v of his history. Camillus has just defeated the Gauls who had sacked Rome in 390 bc and is responding to Romans who were saying that they should just abandon the ruins and relocate to Veii. He delivers a passionate plea in favour of Rome remaining on the same earth. Place is sacred for Camillus, and he says that its Fortuna — its Tyche, in Greek — could never be relocated.53 He is protesting too much, revealing the anxiety that a move was indeed thinkable for Rome. A common theme is emerging. Alternative Romes tended to spring up in the imagination of the Romans during periods of civil conflict, when the body politic was divided into rival factions, each equally Roman in its own eyes. This was not the only context in which an altera Roma could be conceived, but it was the most prolific one. In such conflicts, one side was usually in physical possession of the city of Rome, so its rivals necessarily constituted a kind of competing or alternative Rome, hoping that it would be temporary. The civil wars of the late Republic produced some curious episodes in this regard. They will be familiar to historians of the late Republic but appear in a new light when seen as premonitions of Constantinople, especially when they are compared to the 51

Nicolet, Space, Geography, and Politics, p. 193. Caesar: Nikolaos of Damascus, History of Augustus 20 (ed. by Jacoby, no. 90, fr. 130); Suetonius, Julius Caesar 79; Pompey: Lucan, Civil War viii. 132–33 (‘hic sacra domus carique penates, hic mihi Roma fuit’). For an alleged plan to move the res publica to Capua, see Cicero, On the Agrarian Law ii. 89. 53 Livy, History v. 51–55. 52

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

239

striking developments of the later empire, including the creation of a universal Roman society. Sertorius was a Roman war hero and politician who opposed Sulla. When Sulla marched on Rome and captured it in 82 bc, Sertorius sought refuge in Spain, which he eventually organized as a base of resistance to the Sullan regime in Rome, combining native Spanish and Roman elements in his army and political base. Sertorius held out against Sulla’s generals Metellus and Pompeius during most of the 70s. The nature of Sertorius’s state — if it can be called that — is fuzzy, and we lack details about how it worked. Nevertheless, Sertorius had thousands of Roman followers from whom he constituted a Roman army, which was augmented by native units. He also had many Roman senators with him, who formed an advisory council of three hundred that he called the senate. It was said that Sertorius appointed proper Roman magistrates (e.g. quaestors), trained Spanish recruits in the ways of Roman warfare, educated the sons of the local chiefs (hostages, really) in Greek and Latin letters, and responded to formal petitions from a tribunal. His regime even seems to have featured a kind of popular civilian assembly with deliberative and executive functions. In his diplomacy with foreign powers, such as Mithridates of Pontos, Sertorius behaved as if he were the lawfully constituted government of Rome and negotiated with the interests of the whole empire in mind, not only of his own Spanish regime. It was later claimed that some senators back in Rome sympathized with him rather than the regime in the city.54 Therefore, except for its hybrid Roman-Spanish aspect, the regime of Sertorius was perfectly analogous to that of Postumus and Tetricus in the third-century ad ‘empire of the Gauls’. The civil war between Pompeius and Caesar also divided the senate and people of Rome. When Caesar invaded Italy in 49 bc, Pompeius and his supporters crossed over to Greece. Both sides naturally claimed to be representing the sovereign rights and interests of the Roman res publica. Eventually, Caesar would prevail at the Battle of Pharsala in Thessaly, in August of 48 bc. But it is interesting to read how Pompeius explained his strategy of initial withdrawal. ‘We will win’, he said, ‘if you follow me and do not shrink from abandoning Rome — and Italy too, it is necessary, in addition to Rome. For the strength and freedom of men is not in lands and dwellings; rather, men have those things with them, wherever they are’. He expanded on this theme in a later speech in Greece: our home is where our freedom is.55 Obviously, this speech 54 Plutarch, Sertorius, senate: 22–25; quaestor: 12; Greek and Latin: 13; petitions: 20; diplomacy: 23; sympathizers: 27. For his senate, see Appian, Civil War i. 108; assembly: i. 114. 55 Appian, Civil War ii. 5. 37: ‘ὁ δὲ, “ἕξετε,” εἶπεν, “ἂν ἐπακολουθῆτέ μοι καὶ μὴ δεινὸν ἡγῆσθε

Anthony Kaldellis

240

must be read against the grain: Pompeius had to make this argument because many felt a great deal of attachment to their lands, dwellings, and all that made Rome Rome. But if, according to his arguments, Rome simply meant ‘freedom’, then this idealized Rome was not necessarily to be found in Italy. It was an idea, not a physical place. As senators had joined Pompeius in this overseas venture, ‘there was a sufficient number of them with him from which to constitute a full senate’. This senate in Greece deliberated, passed decrees, and filled magistracies. Pompeius had declared, moreover, that any who remained behind in Rome would be counted as belonging to Caesar’s faction. In other words, in his eyes being in Rome was illegitimate.56 True Rome was specifically not at Rome, but in the camps in Thessaly. In this case too, we may cite a perfect analogue from the later empire. In 351, the eastern emperor Constantius II marched against the western usurper Magnentius and defeated him in battle in Pannonia. Magnentius held Italy, but a number of senators apparently sided with Constantius and fled to his camp. An oration in praise of Constantius put the matter evocatively: ‘you transferred Rome to Pannonia via the senate’.57 This is exactly what Pompeius had done in Greece. Rome was a city of walls, earth, and homes. Yet from the late Republic to the later empire, it was also a place of the political imagination, defined by the senate, the people, or the emperors, and it followed them when they left Italy. This Rome was highly portable. But emperors, senators, and Roman citizens multiplied in number during the centuries of the empire, causing it to become a vast Roman world, Romanía. In this context, the emergence of other Romes was inevitable. Rome was always in a state of turmoil and renewal, of movement and real or imagined dislocation, and the Romans were always anxious about how stable the ‘seat’ and ‘hearth’ of empire was. In the story of Rome, the imagination finally prevailed over the walls, earth, and homes. * * * Just as there had been New Romes before Constantinople, both real and imagined, so too had there been ‘Romes before Rome’. This was a curious feature of the Roman historical imagination. The Romans always imagined themselves τὴν Ῥώμην ἀπολιπεῖν, καὶ εἰ τὴν Ἰταλίαν ἐπὶ τῇ Ῥώμῃ δεήσειεν.” οὐ γὰρ τὰ χωρία καὶ τὰ οἰκήματα τὴν δύναμιν ἢ τὴν ἐλευθερίαν εἶναι τοῖς ἀνδράσιν, ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἄνδρας, ὅπῃ ποτ’ ἂν ὦσιν, ἔχειν ταῦτα σὺν ἑαυτοῖς’; ii. 5. 50; see Cicero’s reaction in his Letters to Atticus 7.11, 8.2–3. 56 Senate: Plutarch, Pompeius 64.3, 65.1, 66.4, 67.4; Appian, Civil War ii. 67; illegitimate: Caesar, Civil War i. 33, iii. 83. 57 Julian, Oration 1.48b: ‘τῆν ‘Ρώμην […] διὰ τῆς γερουσίας εἰς Παιονίαν μετέστησας’.

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

241

as a single political community or nation with a continuous and linear history. For the most part, that history was tied to their city — but not always. In all histories, origins are crucially important, and the history of the Roman people did not start at Rome, at least not as they imagined it later. It started elsewhere, wandered around the Mediterranean, and only later settled at Rome. ‘Founders’ are always ambiguous in this way. To be founders, they have to come from elsewhere, which makes them strangely outsiders who are yet also the defining touchstones of belonging. Romulus cannot have started out as a Roman, for he had not founded Rome yet. He was instead from the bloodline of the kings of Alba Longa, a ‘proto-Rome’ in the legend of Roman origins.58 Alba Longa, in turn, had been founded by Ascanius, the son of Aeneas. Aeneas had founded Lavinium after he led his people to Latium from Troy. Rome itself, therefore, came fourth in the iteration of these proto-Romes. We have already seen rumours that Julius Caesar wanted to move the capital to Troy, the first in the series and the homeland of his ancestors, though all he did in the end was bestow privileges upon contemporary Troy.59 The opening verses of Vergil’s Aeneid refer to Troy, Lavinium, Alba Longa, and Rome, in that order. The poem, which became the canonical telling of Roman origins, is epic in scope but barely reaches from the first to the second of those proto-Romes. Rome had originated at Troy. This is interesting for our story because it brings us back to the vicinity of Constantinople, which is situated just across the Sea of Marmara. With the foundation of Constantinople, the Romans were in effect closing the circle of a long trajectory, returning home after a fashion. This was not lost on the Byzantines, who described their city, or invented stories about it, in such a way as to highlight the connection. For example, the colossal bronze statue of Constantine in the guise of the Sun God, which stood on the porphyry column in the emperor’s forum, was said to have come from Troy or ‘Phrygia’ (in Vergil the Trojans are Phrygians).60 In addition, the statues that were selected to be arranged around the column in the forum also pointed to the history of Troy, and included an Aphrodite, Athena, the Judgement of Paris, and Amphitrite or Thetis (the mother of Achilles).61 Of even greater symbolic significance was the story that Constantine had removed the Palladium from Rome, brought it to New Rome, and buried it under his column. The Palladium was a protective talisman in the shape of a small Athena that had been given 58 59 60 61

Beard, North, and Price, Religions of Rome, p. 3. Strabo, Geography xiii. 1. 27. Malalas, Chronicle iv. 15; Vergil, Aeneid ix. 617–20. Kaldellis, ‘The Forum of Constantine in Constantinople’.

242

Anthony Kaldellis

to the Trojans by the gods to keep their city safe. According to legend, it was either stolen before the fall of Troy or taken to Italy by Aeneas. If we believe claims made by pagan and Christian authors starting in the sixth century, this very same Palladium was removed from Rome and brought to Constantinople by Constantine himself,62 a fiction that brilliantly tied Constantinople (and Constantine’s forum in particular) closely to both Troy and Rome. The journeys of the Palladium in a way replicated the historical trajectory of the Roman people, from Troy to Italy and then to Constantinople. The story also suggested that sacred inviolability had been removed from Rome and bestowed upon Constantinople, a useful and even necessary claim to make after the multiple sacks of Rome and the fall of the Western Roman Empire in the fifth century. Adjacent to the hippodrome in Constantinople were the baths of Zeuxippos. By 500, and likely earlier, they had been endowed with a large collection of statuary, over eighty pieces. This collection had a prominent Trojan theme. We know it from a poem written by Christodoros of Koptos (in Egypt), which describes each of the statues in turn. A large number, according to this description, were of figures of the Trojan War, gods and mortals, and they seemed collectively to capture the moment of Troy’s fall.63 But the most interesting link between New Rome and Troy was probably the story that was circulating a century after ad 330, and possibly earlier, according to which Constantine had originally planned to build his new capital on the very site of Troy, or Ilion, but was deterred by a vision of God that directed him instead to the site of Byzantion.64 It was almost certainly not true that Constantine considered the site of Troy for his capital, but the fact that this story was being told reveals how willing the Byzantines were to claim for themselves these deepest levels of the Roman myth, featuring the moment of Rome’s greatest ‘portability’. In fact, as he was fleeing Troy Aeneas had attempted to found a city in Thrace before moving to Italy.65 Like an Aeneas in reverse, and bearing the Palladium of Troy back to the land of its origin, Constantine had tried to found a city at Troy before moving on to Thrace. So it was not just the name and identity of Rome that could be duplicated, appropriated, and transplanted, it was its very history. This process had begun centuries earlier. During the reign of Augustus, Trogus wrote a history of the 62 Malalas, Chronicle xiii. 7; Prokopios, Wars v. 15. 8–14; Paschal Chronicle s.a. 328; Patria of Constantinople ii. 45. 63 Christodoros, Ekphrasis of the Statues in the Zeuxippos Baths = Greek Anthology, book ii; for a close reading, see Kruse, The Politics of Roman Memory, ch. 2. 64 Sozomenos, Ecclesiastical History ii. 3; a pagan version in Zosimos, New History ii. 30. 1. 65 Vergil, Aeneid iii. 13–68.

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

243

world from the Assyrian kings down to the Roman conquest of Spain. He reveals that his grandfather served under Pompeius in the war against Sertorius and was given citizenship, so his own full name was Gnaeus Pompeius Trogus. He was from the province of Gallia Narbonensis, in southern Gaul, but was writing in Rome. A major city of Narbonensis was the Greek colony of Massalia (Marseilles). When Trogus turns to the early history of Rome, he makes an interesting move: he interweaves it with the foundation and early history of Massalia and, going further, he uses the history of ancient Rome as a template on which to rewrite the history of Massalia. The two histories become synchronous in time and parallel in structure.66 As far as we know, Massalia was never claimed as a New Rome, but in this work it was at least presented as a parallel Rome. A similar move was made in the early sixth century on behalf of Byzantion by Hesychios, a native of Miletos in western Asia Minor who had lived for a while in the new imperial capital. Hesychios, like Trogus, wrote a history of the world, though his was more overtly structured around Rome, from Troy and Aeneas to Romulus, Caesar, Constantine, and the most recent emperor Anastasios (491– 518). In this grand scheme, Constantinople is the natural continuation of ancient Rome. In fact, Hesychios says that Constantinople picked up the baton of imperial history when ‘the affairs of Rome had reached their limit᾽, a cryptic phrase. He then goes back to tell the pre-Roman history of the Greek city Byzantion, modelling it on the early history of Rome itself. Specifically, Byzantion is said to have experienced tyrants and kings and aristocracies and democracies; its founders Byzas and Strombos were brothers and enemies (like Romulus and Remus); Byzas built the walls of his city with the assistance of Poseidon and Apollo (who built the walls of Troy, Rome’s ancestor city); Byzantion was led by seven generals (as Rome was governed by seven kings); Byzantion was saved during a siege by howling dogs (as Rome was saved by geese from the Gauls); and Byzantion accepts foreign leaders and sometimes their people as well, incorporating them into its own populus.67 Rome itself was being treated here like a premonition of New Rome. Hesychios was perceptive enough to include also in his history of Byzantion the story of groups being absorbed into the city. The history of Rome, and of its continuation that we call Byzantium, was likewise propelled by the periodic absorption and assimilation of foreign people. No matter their language, ethnicity, or religion, Rome could absorb them.68 Given the right circumstances, 66

Woolf, Tales of the Barbarians, pp. 29–30. ‘Limit’: Hesychios of Miletos, Patria of Constantinople 1: ‘τῶν πραγμάτων αὐτῆς ἤδη πρὸς πέρας ἀφιγμένων’; walls: Homer, Iliad vii. 452; see Kaldellis, ‘The Works and Days’. 68 Kaldellis, Romanland. 67

Anthony Kaldellis

244

it could turn them into Romans indistinguishable from the rest within two or three generations. This had happened to the ancestors of Pompeius Trogus and Hesychios, whose descendants wrote world histories stressing the centrality of Rome. Trogus was writing in Latin just as the imperial order was being established by Augustus. Hesychios was writing in Greek soon after the fall of the western empire and the emergence of New Rome as the only Rome. * * * This chapter began by considering the oddity of a ‘New Rome’ and then tried to explain that development by invoking recurring patterns of thought and practice in the history of Rome’s imagination. But we need to go beyond the problem of a New Rome. The citizens of Constantinople, and of the eastern empire in general, were not New Romans: they were plain Romans. They were no less Romans than any Romans had ever been in the past. Alternately, all Romans had always been new Romans, either personally or in their ancestors. So we need to look beyond the name of the city in order to understand the identity of the Byzantines. Contrary to what many scholars believe, they did not call themselves Romans only because, through an accident of history, their capital happened to have been given the formal title New Rome. The reverse was true: New Rome was founded and became the capital of a Roman empire of the east because the east was already full of Romans. It was just as Pompeius had said: a city is made by its people, and Rome was wherever the Romans choose to be. By the time of Constantine, the east had already become Romanía. I close this chapter with a striking illustration of why we must move beyond the superficial oddity of a New Rome and get to the normative Roman bedrock beneath it. For all that they knew that Constantinople was officially New Rome, the Byzantines could also just call it ‘Rome’, with no qualification. In the first few centuries of its existence, this happened mostly in poetry, when the demands of metre made it easier to simply use the shortened form. But this poetic practice also made it easier to think of the city as just being Rome, and some of these poems were inscribed on public monuments or delivered at public occasions. According to one scholar, the ‘Rome’ that is featured on the famous Madaba Map, a mosaic map of the east on the floor of a church in Jordan, is Constantinople.69 The New had not only extended the Old: it had supplanted it and literally taken its place in the imagined geography of the world. 69

E.g., Greek Anthology xvi.  62–63, xvi.  350; Paulos Silentiarios, Ekphrasis of Hagia Sophia 145; the sixth-century epigrams in Zonaras, Chronicle 14.10, 14.14; and more. Madaba: Bowersock, Mosaics as History, p. 85.

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

245

Works Cited Primary Sources The text (with English translation) of the following classical sources cited above can conveniently be found in the Loeb Classical Library published by Harvard University Press: Ammianus Marcellinus; Appian; Ausonius; Caesar; Cassius Dio; Cicero; the Greek Anthology; Herodian; the Historia Augusta; Homer; Julian; Livy; Lucan; Plutarch; Prokopios (= Procopius); Strabo; Suetonius; Tacitus; Velleius Paterculus; Vergil. The text (with a French translation) of the following Christian sources cited above can conveniently be found in the Sources Chrétiennes series published by Les Éditions du Cerf: Lactantius (= Lactance); Salvianus (= Salvien de Marseille); Sokrates (= Socrate); Sozomenos (= Sozomèn). Codex Theodosianus, in Theodosiani libri XVI cum Constitutionibus sirmondianis, ed. by Theodor Mommsen and Paul Martin Meyer (Berlin: Weidmann, 1905) Hesychios of Miletos, Patria of Constantinople, in Scriptores originum Constantinopol­ itanarum, vol. i, ed. by Theodore Preger (Leipzig: Teubner, 1901), pp. 1–18 Ioannes Lydos, On the Months: Ioannis Lydi liber de mensibus, ed.  by Richard Wünsch (Leipzig: Teubner, 1898) Justinian, Deo auctore, in Corpus Iuris Civilis, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, vol. i.2 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1899) Lactantius, De mortibus persecutorum, ed. and trans. by J. L. Creed (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1984) Malalas, Chronicle: Ioannis Malalae Chronographia, ed.  by Ioannes Thurn (Berlin: de Gruyter, 2000) Nikephoros, patriarch of Constantinople, Short History, ed. and trans. Cyril Mango (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1990) Nikolaos of Damascus, History of Augustus, in Die Fragmente der griechischen Historiker, ed. by Felix Jacoby, 3 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1923–58), author no. 90 Panegyrici Latini: In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The Panegyrici Latini, ed. and trans. by C.  E.  V. Nixon and B.  S. Rodgers, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 21 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994) Paschal Chronicle: Chronicon Paschale, ed. by Ludwig Dindorf, 2 vols. (Bonn: Weber, 1832) Patria of Constantinople, in Scriptores originum Constantinopolitanarum, ed. by Theodore Preger, 2 vols (Leipzig: Teubner, 1901–07) Paulos Silentiarios, Ekphrasis of Hagia Sophia: Paulus Silentiarius, Descriptio Sanctae Sophiae, Descriptio Ambonis, ed. by Claudio De Stefani (Berlin; New York: de Gruyter, 2011) Peter the Patrician, The Lost History of Peter the Patrician: An Account of Rome’s Imperial Past from the Age of Justinian, trans. by Thomas M. Banchich (Abingdon: Routledge, 2015) Porphyrius, Optatianus, Carmina, ed. by Giovanni Polara, 2 vols (Torino: Paravia, 1973)

246

Anthony Kaldellis

Souda: Suidae lexicon, ed. by Ada Adler, 4 vols (Leipzig: Teubner, 1928–35) Themistios, Orationes quae supersunt, ed.  by Glanville Downey and Henricus Schenkl, 3 vols (Leipzig: Teubner, 1965–74) Zonaras, Ioannes, Chronicle: Ioannis Zonarae Epitomae Historiarum libri XIII–XVIII, ed. by Theodor Büttner-Wobst (Bonn: Weber, 1897) Zosimos, New History: Zosime: Histoire nouvelle, ed. and trans. by François Paschoud, 3 vols (Paris: Les belles lettres, 1971–89)

Secondary Studies Ando, Clifford, ed., Citizenship and Empire in Europe, 200–1900: The Antonine Con­ stitution after 1800 Years (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2016) —— , ‘Fact, Fiction and Social Reality in Roman Law’, in Legal Fictions in Theory and Practice, ed. by Maksymilian Del Mar and William Twining (Boston: Springer, 2015), pp. 295–323 —— , Imperial  Ideology and the Provincial Loyalty in the Roman Empire (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000) —— , Imperial Rome, ad 193 to 284: The Critical Century (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2012) Angelova, Diliana N., Sacred Founders: Women, Men, and Gods in the Discourse of Imperial Founding, Rome through Early Byzantium (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2015) Barnes, Timothy D., ‘Publilius Optatianus Porfyrius’, American Journal of Philology, 96 (1975), 173–86 Beard, Mary, John North, and Simon Price, Religions of Rome, vol. i: A History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988) Bowersock, Glen, Mosaics as History: The Near East from Late Antiquity to Early Islam (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006) Bühl, Gudrun, Constantinopolis und Roma: Stadtpersonifikationen der Spätantike (Zurich: Akanthus, 1995) Connolly, Serena, Lives behind the Laws: The World of the Codex Hermogenianus (Blooming ton: Indiana University Press, 2010) Dagron, Gilbert, ‘From One Rome to the Other’, in Hippodrom/Atmeydani: A Stage for Istanbul’s History, vol. i, ed. by Brigitte Pitarakis (Istanbul: Pera Muzesi Yayini, 2010) —— , Naissance d’une capitale: Constantinople et ses institutions de 330 à 451 (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1974) Edwards, Catherine, and Greg Woolf, eds, Rome the Cosmopolis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003) Isaac, Benjamin, The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2004) Kaldellis, Anthony, ‘The Forum of Constantine in Constantinople: What Do We Know about its Original Architecture and Adornment?’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 56 (2016), 714–39

How Was a ‘New Rome’ Even Thinkable

247

—— , Romanland: Ethnicity and Empire in Byzantium (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2019) —— , ‘The Works and Days of Hesychios the Illoustrios of Miletos’, Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies, 45 (2005), 381–403 Kramer, Rutger, and Clemens Gantner, ‘Lateran Thinking: Building an Idea of Rome in the Carolingian Empire’, Viator, 47 (2016), 1–26 Kruse, Marion, The Politics of Roman Memory from the Fall of Rome to the Age of Justinian (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019) Lenski, Noel, ‘Constantine and the Tyche of Constantinople’, in Contested Monarchy: Integrating the Roman Empire in the Fourth Century ad, ed.  by Johannes Wienand (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), pp. 330–51 Mango, Cyril, ‘Constantinople as Theotokoupolis’, in Mother of God: Representations of the Virgin in Byzantine Art, ed. by Maria Vassilaki (Milan: Skira; Athens: Benaki Museum, 2010), pp. 17–25 Marlowe, Elizabeth, ‘Framing the Sun: The Arch of Constantine and the Roman Cityscape’, Art Bulletin, 88.2 (2006), 223–42 Matthews, John, ‘The Notitia Urbis Constantinopolitanae’, in Two Romes: Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity, ed. by Lucy Grig and Gavin Kelly (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012), pp. 81–115 Millar, Fergus, The Emperor in the Roman World (31 bc–ad 337) (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1977) Nicolet, Claude, Space, Geography, and Politics in the Early Roman Empire (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1991) Potter, David S., The Roman Empire at Bay, ad 180–395, 2nd edn (London: Routledge, 2014) Van Dam, Raymond, The Roman Revolution of Constantine (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007) —— , Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2010) Woolf, Greg, Tales of the Barbarians: Ethnography and Empire in the Roman West (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2011)

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate Shane Bjornlie*

T

he sack of Rome in 410 has long been viewed as symptomatic of the deep cultural changes of Late Antiquity. After centuries of Rome’s uninterrupted and unequivocal association with the many faces of empire, the subjugation of the ‘Eternal City’ to a so-called ‘barbarian’ warlord challenged the meaning of empire. The reaction in texts was swift and freighted with signification. Contemporary luminaries of the educated class responded to the crisis, and their reactions illustrate, either directly or indirectly, the anxieties of an age in which the solid firmament of Roman imperial power had been exposed to reinterpretation. But the sack was not a watershed moment with real, structural consequence for the empire. In that sense, it is an event almost completely detached from the historical narrative for the end of the Western Roman Empire. By contrast, the late antique textual record demonstrates sustained interest in the event well beyond the end of the western empire; but that same record is also highly idiosyncratic. Variations in the treatment of 410 are almost as numerous as the texts in which it appears. These variations represent more than a deterioration in the

* I would like to thank Michael Kulikowski, Michele Salzman, Sebastian Schmidt-Hofner, and Ed Watts for reading and commenting on an earlier version of this paper, in addition to the valuable comments of participants at the 12th meeting of Shifting Frontiers at Yale University, where I presented the original version of this paper; I am also indebted to the keen editorial stewardship of Young Kim and Tiggy McLaughlin. Shane Bjornlie is Associate Professor of History, Claremont McKenna College. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 249–279 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118165

Shane Bjornlie

250

transmission of historical knowledge; that may be the case in some instances, but in others, the inability for a single tradition describing the sack of 410 to develop represents contestations in the meaning of the past. This essay considers what the panoptic textual perspective of this event reveals about the contingencies shaping the production of historical knowledge. Treating the textual record as a landscape of memory scripts in which the fidelity of individual accounts matters less than the contemporary meaning of a textual memory reveals a fascinating profile of the role played by the reimagined sack of Rome in shaping ideas about empire, religion, and ethnicity, at various stages of Late Antiquity. By mapping responses to this event in texts from the fifth to the eighth centuries, this essay reinforces the emerging consensus in modern scholarship that the narrative of ‘decline and fall’ in the Western Roman Empire was not a linear narrative of political, military, and economic processes, but rather a mosaic of highly individualized historical ‘imaginaries’ developed in different places, at different times, and for different reasons.1 The particular emphasis on historical memory likewise situates this essay firmly within the theme of the present volume, demonstrating how different communities interacted with the idea of Rome, and its idealized reputation, in relation to a specific historical moment. Although explaining the end of the Western Roman Empire in regionally particular and context-specific terms is de rigueur in current late antique scholarship, exploring the sack of 410 in this same manner is still a fairly significant departure from previous scholarship. The impact of 410 has frequently been treated in the tradition of histoire événementielle by considering the particularity of the historical moment and its potential watershed significance. Such studies have attempted to gauge the urban resilience of Rome, the efficacy of the western imperial court, and the nature of military and political opportunities available to so-called barbarians of the empire.2 Other studies have viewed the event in a longue durée tradition, as a nodal point in processes that eventually concluded with the political fragmentation of the western Mediterranean.3 1

On historical imaginaries, see Dagron, Constantinople imaginaire; Kazhdan, ‘“Constantin imaginaire”’; Van Dam, ‘Imagining Constantine’. 2 Lipps, Machado, and von Rummel, The Sack of Rome in 410 ad. See also Veyne, ‘La Prise de Rome’; Kulikowski, Rome’s Gothic Wars, pp. 154–77; Meier and Patzold, August 410; Harich-Schwarzbauer and Pollmann, Der Fall Roms. 3 For example, Ferrill, The Fall of the Roman Empire; Ward-Perkins, The Fall of Rome; Heather, The Fall of the Roman Empire; Halsall, Barbarian Migrations; Goldsworthy, How Rome Fell; Christie, The Fall of the Western Roman Empire.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

251

The discrepant accounts of late antique texts naturally contribute to differences in modern methodological approaches to the event. Some scholars attempt to reconcile these discrepancies by presenting a single, synthesized narrative that assumes individual late antique authors each possessed only a partial perspective that could be combined more or less seamlessly with others. Other approaches are selective, either regarding only bits and pieces from the range of late antique texts as credible, or rejecting as specious some texts altogether. What the greater majority of modern approaches have in common is an attempt to use texts, particularly of the fifth and sixth centuries, to arrive at a single, historically accurate account of the event — its context, sequence, and impact. As Ralph Mathisen has shown, however, because of the discrepant nature of sources, any attempt to produce a single, faithful narrative for the event is largely an act of tilting at windmills.4 By contrast, the potential for the sack of Rome to be understood as an imaginaire with multiple iterations in the political and religious literature is relatively under-explored. This paper argues that by plotting the full range of late antique versions of the sack of 410, the reconstituted textual landscape provides a valuable perspective of the contours for the fashioning of historical knowledge. Indeed, many late antique accounts do not follow their own sources with the strictest fidelity and, for that reason, represent purposeful authorial interventions. Thus, this paper aims to examine how the process of remembering the sack of 410 in later generations was conditioned by subsequent views of the Roman Empire as a social, political, religious, and even ethnic construct. More importantly, a survey of the range of accounts across the fifth and sixth centuries also reveals what might be thought of as cognitive proximity to or distance from key concepts through which different generations imagined the Roman Empire. Whatever the actual impact of the sack in material and demographic terms, the event is best understood as conceptual anchorage for how later generations gauged the success and relevance of the idea of Roman Empire. In this sense, it is possible to appreciate how Rome fell not once in 410, but rather how it fell many times over with subtle and not-sosubtle variations in the imaginations of subsequent generations across the fifth and sixth centuries and beyond. This reorientation in historical perspective should encourage scholars of Late Antiquity to think about historical truth not in the absolute terms of an editio princeps, and all that implies about historical authority, but rather in terms of the process by which successive late antique generations engaged in the manufacture of discrete historical truths. 4

Mathisen, ‘Roma a Gothis Alarico duce capta est’.

Shane Bjornlie

252

Augustine and Jerome At the foreground of this landscape of historical memory are two authors who in many ways represent the discursive tone for late antique responses to the sack. Modern discussions of the religiously charged terms by which people responded to the sack of Rome inevitably begin with Augustine and, to a lesser extent, his contemporary Jerome.5 In response to claims that abandoning traditional Roman religion for Christianity had exposed Rome to ruin, Augustine delivered a series of sermons during the course of 410 and 411.6 As Michele Salzman has noted, Augustine addressed these sermons to the wavering Christians of his community as much as to pagan critics.7 Augustine later developed from these sermons the much more ambitious and ultimately magisterial project that he would complete in 426, the De civitate Dei.8 Where Augustine’s writing represents sustained engagement with anti-Christian polemic, Jerome’s own response is opportunistic, appearing in a handful of letters and in the preface to his Commentary on Ezekiel largely as a rhetorical device by which he sought to contrast the fate of Rome to a wider spectrum of salvation ethics.9 This difference between Augustine and Jerome is notable, but seldom commented upon. Both were immediate contemporaries with the event, and both related its significance in religious terms. The differences between the two, however, illustrate how even among co-religionists, the event’s implications could be understood in quite distinctive terms. For Augustine, refuting the claim that ‘Christian times’ had allowed Rome to fall required that he minimize the overall impact of the event. Although his sermon on the ruin of Rome acknowledged ‘strages factae, incendia, rapinae, interfectiones, excruciationes hominum’ (carnage, fires, rape, murder, and the torture of men), here and elsewhere Augustine downplayed the effects: ‘Ab urbe autem Roma quam multi exierunt et redituri sunt, quam multi manserunt et evaserunt, quam multi in locis sanctis nec tangi potuerunt!’ (nevertheless, note how many fled from Rome and will return, how many remained and avoided 5

For discussions of reactions to the sack from Augustine and Jerome, see Brown, Augustine of Hippo, pp. 297–302; Doignon, ‘Oracles, prophéties, “on-dit” sur la chute de Rome’; McLynn, ‘Augustine’s Roman Empire’; Salzman, ‘Apocalypse Then?’; Meier and Patzold, August 410, pp. 31–58. 6 Augustine (Aug.), Sermones (Serm.) 15a, 25, 33a, 81, 105, 113a, 296 and De excidio urbis Romae (De excidio). 7 Salzman, ‘Memory and Meaning’, pp. 295–301. 8 In general on Aug., De civitate Dei (De civ.), see O’Meara, ‘Introduction’, pp. vii–xxxv. 9 Jerome ( Jer.), Epistulae (Ep.) 127, 128, 130; Commentariorum in Hiezechielem, praef. 1.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

253

ruin, how many in holy places could not be touched).10 In the De civitate Dei, where Augustine even acknowledged the rape of Christian women, he famously noted credit should be given ‘pro largiore misericordia ad capacitatem multitudinis electis praeter bellorum morem truculenti barbari pepercerunt, hoc tribuere temporibus Christianis’ (to this Christian era for the fact that these savage barbarians showed mercy beyond the custom of war).11 Although the physical urban fabric constituting the urbs may have suffered, the community of people constituting the civitas survived through God’s grace. In fact, those few who endured personal suffering did so as a part of God’s judgement against either pagan ignorance or Christian sin.12 Augustine equivocated over the meaning of the sack by diminishing the material ruin and elevating the miraculous safety of true believers; and in the De civitate Dei, he completely separated the causality and consequence of temporal events from the economy of salvation.13 Jerome also used the sack as an opportunity to elevate the saintly, as he did with the story of Marcella in Epistle 127.14 But in contrast to Augustine, Jerome dramatized the event as the realization of worldly horrors, stories of famine and violence delivered by dreadful rumour.15 Indeed, Jerome likened the sack to the decapitation of the world’s people.16 Again in contrast to Augustine, in Epistle 128, Jerome noted how ‘In cineres ac favillas sacrae quondam ecclesiae conciderunt’ (churches formerly holy have fallen into dust and ashes) and that the exiles displaced by the sack were so numerous that they could be found in every part of the world.17 Where Augustine minimized destruction to the physical fabric of the city, Jerome emphasized the incendio that left the city a graveyard of ashes.18 Interestingly, where Augustine eventually argued for a conception of 10

Aug., De excidio ii. 3, ed. by Vianney O’Reilly, p. 58; ii. 2, p. 56. Aug., De civ. i. 1, ed. by McCracken, p. 14, trans. by Bettenson, pp. 6–7. Contrast with i. 28, on the rape of Christian women. 12 Aug., Serm. 296; De excidio 2; De civ. i. 28. 13 Aug., De excidio 1–2; De civ. i. 1, i. 7, i. 34; see also De Bruyn, ‘Ambivalence within a Totalizing Discourse’. 14 Jer., Ep. 127. 12–13. 15 Jer., Ep. 127. 12, ed. by Wright, p. 462: ‘terribilis de occidente rumor’ and ‘immo fame perit ante quam gladio’. 16 Jer., Ep. 128. 5, ed. by Wright, p. 478: ‘Urbs inclita et Romani imperii caput uno hausta est incendio’; note that Jerome uses similar imagery to describe the loss of Bishop Anastasius in the face of heresy, Ep. 127. 10, ed. by Wright, p. 458: ‘ne orbis caput sub tali episcopo truncaretur’. 17 Jer., Ep. 128. 5, ed. by Wright, p. 478. 18 Jer., Ep. 128. 5 and 130. 5. 11

Shane Bjornlie

254

Christian time that is detached from the relevance of Roma Aeterna (a view that rendered the cause and impact of the sack irrelevant), he never explicitly signalled the sack of Rome in political terms as the end of a Roman world. Jerome, again by contrast in his Commentary on Ezekiel, noted that, ‘Postquam vero clarissimum terrarium omnium lumen exstinctum est, immo Romani imperii truncatum caput; et, ut verius dicam, in una Urbe totus orbis interiit’ (For now indeed the brightest lamp of the whole world is extinguished; indeed, the head has been struck from Roman power; and as it is justly said, the whole world has perished with one city).19 Thus, Jerome did not blanche at describing the horrors witnessed by Christians, nor from the ideological impact of the sack.

Fifth­Century Historiography Augustine and Jerome responded in vividly evocative terms to the psychological impact that the sack made on contemporaries, although theirs were largely abstract and rhetorical responses. Even with strong connections to leading members of the civil administration and Christian community in Rome, neither Jerome nor Augustine offered a detailed account of events leading up to the sack, nor of the sack itself. Nonetheless, the polemical content of their respective commentaries appears in subsequent narrative treatments for generations. It is with the histories produced in later decades that accounts included detailed and sequential narratives for events leading up to the sack. Only decades removed from the event did ecclesiastical histories and chronicles give narrative elements a particular charge in the meaning of the sack that moved beyond the abstract spiritual terms of Augustine and Jerome. The accounts of Orosius and Olympiodorus, in particular, might be thought of as the next phase of direct literary response to the sack. What separates these histories from the more spontaneous rhetoric of Augustine and Jerome is the development of deliberate, fine-grained accounts in which the placement of narrative details in chronological structures plays a greater role in shaping the polemical interpretation of the event. Further, although these authors were contemporary with the sack of 410, neither shows evidence of direct access to witnesses from Rome who might have supplied details for their histories. And although these later histories depart from the psychological and religious rhetoric of Augustine and Jerome, they nevertheless appropriated what might be thought of as the rhetoric of late classical historiography. 19

Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem i. 3, ed. by Glorie, p. 3.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

255

Many of these histories have already received much scholarly attention, but it is nonetheless worth illustrating some of the great variety with which the sack of 410 was reported across the fifth century. Orosius perhaps claims the laurels for historical invention. Where his correspondent Augustine eventually produced a virtuoso piece of rhetorical argumentation, the De civitate Dei, Orosius produced (c. 418) what may be thought of as the graphic novel version. Not content with rebuffing pagan criticisms against Christianity by simply demonstrating ‘aut gravia […] aut corrupta […] aut tristia […] aut terribilia […] aut insolita […] aut saeva […] vel etiam misera’ (all the troubles […] ravages […] sorrows […] terrible events […] unexpected disasters […] savagery […] and the misery) endured by the Roman Empire before 410, Orosius argued with breathtaking rhetorical audacity that Christian times had ameliorated age-old miseries of the human condition.20 Wars against usurpers and barbarians such as Maximus, Eugenius, Gildo, and Radagaisus ended either with victories, ‘vel nullo vel minimo sanguine’ (with very little or no shedding of blood) or ‘minimo sanguine, nullo certamine ac paene sine caede’ (with the least bloodshed, no battles, and almost no killing).21 Orosius equipped his account of Rome’s sack with several interesting characteristics that follow his ideological orientation. First, he exploited a feature also found in Augustine’s Sermon 105 in order to fashion a synthetic parallel between Radagaisus and Alaric.22 Orosius depicted Radagaisus as a pagan Gothic king who was intent on the eradication of Christians. His defeat, therefore, was God’s justice. Radagaisus’s parallel, the Christian Goth Alaric, was allowed to sack Rome in order to punish impious pagans at Rome on account of their idolatry. Orosius conflated the invasion of Italy by Radagaisus in 405 with that of Alaric in 408 to make it seem that the pagan Goth was defeated so that the Christian Goth would be able to capture Rome, punish pagan Romans, and preserve Christians from harm.23 The entire manufacture is a specimen of the same synkrisis employed in classical literature by authors such as Sallust, Livy, Tacitus, and Plutarch.24 In the end, Orosius noted not only that 20 Orosius, Historiae contra paganos (Historiae), praef. 1.10, ed. by Zangemeister, p. 2. On interpreting Orosius’s history, see Meier and Patzold, August 410, pp. 58–68; Van Nuffelen, Orosius and the Rhetoric of History; Formisano, ‘Grand Finale’; Goetz, ‘Orosius und seine “Sieben Geschichtsbücher gegen die Heiden”’. 21 Orosius, Historiae vii.  35.  9 and vii.  43.  17; compare also vii.  35.  19, vii.  36.  5, vii. 37. 14–15, vii. 39. 9. 22 Orosius, Historiae vii. 37. 23 This contrast is most explicit at Orosius, Historiae vii. 37. 8. 24 For example, Rossi, ‘Parallel Lives’.

Shane Bjornlie

256

the event purged the city of the unrepentant like a sieve, but that ‘hymnum Deo Romanis barbarisque concinentibus publice canitur’ (Romans and barbarians joined together in openly singing hymns to God), almost as though celebrating a victory for the city.25 Any destruction to the city was reduced by comparison to the impious conflagration of Nero in 64, and with hyperbole that would have made Augustine blush, Orosius suggested that most of Rome’s population would admit ‘nihil factum’ (nothing had happened).26 It is perhaps not surprising that historians writing across the fifth century did so with more sobriety, but the degree of variation is notable and Orosius’s imprint remained palpable for centuries. Writing fifteen to thirty years after the sack, Olympiodorus composed a history that may be considered similar to Orosius as an actual response to the event.27 Olympiodorus seems to have commenced his history with the death of Stilicho. This fact and the western Mediterranean orientation of the history strongly suggests that explaining 410 was Olympiodorus’s intended purpose, as it had been with Orosius. Unfortunately, Olympiodorus’s work does not survive as an independent account, but rather as fragments or paraphrases incorporated into later histories.28 The dispersed portions of Olympiodorus’s history contribute to different narratives of the event in their later redactors, in which case, cumulatively, the fragments of Olympiodorus become testimony to the many divergent adaptations made to the narrative of Alaric’s sack of Rome. It should be noted too that these variations on Olympiodorus’s original text include accounts both critical of Christian ideology (as filtered into Zosimus) and others more hostile to Alaric and the pagans (as used by Sozomen). Even in accounts that presumably use Olympiodorus as a main source, it is clear that texts differ widely in terms of how blame for the sack is constructed. Varying levels of infamy attach either to the ineptitude of Attalus as Alaric’s imperial appointee or, conversely, to Honorius’s ineptitude in dealing with Alaric.29 Similarly, accounts assign varying degrees of agency to the elevation of 25

Orosius Historiae vii. 39. 9, ed. by Zangemeister, p. 293, on singing hymns; vii. 39. 13, on the sack as ‘sieve’. 26 Orosius Historiae vii. 40. 1, ed. by Zangemeister, p. 294. 27 On Olympiodorus, see Blockley, The Fragmentary Classicizing Historians of the Later Roman Empire; Gillett, ‘The Date and Circumstances’; Van Nuffelen, ‘Olympiodorus of Thebes’; Stickler, ‘Das Geschichtswerk’. 28 On the fragmentary survivals of Olympiodorus, see Matthews, ‘Olympiodorus of Thebes’. 29 For a version in which Attalus’s actions lead to Alaric’s sack, see Sozomen and Olympiodorus, Fragment 14 (Photius, Bibliotheca 80); for Honorius as the agent of Rome’s sack, see Zosimus.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

257

Attalus as emperor, either through election by a complicit senate or by Alaric’s forceful intervention as Rome’s conqueror.30 And texts variously place blame for the failure of final-hour negotiations that might have avoided Rome’s sack at the feet of Honorius, his duplicitous praetorian prefect Jovian, the competing Gothic leader Sarus, or a mysterious compulsion that goaded Alaric irresistibly.31 Similarly, the most lurid narrative detail in many accounts, the famine that compelled besieged citizens to cannibalism, seems to wander from account to account. According to one version, the first instance of cannibalism occurred during Alaric’s first siege.32 In Sozomen, it was the result of Honorius’s strangulation of grain shipments from North Africa, which had been intended to unseat his rival Attalus.33 Philostorgius claimed that citizens turned to cannibalism after Alaric’s defeat by Sarus, whereupon he deposed Attalus and laid siege to the city in the final episode that would result in the sack of the city.34 It was upon this version of cannibalism that Procopius later built the story of the senatorial woman Proba, who opened the gates to Alaric’s soldiers out of pity for the Romans who had already begun consuming each other.35 Zosimus later claimed that cannibalism occurred during both the first and second sieges.36 Christian Romans consuming the substance of the body politic probably had an irresistible metaphorical appeal for a staunch pagan such as Zosimus. The accounts of authors who made use of Olympiodorus are even more divergent with regard to religious themes. This can be seen, for example, concerning the role of pagan religious rites in characterizing the event. According to Sozomen, pagan senators first turned to sacrifices on the advice of certain Tuscans, probably intending Etruscan diviners, but surely an invention as ancient Etruscan culture had long been extinct.37 Later, again according to Sozomen, Attalus earned God’s wrath by taking confidence in the prediction of 30

Contrast Sozomen (Soz.), Historia ecclesiastica (HE) ix. 8, where Alaric compels the citizens of Rome to accept Attalus as emperor, and Philostorgius (Philost.), Historia ecclesiastica (HE) xii. 3, where Attalus becomes emperor through the citizens’ ‘vote’. 31 For example, Soz., HE ix. 9, and Philost., HE xii. 3, on Sarus; Socrates (Socr.), Historia ecclesiastica (HE) vii.  10, on the mysterious spirit; Zosimus (Zos.), Nova historia (NH) v. 44–51, on Jovian. 32 Olympiodorus, Fragment 7.1 (Photius, Bibliotheca 80). 33 Soz., HE ix. 8. 34 Philost., HE xii. 3. 35 Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 27. 36 Zos., NH v. 38–39; vi. 10–11. 37 Soz., HE ix. 6.

Shane Bjornlie

258

diviners.38 According to Zosimus, Pope Innocent consented to the communal sacrifices that might have protected the city, but Christian citizens of Rome objected.39 And however polemically charged the event was in religious terms, accounts continued to vary among Christians, much as the treatments of Augustine and Jerome. Sozomen shared Orosius’s sentiment that divine wrath had punished the luxury, debauchery, and injustice of the Romans, but he departed dramatically from Orosius by allying both pagan Romans and Arian Christians (the Goths), who shared displeasure at the failure of Attalus’s reign.40 The sheer variety of narrative versions present among Orosius and the historians who used Olympiodorus’s account is remarkable. Another consideration is that the narrative versions after Orosius and Olympiodorus often incorporated the event as rhetorical anchorage for narratival teleologies with other purposes. In the case of Orosius and Olympiodorus, the impetus for writing had been to provide an appropriate response to the fact of Rome’s sack. Other authors of the fifth century were sufficiently embedded in their own contemporary contexts that the sack of 410 was but one of many events in a longer chronological framework that had to be adapted and accommodated to their particular concerns. Fifth-century writers such as Sozomen and Philostorgius exploited, rather than followed, Olympiodorus. This tendency for variation is evident in other fifth-century texts that claim to follow and continue the ecclesiastical history of Eusebius. Although Socrates’s history was known to Sozomen, Socrates appears to have been unaware of Olympiodorus, whom Sozomen used.41 For example, both Sozomen and Socrates incorporate the story of the pious monk to whom Alaric confessed his phantom-driven compulsion to destroy Rome.42 Unlike Sozomen, however, Socrates notes that Alaric had many of the senators executed on a variety of pretexts and that Attalus’s appointment as emperor had a farcical quality. According to Socrates, Alaric forced Attalus to attend him first as emperor, then as slave, on alternating days.43 Two Latin chronicles from the West claimed to continue the Eusebian tradition through Jerome’s epitome, and each reduced the sack to an index for the deterioration of imperial power evident in their respective provinces. The 38

Soz., HE ix. 8. Zos., NH v. 41. 40 Soz., HE ix. 6, on divine wrath; ix. 9, on displeasure with Attalus. 41 See Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 89–96, 134–55; for a fuller study of Socrates’s rhetorical strategy, see Watts, ‘Interpreting Catastrophe’. 42 Socr., HE vii. 10; Soz., HE ix. 6. 43 Socr., HE vii. 10. 39

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

259

Gallic Chronicle of 452 commenced with the fall of Valens at Adrianople and followed with a string of disasters — Saxons in Britain, Vandals and Alans in Gaul, and Sueves in Spain, which reaches a crescendo with the sack of Rome: ‘Ipsa denique orbis caput Roma depredationi Gothorum foedissime patuit’ (Finally, Rome herself, the capital of the world, most abominably endured spoliation by the Goths).44 The chronicle subsumed the sack of Rome within a wider narrative bearing on Gaul and transforms the event into the final coordinate in a chronological map explaining the pitiable condition of the res publica in 452, when ‘barbarians’ had settled in every province and saturated the whole world with unspeakable heresy.45 In other words, the chronicler supplied the sack of Rome with explanatory agency for understanding the end of the western empire (in ethnic and religious terms) from a Gallic perspective. Hydatius seems to have had similar intent. Writing a continuation of Jerome’s translation of Eusebius, Hydatius opened his chronicle with a prefatory statement about the ruinous nature of the times following the death of Valens at Adrianople and extended the narrative to the reign of Leo in 468.46 Within that framework, Hydatius conflated the sack of Rome with the fall of Roman Hispania. The entry for ad 409 states, ‘Alani et Vandali et Suevi Hispanias ingressi […] Alaricus rex Gothorum Romam ingressus’ (The Alans, Vandals and Sueves entered the Spanish provinces […] Alaric, king of the Goths, entered Rome).47 By pairing the arrival of Vandals in Spain with Alaric’s entry into Rome, Hydatius signified the end of Roman power in his native province with the fall of the ideological centre of imperial power. Hydatius’s interest in the sack of 410 resided primarily in its rhetorical value. For example, Hydatius shared Orosius’s sentiment concerning the efficacy of sanctuary in the churches of Rome, but this is in fact a rhetorical foil by which he compared the very different situation in Spain, where barbarians plundered without respect for religion.48

44

Chronica Gallica CCCCLII 64, ed. by Mommsen, p. 654; see also Burgess, ‘The Gallic Chronicle of 452’. 45 Chronica Gallica CCCCLII 135–37. 46 On Hydatius, see Burgess, The ‘Chronicle’ of Hydatius and the Consularia Constanti­ nopolitana; Steinacher, ‘Geschlechterrollen bei Hydatius’; Börm, ‘Hydatius von Aquae Flaviae’. 47 Hydatius, Chronicle 42–43, ed. by Mommsen, p. 17. 48 Hydatius, Chronicle 43, 46.

Shane Bjornlie

260

Silences from Rome The interest of provincial authors in the sack of Rome, and the variety with which the event was narrated, contrasts markedly (and perplexingly) with texts having greater geographical proximity to Rome. The (regrettably incomplete) poem of Rutilius Namatianus may be the closest potential witness to the event.49 As magister officiorum in 412 and praefectus urbi in 414, Rutilius would have been familiar with the city’s recovery from the sack, and the surviving portion of the text at least suggests awareness of the event’s magnitude.50 His digression in Book ii compares Stilicho’s crime against the immortal mother of the world (Rome) to Nero’s lesser transgression against his own mortal mother (Agrippina).51 But there is also ambivalence: Rutilius compared Alaric to Brennus, Pyrrhus, and Hannibal, all enemies of Rome who failed to extinguish Roman power (optimism that contrasts notably with Jerome).52 Again, interest in the fate of the city seems rooted in the rhetorical value of the event. Although captured by Alaric, Rutilius nonetheless celebrated Rome’s recovery, if only to contrast the ruined fields and wars of Gaul, the return to which he dedicated his poem. In religious writing, the event is even more muted with proximity to Rome. For example, Melania the Younger seems not to have mentioned news of the sack to her hagiographer, Gerontius, except to note that she had departed Italy just prior to Alaric’s arrival in Italy.53 Bishop Leo of Rome likewise would have been familiar with efforts to restore daily activities at the city. Prior to his appointment as bishop in 440, he had served in the 430s as deacon, an office that may have been preceded by rising through lower ranks in the clergy of Rome within a decade of the sack.54 And yet, the only attention he gave to 410 was in Sermon 84, which complains that the liturgical commemoration of Alaric’s sack had been poorly attended on account of the ludi Circensium. 55 It seems doubtful whether the commemorative event to which Leo refers had been cel49

On Rutilius Namatianus, see Wolff, ‘Retour sur quelques problèmes’; Meier and Patzold, August 410, pp. 69–82; Schierl, ‘…quod sine fine placet’; Malamud, Rutilius Namatianus’ Going Home. 50 Rutilius, De reditu suo i. 1–46. 51 Rutilius, De reditu suo ii. 49–60. 52 Rutilius, De reditu suo i. 19–42. 53 Gerontius, Vita Melaniae 19. 54 Neil, Leo the Great, pp. 3–4. 55 On this sermon, see Salzman, ‘Memory and Meaning’, pp. 301–03.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

261

ebrated continuously since Alaric’s departure, nor if it continued beyond Leo’s episcopacy. In fact, the sermon shows more interest in discrediting the secular ludi than in the spiritual impact of what Leo calls the ‘diem castigationis et liberationis nostrae’ (day of our chastening and of our liberation).56 Interestingly, the Liber Pontificalis discusses Leo in connection with his efforts in opposing Attila’s advance on Rome and in relation to Gaiseric’s sack of Rome in 455, but nothing concerning his preservation of commemorative rites associated with 410.57 Someone intimate with Leo, Prosper Tiro, completed his chronicle in 455 and mentioned only that the West lacked a consul in the year that Alaric captured Rome.58 This is not to suggest that military threats to Rome were meaningless by Prosper’s day — he offers a more detailed account of Gaiseric’s occupation of Rome in the last entry of his chronicle.59 Cassiodorus also enjoyed familiarity with Rome and composed his own chronicle in 519, possibly with influence from the work of Prosper. Curiously, he noted in contrast to Prosper that the Eastern and Western emperors appointed two consuls for that year and that Alaric enjoyed his victory in Rome mildly, and he dwelled on the sack of Gaiseric in 455 far less than Prosper.60 The reticence of texts connected to the papal chancery of Rome is certainly a curious feature of the textual tradition for the 410 sack. The Liber Pontificalis makes no mention of the sack in the chapter concerning the life of Innocent (pope 401–17), although Zosimus claimed that the very same Innocent had agreed to the performance of pagan sacrifices in order to preserve Rome approximately thirty years before the compilation of the Liber.61 The Liber Pontificalis does attribute repairs to church property during the episcopacies of Celestine and Xystus to the ‘ignem Geticum’ (Gothic conflagration) — a moment of candour concerning the integrity of church property that contrasts to claims about church sanctuary made by Augustine and Orosius.62 Finally, the collection of papal letters known as the Collectio Avellana, assembled after the Gothic War (c. 553), is similarly silent on the sack of Rome, including the three letters preserved from the episcopacy of Innocent. It is, however, notable that 56 57 58 59 60 61 62

Leo, Serm. 84. 1, ed. by Chavasse, p. 525. Liber Pontificalis 47. 6. Prosper Tiro, Chronicle 1239–41. Prosper Tiro, Chronicle 1374–76. Cassiodorus, Chronicle 1184–85. Zos., NH v. 41. Liber Pontificalis 45. 2 and 46. 4, ed. by Duchesne, pp. 230–37.

Shane Bjornlie

262

in the course of offering spiritual advice to a fellow bishop in Italy, Innocent opened his letter with a sequence of terms that resonate with the sack of Rome: ‘direptiones, caedes, incendia, omne facinus extremae dementiae’ (pillaging, slaughter, arson, every crime of the worst insanity).63 However, these were actually wicked deeds sponsored by the devil in the suffragan bishop’s church. By neglecting his episcopal duties, the addressee of Innocent’s letter had left his flock exposed to depredations that sound very much like the horrors of Alaric’s sack, ‘tales agnas incendio armis et persecutionibus nudas’ (such lambs exposed to the ruin of arms and persecutions), including the assault of nuns, ‘generosissimae sanctae virgines’ (the noblest of holy maidens).64 But the relationship of the letter’s rhetoric to the memory of Innocent’s role in the sack is tantalizing at best. The only other direct reference to Alaric in a text close to Rome is the Novella of 451 from Valentinian III, which adjudicated the matter of curiales selling property that had been abandoned from the time when Alaric entered Italy.65 Otherwise, Rome and its teeming population of witnesses did not transmit memory of the sack in a manner as direct as histories produced elsewhere in the Roman world.

The View from Constantinople The same is not true of the wider Mediterranean, where sixth-century texts continued not only to demonstrate interest in the event, but to fashion its retelling with startling variety. As with fifth-century texts after Orosius and Olympiodorus, the sixth-century adaptations of the event represent not reactions to the sack per se, but rather the incorporation of the event into a contemporary understanding of the fifth-century empire as part of a longer-span historical process. Texts that seem particularly sensitized to the ideological potential in retelling the story of Rome’s sack tend to be in close proximity to Constantinople, where the political disposition of Italy was a high profile matter throughout the sixth century. The Gallic Chronicle of 511 is a contrasting case in point for the particular interest that texts from Constantinople had in Rome. Another continuation of the Eusebius-Jerome tradition that used both the Gallic Chronicle of 452 and Hydatius, this chronicle represents a distinctly 63

Collectio Avellana 43. 1, ed. by Guenther, p. 97; cf. Augustine, De excidio ii. 3 (see note 10, above). 64 Collectio Avellana 43. 3, ed. by Guenther, p. 98. 65 Novellae of Valentinian 32. 1, trans. by Pharr and others, p. 542.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

263

Western perspective. Interestingly, the text mentions Alaric’s attack against the Romans and the capture of Placidia, but mention of the city of Rome has fallen from the narrative.66 Further on, the text notes that Stilicho had roused the barbarians two years before the inruptionis Romae, thus acknowledging the sack of the city, but only in subordination to the deeds of presumably more interesting historical actors — Alaric, Placidia, Stilicho, and Eucherius.67 By contrast, the history of Zosimus, a former legal expert at Constantinople under Emperor Anastasius, represents what might be thought of as the recrudescence of 410 as the focus of polemical discourse. Zosimus wrote in the early years of the sixth century, and it may be that the centennial anniversary of the event had animated his decision to compose a history.68 Indeed, the structure of the Nova Historia, although incomplete, supports the suggestion that Zosimus intended to end his history with the sack of Rome. The extant version of the history ends with a fragmentary portion of Book vi, but the chronological proportions of individual books, which become progressively narrower in span of years and correspondingly more fine-grained in detail, strongly suggest an intent to end the Nova Historia in Book vi with what was probably the most detailed account of Alaric’s sieges and sack of Rome in late classical historiography.69 Discussions of Zosimus’s dependency on the histories of Eunapius and possibly Olympiodorus have detracted from this view of his history. Zosimus followed the fifth-century historian Eunapius up through his account of the year 404.70 From here, it has been suggested that the portions of Zosimus’s history which focus on Alaric and Italy (Books v and vi) are fragments drawn from Olympiodorus, although this too is conjectural.71 Of course, even if Zosimus appended a portion of Olympiodorus as the end of his work, it is nonetheless a demonstration of his interest to deliberately craft a particular interpretation of the sack of 410. The history of Olympiodorus 66

Chronica Gallica DXI 553. Chronica Gallica DXI 555. 68 On dating Zosimus’s history, see Cameron, ‘The Date of Zosimus’ New History’; Goffart, ‘Zosimus’; Speck, ‘Wie dumm darf Zosimus sein?’; Zosimos, New History, ed. and trans. by Paschoud, pp. ix–xvi. 69 For a similar view of Ammianus Marcellinus, in which his final Book xxxi serves as a monograph of Adrianople in 378, see Kulikowski, ‘Coded Polemic’. 70 On Zosimus’s use of Eunapius, see Ridley, Zosimus; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 107–14. 71 On Zosimus’s use of Olympiodorus, see Matthews, ‘Olympiodorus of Thebes’; Salzman, ‘Memory and Meaning’. 67

Shane Bjornlie

264

appears to have ended in 425 with the accession of Valentinian III, in which case 410 may have served as a troubled foreground that promised Valentinian’s arrival in Rome as a proper renovatio.72 If this is correct, the proportions of Zosimus’s extant text suggest that he portrayed 410 as the nadir of Roman history, but then jettisoned Olympiodorus’s account of imperial restoration. In a text so interested in the circularity of historical causation, that Zosimus provides no earlier indication of an imperial restoration (especially of a Christian emperor) again indicates his interest in 410 as a terminal date for the text and for the western empire. The perspective and sympathies of Zosimus are unflinchingly pagan, and the extant portions of his history make it clear that it was designed to contest the broad themes by which Christians had earlier treated the sack of Rome. For example, rather than Alaric being propelled on a course of destruction by the vengeance of the Christian God, it was the failure of imperial leadership traceable to Constantine’s adoption of Christianity that set the course for the ruin of Rome.73 The antithesis of religious agency is particularly apparent at Nova Historia v. 6, where Athena protects Athens from Alaric, thus contrasting to Rome, which failed to acquire comparable divine patronage on several occasions when the Christians refused to enact traditional religious rites.74 With regard to Radagaisus, whom Augustine and Orosius had used as a comparandum for Alaric, Zosimus commented that Stilicho crossed the Danube to defeat him, thus transferring the conflict from Italy and, by not mentioning religion, transforming the cause of Alaric’s later movement into Italy from God’s wrath (per Orosius) to failed imperial leadership.75 Similarly, the death of Stilicho, in which the soldiers sent to execute him swore an oath to the bishop promising Stilicho’s safety, contests the idea of church sanctuary and the agency of Christianity so important to Christian accounts of the sack.76 Perhaps most importantly, Zosimus’s treatment in Book v and the extant portion of Book vi of opportunities for Rome to save itself by returning to traditional religious rites (but which Christians at Rome refused to enact) brings the narrative of his history full circle from the Sibylline prophecy given in Book ii, where 72

On Olympiodorus’s history as a dedication to Theodosius II and his possible role in the accession of Valentinian III at Rome, see Matthews, ‘Olympiodorus of Thebes’. 73 On Constantine as a polemical figure, see Di Marco, ‘La figura di Costantino’; on Zosimus’s treatment of Constantine, see Bjornlie, ‘Constantine in the Sixth Century’. 74 Compare Zos., NH v. 6 and v. 40–41. 75 Zos., NH v. 26. 76 Zos., NH v. 30–34; see also v. 18, for similar circumstances in the death of Eutropius.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

265

Zosimus linked the fate of the Roman state to the continuation of traditional religious rites.77 The fulfilment of this prophecy indicates again that explaining the sack of Rome in 410 was Zosimus’s purpose for continuing Eunapius a full century after the fact. The overall structure of the Nova Historia and the means by which the history both prognosticates the end of the Roman Empire and brings that eventuality full circle with the sack of Rome make it clear that Zosimus conceptualized 410 as the end of the western empire. Zosimus’s history probably enjoyed wide circulation in sixth-century Constantinople, where the treatment of Hellenizing pagans by imperial authorities was a matter of controversy.78 Procopius seems aware of his history, and Evagrius was still embittered enough in 593 that he included a direct address to Zosimus in his ecclesiastical history.79 But before Procopius and Evagrius, Marcellinus, the comes and attendant of Justinian’s court, was probably the first to respond to Zosimus. Marcellinus reacted by muting those features that had signalled that the sack of Rome in 410 was the end of the Western Roman Empire. First, Marcellinus dedicated his chronicle to Eusebius’s celebration of Constantine, the first Christian emperor from whom Zosimus had traced the ruin of Rome.80 Second, throughout much of the chronicle, the teleological role that Zosimus had assigned to Alaric and the Goths was erased. For example, where earlier accounts, including Zosimus, acknowledge Alaric’s official capacity in relation to the Eastern imperial court as early as the reign of Theodosius, Marcellinus (who commenced his chronicle with the accession of the same emperor) does not mention Alaric until the entry for 410. Marcellinus’s effacement of Gothic involvement in Eastern politics is systematic and relates to Constantinopolitan politics on the eve of Justinian’s invasion of Gothic Italy, when the historical residue of Gothic cooperation with the Roman state would be importune. But by deleting the role Zosimus assigned for the Goths as agents fulfilling divine prophecy, Marcellinus also destabilized the ideological signature of Rome’s sack. In the entry for 410, Marcellinus simply noted that Alaric plundered and burnt part of Rome, departing afterwards with the abducted Placidia, but the attention is completely divorced of context that would assign blame.81 Notably, Honorius, who for Zosimus had assumed 77

Zos., NH ii. 1–8. On the relation of Zosimus’s history to religious and political polemic in Constantinople, see Bjornlie, Politics and Tradition, pp. 85–89. 79 Evagrius Scholasticus, Historia ecclesiastica iii. 40–41. 80 Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon, praef. 81 Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 410. 78

Shane Bjornlie

266

blame for the sack of Rome, disappears in Marcellinus. Even his death is absent, a curious feature given Marcellinus’s interest elsewhere in recording imperial births, accessions, and deaths. Instead of Honorius’s death, Marcellinus simply notes that Placidia, the mother of Valentinian, was proclaimed Augusta.82 More importantly, Marcellinus contested the historiographical footprint of Zosimus by claiming that the Western Roman Empire ended not in 410, but on two other occasions. First, with the death of Aetius in 454, ‘magna Occidentalis rei publicae salus et regi Attilae terror’ (the great advantage of the western empire and a terror to Attila) was slain by Valentinian III, and ‘cum ipso Hesperium cecidit regnum nec hactenus valuit relevari’ (with him fell the western state and it has not as yet been able to be restored).83 Of course, Marcellinus is far better known for designating 476 as the end of the Western Roman Empire, with the deposition of Romulus Augustulus. 84 Scholarship seldom addresses the discrepancy of two ends to the western empire, but it is nonetheless noteworthy. Explaining Marcellinus’s seeming carelessness, however, is complex. It may be that following an author like Prosper, Marcellinus initially decided to end the western empire in 455 (Prosper’s inclination), but as Justinian’s policies leaned more towards war in Italy, it became necessary to refashion 476 as the end of empire. Marcellinus’s emphasis that after 476, ‘Gothorum dehinc regibus Romam tenentibus’ (Gothic kings thereafter held Rome), despite the fact that Odoacer was not explicitly a Goth, explains how the looming Gothic war necessitated a new fall.85 Where Marcellinus initially intended only to deflect Zosimus’s deeply teleological explanation of 410, contemporary events in Constantinople had demanded constructing a particularly Gothic casus belli. Indeed, much of Marcellinus’s chronicle seems oriented to this purpose. After Marcellinus mentioned the submission of the Goths to Roman authority under Theodosius, they almost completely disappear from his text until 476.86 Marcellinus omits mention of the two hundred thousand Goths that, according to Orosius, accompanied Radagaisus’s invasion, which is curious given the fact that Marcellinus had read Orosius’s history.87 Indeed, 82

Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 424. Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 454, ed. by Mommsen, p. 86. 84 Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 476. 3. On 476 as the end of the western empire, see Croke ‘ad 476’; Meier, ‘Nachdenken über “Herrschaft”’. 85 Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 476. 2, ed. by Mommsen, p. 91. 86 Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 382. 2. 87 Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 406. 2, 416. 1; on Radagaisus’s Gothic force, see Orosius, Historiae vii. 37. 4; at vii. 37. 8, Orosius associates Alaric and Radagaisus explicitly with Gothic identity. 83

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

267

even when describing Alaric’s sack of Rome, Marcellinus deleted direct mention of the Goths as a people. It is in the latter portion of the chronicle, where Marcellinus focuses on the perfidy and destruction of Theoderic’s Goths in the Balkans (prior to Theoderic’s transfer to Italy) and on the continued conflict between orthodox and heterodox Christianity which shaped Justinian’s relations with Italy, that the Goths again become the focus of his chronicle.88 However complex Marcellinus’s rebuttal of Zosimus’s history may be, his reasons were fairly simple. Zosimus’s history not only represented a resurgence of a pagan interpretation of 410 at a time when ‘Hellenes’ in Constantinople were controversial, but the Nova Historia also attached the failure of the Roman Empire to the reputation of Constantine at a time when the first Christian emperor had assumed substantial dimension in the language of imperial authority at Constantinople.89 It is also significant that his handling of the narrative blunted the implication that the end of the western empire occurred as a result of the fall of the city of Rome at precisely the moment when the restoration of diplomatic relations with the senate and Rome mattered so much to Justinian. Rather than suggesting the restoration of the western empire would involve the (perhaps invasive) rehabilitation of the city, Marcellinus’s version (in which the fall of the empire occurred with the usurpation of a ‘Goth’) instead implies that renovatio Romae would simply involve replacing a Goth with Justinian. The most prominent commentator of this period, Procopius, similarly demonstrates a particular interest in the fall of 410. Curiously, Procopius’s history is known for following a Thucydidean paradigm, which privileges contemporary events to elaborate digressions of historical background.90 Nonetheless, when Procopius reaches the conflict with Vandals in North Africa, he refers his readers to the fifth-century movements of Germanic peoples across the Roman Empire, and this is where he appends an account of the Gothic sack of 410.91 It may be that the sack was contemporary for Procopius in as much as it had become a part of the current political discourse since Zosimus and thus warranted immediate attention. Procopius certainly portrayed Honorius in a light very similar to Zosimus — that is, as the personification of imperial incompetence. Procopius noted that at the time of Alaric’s arrival in Italy, Honorius had 88 On this, see Bjornlie, Politics and Tradition, pp. 90–94; see also Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen, ‘The Historiography of Crisis’. 89 See Bjornlie, ‘Constantine in the Sixth Century’. 90 On Procopius and Thucydides, see Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea; on Procopius writing history as political polemic, see Bjornlie, Politics and Tradition, pp. 102–09. 91 Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 7–37.

Shane Bjornlie

268

been at Rome, content with the idle pleasures of the palace and thinking nothing of war.92 Later, Procopius claimed that Honorius had been distraught by news of Rome’s destruction because he feared the news related to his favourite and eponymous cock.93 Even though the main topic in this book of his history is the war with the Vandals, Procopius has far less to say concerning the Vandalic sack of Rome in 455.94 Indeed, Procopius seems to have taken a side in the contemporary polemic concerning precisely when the western empire had ended. Procopius hinted at the ultimate consequence of Alaric’s rampage in Italy, when declaring that the Goths had eradicated whole cities, such that only traces of ruins were visible when he arrived in Italy with Belisarius.95 Further on in his history, Procopius states that Alaric’s slaughter of Romans had been so great that Italy thereafter remained thinly populated.96 Procopius’s account of the Gothic sack of 410 suggests the end of imperial power in Italy, the consequence of which he claims to have seen in the early sixth century. Nevertheless, in his account of Justinian’s war against the Goths in Italy, Procopius adopted the ‘official’ position (presumably following Marcellinus) that the Western Roman Empire ended in 476 with the deposition of Romulus Augustulus.97 The artistry of Procopius’s handling of these events needs careful consideration. In separate portions of his history addressing Justinian’s conflicts with western ‘barbarian’ peoples, Procopius composed two individual prefaces, each with digressive historical backgrounds. In the preface to the conflict in North Africa, 410 appears as the end of the western empire, while in his preface to the conflict in Italy, it is 476. Procopius’s interest in 410 clearly outweighs his more compulsory statement that the western empire ended in 476. First, Procopius made a number of remarkable contributions to the canon of diverse stories associated with the sack of 410. For example, Procopius related the tale of Alaric’s stratagem to surrender three hundred youths to Roman patricians as gifts, by whom the Salarian gate was later betrayed.98 He also offered the alternative story that the senatorial woman Proba had opened the city gates to 92 93 94 95 96 97 98

Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 8. Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 26. Procopius, Wars iii. 5. 1–7. Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 11. Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 12. Procopius, Wars v. 1. 2, v. 1. 7, vi. 6. 16. Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 14–25.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

269

Alaric.99 Both stories genuflect to Homeric and Livian epic tradition, although some of Procopius’s stories have received unlikely Olympiodoran attribution.100 Of course, not all of Procopius’s account can be comfortably attributed to Olympiodorus. For example, Procopius reversed the relationship of Attalus’s deposition to the final sack of the city. In Procopius, Alaric appoints Attalus after sacking Rome, rather than sacking Rome as a consequence of the failure of Attalus’s appointment.101 Interesting too is the absence of religious conflict in Procopius’s narrative of Rome’s fall in 410. By contrast, in Procopius’s description of the siege of Rome by the Gothic king Witigis in 536, the senators attempt to appease traditional religious sentiments by opening the gates to the Temple of Janus.102 The symmetry of stories associated with Rome in Procopius’s accounts of the Vandalic and Gothic conflicts of the sixth century is curious, and it may be that Procopius’s stories about the siege of Rome by Witigis actually contain remembrances from the lost portion of Zosimus’s history where he described the Gothic sack of 410. Near the time that Procopius wrote, towards the end of the Gothic War in Italy, Jordanes addressed the sack of 410 in his Romana by simply noting, ‘Halaricus rex Vesegotharum vastatem Italiam Romam ingressus est opesque Honorii Augusti depraedatus Placidiam sororem eius duxit captivam’ (Alaric, the king of the Visigoths, wasted Italy, entered Rome, seized the wealth of Emperor Honorius and claimed his sister as a captive).103 But in the Getica, which Jordanes wrote through the influence of émigrés fleeing the crisis in Italy, the sack receives more attention. Perhaps not surprisingly, given his own Gothic background and his connection to members of the former Ostrogothic court, Jordanes’s account emphasizes negotiations between Alaric and Honorius — the Goth’s desire to live as one people with the Romans, the imperial rescript confirming Honorius’s promise to settle the Goths in Gaul, and Stilicho’s role undermining peace.104 And like Procopius, the event has been voided of religious significance. Interestingly, although Jordanes acknowledged Rome’s sack, 99

Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 27. Matthews, ‘Olympiodorus of Thebes’, p. 93, notes the difficulty of connecting Procopius to Olympiodorus. 101 Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 28–30. 102 Procopius, Wars v. 25. 18–25. 103 Jordanes, Romana 323, ed. by Mommsen, p. 41. 104 Jordanes, Getica 152, on the Goth’s desire for peace; 153, on Honorius’s rescript; 154– 55, on Stilicho’s role in undermining the peace between Honorius and the Goths; further on Jordanes’s interest in 410, see Meier and Patzold, August 410, pp. 100–112. 100

Shane Bjornlie

270

it was Alaric’s restraint that prevented it from being burnt, rather than the force of shared religion (the prevailing Christian version).105 The contrast between the reports of the Romana and the Getica again speak to the imposition of contemporary contingencies. Jordanes noted in the preface to his Romana that after beginning the history, he had stopped to write the Getica at the request of a friend and afterwards returned to the Romana. It would seem that the moment in which Jordanes turned to the Getica, when he had contact with Cassiodorus and other émigrés from Italy, the rhetorical fashioning of the 410 sack had more consequence, again at nearly the same time when Procopius was embellishing the event in his own history.106

Narratives beyond the End of the Western Empire If Rome’s sack in 410 had a peculiar ideological charge during the sixthcentury Gothic War in Italy, its polemical effervescence seems to have subsided by the time Cassiodorus returned to his patrimonial estates in southern Italy. Sometime during the 550s, Cassiodorus commissioned the Historia Ecclesiastica Tripartita, a translation of selectively rearranged portions of the Greek ecclesiastical histories of Socrates, Sozomen, and Theodoret.107 Several features of Cassiodorus’s interest in the sack of 410 are worth mentioning. First, Cassiodorus’s account translates almost verbatim from the compressed account of Socrates, rather than the fuller account of Sozomen, to which he presumably also had access, suggesting greater interest in brevity concerning the sack. Interestingly, the chapter treating the sack begins with an account of Innocent’s persecution of Novatians, whose churches he destroyed, ‘quo tempore Roma est a barbaris depraedata’ (in which time Rome was despoiled by barbarians).108 In other words, the sack of 410, like much of the rest of the period covered by the Historia Tripartita, is understood in terms of the ongoing disunity of the Christian church, the sixth-century iteration of which formed the context for Cassiodorus’s interest in the histories of Socrates, Sozomen, and 105

Jordanes, Getica 156, on Alaric’s restraint. On the polemical context for the Romana and Getica, see Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen ‘The Historiography of Crisis’. 107 More recently on the Historia Ecclesiastica Tripartita, see Mazza, ‘La Historia tripartite’; Scholten, ‘Cassiodorus’ Historia tripartite’; Bjornlie, ‘Constantine in the Sixth Century’; Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen, ‘The Historiography of Crisis’, pp. 11–14. 108 Cassiodorus, Historia Ecclesiastica Tripartita xi. 9, ed. by Jacob and Hanslik, p. 638. 106

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

271

Theodoret.109 Second, it is worth noting that unlike other ecclesiastical histories, the Historia Tripartita ends with the chronological remit of its sources and does not attempt to continue the narrative to the author’s own day. Given that the dominant theme of the history is the involvement of imperial power in the Christian church, this is perhaps a sign that living in ‘Roman imperial times’ had come to an end in Cassiodorus’s imagination. This receives support from the fact that Cassiodorus constructed his ‘church history’ from fifth-century Eastern histories that dealt mainly with Eastern affairs. In other words, in spite of Justinian’s intervention in Italy, or perhaps because of it, Cassiodorus had come to see the end of empire in Italy as a consequence of Justinian’s war, in which case the dimensions of the sack of 410 were rescaled. The tendency for discrepancy and variation in narrative accounts is also visible in later texts. A text nearly contemporary with Cassiodorus’s Historia Tripartita, the Chronicle of John Malalas, represents one of the most extreme cases.110 At every turn, the narrative intersects with, and is at odds with, received traditions. According to Malalas, Honorius secluded himself at Ravenna not because of Alaric’s arrival, but because of his anger with the Roman people.111 Similarly, Alaric’s role is distorted. Rather than a ‘barbarian’ warlord deflected into Italy from the Balkans by failed Eastern diplomacy, the Alaric of Malalas’s account was a magister militum from Gaul whom Honorius brought to Rome to restore order.112 Although Alaric’s supposed Gallic connection is clearly a distortion of the later movement of the Goths into Gaul, the view of Alaric as an officer of the state with imperial sanction occurs in the accounts of both Procopius and Cassiodorus. The Historia Tripartita notes that Alaric acted as magister mili­ tum ordinaris with Honorius’s approval; Procopius similarly acknowledged the speculation that Honorius had invited the Goths as support against an unspecified uprising, although he quickly dismisses this as improbable.113 Malalas seems to carry the implications of Alaric’s official capacity even further, claiming that Alaric aligned himself with the interests of the senate and, rather than sacking the city, only abducted Placidia. Malalas almost seems to acknowledge the Christian tradition of Rome’s sack when he states that Alaric harmed none in the city, but 109

For Cassiodorus’s interest in the Three Chapters controversy, see Barnish, ‘The Work of Cassiodorus’; Chazelle, ‘The Three Chapters Controversy’. 110 On Malalas, see Jeffreys, ‘The Beginning of Byzantine Chronography’; Meier, ‘Nero, Traian und die Christen’. 111 Malalas, Chronographia xiii. 49. 112 Malalas, Chronographia xiii. 49. 113 Cassiodorus, Historia Ecclesiastica Tripartita x. 24; Procopius, Wars iii. 2. 10.

Shane Bjornlie

272

rather focused on seizing Honorius’s palace treasures.114 The paired attention to Honorius’s treasures and Placidia at Rome has a formulaic quality similar to Jordanes’s Romana, where he describes how Alaric seized the wealth of Honorius and his sister Placidia.115 Other elements of the narrative clearly derive from earlier traditions, such as the eventual movement of Alaric’s Goths to Gaul, his military service to Roman emperors, and his humane treatment of citizens at Rome, but elsewhere the details may owe entirely to Malalas. By contrast to Malalas’s florid blend of tradition and invention, Gregory of Tours at the opposite end of the Mediterranean seemed intent on blotting Rome from any association with the growth of the Gallic church.116 Allegedly following Renatus Frigeridus, Gregory mentioned the sack of Rome only to indicate that it was here that his fifth-century source described the conflict between Franks and Vandals in 406.117 What might have been an opportunity to wax prophetic on a landmark historical event was deftly sidestepped. The same is not true in the early seventh century with Isidore of Seville, who faithfully followed the narrative structure of Orosius by pairing Alaric and Radagaisus; but Isidore’s use of the event seems to have lost Orosius’s ideological urgency, probably because Isidore lived at a time when the Goths represented the legitimate political order in Spain. Almost a century removed from Isidore, the 410 sack found renewed meaning for Bede in Anglo-Saxon Northumbria. Similar to Hydatius in Spain, Bede used the sack of Rome as a marker for the end of Roman rule in Britain. As he stated in his Ecclesiastical History, Rome was taken by the Goths in the 1164th year since its foundation, after which, ‘Romani in Brittania regnare cessarunt’ (the Romans ceased to rule in Britain).118 From this point, Bede began using Gildas’s De excidio Britanniae, a text that locates the fall of Roman Britain not with the sack of Rome (which Gildas did not mention), but with the usurpation of Maximus (383–88), which Gildas claimed permanently removed Roman soldiers and governors from Britain.119 Bede clearly made deliberate choices in his construction of the past, and his interest to deflect an interpretation of Rome’s sack as the end of Roman political rule in Britain may have much to do with his interest in the reintroduction of 114

Malalas, Chronographia xiii. 49. Jordanes, Romana 323. 116 On Gregory’s perspective on Rome and the Papacy, see Noble, ‘Gregory of Tours’. 117 Gregory of Tours, Decem Libri Historiarum ii. 9. 118 Bede, Ecclesiastical History i. 11, ed. and trans. by King, p. 53; on this, see also Godden, ‘The Anglo-Saxons and the Goths’. 119 Gildas, De excidio Britanniae 13–14. 115

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

273

Rome’s influence as the ‘advent’ of Christianity for Anglo-Saxons.120 It is worth noting that Bede’s Greater Chronicle follows Marcellinus’s account verbatim for the years 454 and 476, except Bede makes the death of Aetius the definitive end of the western Roman ‘kingdom’, and omits any mention of Romulus Augustulus’s deposition.121 It may simply be that Bede was perceptive enough to recognize historical prestidigitation in his sources, although it may also be the case that, with his interest in establishing historical ties between Rome and Northumbria, he was keen to avoid narratives in which northern gentes fulfilled the biblical prophecy of Gog and Magog.122 The latest text in this survey, the eighth-century Historia Romana of Paul the Deacon, demonstrates the tendency both to draw upon the main narrative threads of earlier sources and to manipulate those threads. In discussing the empire’s early engagement with Goths under Emperor Valens, Paul clearly followed Orosius.123 Where Alaric and Stilicho enter the narrative, Paul seems to switch to Jordanes when he states that it was Stilicho who obstructed Honorius’s desire to settle the Goths in Gaul, except that he introduced a Christian religious dimension to failed interactions with Alaric that had not been present in Jordanes.124 Paul similarly introduced what may have been a local Italian legend by the eighth century, that upon Alaric’s death, the king and his Roman treasures were buried in the river bed at Consentiam.125 It is after this, according to the order of Paul’s narrative, that Stilicho and Eucherius, who had been intent on the persecution of Christians, together instigated the invasion of the Alans, Sueves, and Vandals into Gaul.126 Thus, contrary to a tradition that had sought to mark the end of Roman rule in the West with Rome’s sack in 410, Paul instead gestured towards the crossing of the Rhine in 406. Paul was certainly aware that the Rhine crossing happened four years before the sack of Rome, but 120

On this, see Howe, ‘Rome’. Bede, Greater Chronicle 493, ed. by Mommsen, pp. 304–05: ‘Aetius patricius, magna Occidentalis rei publicae salus et regi quondam Attile terror, a Valentiniano occiditur, cum quo Hesperium cecidit regnum neque hactenus valuit relevari’; and 500, p. 305: ‘Odoacer rex Gothorum Romam obtinuit, quam ex eo tempore diutius eorum reges tenuere’. 122 On the eschatological interpretation of ‘barbarians’ and the fall of Rome, see Kitchen, ‘Apocalyptic Perceptions’; Palmer, The Apocalypse, pp. 25–34. 123 Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana xi; on Paul’s sources for the Historia Romana, see McKitterick, History and Memory, p. 43; Kretschmer, Rewriting Roman History in the Middle Ages. 124 Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana xii. 13. 125 Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana xii. 14. 126 Paul the Deacon, Historia Romana xii. 16. 121

274

Shane Bjornlie

his reordering of the narrative has the effect of drawing attention to Stilicho as the end of Roman rule, a feature that he shares with the Gallic Chronicle of 511.

Conclusion By focusing on one event in the history of the later Roman Empire, this paper has surveyed the range with which texts across several centuries coordinate that event with varied temporal bandwidths to generate different meanings in the historical imagination of particular generations. As has become apparent, variation is the constant. Furthermore, variations may not be equated consistently to steady degradation in the transmission of historical knowledge (as a Quellenforschung might suggest), nor can these variations be attributed to more or less steady developmental trends in terms of how people across the late antique and early medieval generations understood concepts such as the relation of religion to empire or ethnicity to political stability. Rather, ‘historical truth’ existed in the moment, in the very particular, and sometimes peculiar, historical imagination of individual authors and their immediate aims and contexts. In some texts, the sack of Rome was the purpose for interpreting and elaborating on the historical development of the Roman Empire. In others, it was epiphenomenal or even incidental to other interests in reconstructing the past. For some texts, the sack of 410 was a means of considering the potential end of the Roman Empire; for others, it clearly held less meaning. Nevertheless, one salutary lesson that may be drawn from mapping the anatomy of a single significant event is that the wide variety with which the sack of 410 was associated with the ‘decline and fall’ of the Western Roman Empire reinforces the modern understanding, recognized already at the level of material and archaeological evidence from Late Antiquity, that cognitive disassociation with the Roman Empire occurred at different times and in different places and, for the audiences interpreting historical meaning, for different reasons. This is analogous to how modern scholars should approach the so-called ‘grand narrative’ of the Roman Empire, not as a continuous process, but as a mosaic of highly individualized human narratives. It is with a composite view of historical narratives over generations that we come to appreciate how each text potentially represents a highly selective communal memory.

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

275

Works Cited Primary Sources Augustine, City of God, trans. by Henry Bettenson (London: Penguin Classics, 1984) —— , City of God, Books 1–3, ed. by George E. McCracken (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957) —— , De excidio urbis Romae sermo: A  Critical Text and Translation with Introduction and Commentary, ed. by Sister Marie Vianney O’Reilly (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1955) Bede, Ecclesiastical History, vol. i, ed. and trans. by John E. King, Loeb Classical Library, 246 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1930) —— , Greater Chronicle, in Chronica Minora, Saec. IV. V. VI. VII, vol. iii, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 13 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1898), pp. 247–327 Cassiodorus, Historia Ecclesiastica Tripartita, ed. by Waltar Jacob and Rudolph Hanslik, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 71 (Vienna: Tempsky, 1952) Chronica Gallica CCCCLII, in Chronica Minora, Saec. IV. V. VI. VII, vol. i, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 9 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892), pp. 629–66 Chronica Gallica DXI, in Chronica Minora, Saec. IV. V. VI. VII, vol. i. ed.  by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 9 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892), pp. 629–66 Collectio Avellana: Epistulae imperatorum pontificum aliorum inde ab a. CCCLXVII usque ad a. DLIII datae Avellana quae dicitur collectio, pars I: ep. 1–104, ed. by Otto Günther, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 35.1 (Vienna: Tempsky, 1895) Hydatius, Chronicle, in Chronica Minora, IV. V. VI. VII, vol. ii, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 11 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1894), pp. 1–36 Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem libri XIV, ed. by François Glorie, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 75 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1964) —— , Select Letters, ed. and trans. by Frederick  A. Wright (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1933) Jordanes, Romana and Getica, in Iordanis Romana et Getica, ed.  by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 5.1 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1882) Leo, Sermons: Leo Magnus, Tractatus, ed. by Antoine Chavasse, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 138A (Turnhout: Brepols, 1973) Le Liber Pontificalis: Texte, introduction et commentaire, vol.  i, ed.  by Louis Duchesne (Paris: Thorin, 1886) Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon, in Chronica Minora, Saec. IV. V. VI. VII, vol. ii, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 11 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1894), pp. 37–104

276

Shane Bjornlie

Novellae, in The Theodosian Code and Novels, and the Sirmondian Constitutions, trans. by Clyde Pharr and others (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2001), pp. 487–572 Orosius, Historiae contra paganos: Pauli Orosii historiarum adversum paganos libri VII, ed. by Karl Zangemeister (Leipzig: Teubner, 1889) Procopius, The Wars of Justinian, trans. by H. B. Dewing, rev. by Anthony Kaldellis (Indianapolis: Hackett, 2014) Zosimus, Nova historia: Zosime: Histoire nouvelle, ed. and trans. by François Paschoud, vol. i, Livres I et II (1971; repr. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 2000)

Secondary Studies Barnish, Samuel J. B., ‘The Work of Cassiodorus after his Conversion’, Latomus, 48 (1989), 157–87 Bjornlie, Shane, ‘Constantine in the Sixth Century: From Constantinople to Tours’, in The Life and Legacy of Constantine: Traditions through the Ages, ed. by M. Shane Bjornlie (New York: Routledge, 2017), pp. 92–114 —— , Politics and Tradition between Rome, Ravenna and Constantinople (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013) Blockley, R. C., The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire: Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus and Malchus, vol. i (Liverpool: Francis Cairns, 1983) Börm, Henning, ‘Hydatius von Aquae Flaviae und die Einheit des römischen Reiches im 5. Jahrhundert’, in Griechische Profanhistoriker des fünften nachchristlichen Jahrhunderts, ed. by Bruno Bleckmann and Timo Stickler (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2014), pp. 195–214 Brown, Peter, Augustine of Hippo (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1967; repr. 2000) Burgess, Richard W., The ‘Chronicle’ of Hydatius and the Consularia Constantinopolitana: Two Contemporary Accounts of the Final Years of the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1993) —— , ‘The Gallic Chronicle of 452: A New Critical Edition with a Brief Introduction’, in Society and Culture in Late Antique Gaul: Revisiting the Sources, ed. by Ralph Mathisen and Danuta Shanzer (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2001), pp. 52–84 Cameron, Alan, ‘The Date of Zosimus’ New History’, Philologus, 113 (1969), 106–10 Chazelle, Celia, ‘The Three Chapters Controversy and the Biblical Diagrams of Cassiodorus’ Codex Grandior and Institutiones’, in The Crisis of Oikoumene: The Three Chapters and the Failed Quest for Unity in the Sixth­Century Mediterranean, ed.  by Celia Chazelle and Catherine Cubitt (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 161–205 Christie, Neil, The Fall of the Western Roman Empire: An Archaeological and Historical Perspective (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2011) Croke, Brian, ‘ad 476: The Manufacture of a Turning Point’, Chiron, 13 (1983), 81–119 Dagron, Gilbert, Constantinople imaginaire: Études sur le recueil des ‘Patria’, Bibliothèque Byzantine, 8 (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 1984) De Bruyn, Theodore, ‘Ambivalence within a Totalizing Discourse: Augustine’s Sermons on the Sack of Rome’, Journal of Early Christian Studies, 1 (1993), 405–21

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

277

Di Marco, Michele, ‘La figura di Costantino in Occidente fra tardo antico e alto Medioevo (s. iv ex.–vii in.)’, Gregorianum, 95.2 (2014), 365–91 Doignon, Jean, ‘Oracles, prophéties, “on-dit” sur la chute de Rome (395–410): Les Réactions de Jérôme et d’Augustin’, Revue d’Etudes Augustiniennes et Patristiques, 36 (1990), 120–46 Ferrill, Arthur, The Fall of the Roman Empire: The Military Explanation (London: Thames and Hudson, 1986) Formisano, Marco, ‘Grand Finale: Orosius’ Historiae adversus paganos or the Subversion of History’, in Der Fall Roms und seine Wiederauferstehungen in Antike und Mittelalter, ed. by Henriette Harich-Schwarzbauer and Karla Pollmann, Millennium-Studien, 40 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), pp. 153–76 Gillett, Andrew, ‘The Date and Circumstances of Olympiodorus of Thebes’, Traditio, 48 (1993), 1–29 Godden, Malcolm R., ‘The Anglo-Saxons and the Goths: Rewriting the Sack of Rome’, Anglo­Saxon England, 31 (2002), 47–68 Goetz, Hans-Werner, ‘Orosius und seine “Sieben Geschichtsbücher gegen die Heiden”: Geschichtstheologie oder Rhetorik?’, Archiv für Kulturgeschichte, 96.1 (2014), 187–98 Goffart, Walter, ‘Zosimus, the First Historian of Rome’s Fall’, American Historical Review, 76 (1971), 412–41 Goldsworthy, Adrian, How Rome Fell: The Death of a Superpower (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2009) Halsall, Guy, Barbarian Migrations and the Roman West, 376–568 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007) Harich-Schwarzbauer, Henriette, and Karla Pollmann, eds, Der Fall Roms und seine Wiederauferstehungen in Antike und Mittelalter, Millennium-Studien, 40 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013) Heather, Peter, The Fall of the Roman Empire: A New History of Rome and the Barbarians (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006) Howe, Nicholas, ‘Rome: Capital of Anglo-Saxon England’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies, 34.1 (2004), 147–72 Jeffreys, Elizabeth, ‘The Beginning of Byzantine Chronography: John Malalas’, in Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity: Fourth to Sixth Century a.d., ed.  by Gabriele Marasco (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 497–527 Kaldellis, Anthony, Procopius of Caesarea: Tyranny, History and Philosophy at the End of Antiquity (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004) Kazhdan, Aleksandr P., ‘“Constantin imaginaire”: Byzantine Legends of the Ninth Century about Constantine the Great’, Byzantion, 57 (1957), 196–250 Kitchen, Thomas, ‘Apocalyptic Perceptions of the Roman Empire in the Fifth Century ad’, in Abendländische Apokalyptik: Kompendium zur Genealogie der Endzeit, ed. by Veronika Wieser and others (Berlin: Akademie-Verlag, 2013), pp. 641–60 Kretschmer, Marek Thue, Rewriting Roman History in the Middle Ages: The ‘Historia Romana’ and the Manuscript Bamberg, Hist. 3, Mittellateinische Studien und Texte, 36 (Leiden: Brill, 2007)

278

Shane Bjornlie

Kulikowski, Michael, ‘Coded Polemic in Ammianus Book 31 and the Date and Place of its Composition’, Journal of Roman Studies, 102 (2012), 79–102 —— , Rome’s Gothic Wars: From the Third Century to Alaric (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007) Lipps, Johannes, Carlos Machado, and Philipp von Rummel, eds, The Sack of Rome in 410 ad: The Event, its Context, and its Impact. Proceedings of the Conference Held at the German Archaeological Institute at Rome, 04–06 November 2010, Palilia, 28 (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013) Malamud, Martha, Rutilius Namatianus’ Going Home: De reditu suo (London: Routledge, 2016) Mathisen, Ralph, ‘Roma a Gothis Alarico duce capta est: Ancient Accounts of the Sack of Rome in 410 ce’, in The Sack of Rome in 410 ad: The Event, its Context, and its Impact. Proceedings of the Conference Held at the German Archaeological  Institute at Rome, 04–06 November 2010, ed.  by Johannes Lipps, Carlos Machado, and Philipp von Rummel, Palilia, 28 (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013), pp. 87–102 Matthews, John F., ‘Olympiodorus of Thebes and the History of the West (ad 407–425)’, Journal of Roman Studies, 60 (1970), 79–97 Mazza, Mario, ‘La Historia tripartite di Flavio Magno Aurelio Cassiodoro senator: metodi e scopo’, in Atti della settimana di studi su Flavio Magno Aurelio Cassiodoro, ed.  by Sandro Leanza (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 1986), pp. 210–44 McKitterick, Rosamond, History and Memory in the Carolingian World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004) McLynn, Neil, ‘Augustine’s Roman Empire’, Augustinian Studies, 30.2 (1999), 29–44 Meier, Mischa, ‘Nachdenken über “Herrschaft”: Die Bedeutung des Jahres 476’, in Chlodwigs Welt: Organisation von Herrschaft um 500, ed, by Mischa Meier and Steffen Patzold (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2014), pp. 143–216 —— , ‘Nero, Traian und die Christen in der “Weltchronik” Johannes Malalas’, in Dalla storiografia ellenistica alla storiografia tardoantica: aspetti, problemi, prospettive, ed. by Umberto Roberto and Laura Mecella (Soveria Mannelli: Rubbettino, 2010), pp. 239–63 Meier, Mischa, and Steffen Patzold, August 410—Ein Kampf um Rom (Stuttgart: KlettCotta, 2010) Neil, Bronwen, Leo the Great, The Early Church Fathers (London: Routledge, 2009) Noble, Thomas F. X., ‘Gregory of Tours and the Roman Church’, in The World of Gregory of Tours, ed. by Kathleen Anne Mitchell and Ian Wood (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 145–62 O’Meara, John, ‘Introduction’, in St  Augustine: Concerning the City of God against the Pagans (London: Penguin, 1984), pp. vii–xxxv Palmer, James, The Apocalypse in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014) Ridley, Ronald T., Zosimus: New History (Sydney: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 1982) Rossi, Andreola, ‘Parallel Lives: Hannibal and Scipio in Livy’s Third Decade’, Transactions of the American Philological Association, 134 (2004), 359–81

The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate

279

Salzman, Michele, ‘Apocalypse Then? Jerome and the Fall of Rome in 410’, in Maxima Debetur Magistro Reverentia, ed.  by Paul  B. Harvey and Catherine Conybeare, Biblioteca di Athenaeum, 54 (Como: New Press Edizioni, 2009), pp. 175–91 —— , ‘Memory and Meaning: Pagans and 410’, in The Sack of Rome in 410 ad: The Event, its Context, and its Impact. Proceedings of the Conference Held at the German Archaeological Institute at Rome, 04–06 November 2010, ed. by Johannes Lipps, Carlos Machado, and Philipp von Rummel (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013), pp. 295–307 Schierl, Petra, ‘…quod sine fine placet: Roma renascens bei Rutilius Namatianus und Prudentius’, in Der Fall Roms und seine Wiederauferstehungen in Antike und Mittelalter, ed. by Henriette Harich-Schwarzbauer and Karla Pollmann, Millennium-Studien, 40 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2013), pp. 233–64 Scholten, Désirée, ‘Cassiodorus’ Historia tripartite before the Earliest Extant Manuscripts’, in The Resources of the Past in Early Medieval Europe, ed.  by Clemens Gantner, Rosamond McKitterick, and Sven Meeder (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 34–50 Speck, Paul, ‘Wie dumm darf Zosimus sein? Vorschläge zu seiner Neubewertung’, Byzantinoslavica, 52 (1991), 1–14 Steinacher, Roland, ‘Geschlechterrollen bei Hydatius’, in Frauen und Geschlechter, vol. ii, ed. by Kordula Schnegg, Christoph Ulf, and Robert Rollinger (Vienna: Böhlau, 2006), pp. 155–65 Stickler, Timo, ‘Das Geschichtswerk des Olympiodor von Theben’, in Griechische Profan­ historiker des fünften nachchristlichen Jahrhunderts, ed. by Bruno Bleckmann and Timo Stickler (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag, 2014), pp. 85–102 Treadgold, Warren, The Early Byzantine Historians (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007) Van Dam, Raymond, ‘Imagining Constantine, Then and Now’, in The Life and Legacy of Constantine: Traditions through the Ages, ed.  by M.  Shane Bjornlie (New York: Routledge, 2017), pp. 6–25 Van Hoof, Lieve, and Peter Van Nuffelen, ‘The Historiography of Crisis: Jordanes, Cassiodorus and Justinian in Mid-Sixth-Century Constantinople’, Journal of Roman Studies, 107 (2017), 1–26 Van Nuffelen, Peter, ‘Olympiodorus of Thebes and Eastern Triumphalism’, in Theodosius II: Rethinking the Roman Empire in Late Antiquity, ed. by Christopher Kelly (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), pp. 130–52 —— , Orosius and the Rhetoric of History, Oxford Early Christian Studies (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012) Veyne, Paul, ‘La Prise de Rome par Alaric en 410’, Métis, 1 (2003), 201–18 Ward-Perkins, Bryan, The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) Watts, Edward, ‘Interpreting Catastrophe: Disasters in the Works of Pseudo-Joshua the Stylite, Socrates Scholasticus, Philostorgius, and Timothy Aelurus’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 2 (2009), 79–98 Wolff, Étienne, ‘Retour sur quelques problèmes du De reditu suo de Rutilius Namatianus’, Revue des études latines, 84 (2006), 258–74

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy Jonathan J. Arnold Introduction This paper focuses on representations of the past, specifically the late fifth century and the fall of Rome, in two pieces of hagiography emanating from the ‘barbarian’ kingdom known as Ostrogothic Italy: the Life of Epiphanius of Pavia, written by Magnus Felix Ennodius around 501/04, and the Life of Severinus of Noricum, written by Eugippius between 509 and 511.1 As will be seen, these men agreed on many points in their recollections of the immediate past, placing their respective saints within similarly bleak contexts. And yet, Ennodius and Eugippius, and the works they authored, had very little in common beyond the superficial, a point that is worth some discussion before proceeding further, as it renders their shared memory all the more significant. Both men, then, were transplants to Italy and eyewitnesses to some of the events they described in their vitae. However, Ennodius had come from Gaul as a child and resided in the north, in the Ligurian cities of Pavia and Milan, while Eugippius had come from Noricum as an adult and resided in the south, in the Campanian monastery of Castellum Lucullanum near Naples. Both were also well educated. However, Ennodius’s training was more traditionally classical, 1 For the date of Ennodius’s Vita Epiphanii, see Ennodius, Vita Epiphanii, ed. and trans. by Cesa, pp. 27–28, whose edition is used throughout. For the Vita Severini, see Eugippius, Epistola (Ep.) ad Paschasium 1, ed. and trans. by Régerat, whose edition is used throughout.

Jonathan J. Arnold is Associate Professor of History and Director of Classical Studies at the University of Tulsa. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 281–300 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118166

Jonathan J. Arnold

282

while Eugippius’s appears to have been primarily devotional. Both, likewise, pursued spiritual careers. However, Ennodius entered the church, serving as a deacon, bishop, and diplomat, while Eugippius pursued an ascetic life, serving as a monk, abbot, and theologian. Both, finally, could rely on a network of powerful aristocratic patrons. However, Ennodius, an outspoken partisan of the Ostrogothic king Theoderic and promoter of the see of Rome, was actively engaged in the politics of this period, while Eugippius either remained ambivalent to such ‘worldly’ affairs, perhaps a reflection of his ascetic outlook and devotion to Augustine, or simply guarded his opinions too well for them to be divined.2 These contrasts continue when one turns to the vitae that Ennodius and Eugippius authored, for the two works that will be examined in this paper were fundamentally different with respect to their style, emphases, and purposes, and even championed alternative types of holy men. Ennodius, a disciple of the bishop Epiphanius, wrote a deliberate composition, highly ornate and stylized, that provided a full biographical account of his former master.3 Eugippius, meanwhile, relied heavily on the remembrances of his elders and may never have met Severinus the monk.4 His was a far less deliberate composition: a commemoratorium, in his own words, consisting of notes and sketches that he hoped would be transformed into a proper vita by a more talented author but which were not, resulting in an incomplete and episodic biography.5 Ennodius and Eugippius were thus quite different. And yet, they still managed to produce independent narratives of fifth-century holy men that have many features in common. These include complex depictions of barbarians, accounts of devastated cities and lost provinces, and even Odovacer himself, 2

For Ennodius, see Ennodius, Vita Epiphanii, ed. and trans. by Cesa, pp. 7–36; Kennell, Magnus Felix Ennodius; Marconi, Ennodio e la nobiltà gallo­romana; and Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 11–15. For Eugippius, see Lotter, Severinus von Noricum, pp. 21–37; Markus, ‘The End of the Roman Empire’; Eugippius, Vie de Saint Séverin, ed. and trans. by Régerat, pp. 8–15; Leyser, ‘Shoring Fragments against Ruin?’; Schwarcz, ‘Severinus of Noricum’, pp. 26–27; and Wood, ‘The Monastic Frontiers’. 3 On the Vita Epiphanii in general, see Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman  Imperial Restoration, pp. 15–16; also Barnish, ‘Ennodius’ Lives of Epiphanius and Antony’, pp. 13–16. 4 See Lotter, Severinus von Noricum, pp. 21–32, and Eugippius, Vie de Saint Séverin, ed. and trans. by Régerat, pp. 9–10. 5 See Eugippius, Ep. ad Paschasium 2–5, and Vita Severini (V. Sev.) 46. 6, with Leyser, ‘Shoring Fragments against Ruin?’, pp. 65–68, and Wood, ‘The Monastic Frontiers’, pp. 42–46. Cf. Lotter, Severinus von Noricum, pp. 37–59, and Eugippius, Vie de Saint Séverin, ed. and trans. by Régerat, pp. 21–25.

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

283

the barbarian king traditionally associated with the fall of Rome, as a driving character. Nevertheless, and contrary to what some have argued, neither vita seems to indicate that the Western Roman Empire ceased to exist during the fifth century.6 Rather, and as this paper will demonstrate, the recollections of Ennodius and Eugippius appear to echo the official position of the Ostrogothic regime and the sentiments of other Italo-Romans: namely that boundaries and rulers may have changed, but that Italy, the core of the western empire, remained Roman and persisted in its imperial identity.7 This is important to note, for it speaks not only to the broad appeal of this particular understanding among contemporary inhabitants of the Ostrogothic kingdom, but also to the non-Italian origin of the very idea of the ‘fall of Rome’. In the East, especially in Constantinople, the western empire was eventually said to have fallen and the city of Rome to have become the possession of Gothic kings.8 But throughout Italy, in Ennodius’s Milan, Eugippius’s Naples, and points beyond (not least Ravenna and Rome), Rome and her empire remained standing, even if, it was remembered, she had once been ‘trembling in her slipping footsteps’.9

Ennodius the Hagiographer A caveat is needed, however, before proceeding further. It must be borne in mind that the works that will be discussed in this paper are hagiographical and that, because of this, the precious historical details found within are primarily incidental to a saint’s biography.10 In other words, neither Eugippius nor 6

For Eugippius, see note 44, below; for Ennodius, see Wes, Das Ende des Kaisertums, pp. 69–70, and Reydellet, La Royauté dans la littérature latine, pp. 152–56; also Ennodius, Vita Epiphanii, ed. and trans. by Cesa, p. 178. 7 See, generally, Arnold Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration; Arnold, ‘Ostrogothic Provinces’; Heydemann, ‘The Ostrogothic Kingdom’, pp. 17–29. 8 The first explicit reference occurs in Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon 476.  2,  ed. by Mommsen, p. 91: ‘Odoacar rex Gothorum Romam optinuit […] Hesperium Romanae gentis imperium […] periit […] Gothorum dehinc regibus Romam tenentibus’. For discussions, see Wes, Das Ende des Kaisertums, pp. 52–88; Croke, ‘ad 476’; Goltz, ‘Marcellinus Comes’; and Arnold, ‘Theoderic and Rome’. 9 For trembling (in reference to a personified Roma), see Ennodius (Ennod.), Panegyricus Theoderico 48, ed. and trans. by Rohr, p. 230: ‘lapsantibus tremebunda vestigiis’; for sentiments in Italy, see Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration. 10 See Schwarcz, ‘Severinus of Noricum’, pp.  26, 28, and Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman  Imperial Restoration, pp.  15–16. Cf.  Goffart, ‘Does the Vita  S. Severini Have an Underside?’.

284

Jonathan J. Arnold

Ennodius endeavoured to write a history of the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, nor should one expect such a history to emerge from their writings unless the events involved somehow impacted the saint in question. This is made abundantly clear by another hagiographical work authored by Ennodius, the Life of Antony of Lérins, which was written around 506. Interestingly enough, this work is set within the same Danubian confines as Eugippius’s Life of Severinus and even features a cameo by Severinus, who recognizes the young Antony’s future blessings and describes him as his fellow soldier in Christ.11 Yet, despite early notices of the ‘assaults of various peoples’, who bring ‘a daily crop of swords’, ‘plundering rage’, and ‘numerous sights of cruelty’ to the region, one learns nothing of the fall of Rome, the reigns of Odovacer or Theoderic, or any other contemporary political developments.12 Instead, with the condition of Pannonia described as declining but with no reference to Rome, Romans, or an empire,13 Antony simply relocates to Italy with other servants of God, where he lives his life as a hermit and perfects his asceticism (the true focus of his vita), before eventually joining the monastic community of Lérins.14 Even Ennodius, therefore, who was quite involved in the affairs of his day and a loyal partisan of the Ostrogothic regime, could eschew commenting on the political developments of the past, choosing instead to focus on more traditionally hagiographical themes, since the life in question demanded this.

Epiphanius and the Decline of Rome Still, this is categorically not the case with Ennodius’s Life of Epiphanius, which centres upon a very different kind of holy man than Antony. Although the two saints were contemporaries and had resided within the same northern Italian milieu for much of the late fifth century, Epiphanius was a worldly bishop, whose vita more closely resembles that of an Ambrose or Augustine than a 11 Ennod., Vita Antonii (V. Ant.) 9. Although Ennodius’s description of Severinus as an inlustrissimus vir has complicated the identification, most accept that the two Severini in question are identical. Rohr, ‘Ergänzung oder Widerspruch?’, also notes that the two works complement one another in important ways. 12 Ennod., V. Ant. 12–13, ed. and trans. by Ausbüttel, p. 144: ‘per incursus enim variarum gentium cotidiana gladiorum seges […] terras ira populante desolabat. Iam […] multiplices crudelitatum species beluarum more peragebant’. 13 Ennod., V. Ant. 12: ‘illius status in pronum deflexerat’. Cf. Näf, ‘Das Zeitbewußtsein des Ennodius’, p. 117. 14 Cf. Rohr, ‘Ergänzung oder Widerspruch?’, p. 112.

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

285

hermit-turned-cenobite. His life thus contains comparatively few miracles and acts of prophecy, although they are present,15 and comparatively more acts of intercession and peacemaking. The latter brought this saint into contact with some of the most powerful figures of the late fifth-century West: four emperors, two generalissimo-patricians, and four barbarian kings, who often serve as supporting characters in the various episodes of his vita. Episodes involving Gaul, for instance, give some indication of its perceived post-Roman status and the impact of this region’s loss on the rest of the empire.16 One such episode, featuring Emperor Julius Nepos and the Visigothic king Euric, provides an important case in point, yielding a snapshot of the declining condition of the western empire just two years before its ‘historical’ fall. Here, Visigothic Aquitaine functions as a lost province, where Romans are described as ‘weeping at their captivity’,17 and ruled by a ‘cruel despot’, a savage stereotype who spurns the emperor, continually attacks his borders, and speaks gibberish in true bar-bar style.18 So successful have Euric’s recent assaults been that Ennodius can only refer to Nepos’s Roman Empire as the ‘Italian Empire’,19 and describe the emperor pondering ‘the faltering condition of the state’ while hoping ‘to restore its soundness, then despaired of, to its ancient height’.20 The account continues with Epiphanius’s mission to Toulouse, where he offers words of peace to the savage Euric and reminds him of the past: You know with what boundary your dominions were marked in antiquity, and with what patience for rendering service these regions of yours supported the rulers of those [regions] of ours; let it suffice that he [Nepos] chooses, or at least suffers to be called friend, when he should be called master.21 15

For examples, see Ennod., Vita Epiphanii (V. Epiph.) 8, 103, 105, and 177. For a broader discussion of Gaul’s perceived post-Roman status, see Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, chs 9 and 10. 17 Ennod., V. Epiph. 92: ‘ut captivitatem flerent’. 18 Ennod., V. Epiph. 80 (despot, spurning, attacking): ‘Tolosae alumnos Getas, quos ferrea Euricus rex dominatione gubernabat, orta dissensio est, dum illi Italici fines imperii, quos trans Gallicanas Alpes porrexerat, novitatem spernentes non desinerent incessere’; V. Epiph. 89 (gibberish): ‘At Euricus, gentile nescio quod murmur infringens’. For an elaboration, see Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 21–25. 19 Ennod., V. Epiph. 80: ‘Italici […] imperii’. On the term, which was used for both the late western empire and Ostrogothic Italy, see Arnold, ‘Ostrogothic Provinces’, p. 74 n. 2. 20 Ennod., V. Epiph. 81: ‘Quorum possit deliberatione labans reipublicae status reviviscere et in antiquum columen soliditas desperata restitui’. 21 Ennod., V. Epiph. 88: ‘Nostis in commune, quo sit dominiorum antiquitas limitata con16

286

Jonathan J. Arnold

A later episode set in the Burgundian kingdom echoes this understanding of failed barbarian subservience in Gaul, but rejects certain stereotypes. Here, while ransoming Italian captives during a visit to Lyon, Epiphanius delivers a speech to the Burgundian king Gundobad, who is described, not reeking of onions and with rancid butter in his hair (sorry, Sidonius!22), but as the pinnacle of aristocratic Romanness: ‘fluent in speech, wealthy in the resources of eloquence, an articulate speechmaker’, and ‘urbane’.23 In an eloquent speech of his own, Epiphanius presents the king and former magister militum with a personified Italy, betrayed by the man who used to be her protector. ‘How often’, Epiphanius’s Italy asks Gundobad, did you present enemies with an armoured chest on my behalf ? How often have you fought with your prudent counsel, lest wars take me by surprise? The noble matron […] promised herself that you would be her defender. The virgin believed that it would displease you if she were to lose her modesty through the treachery of [some] defiler. We know and obviously realize [this], [but] are you not our Burgundians?24

Clearly they had been; now, clearly, they were not. Episodes set in Italy also reject or complicate barbarian stereotypes. In the case of a deadly quarrel between the ‘barbarian’ patrician Ricimer and the ‘Roman’ emperor Anthemius, one finds the saintly diplomat travelling to Milan and then Rome in order to mediate between a supposedly ‘very fierce’ and ‘skin-clad Goth’ (i.e. Ricimer), who has nonetheless been ‘deeply moved and mollified’ by Roman tears and honestly seeks peace, and a supposedly ‘enraged Galatian’ and ‘little Greek’ (i.e. Anthemius), ‘who cannot restrict his anger with natural moderation’ but eventually ‘commends the health of the [Roman] state’ into Epiphanius’s hands.25 Other barbarians encountered in Italy include finio, qua sustinuerint partes istae illarum rectores famulandi patientia. Sufficiat, quod elegit aut certe patitur amicus dici, qui meruit dominus appellari’. For alternative readings, see Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, p. 24 n. 70. 22 See Sidonius Apollinaris, Carmen 12. The account is meant to be satire. Cf. Sidonius Apollinaris, Epistula 4. 20, where Sigismer (a Burgundian prince?) is described in more flattering terms. 23 Ennod., V. Epiph. 164: ‘Tunc rex probatissimus, ut erat fando locuples et ex eloquentiae dives opibus et facundus adsertor’; V. Epiph. 160 : ‘urbanorum consuetudine’. 24 Ennod., V. Epiph. 157–60: ‘quotiens pro me […] ferratum pectus hostibus obtulisti? Quotiens pugnasti consilio, ne bella subriperent? [M]atrona sublimis […] promisit sibi vindicem te futurum. Virgo ab stupratoris insidiis pudorem suum tibi credebat displicere posse si perderet. [S]cimus et evidenter agnoscimus, nonne vos estis Burgundiones nostri?’ 25 For mollified/tears, Ennod., V. Epiph. 53: ‘mulcetur Ricemer […] permotus multorum

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

287

the federate Rugi stationed at Pavia. These are described as ‘brutal in every savagery’ and ‘inclined to daily outrages with the cruel and harsh violence of their minds’.26 Yet, after submitting to Epiphanius’s authority and enjoying his kindness, Ennodius claims that they, like Ricimer, were mollified, their ‘natural perversity was transformed’ and their ‘barbarous hearts […] always dedicated to hatred, learned to love’.27

Epiphanius and the Fall of Rome Turning to Odovacer and the events of 476, the episode amazingly occupies not one but six chapters of the Life of Epiphanius, but not because the event was particularly significant per se. Rather, the ‘fall of Rome’ receives this extensive treatment because Odovacer’s chief rival, the patrician Orestes, had barricaded himself within the city of Pavia, placing Epiphanius and his flock directly in the midst of a civil war.28 Ennodius describes what transpired as a test for the saint, orchestrated by the Devil himself, who aroused an army against Orestes (of his son, Romulus Augustus, there is no mention). One reads that ‘degenerate men’ had hoped for an uprising and that Odovacer was then ‘excited towards an unlawful desire to rule’.29 One also reads, at length, of the destruction Epiphanius experienced in the city of Pavia. There was looting, plundering, cruel barbarism, and burning, so much that Ennodius describes the city as a funeral pyre.30 It is a fitting and poetic metaphor for the death of the western fletibus’; for Goth, V. Epiph. 64 and 67: ‘ferocissimi Getae’ and ‘pellito Getae’; for Galatian/ anger: V. Epiph. 53: ‘Galatam [...] et principem […] qui iram naturali moderatione non terminat’; for Greekling, V. Epiph. 55: ‘Graeculus’; for the state, V. Epiph. 70: ‘me tamen statumque reipublicae tuis committo’. For commentary, see Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 16–20. 26 Ennod., V. Epiph. 118: ‘Rugis […] hominibus omni feritate immanibus, quos atrox et acerba vis animorum ad cotidiana scelera sollicitabat’. 27 Ennod., V. Epiph. 118–19: ‘beatissimus antistes sermonum suorum melle delenibat, ut effera corda auctoritati submitterent sacerdotis et amare discerent, quorum pectora odiis semper fuisse dedicata cognovimus. Mutata est per meritum illius perversitas naturalis’. 28 Näf, ‘Das Zeitbewußtsein des Ennodius’, pp. 119–20, and Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 29–30. 29 Ennod., V. Epiph. 95: ‘Scelerum patrator inimicus magna dolorum incrementa conglutinat et inquirit, quibus virum integerrimum passionibus lacessiret. Exercitum adversus Orestem patricium erigit et discordiae crimina clandestinus supplantator interserit. Spe novarum rerum perditorum animos inquietat, Odovacrem ad regnandi ambitum extollit’. 30 Ennod., V. Epiph. 95–99.

Jonathan J. Arnold

288

empire. Or, at least it would be, if this were how the account continued. But as it turns out, with the death of Orestes (again no word of the deposed little Augustus), Epiphanius, Pavia, and the Italian Roman Empire, now ruled by Odovacer, simply move on. Indeed, there is no direct reference to an end of the empire, nor even a shift in vocabulary that might suggest a major political change: instead, and revealingly, the Life introduces the reign of Odovacer with the same formula, nearly verbatim, used to indicate the succession of earlier emperors, that is, ‘after him, he was called to rule’.31 It also goes on to compare Odovacer directly with his imperial predecessors, placing his role in the Vita (and perhaps in Italy) on par with theirs, and claiming that he surpassed these men in the acts of kindness that he showed the saint.32 Examples include the cancelling of tribute for Epiphanius’s war-torn Liguria, an attempt to check the malice of a greedy praetorian prefect, and many other requests that are mentioned in passing but go unrelated.33 Little more is learned of the long reign of Odovacer, a consequence of the genre.34 However, later accounts of the Ostrogothic invasion and the reign of Theoderic provide further indication of a perceived continuation of Roman rule well into the 490s. Again, the terminology is potentially revealing : Theoderic himself refers to Italy as an imperium (empire), his subjects are Romani (Romans), and his actions ultimately serve to protect ‘the right of Roman liberty’.35 Likewise, and though described as a rex, Theoderic is referred to on multiple occasions as a princeps, and a host of epithets, most of them in the superlative, are used to modify his various titles in grand imperial style, far more than any other individual in the Vita.36 Epiphanius also compares 31

Ennod., V. Epiph. 101 (Odovacer): ‘Post quem adscitus in regnum Odovacris’. Cf. V. Epiph. 79 (Glycerius) and 80 (Nepos); also Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman  Imperial Restoration, pp. 27–31, who discusses the interchangeability of republican, royal, and imperial language in this source and other contemporary Latin works. 32 Ennod., V. Epiph. 101: ‘tanto cultu insignem virum coepit honorare ut omnium decessorum suorum circa eum officia praecederet’. 33 Ennod., V. Epiph. 106–09. 34 See Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 31–36. A far more hostile impression is provided in his panegyric to Theoderic. 35 For Roman subjects, Ennod., V. Epiph. 116, 189. One notes that Theoderic’s Goths are only mentioned once. See  V.  Epiph 118. For imperium, V.  Epiph. 131; for Roman liberty, V. Epiph. 122: ‘Romanae libertatis ius’, with Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 184–88. Ennodius’s panegyric celebrates Theoderic’s arms as a source of Roman liberty. Cf. Panegyricus Theoderico 1 and 42. 36 For princeps (or similar), Ennod., V. Epiph. 111, 113, 125, 142, 170, 182, 185, and 188.

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

289

Theoderic directly with the emperors that he has succeeded and suggests that he is, in fact, a good imperator.37 In one particularly moving passage, the saint, choked with tears of joy, even lauds Theoderic’s superiority when it comes to key imperial virtues: ‘Should I mention first in justice’, he asks, ‘or in the exercise of wars, or, what is more excellent than these, in pietas that you have surpassed all prior emperors?’.38

Eugippius the Hagiographer Much more could be said about the role of Theoderic in Ennodius’s Life of Epiphanius and how its image of a thoroughly Roman (and Christian) ruler corresponds with contemporary sources. For the present purposes, however, it is sufficient simply to conclude that, whatever Theoderic’s actual status, it posed no threat to the continued existence and even florescence of the Western Roman Empire, at least as far as Ennodius and other Italians were concerned.39 But what of Eugippius? At first glance, he is silent about such issues, suspiciously so for some, indicating a lack of concord with the view of men like Ennodius.40 However, and as will be explained below, Eugippius’s Life of Severinus can be read as a corroborating source, ambivalent perhaps to Theoderic, but still sympathetic to the understanding of the western empire’s persistence into the sixth century. As with the Life of Epiphanius, caution is still needed. This work is a very different kind of hagiography than Ennodius’s, featuring a saint who was certainly involved in the world but less so and on a less grand scale. Instead, the account’s primary focus is Severinus the ascetic, miracle-worker, good shepherd, and prophet, meaning that there are still epiThe term is also employed, albeit less frequently, in reference to Ricimer, Anthemius, Euric, Odovacer, and Gundobad. However, in Theoderic’s case, it was used by Ennodius and others (including Theoderic himself ) to highlight the princeps’s unique position as the Roman ruler of Italy. See, broadly, Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 74–91. For epithets, V. Epiph. 109, 122, 136 (praestantissimus); 125, 155, 179, 185 (invictus/issimus); 131, 147, 184 (eminentissimus); 135 (praecellentissimus); 142, 185 (venerabilis); 143, 155 (optimus); 181 (piissimus); 182 (praeferendus); 186, 187 (bonus). 37 For the comparison, Ennod., V. Epiph. 129 and 143. For good (bonus) imperator, V. Epiph. 187, with Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 190–94. 38 Ennod., V. Epiph. 143: ‘Iustitia prius an bellorum exercitatione an, quod his praestantius est, omnes retro imperatores te pietate superasse commemorem?’. 39 See Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration. 40 See Goffart ‘Does the Vita S. Severini Have an Underside?’, p. 38.

Jonathan J. Arnold

290

sodes like those in the Life of Epiphanius, but they are fewer, shorter, and much more incidental in nature. Nonetheless, the comparative tidbits of information that they provide are revealing and speak to the extent to which Ennodius and Eugippius stood on common ground.

Severinus and the Post­Roman Upper Danube Set in the mid- to late fifth century in the provinces of the Upper Danube, there are no emperors in the Life of Severinus, and emperors have largely ceased to matter to this world. Indeed, even when it comes to chronology in this work, the empire and its rulers have ceased to have relevance, as the Life begins in medias res with Severinus’s arrival in the region (from where specifically no one knows),41 and the event is dated by reference to the death of Attila and the breakup of the Hunnic Empire (c. 453–68).42 This was a time, according to Eugippius, when ‘both Pannonias and other territories of the Danube were thrown into confusion by uncertain circumstances’,43 in stark contrast, one eventually learns, with an earlier period, ‘when the Roman Empire was standing firm’ in the region and the ‘soldiers of many towns’ stood watch along the frontier.44 Already, therefore, the scene is post-Roman, rather than in the midst of imperial decline;45 and much like Ennodius’s Gaul, stereotypical barbarians, 41

See Eugippius, Ep. ad Paschasium 5–10, with V. Sev. 1. 1, which claims that he arrived from the east (de partibus Orientis). Attempts have been made to link Severinus to Italy, although the reconstruction of Lotter, Severinus von Noricum, pp. 242–60 (followed by Thompson, Romans and Barbarians, pp. 114–15) has been disproven: he cannot have been Flavius Severinus, consul of 461 (Martindale, Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire (PLRE), ii, 1001). See Schwarcz, ‘Severinus of Noricum’, pp. 25–26. 42 Eugippius, V. Sev. 1. 1: ‘In tempore, quo Attila, rex Hunnorum, defunctus est’. 43 Eugippius, V. Sev. 1. 1: ‘utraque Pannonia ceteraque confinia Danuvii rebus turbabantur ambiguis’. 44 Eugippius, V. Sev. 20. 1: ‘Per idem tempus, quo Romanum constabat imperium, multorum milites oppidorum pro custodia limitis publicis stipendiis alebantur’. This passage has been interpreted by some as a reference to the fall of the Western Roman Empire in 476/80. However, the proper meaning would seem to be the end of Roman rule along the Upper Danube frontier, which is made clear by the internal evidence of the Life of Severinus, esp. V. Sev. 31. 6 and 44. 4 (discussed below). Also suggestive is the absence of a geographical modifier like hesperium or occidentale, which would have been necessary to distinguish this fallen Roman Empire from the one that still existed in the East at the time when Eugippius was writing. See Wes, Das Ende des Kaisertums, p. 147 n. 2; Lotter, Severinus von Noricum, pp. 204–10; Thompson, Romans and Barbarians, p. 117; and Markus, ‘The End of the Roman Empire’. 45 Cf. Thompson, Romans and Barbarians, pp. 118–24.

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

291

very often referred to as simply barbari, abound in this work and are the bane of the Roman population. Thus, one encounters Romans ‘suffering starvation owing to the harsh rule of the barbarians’,46 and eventually learns that barbarians have destroyed all the towns of the region, leaving but a few forts, hardly any of which ‘avoid [their] assaults’.47 Some settlements have the remnants of a Roman garrison, poorly equipped and undermanned. The ‘very few soldiers’ at Favianis, for instance, are outnumbered by a ‘great throng of enemies’ and ‘lack the assistance of arms’. Until Severinus convinces them that God is on their side, they ‘dare not engage in combat’ with the ‘barbarian raiders’ in their midst.48 Similarly, when the garrison stationed at Batavis sends a group of soldiers to Italy, that is, to the Roman Empire, to collect its final paycheck, these soldiers are ambushed and killed by generic barbarians, an outcome Severinus foresees.49 Other settlements are actually defended by barbarians via treaty, but not always happily. At Comegenis, the unnamed barbarians ‘keep the town under very strict watch’, allowing no one to enter or leave.50 Rendered virtual captives, the Romans find themselves in ‘desperate circumstances’ and ‘give up hope for their own safety’, until, of course, Severinus arrives, arming them with ‘heavenly weapons’ that soon cause the unwanted garrison’s expulsion and death.51 Still other episodes are more specific, referring to barbarian peoples or their leaders by name, but generally persisting in a negative or at least less than flattering depiction. The Heruli not only attack and destroy the city of Ioviaco, but take its population prisoner and hang its priest from a gibbet, an event Severinus foresees.52 Similarly, nondescript barbarians led by a certain Hunumund invade the city of Batavis, killing its priest and causing ‘the sanctuaries of Christ to 46

Eugippius, V. Sev. 17. 2: ‘ex duro barbarorum imperio famis angustias sustinerent’. Eugippius, V. Sev. 11. 1: ‘paene nullum castellum barbarorum vitaret incursus’; V. Sev. 28. 1: ‘post excidium oppidorum in superiore parte Danuvii’. 48 Barbarian raiders, Eugippius, V. Sev. 4. 1: ‘praedones barbari’; for soldiers, arms, etc., V. Sev. 4. 2 (the words of the tribune Mamertinus): ‘Milites quidem habeo paucissimos, sed non audeo cum tanta hostium turba confligere. Quod si tua veneratio praecipit, quamvis auxilium nobis desit armorum, credimus tamen tua nos fieri oratione victores’. 49 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 20. 50 Eugippius, V. Sev. 1. 4: ‘Hoc [oppidum/Comagenis] barbarorum intrinsecus consistentium, qui cum Romanis foedus inierant, custodia servabatur artissima nullique ingrediendi aut egrediendi facilis licentia praestabatur’. 51 For hope, Eugippius, V. Sev. 1. 4: ‘cunctos de salute propria desperantes’; circumstances, V. Sev. 1. 5: ‘desperatis rebus’; arms and death, V. Sev. 2. 2: ‘Tali ergo adversariis internicione consumptis divino plebs servata praesidio per sanctum virum armis didicit pugnare caelestibus’. 52 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 24. 47

Jonathan J. Arnold

292

overflow with human blood’, an event Severinus also foresees.53 The Alamanni, on the other hand, have a king named Gibuld, who speaks gibberish just like Ennodius’s Euric but who also ‘held him [Severinus] in the greatest esteem’.54 To his credit, he ‘trembles rather violently before’ the awesomeness of the saint and promises ‘to restrain his people from devastating Romans’.55 Nonetheless, one later encounters the Alamanni ‘savagely laying the entire [region] to waste’, pursuing refugees from the town of Quintianis, who were ‘exhausted from their very frequent attacks’, and forcing Severinus and his flock to flee, as Eugippius put it, ‘before the hostile advance of barbarism’.56 Those who do not flee are soon captured or killed by more hostile peoples, this time Thuringians. As one can guess, Severinus foresees this as well.57 Eugippius’s account, therefore, fits quite well with traditional narratives of savage barbarians and the decline and fall of the Roman Empire. Yet, like Ennodius’s Life of Epiphanius, there are noteworthy exceptions to the barbarian stereotype. Beyond the Alamannic king Gibuld encountered above, for instance, the Rugi are depicted in a generally favourable light, and this is interesting given that they are also, albeit with some complication, treated positively by Ennodius.58 Indeed, the Rugi are never explicitly referred to as barbarians 53

See Eugippius, V. Sev. 22. 4. For blood (a prophecy of Severinus), V. Sev. 22. 3: ‘Christi sacraria […] humano sanguine redundabunt’. Cf. Ennod., V. Ant. 13–14. For Hunumund, identified in other sources as a leader or king of the Suevi, see PLRE, ii, 574–75. 54 Eugippius, V. Sev. 19. 1: ‘rex Gibuldus summa eum reverentia diligebat’. His speaking of gibberish (i.e. not Latin) is based on his use of an internuntius in V. Sev. 19. 4, which, given the presence of Gibuld in this episode, would seem to suggest that the term means interpreter rather than messenger. 55 For trembles, Eugippius, V. Sev. 19. 2: ‘tremere coram eo vehementius coeperit […] indicavit numquam se […] tanto fuisse tremore concussum’; for restraining, V. Sev. 19. 3: ‘ut sibi potius praestaturus gentem suam a Romana vastatione cohiberet’. 56 For laying waste, Eugippius, V.  Sev. 25.  3: ‘Alamannorum copiosissima multitudo feraliter cuncta vastavit’; for pursuing, V. Sev. 27. 1: ‘mansores oppidi Quintanensis, creberrimis Alamannorum incursionibus iam defessi, sedes proprias relinquentes […] Sed non latuit eosdem barbaros confugium praedictorum’; for fleeing (a speech made by Severinus, who urges flight to Lauriacum after the Alamanni are defeated), V. Sev. 27. 3: ‘Quamvis et illud oppidum, quo pergimus, ingruente barbarie sit quantocius relinquendum’. 57 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 27. 2. 58 For a general discussion of the role of the Rugi in the Vita Severini, see Thompson, Romans and Barbarians, pp. 124–28; Eugippius, Vie de Saint Séverin, ed. and trans. by Régerat, pp. 63–71; and Wood, ‘The Monastic Frontiers’, pp. 45–46. Cf. Goffart, ‘Does the Vita S. Severini Have an Underside?’. The major exceptions are Giso, a stereotypically wicked queen, and Ferderuchus, the king’s greedy brother. To their credit, both do acknowledge Severinus’s pow-

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

293

in the Vita Severini and have many features in common with the Romans of Noricum.59 Both are bullied and victimized by other barbarians; both suffer owing to the actions of proud or stubborn leaders; both view Italy as a source of salvation; and both are Christian, although the Rugi adhere to a different creed.60 Despite dogmatic differences, individual Rugi still seek and, most importantly, receive miraculous healings from Severinus. Not one, but two separate instances are recounted by Eugippius, who indicates that there were more.61 ‘The entire people of the Rugi’, he explains, ‘frequently went to the servant of God and began to show him thankful deference, asking for his assistance against their maladies’.62 Noteworthy among the Rugi are their kings, who interact with Severinus in a number of episodes, nearly all positive. King Flaccitheus, for instance, consults Severinus as an ‘oracle of God’ on two occasions, respecting the saint’s prophetic powers and heeding his admonitions.63 As a result, Eugippius claims that the king was ‘exalted with greatly increasing prosperity’ and ‘ended his life in a state of absolute tranquillity’.64 His son and successor, Feletheus/Feva, likewise, is introduced at the beginning of his reign as a king who ‘followed his father’s diligence’ and ‘frequently visited the holy man’.65 In a later episode the ers, despite their character flaws. For Giso, see Eugippius, V. Sev. 8, 40, and 44; for Ferderuchus, V. Sev. 40. 5 (implicit), 42, and 44. 59 It would be a mistake to include the Rugi among the barbarians (plural) from which the Romans of Noricum eventually flee in their migration to Italy (see Eugippius, V. Sev. 40 and 44, discussed below). The event occurs after the kingdom of the Rugi has been destroyed by Odovacer and thus after their remnants have fled to Moesia, uniting with the Ostrogoths. 60 For bullied and victimized (by Goths and generic barbarians), Eugippius, V. Sev. 5; for proud leaders (Giso and Ferderuchus), see note 58, above. Fredericus’s acts of vengeance (against Ferderuchus and then on behalf of his captured parents), however, are presented ambiguously in V. Sev. 44, even if they do cause the downfall of his kingdom. For Italy, see V. Sev. 5. 1; for their different creed, which is not specifically identified in the text but presumably Arian, V. Sev. 5. 2 and 8. 1. 61 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 6. 1–5 and 33. 62 Eugippius, V. Sev. 6. 5: ‘universa Rugorum gens ad dei famulum frequentans coepit gratulationis obsequium reddere et opem suis postulare langoribus’. 63 Both occasions are recounted in Eugippius, V. Sev. 5. For oracle, V. Sev. 5. 1: ‘beatissimum Severinum […] caeleste consulebat oraculum’. For Flaccitheus, see PLRE, ii, 473. 64 Eugippius, V. Sev. 5. 4: ‘Flaccitheus incrementis auctus prosperioribus vitam rebus tranquillissimis terminavit’. 65 Eugippius, V. Sev. 8. 1: ‘Feletheus quoque rex, qui et Feva, memorati filius Flaccithei, paternam secutus industriam sanctum virum coepit pro regni sui frequentare primordiis’. For Feletheus/Feva, see PLRE, ii, 457.

294

Jonathan J. Arnold

saint reminds the king of his father’s obedience to his advice and the divine favours that supported him as a result.66 Yet Feletheus/Feva appears to surpass his father in goodness and is addressed by Severinus as rex optime (best king) in two speeches.67 Nor does the title appear to be undeserved, for Feletheus/ Feva proves its aptness through his own obedience to the saint and his special concern for his Roman flock. Indeed, and much like Ennodius’s Theoderic, he emerges as the self-appointed protector of the Romans in his midst, endeavouring to relocate Norican refugees to towns within his sphere of influence for their own safety.68 To Severinus he asserts, ‘I will not suffer this people, for whom you have come as a benevolent intercessor, to be ravaged by the cruel plundering of the Alamanni and Thuringians, or to be butchered by the sword, or to be reduced to slavery’.69 These are strong and encouraging words, and once the saint is able to negotiate for a role in the relocation process, the outcome is positive: ‘Then the Romans […] were settled in the towns through a peaceful and orderly agreement and began to live in benevolent partnership with the Rugi’.70

Severinus and the Fall of Rome Odovacer is another barbarian king who is depicted favourably in the Life of Severinus, benefiting from the saint’s gift of prophecy, corresponding with him in a friendly manner, and both humbly and gladly fulfilling a request for mercy.71 The Odovacer depicted is thus not that dissimilar from the character encountered in Ennodius’s Life of Epiphanius. And just as in this work, his presence leads one to the crucial question of 476 and its meaning, if any, in Eugippius’s account. Clearly the Western Roman Empire had ceased to exist in the Upper Danube 66 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 31. 3. Epiphanius provides Theoderic with a similar reminder. See Ennod., V. Epiph. 125–30. 67 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 31. 1 and 31. 5. 68 That these towns are tributary (and thus a source of income) is also presented as a rationale. See Eugippius, V. Sev. 31. 1–2. Cf. Ennodius’s Theoderic (a bona fide protector and redeemer of Liguria) and Gundobad (a former protector turned betrayer) in Ennod., V. Epiph. 136–41 and 154–63. 69 Eugippius, V. Sev. 31. 2: ‘Hunc […] populum, pro quo benivolus precator accedis, non patiar Alamannorum ac Thoringorum saeva depraedatione vastari vel gladio trucidari aut in servitium redigi’. 70 Eugippius, V. Sev. 31. 6: ‘Igitur Romani […] pacificis dispositionibus in oppidis ordinati benivola cum Rugis societate vixerunt’. 71 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 6. 7 and 32. 1.

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

295

region. But, according to Eugippius, did Odovacer put what remained of that empire, namely the Italian Empire mentioned by Ennodius, out of its misery? The picture is complicated. It is true that a young Odovacer is described in the Life of Severinus in a rather stereotypical fashion, clothed ‘in very mean garments [and] skins’ and travelling with ‘barbarians who were proceeding to Italy’.72 It is also true that Severinus foresees Odovacer’s royal future and later interacts with him as a rex (king ) regnavit (ruling ) Italy, terminology that might seem incompatible, at least initially, with the continued existence of the Roman Empire.73 Finally, it is true that Eugippius makes a passing reference to the murder of the patrician Orestes, calling the act unjust.74 Yet, this evidence remains inconclusive. The absence of emperors in Eugippius’s vita simply leaves the meaning of Odovacer’s title uncertain, as does the work’s lack of precision when it comes to royal and imperial terminology.75 That Odovacer is the ruler of Italy and not of a particular gens, at least, places him in a unique position in the vita, especially when one recalls that Eugippius uses Italy as a shorthand for the western empire on at least one occasion.76 Similarly, the slaying of Orestes fails to offer a smoking gun: Romulus Augustus is completely omitted in this account, just as he is in the Life of Epiphanius, and Eugippius does not blame Odovacer explicitly, citing ‘murderers’ (plural) instead.77 Lastly, there is Odovacer’s barbarian status, an issue that would seem to be less problematic by now, given the presence, however rare, of benevolent and godly barbarians in Eugippius’s account.78 72

Eugippius, V. Sev. 6. 6–7: ‘quidam barbari, cum ad Italiam pergerent […] Inter quos et Odovacar, qui postea regnavit Italiae, vilissimo tunc habitu iuvenis […] vilissimis nunc pellibus’. 73 See Eugippius, V. Sev. 7. 1 (regnavit), 32 (rex, regnaturum, regem, and regni), and 44. 4 (rex). 74 Eugippius, Ep. ad Paschasium 8: ‘tempore, quo patricius Orestes inique peremptus est’. It should be noted that this passing remark is made in the prefatory letter appended to the Life of Severinus. 75 Unlike the Life of Epiphanius, the term imperator is not used. However, there remains some mixing of royal, princely, and imperial terminology in this work, as was (again) common in the Latin of the day. Cf. Eugippius, V. Sev. 5. 1 (Gothorum principibus), 7. 2 (barbarorum imperio), 22. 2 (Rugorum principem). The same language is also associated with God and the holy man Severinus throughout. 76 Odovacer, ruler of Italy: Eugippius, V. Sev. 7. 1 and 44. 4–5. Cf. V. Sev. 1. 1 (rex Hunnorum); 5. 1, 31. 1, 40. 1, and 42. 1 (Rugorum rex); 5. 1 (Gothorum principibus); 19. 1 (Alamannorum rex); and 22. 2 (Rugorum principem). These titles are repeated in the capitula that precede the main narrative. For Italy as the western empire, V. Sev. 20. 1 and (as will be argued below) 44. 4–7. 77 Eugippius, Ep. ad Paschasium 8: ‘interfectores eius metuens’. 78 The Rugi, again, provide a case in point. So does the monk Bonosus, who is introduced

296

Jonathan J. Arnold

Thus, the Odovacer found in the Life of Severinus can be read as a defender of Romans, much like Feletheus/Feva. But more than this, he can and indeed should be read as a guardian of Romanness and a representative of imperial power. Interestingly enough, the evidence for such an interpretation comes straight from Severinus’s mouth, from a prophecy that, it must be borne in mind, cannot have been wrong according to the inner logic of his vita. The prophecy is as follows: sometime after 476, and this is clear because Odovacer is now king, Severinus reveals to his flock that they will soon ‘migrate to a province on Roman soil’ and that ‘no harm [will come] to their liberty’, that most fundamental of Roman rights.79 Many books later one finds the saint on his deathbed, an event that can be dated accurately to 482. Again the prophecy is repeated, the inevitable migration now compared with the biblical Exodus. ‘Know, brothers’, Severinus foretells, ‘that just as the sons of Israel are known to have been rescued from the land of Egypt, so must all the people of this land be freed from the unjust rule of the barbarians. Indeed, all of them, departing from these towns with their property, will come to a Roman province without falling into captivity’.80 It was a prophecy, Eugippius assures his reader, whose ‘truth was proved by the events of recent times’.81 These recent events, finally, are recounted four books later, where Odovacer declares war on the Rugi of Noricum. Following a second invasion of the region in 488, his representatives (among them the Roman comes Pierius) ‘order all the Romans [of Noricum] to migrate to Italy’.82 As Eugippius explains, ‘Then all the inhabitants [of the region] recognized the prophecies of Saint Severinus, having been led out from the daily barbarism of constant plundering, [led out], as it were, from the house as a ‘monachus beati Severini, barbarus genere’ in Eugippius, V. Sev. 35. 1. Odovacer’s barbarous attire and origins need not disqualify him from Romanness either. Cf. the description of Ricimer as a ‘skin-clad Goth’ in the Life of Epiphanius (above). 79 Eugippius, V. Sev. 31. 6: ‘nec praedicere futura cessabat, asserens universos in Romani soli provinciam absque ullo libertatis migraturos incommodo’. On libertas, see Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, p. 13 n. 15; also note 35, above. 80 Eugippius, V. Sev. 40. 4: ‘Scitote […] fratres, sicut filios Israel constat ereptos esse de terra Aegypti, ita cunctos populos terrae huius oportet ab iniusta barbarorum dominatione liberari. Etenim omnes cum suis facultatibus de his oppidis emigrantes ad Romanam provinciam absque ulla sui captivitate pervenient’. 81 Eugippius, V. Sev. 40. 6: ‘cuius vaticinii veritatem eventus rerum praesentium comprobavit’. 82 Eugippius, V. Sev. 44. 5: ‘universos iussit ad Italiam migrare Romanos’. For Pierius, V. Sev. 44. 5, with PLRE, ii, 885. He was Odovacer’s comes domesticorum and a vir inlustris. He appears to have supervised the evacuation.

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

297

of Egyptian bondage’.83 The Romans of post-Roman Noricum then migrate to the kingdom of Odovacer, to a province on Roman soil where they retain their liberty and escape barbarism. The implication is obvious and in keeping with the conclusions drawn from Ennodius’s Life of Epiphanius: Whatever Odovacer’s position,84 his Italy cannot be a barbarian kingdom; it must be the Roman promised land foreseen by Severinus. As for Theoderic’s Italy and its status vis-à-vis Eugippius, little is learned directly from the Life of Severinus. But this should be seen as a consequence of the genre, rather than an indication of an anti-Gothic bias per se.85 Indeed, within a year of his flock’s arrival in Italy, the Ostrogothic invasion had begun. Such a development might seem to invalidate or at least cut short the duration of Severinus’s deathbed prophecy: the Romans of Noricum had escaped daily barbarism, only to have it pursue them to Italy. But Severinus had also foreseen this event, revealing to partisans of Odovacer that their king would rule undisturbed for thirteen to fourteen years.86 He thus knew that his flock’s entry onto Roman soil would coincide with the end of Odovacer’s rule and the beginning of Ostrogothic Italy. And yet, he saw no conflict. Nor, it stands to reason, did Eugippius, for his narrative ignores these events, much as Ennodius ignores the civil war that occurred between Ricimer and Anthemius,87 and persists in its euphoric theme.88 Time and 83

Eugippius, V. Sev. 44. 5: ‘Tunc omnes incolae tamquam de domo servitutis Aegyptiae, ita de cotidiana barbarie frequentissimae depraedationis educti sancti Severini oracula cognoverunt’. 84 A complex issue and the subject of some debate. See, for instance, Fanning, ‘Odovacer rex’, and Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, pp. 30–32, 51–54, and 61–70. 85

Eugippius’s supposed anti-Gothic bias rests on far too many hypothetical reconstructions, conjectures, and (often anachronistic) assumptions to be rehearsed and adequately challenged here. For an instructive and sober critique of some of these, see Wood, ‘The Monastic Frontiers’. Also useful is the evidence provided by the Life of Severinus itself, where Goths appear in three episodes. In Eugippius, V. Sev. 5. 1–2 and 17. 4, they are aggressive barbarians, threatening Rugi and Romans alike. However, they are not led by Theoderic but by his predecessors. In V. Sev. 44. 4, on the other hand, Theoderic appears as rex without reference to Goths (cf. Odovacer). Quite different from his predecessors, he offers sanctuary to the defeated Rugi, with long-term consequences, as Eugippius and others knew quite well. See note 88, below. 86 Eugippius, V. Sev. 32. 2: ‘“Odovacar”, inquit, “integer inter tredecim et quattuordecim”, annos videlicet integri eius regni significans: et his dictis adiecit citius illos quod ipse praedixerat probaturos’. 87 See Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, p. 20. 88

The closest he comes is a nod to these events in Eugippius, V. Sev. 44. 4, which explains that the Rugian prince Fredericus fled to Theoderic at Novae in Moesia Superior, the city from which the invasion was staged. See Anonymus Valesianus Pars Posterior 49, ed. by Moreau, p. 14. Theoderic was joined by Fredericus and his Rugi during the campaign. The latter are likely the

298

Jonathan J. Arnold

space are condensed, as they often are in a saint’s Life. In one chapter, Odovacer is king and Severinus’s body rests peacefully at Mons Feleter, where it performs a miracle; in the next, Gelasius is pope and the saint’s body finds its final resting place at Castellum Lucullanum, where it performs many and greater miracles. Years have gone by and Italy has become ‘Ostrogothic’, but Eugippius provides not even the slightest indication of an ironic or unhappy ending. Severinus and his flock, including his hagiographer, are where they belong, safe from barbarism and in a Roman land. The ending is therefore happy, while these recent events continue to prove the power of the saint and the truth of his prophecies.

Conclusion Ennodius and Eugippius had little in common, from their origins and educational backgrounds, to their career paths and places of residence, to the style in which they wrote and the type of saint they chose to eulogize. Still, and despite so many differences, common themes appear in their Lives of Epiphanius and Severinus, particularly with respect to the historical contexts in which these holy men were remembered to have operated and demonstrated their sanctity. Thus, in both hagiographical works, Roman power declines, the empire ceases to exist in places like Gaul and Noricum, and Roman communities fall prey to and are victimized by savage barbarians. Some barbarians defy stereotypes or prove themselves benevolent defenders, but it is Epiphanius and Severinus who are celebrated throughout as the surest protection for Romans and barbarians alike, serving as constant intercessors and mediators in what were regarded in contemporary Italy to have been extremely tumultuous and uncertain times. Finally, and despite the various calamities recorded in both vitae, 476 fails to be remembered in either as a watershed moment for the western empire. Whatever the official positions of Odovacer and Theoderic and however Ennodius or Eugippius may have felt about them, an impression that is consistent with other Italian sources, such as the works of Cassiodorus, emerges: Italy, the core of the western empire, remained as Roman as it ever was and persisted in its imperial identity. very Rugi encountered in Ennod., V. Epiph. 118–19 (above), who seem to have remained in Italy after Odovacer’s defeat, despite the fact that Fredericus betrayed Theoderic and joined Odovacer’s side. See PLRE, ii, 484–85. These details also demonstrate the complexity and mutability of alliances during this period, undermining a simple pro-Rugi reading of the Vita Severini that necessitates a bias against the Ostrogoths or Odovacer, for that matter. Cf. Goffart, ‘Does the Vita S. Severini Have an Underside?’. Interestingly enough, Ennodius’s panegyric provides a similar, cryptic nod to the connection between Fredericus’s flight and Theoderic’s invasion. See Panegyricus Theoderico 25.

Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy

299

Works Cited Primary Sources Anonymus Valesianus Pars Posterior, in Excerpta Valesiana, ed. by Jacques Moreau (Leipzig: B. G. Teubner, 1968), pp. 10–27 Ennodius, Panegyricus Theoderico: Der Theoderich­Panegyricus des Ennodius, ed. and trans. by Christian Rohr, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Studien und Texte, 12 (Hannover: Hahnsche Buchhandlung, 1995) —— , Vita Antonii, in Magnus Felix Ennodius: Die beiden Heiligenviten, ed. and trans. by Frank M. Ausbüttel, Texte zur Forschung, 9 (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2016), pp. 140–57 —— , Vita Epiphanii: Ennodio: Vita del beatissimo Epifanio vescovo della chiesa pavese, ed. and trans. by Maria Cesa, Biblioteca di Athenaeum, 6 (Como: Edizioni New Press, 1988) Eugippius, Vita Severini: Vie de Saint Séverin, ed. and trans. by Philippe Régerat, Sources Chrétiennes, 374 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1991) Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon, in Chronica Minora, Saec. IV. V. VI. VII., vol. ii, ed. by Theodore Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Auctores Antiquissimi, 11 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1894), pp. 60–104

Secondary Studies Arnold, Jonathan J., ‘Ostrogothic Provinces: Administration and Ideology’, in A Com­ panion to Ostrogothic Italy, ed. by Jonathan J. Arnold, M. Shane Bjornlie, and Kristina Sessa (Leiden: Brill, 2016), pp. 73–97 —— , Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014) —— , ‘Theoderic and Rome: Conquered but Unconquered’, Antiquité Tardive, 25 (2017), 95–108 Barnish, Samuel J. B., ‘Ennodius’ Lives of Epiphanius and Antony: Two Models for the Christian Gentleman’, Studia Patristica, 24 (1993), 13–19 Croke, Brian, ‘ad 476: The Manufacture of a Turning Point’, Chiron, 13 (1983), 81–119 Fanning, Steven, ‘Odovacer rex, Regal Terminology, and the Question of the End of the Western Roman Empire’, Medieval Prosopography, 24 (2003), 45–54 Goffart, Walter, ‘Does the Vita S. Severini Have an Underside?’, in Eugippius und Severin: Der Autor, der Text und der Heilige, ed. by Walter Pohl and Maximilian Diesenberger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001), pp. 33–39 Goltz, Andreas, ‘Marcellinus Comes und das “Ende” des Weströmischen Reiches im Jahr 476’, in Continuity and Change: Studies in Late Antique Historiography, ed. by Dariusz Brodka and Michal Stachura (Krakow: Jagiellonian University Press, 2007), pp. 39–59

300

Jonathan J. Arnold

Heydemann, Gerda, ‘The Ostrogothic Kingdom: Ideologies and Transitions’, in A Compan­ ion to Ostrogothic Italy, ed. by Jonathan J. Arnold, M. Shane Bjornlie, and Kristina Sessa (Leiden: Brill, 2016), pp. 17–46 Kennell, S.  A.  H., Magnus Felix Ennodius: A  Gentleman of the Church (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2000) Leyser, Conrad, ‘Shoring Fragments against Ruin? Eugippius and the Sixth-Century Culture of the Florilegium’, in Eugippius und Severin: Der Autor, der Text und der Heilige, ed. by Walter Pohl and Maximilian Diesenberger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001), pp. 65–75 Lotter, Friedrich, Severinus von Noricum, Legende und historische Wirklichkeit: Unter­ suchungen zur Phase des Übergangs von spätantiken zu mittelalterlichen Denk­ und Lebensformen (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1976) Marconi, Giulia, Ennodio e la nobiltà gallo­romana nell’Italia ostrogota (Spoleto: Fondazione CISAM, 2013) Markus, Robert A., ‘The End of the Roman Empire: A Note on Eugippius, Vita Severini, 20’, Nottingham Medieval Studies, 26 (1982), 1–7 Martindale, J.  R., The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vol.  ii, a.d. 395–527 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980) Näf, Beat, ‘Das Zeitbewußtsein des Ennodius und der Untergang Roms’, Historia, 39 (1990), 100–123 Reydellet, Marcel, La Royauté dans la littérature latine de Sidoine Apollinaire à Isidore de Séville (Rome: École Française de Rome, 1981) Rohr, Christian, ‘Ergänzung oder Widerspruch? Severin und das spätantike Noricum in der Vita Antonii des Ennodius’, in Eugippius und Severin: Der Autor, der Text und der Heilige, ed. by Walter Pohl and Maximilian Diesenberger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001), pp. 109–22 Schwarcz, Andreas, ‘Severinus of Noricum between Fact and Fiction’, in Eugippius und Severin: Der Autor, der Text und der Heilige, ed.  by Walter Pohl and Maximilian Diesenberger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001), pp. 25–31 Thompson, E. A., Romans and Barbarians: The Decline of the Western Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1982) Wes, Marinus A., Das Ende des Kaisertums im Westen des Römischen Reichs (The Hague: Staatsdrukerei, 1967) Wood, Ian, ‘The Monastic Frontiers of the Vita Severini’, in Eugippius und Severin: Der Autor, der Text und der Heilige, ed.  by Walter Pohl and Maximilian Diesenberger (Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2001), pp. 41–51

Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity — Reviewed Noel Lenski Styles of leadership […] cannot therefore be understood in isolation from the aspirations of communities and supporters. Raymond Van Dam, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul

L

eadership and its relationship to community has been an enduring concern of Ray Van Dam and his scholarship from the beginning. An early leader in the application of sociological and anthropological theory to the history of Late Antiquity, Van Dam has generated not so much a school of followers as a community of thinkers influenced both through direct mentorship in his role of teacher and supervisor and through his indirect influence in the role of author and scholar. This collection of twelve essays reflects well his community, assembling as it does contributions by students, mentees, and colleagues. The breadth of coverage and quality of work contained here pay ample tribute to a person whose career has stretched some forty years and whose work has ranged broadly across all the fields covered by these essays and reached well beyond them. There is no greater testimony to Van Dam’s importance than the fact that his work has not only impacted what we think about specific personalities, texts, periods, and problems like those covered in this book, but also that he has influenced the way this scholarship — and all scholarship on Late Antiquity — is conducted. His methodology and approach are now part of the DNA of our intellectual enterprise as historians of the late ancient world. Noel Lenski is Professor, Classics and History, Yale University. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity: Essays in Honour of Raymond Van Dam, ed. by Young Richard Kim and A. E. T. McLaughlin, CELAMA 26 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2020), pp. 301–319 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.CELAMA-EB.5.118167

Noel Lenski

302

Van Dam’s own scholarly corpus has covered three primary fields: Gaul and the late antique West, Cappadocia and the early Byzantine East, and Constantine. It has done so in what could be characterized as a triptych of trilogies. His first monograph, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, was followed by two translations that really function as separate volumes of a single work: Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors and Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, and in turn by the richly rewarding Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul.1 Van Dam then vaulted to the other side of the Roman Empire with his Cappadocian trilogy: Kingdom of Snow: Roman Rule and Greek Culture in Cappadocia; Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappadocia; Becoming Christian: The Conversion of Roman Cappadocia.2 From there he moved to a series of studies on the first Christian emperor and his broader impact with The Roman Revolution of Constantine; Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity; and Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge.3 To be sure, these works are by no means the end of the story as his ongoing work on demography and urban provisioning demonstrate, but their elegant symmetry up to the present speaks for the kind of scholar Van Dam represents, for his clean prose is as well turned as his careful argumentation is well marshalled. The work of Van Dam has always been characterized by an early awareness of what would become the leading scholarly trends in the field. Indeed, it is fair to consider him a pathfinder in the broader terrain of late antique studies. From his early work, which focused on the anthropological and sociological construction of leadership and particularly on the insights of Clifford Geertz that religion is a symbolic system which shapes communal responses to social organization, to his later work on memory theory and the uses of historicism as a kind of sign system that translates events and experiences into normative, meaning-generating frameworks, Van Dam has always had an eye for where the field is moving and how he might help coax it productively in these new directions. It is also reasonable to assert that Van Dam has generally preferred to focus on experiences rather than structures — the way that encounters between humans, each shaped by their peculiar and hopelessly particularist perspective, 1

Van Dam, Leadership and Community; Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors, trans. by Van Dam; Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, trans. by Van Dam; Van Dam, Saints and their Miracles. 2 Van Dam, Kingdom of Snow; Van Dam, Families and Friends; Van Dam, Becoming Christian. 3 Van Dam, The Roman Revolution of Constantine; Van Dam, Rome and Constantinople; Van Dam, Remembering Constantine.

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

303

congealed and aggregated themselves into the patterns that shape history. This is not to say that Van Dam has been unconcerned with political and religious leaders. On the contrary, these have constituted the single biggest target of his research, and not just because they constitute the primary subject of the ancient authors whose works survive to transmit to us today our knowledge of the ancient past. Nevertheless, for Van Dam, social, religious, and historical leaders manage to bend the arc of history not so much by exercising power in any preplanned or self-conscious fashion, nor by setting in place laws, rules, market mechanisms, or social systems that disrupt the equilibrium between continuity and change which they then come to define and govern. Such ‘Great Man’ approaches could never, in Van Dam’s eyes, begin to describe the complexity of societies and communities as they lumber forward through time. Instead, for Van Dam, leaders emerge by fitting their own inclinations, proclivities, and feelings into emergent patterns, and ultimately by shaping their experiences and assumptions into reproducible, even universal, ways of being that become normative for the community. Historical change is, in other words, always a group project. Each individual is virtually powerless to change the course of history, especially because of the very circumscribed horizons of understanding imposed on us all by our infinitesimally limited experiences and powers of outreach. Those who stand out in history, who revolutionize it, do so by tuning their own urge to power to the wavelengths from which are emerging clearer signals of harmony and continuity with the evolving and ever inchoate consensus of the community. History’s leaders are those who succeed at becoming beacons on which others focus their gaze as they guide their own values and behaviours to conform to the norms whose expression such leaders have helped to define. It is no exaggeration to say that, in the broadest orbit of late antique scholars, Ray Van Dam is such a figure. For this reason, it seems entirely appropriate that a community of scholars who have been influenced by him should collect their thoughts around ideas and problems that he himself has done much to bring to prominence. Although these chapters are rich with interconnections, all of them tracing in one way or another to Van Dam’s own concerns and approaches, I will divide the remaining discussion along four intersecting planes: (1) the interplay between leadership and community; (2) the importance of regional and local context; (3) the material and spatial basis of social relations; (4) the role of memory and memorialization in the construction of history. Although most of the essays in the volume operate in two or more of these spheres, for the sake of concision I will treat each in only one — the one I think is most salient.

Noel Lenski

304

The Interplay between Leadership and Community From the beginning Van Dam has been interested in the interplay between leadership and community in the religious, social, and political spheres. This has remained a persistent concern for Van Dam himself and has become a regular motif in the work of his students and followers. The approach clearly emerges from the essay of Adam Schor on ‘Abstract Social Network Modelling and the Rise of Singular Bishops: Textual Guidance from Three Urban Roman Settings’. Putting his admirable skills with network analysis and its graphic expression to work, Schor examines three pericanonical Christian texts from the mid-second to the mid-third centuries for what they can tell us about the emerging role of the bishop. He shows that the Letters of Ignatius and Polycarp (a mid-secondcentury text from western Anatolia) guide leading clerics to interact translocally as peers. Although these emergent leaders were not firmly distinguished from other members of their community, they were able to use the epistolary form to share teachings and martyrdom news outside their immediate geographical context and as such to gain power. The Traditio apostolica (intended for megacity churches in Rome and Alexandria, c. 180–220) marks Christian communities into more obvious subgroups — catechumens, laity, and clergy, including deacons, presbyters, and bishops. Ritual moments were used to constitute and reinforce the hierarchy. In this circle, the bishop could exploit his central role in rituals to become the hub of social activity. The Didascalia apostolorum (written for communities in urban Syria during the early third century) was aimed at Christian communities experiencing increasing competition for self-definition, especially from Judaizers, whom it contained by urging unified, hierarchized leadership. It enabled bishops to command charity, judgement, forgiveness, and exegesis while relying on assistants to mediate in-town connections, casting them as commanders whom other clerics must obey. Bishops were a final collection point, for all offerings, all resources were distributed through the bishop’s hands, and bishops alone acted as judges in intra-communal disputes. One might add that these last powers formed the channels through which bishops were eventually co-opted into state structures with the privileges granted them by Constantine.4 As such, the Constantinian moment arrived at a point in the development of Christian hierarchies when emergent episcopal power could be mobilized in order to energize the church as a covalent actor in the exercise of social, economic, and political power. Lisa Kaaren Bailey quite deliberately alludes to the title of Van Dam’s first book when she explores related concerns in ‘Leadership and Community in 4

Drake, Constantine and the Bishops; Lenski, Constantine and the Cities, pp. 167–207.

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

305

Late Antique Poitiers’. She focuses on two incidents in the Life of Radegund, the Thuringian royal daughter and queen who fled the violence and cruelty of her captor and polygamous husband, Clothar, by embarking on the monastic life. Exploiting this new and distinctly Christian mode of authority, Radegund was able to fall back on her royal status and wealth to found her own women’s monastery and thereby create a wall of security for herself and a group of fellow nuns. Nevertheless, given the pressures of patriarchy so fundamental to ancient society, Radegund had to be ever vigilant to provide her community with an unbreachable wall of defence. Bailey explores two incidents in the history of Radegund’s Monastery of the Holy Cross, which was named after a relic of the True Cross solicited by Radegund from the Byzantine emperor Justin II. In the first episode, from shortly after the relic’s arrival in Poitiers in 569, Radegund struggled to persuade the city’s bishop, Maroveus, to process with the relic into the city and install it in her monastery. The story is not mentioned by Radegund’s verse hagiographer, Venantius Fortunatus, but receives a proper telling in Gregory of Tours and in the Life of Radegund written by her disciple Baudonivia.5 In the face of Maroveus’s recalcitrance, Radegund was able to activate her royal connections to enlist Eufronius, Bishop of Tours, to bring the relic into Poitiers with high ceremony and to install it in her female monastery. Rather than attribute the contretemps to a clash of personalities or to the technicalities of monastic rules, as previous scholars have done, Bailey gets straight to the heart of the matter by emphasizing Radegund’s pursuit of complete independence for herself and her female community, which could be guaranteed by this most sacred relic. So too with the second conflict, which occurred in 589 and thus after Radegund’s death, in which the abbess Leubovera, who had begun to open the monastery to outsiders, faced a rebellion from several nuns intent on maintaining the strict sequestration established by the foundress. Only Gregory of Tours recounts this story, which once again should be interpreted as an effort to protect the female monastics from influence by the maledominated world surrounding them. Both incidents illustrate well the dialogic relationship between leadership and community. Both also permit a new, gendered approach to the problems of female independence and the need to establish single-sex communities as safe spaces for female spirituality and sociability. These leaders thus mapped out the contours of their power in the give and take between the active exercise of authority in the lived world and the textualized recording of rules and biographies that locked their experiences in written form. By working through and with evolving communities, they emerged as 5

Gregory of Tours, Historia Francorum ix. 40–44; Baudonivia, Life of Radegund 16.

306

Noel Lenski

agents of change even as they normalized episcopal and in turn female monastic power into more robust structures that could quicken and endure across time, giving shape to future communities but also inviting new sets of challenges from new claimants to authority.

The Importance of Regional and Local Context Van Dam has spent much of his career furthering our understanding of locally circumscribed contexts of Roman and post-Roman western Eurasia. To be sure, his studies of Gaul and Cappadocia were broad ranging across space and time, but his drive to pull together the richly abundant evidence for these two regions and to explore their implications as geographically contained and holistic units has vastly enriched our understanding not just of these two places but also of how we as scholars must pay attention to place and to regional and local specificity if we hope fully to comprehend Late Antiquity. It is this spirit that Brent Shaw’s, Jaclyn Maxwell’s, and Garrett Ryan’s contributions invoke as they delve deeper into the cities and saints of North Africa, Syrian Antioch, and Asia Minor. Shaw’s study, ‘Go Set a Watchman: The Bishop as Speculator’, stands out for its clarity and fine-grained engagement with primary source material. It departs from a pseudo-Cyprianic text known as De duobus montibus Sina et Sion. This brief text, written in unpolished Latin, provides a jumping-off point for a richly detailed explication of local North African practices of agriculture and the way these provided operative metaphors for early Christian understandings of the divine order. Shaw zeroes in on the author’s exposition of the phrase, ‘posuerunt me custodem in vineam’ (They placed me as a guardian in the vineyard; Song of Songs 1. 5), in a North African variant distinct from the Vetus Latina. The third-century author draws from his local experience when he then interprets the phrase by comparing Christ to the vineyard guards he had encountered in North Africa, who were placed in a purpose-built wooden tower outfitted with a blind made of beaten reeds from which they could scare away thieves. Shaw’s argument for local specificity is reinforced by comparison with other patristic authors who compare Christ and his bishops to a specula­ tor (guard or spy, as at Ezekiel 33. 1–6) but generally interpret this using military metaphors. Only North African authors, not just pseudo-Cyprian but also Tertullian and Augustine, conceive of Christ or the bishop as crop-watchman. The regional focalization is reinforced by iconography from North African ARS ceramics depicting precisely such watchtowers. Shaw hesitates over the author’s designation of the watchman as a puer (boy), for this substantive could

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

307

denominate both ‘sons’ and ‘slaves’. Shaw favours ‘slave’, but an argument could be made for preserving the ambiguity of the English ‘boy’ (which also has both valences) in order to evoke the blurred lines between sons and slaves in Roman legal and social contexts.6 Indeed, the use of sons in quasi-servile positions has a long cross-cultural history, as I myself am reminded by a story recounted by my stepfather, who grew up in rural eastern Colorado in the late 1940s. When he was thirteen, his father sent him to a remote tract to spend the summer sowing and then guarding the family’s crops while living in a shack, outfitted with little more than dried beans and a rifle. He also tells evocative stories of farm-boy antics, including being shot at for stealing watermelons with his friends, a tale reminiscent of Augustine’s own fruit thievery and of related passages cited by Shaw from Tertullian on the guarding of vineyards and cucumeraria (perhaps, as Shaw, patches of cucumbers, or perhaps other cucurbits, such as watermelons — Italian cocomeri).7 Such transhistorical, transregional comparanda by no means diminish the local specificity Shaw has brought back to life. The cluster of detailed evidence he assembles points unmistakably to late imperial North Africa, a context that, as Shaw argues, did in fact encourage bishops to act as militant guardians and authorized custodial violence as integral to Christian leadership. Jaclyn Maxwell’s contribution on ‘Attitudes about Social Hierarchy in a Late Antique City: The Case of Libanius and John Chrysostom’s Antioch’ also zeroes in on a discrete Sitz im Leben, late fourth-century Antioch, in order to illuminate the shared attitudes of Libanius and Chrysostom towards economic inequality. Both Libanius and Chrysostom express concern for the lower classes and the oppressed, and both propose solutions to remedy the problem of wealth disparity. As a professional educator and an unabashed adherent of the traditions of Hellenic paideia, Libanius saw the rhetorical education he 6

In Augustine’s corpus, see for example, Epistulae (Ep.) 153. 17; Ep. 185. 21; Sermones (Serm.) 297. 2; Serm. Dolbeau 26. 12 (= Serm. Mogunt. 62) with Shaw, ‘The Family in Late Antiquity’. The translation as ‘slaves’ becomes more awkward later in the De duobus montibus Sina et Sion where the author equates the vineyard guard with Christ: ‘Vinea dominica et spiritalis plebs est christianorum quae custoditur iusso Dei patris a puero Christo in ligni speculum exaltatum […] hic custos est puer filius dominicus, qui uineam suam sibi a patre commendatam saluandam tenet et reseruandam’ (Ps.-Cyprian, De montibus Sina et Sion 14, ed. by Hartel, p. 117). Christ as ‘son of God’ is well attested, but Christ as slave of God would surely have been rejected as heretical, for all that Christ did 'empty himself taking on the form of a slave' (Phil. 2.7). 7 See also Midrash Bava Kamma 8. 38 on liability payments at the wage rate of a ‘cucumber guard’ (‫ — )ןיאושיק רמוש‬i.e. a lowly agricultural wage labourer, quoted at Pomeranz, ‘The Rabbinic and Roman Laws of Personal Injury’, pp. 304–05.

Noel Lenski

308

offered as the ideal tonic for economic immiseration: ‘οὗτοι συγκρύπτουσι μὲν δυσγένειαν, κρύπτουσι δὲ ἀμορφίαν, πλοῦτον δὲ φυλάττουσι, λύουσι δὲ πενίαν’ ([eloquence] helps to conceal lowly origin, it hides ugliness, protects wealth, relieves penury).8 Because, however, he equated cultural prowess with moral rectitude and personal worth, Libanius explicitly criticized practical training in professions like shorthand writing and law that were more likely to promote social mobility, and he savagely attacked those who succeeded in rising above their station by means of these careers. Chrysostom was more critical of the moneyed class and regularly implored his wealthier congregants to display freehandedness towards the less fortunate. By way of justifying inequality and perhaps relieving its impact, he drove home the point that divine judgment was not of this world but the next, and that ungenerous elites would be held liable to God if they paid no heed to their poorer brethren. Yet none of this induced Chrysostom to critique the fundaments of wealth imbalances, which he assumed must correspond to the divine dispensation. Indeed, for Chrysostom, poverty offered its victims salutary encouragement to moderation and moral behaviour, while wealth provided opportunities for the rich to display generosity.9 Libanius and Chrysostom thus accessed different moral paradigms but arrived at a similar affirmation of the status quo. For Libanius, while it was important to maintain the social order, this implied relationships of reciprocity that necessitated some redistribution. For Chrysostom, Christianity posited a heavenly community sited outside the temporal order which demanded redistribution even while tolerating inequality as a sort of dynamo through which Christian behaviour could be energized. In ‘The Authority of Tradition: Governors and their Capitals in Late Antique Asia Minor’, Garrett Ryan takes on the question of constructions by provincial governors in the provinces of Asia Minor. Building on the work of Wolf Liebeschuetz on the late antique city and Danielle Slootjes on the late antique governor,10 he demonstrates that eastern governors integrated a considerable number of variables into the choices they made about which types of structures to target and how to marshal their limited resources in order to complete work 8

Libanius, Orationes (Or.) 23. 21, ed. by Foerster, ii, 504. Much the same could be said of Chrysostom’s attitude towards slavery, which he argued could be beneficial to the slave, even as freedom could be dangerous for the master; see de Wet, Preaching Bondage, pp. 170–219. Libanius argued much the same at Or. 25. 28–33. Both arguments are ultimately based on Stoic notions of wisdom and morality as a psychic rather than material good. 10 Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Roman City; Slootjes, The Governor and his Subjects. 9

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

309

rapidly enough that they and not their successors could claim credit. Exploring above all Ephesus and Aphrodisias, Ryan begins by focusing on laws, whose traditional outlook and expectations conditioned much about the choices governors and councils made. He then shows how late antique rhetorical styles, exemplified in Libanius’s Antiochikos, also favoured more traditional conceptions of the polis, even as civic trends (above all the decline of councils) and social norms (especially the rise of Christian morality and ritual) pulled in new directions. The essay opens doors wide to a whole variety of further questions. Can sufficient data be assembled to chart trends, whether in the overall level of building activity or in the popularity of certain types of structures? For example, Valentinian I’s order that governors conduct hearings ‘apertis secretarii foribus’ (in the public forum of a tribunal) led to an uptick in the construction or reconstruction of civic basilicas, some of which attest directly to the installation of a secretarium.11 Moreover, can the data be used to identify particular governors as φιλοικοδόμος? Tatianos, whom Ryan treats in detail, would seem to be a candidate. Does the emphasis on reconstruction rather than new construction reflect pragmatism and not just conservatism? Christian Witschel has shown that western cities, at least, were already largely supplied with sufficient civic infrastructure by the early third century and therefore shifted their emphasis to maintenance rather than expansion.12 Above all, how did Constantine’s confiscation of civic domains affect these processes?13 Even if some of the civic revenues were restored to cities beginning in the 370s for the reconstruction of public buildings (moenia),14 ongoing imperial control over two-thirds of those moneys pulled governors more forcefully into the processes of local construction even while restricting their choices in the types of projects they and their cities could undertake. The lone exceptions to this were ecclesiastical buildings, which offered an open canvas on which the contours of the ancient city were then redrawn. By bringing these regionally specific texts into dialogue, Shaw, Maxwell, and Ryan are able to enliven local contexts in ways that advance our understanding of societies and communities in the changing world of Late Antiquity. In all three instances, the worlds around our ancient authors and authorities con11

Codex Theodosianus i. 16. 9 (a. 364), ed. by Mommsen and Meyer, pp. 58–59; cf. Lenski, Failure of Empire, pp. 393–400, with Af 12, 14, 20, 22; It 1, 3; Ro 10; Mo 3; An 3–4, to which add Année Epigraphique (AE) 1988, 387 = AE 1991, 516. 12 Witschel, Krise, Rezession, Stagnation?. 13 On Constantine’s confiscations and their subsequent impact, see Lenski, Constantine and the Cities, pp. 168–75. 14 AE 1906, 30 = IKEph 42 with Lenski, Failure of Empire, pp. 295–96.

Noel Lenski

310

stituted models that governed social understanding. As such, any transformation was necessarily incremental and entailed much more reinforcement of the status quo than revolution of the social order. These are patterns which Van Dam himself has identified in his work using similar methodologies and equal care.

The Material and Spatial Basis of Social Relations Several articles in this collection treat the material and spatial basis of social environments. This concern grows out of the circle around Van Dam, even if Van Dam’s own inquiries have generally focused on the textual. This work does, however, continue the spirit of investigations into the impact of environments on social formations and the importance of collective interpretation of the past and its interpellation into the ever emerging present. Moreover, Van Dam’s influence as a theorist of historical memory is readily apparent in all of these pieces and particularly the studies of Dennis Trout and Virginia Burrus. Trout’s ‘Peter beyond Rome: Achilleus of Spoleto, Neon of Ravenna, and the Epigramma Longum’ not only follows Van Dam’s tradition of memory studies but also engages with his ample coverage of the cities of Rome and Constantinople. Trout examines three instances of inscribed poetry from outside Rome that appropriate and glorify the Western capital’s quintessential patron saint, Peter. These activate his apostolic power for local benefit even as they reinforce Rome’s growing claim to superiority over the Western church. The first, from Spoleto, 130 km north of Rome, was dedicated by Bishop Achilleus, who had played a role in mediating the papal succession dispute of 418/19 and then returned to his home see to dedicate a church to Peter. This we learn from a lengthy epigram, beautifully translated by Trout. He shows that Achilleus was able to co-opt Rome’s patron saint without laying claim to any relics, in no small part by borrowing poeticisms and ideas from the great fourth-century epigrammatist of Rome, Damasus. The other two inscriptions come from Ravenna, where they were dedicated in the dining hall of a new episcopal palace (episcopium) erected by Bishop Neon (c. 451–73). These are long and luxurious poems, one of which describes the creation of the world and fall of Adam, replete with an allusion to Lucan, and the second of which treats Peter, whom it forcefully and artfully promotes as the rightful leader of God’s universal church. Trout goes on to show how both cities, and Ravenna in particular, built on these Petrine associations to strengthen their bonds with Rome.15 Trout’s inquiry invites further exploration on the political level, for 15

Trout shows how this echoes work by Van Dam, Saints and their Miracles, pp. 18–20, on

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

311

Neon’s episcopacy corresponded with a period when the emperor tended to prefer Rome to Ravenna for his residency.16 Moreover, for much of that period, the imperial throne was occupied by Anthemius (467–72), whose Eastern origins and connections created ongoing tensions between the Western imperial ruler and Western aristocrats. Cementing alliances with Rome — and particularly with the church rather than the palace in Rome — must therefore have been important to Neon as a means of bolstering his own city’s power on the Italian peninsula. These same bonds appear to have proved influential when the Acacian schism split Rome from Constantinople and helped condition Ravenna, traditionally a city with a strong Eastern orientation, to favour Rome over the Eastern capital.17 The connections between materiality, space, and text also inform the currents running through ‘Remembering Constantina at the Tomb of Agnes and Beyond’ by Virginia Burrus. This contribution offers a foretaste of a new hagiographical study of Constantina on which Burrus is working in conjunction with Marco Conti.18 Deploying insights gleaned from Van Dam’s work on historical memory, Burrus reconstructs the modern history of Constantina’s hagiographical dossier, which grew from the seventeenth to the twentieth centuries as scholars uncovered a series of texts that can now be used to trace the development of the Life of Constantina — or rather, the life of Constantina’s Life. Burrus shows how the cult of Constantina emerged from legends about the empress first attested in the Passion of Agnes, which adapt the legend of Sylvester and his miraculous healing of Constantine’s leprosy to create a back story for the ruler’s daughter. In this tale, Constantina is also healed of leprosy, but only through the intervention of St Agnes, who appears to her in a dream. Our first freestanding attestation of the legend comes in a text titled only the Epitome, which appears to have been written as an epexegetical elaboration on the text of the inscription with which Constantina dedicated her magnificent mausoleum alongside the fourth-century martyrium of Agnes on the Via Nomentana.19 Perpetuus, Bishop of Tours, who also reoriented his church around a more stately and episcopal St Martin by deploying the power of verse. 16 On this problem, see McEvoy, ‘Shadow Emperors’. 17 Kötter, Zwischen Kaisern und Aposteln, pp. 106, 115–16; cf. Wiemer, Theoderich der Grosse, pp. 497–98, 530. 18 See already The Life of Saint Helia, ed. by Burrus and Conti. 19 Inscriptiones Christinae Urbis Romae 8: 20752 = Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres 1768 = Carmina Latina Epigraphica 301. For the monument, see Rasch and Arbeiter, Das Mausoleum der Constantina.

312

Noel Lenski

When the original martyrium fell into disrepair in the seventh century, Pope Honorius (s. 625–38) constructed a new church of St Agnes at some distance away, leaving Constantina’s mausoleum as a freestanding church with no obvious patron saint. The Epitome was thus composed based on the inscription and the story of healing recounted in the Passion of Agnes, and from there it took on a life of its own. Thus we have the Life of Constantina, likely penned in late seventh- or eighth-century Gaul, which features an expanded cast of characters including the virgin sisters Attica and Artemia, students of Constantina, who debate with their traditionalist aunt Octavia about the relative merits of virginity and marriage. This life, Burrus argues convincingly, likely grew out of a female monastic context and was intended for oral reading in social spaces like a refectory. Memories thus generate memories, reaching forwards and backwards through time, and anchoring themselves at once in physical and literary monuments, each of which serves its own purpose across time and space. Benjamin Graham and Paolo Squatriti also touch on materiality and space in ‘Roofing Rome: Church Coverings and Power in the Postclassical City’. Once again the Urbs looms large as city and symbol. They begin by explaining the technical and logistical details of covering large-scale basilicas with wooden roofs, which demanded considerable money, knowledge, and timber resources — above all, twenty-five-metre silver fir tie-beams weighing three tons each. We learn about the cultivation of these trees, their transport to Rome, and their hewing and hoisting, all of which demanded resources available only to Rome’s leadership class, especially its popes. These used their control of natural and economic resources to build patronage networks through the supply and distribution of timber not just in Rome but as far away as Alexandria, where Gregory the Great sent trees for ship construction in 596. Roofing thus became an idiom of power, a fact well reflected in the Liber Pontificalis, which focuses increasingly on roofing projects from the mid-seventh century onwards. The imperial control of the city’s public monuments initiated by Justinian’s Pragmatic Sanction of 554 complicated matters as emperors vied with popes for control of Rome’s architectural heritage. Here too roofing served as a powerful symbolic act on the part of popes, who employed restoration projects to assert their role as patrons of the city. Thus, a wave of roofing projects under Popes Hadrian (s. 772–95) and Leo III (s. 795–816) reflected a reorientation of Rome away from Constantinopolitan control and towards greater autonomy as this was fostered under the patronage of Charlemagne. However, because the buildings themselves and the roofs that covered them long outlived the pontiffs, in some ways churches and their timbers always had the upper hand, creating continuity and demanding attention from the city

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

313

and its leaders in a way that bound bishops and laity to collaborate in the stewardship of their shared heritage. Material remains are thus shown not just to mark and define space, but also to capture and preserve memories. These in turn give birth to new memories, which build on and elaborate the past in productive ways. Communities can be formed and re-formed around edifices and their inscriptions precisely because these serve as repositories of memory and sites for its creative transformation.

The Role of Memory and Memorialization in the Construction of History Perhaps the most salient theme of the volume, as well as being a topic that permeates most of its chapters, is one that Van Dam has championed for years, the role of memory and memorialization in the construction of history. Memory and memory studies form fundamental bulwarks in the chapters by Trout, Burrus, and Graham and Squatriti, and particularly in the three contributions by Anthony Kaldellis, Shane Bjornlie, and Jonathan Arnold. Kaldellis’s chapter on ‘How Was a “New Rome” Even Thinkable? Premonitions of Constantinople and the Portability of Rome’ explores the background to Constantine’s choice to found and construct an entirely new capital on the site of Byzantium, an altera Roma (Second Rome). He emphasizes that this act of metropolitan ‘copy and paste’ should give us pause: ‘It is too easy to accept it as a well-known fact and not think about how strange it was’. Kaldellis thus strives to defamiliarize the reader with the widely accepted fact of Constantinople’s foundation and then to refamiliarize us with how this might have become possible. Beginning from the oft-repeated dictum ‘ἐκεῖ τε ἡ Ῥώμη, ὅπου ποτ’ ἂν ὁ βασιλεὺς ᾖ’ (Rome is where the emperor is), he explores the mobility of the imperial train, which by the third and fourth centuries travelled with an army, fiscal and legal staff, treasury, and even mint from region to region with dizzying speed and frequency.20 Not only did this habituate the Roman world to a mobile imperial court, it also conduced to the construction of ‘imperial’ infrastructure all across the empire. This was especially true in the tetrarchic period, when cities from east to west took on the trappings of capitals: Trier, Milan, Sirmium, Serdica, Thessalonica, Nicomedia, and Antioch. Kaldellis also goes into some of the more adventurous candidates for a shift in the capital: Caligula’s and Mark Anthony’s reputed interest in moving the 20

Herodian, History after Marcus Aurelius i. 6. 5.

Noel Lenski

314

capital to Alexandria, the legendary call to relocate the city to Veii following the Gallic sack in 390 bce, and even Constantine’s alleged wish to move the capital to Troy. Ultimately Kaldellis succeeds in indicating that the notion of moving Rome or creating a ‘New Rome’ was not so bizarre after all when viewed from the deeper background of Roman history. Nor, one could argue, is it odd in a global historical context if one thinks of the shift of capital from Aššur to Kalhu in the Neo-Assyrian Empire, and from Chang’an to Luoyang between the Western and Eastern Han dynasties in early Imperial China, of Edo and Kyoto as shifting and competing capitals in Tokugawa Japan, or the shift of Caliphal capital from Damascus to Baghdad with the rise of the Abbasids. Indeed, what is unusual in Rome’s instance is not so much the geographical shift in capital cities as it is the strong gravitational pull of ‘Rome’ as a defining civic paradigm. To understand why it is that ‘Rome’ had such staying power, one would have to look beyond the catalogue of competing cities assembled by Kaldellis and towards the power of the cultural and legal forms associated with Rome, which had, in some sense, reproduced itself hundreds of times over in the form of colonies with fixed architectural forms (fora, curiae, capitolia) and recurring legal templates (charters, senates, viritane and municipal citizenship grants). In some sense, then, ‘Romania’ succeeded precisely because Rome had created social and legal structures designed to permit topological and ideological reproducibility. Shane Bjornlie’s ‘The Sack of Rome in 410: The Anatomy of a Late Antique Debate’ dovetails nicely with Kaldellis. He too uses historical memory theory, this time to arrive at a nuanced understanding of portrayals of the sack of Rome in 410. Rather than assuming that this event must be taken as emblematic of a larger pattern of decline and fall, Bjornlie explores the ways in which contemporaries approached it from a variety of angles and used it for ‘the manufacture of discrete historical truths’. This is clear already in our two earliest witnesses, Jerome, who famously lamented ‘in una Urbe totus orbis interiit’ (the whole world has perished with one city), and Augustine, whose entire City of God was written to ‘contextualize’ the event as epiphenomenal to salvation history.21 Bjornlie argues that Orosius’s ‘graphic novel version’ took a related tack by cataloguing every disaster Rome had experienced prior to 410 in order to downplay the gravity of current circumstances. Olympiodorus, who might have provided the perspective of a contemporary polytheist, is no longer preserved, and the narratives deriving from his account offer little more than a confusing mélange of attitudes and approaches. The fifth- and sixth-century Western chronicles situate the sack in longer narratives which assign only a minor role to 410. Indeed, most 21

Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem i. 3, ed. by Glorie, p. 3.

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

315

Western sources from the fifth century forwards say nothing of the sack or mention it only in passing. This contrasts sharply with Eastern sources. Chief among them is Zosimus, who attributes the sack to Rome’s failure to cultivate the traditional gods, and who portrays the event as tantamount to the fall of the western empire. His cataclysmic interpretation provoked responses from a variety of authors, including Evagrius and Marcellinus Comes, both of whom downplayed 410, the latter placing much more weight on the ‘Gothic’ takeover of Italy in 476, an event better suited to justify intervention in Italy by his patron Justinian. Procopius also underplayed 410 as a turning point, focusing instead on the sack as a comical exemplum of imperial incompetence. Beyond the mid-sixth century, the significance of the event fades in the eyes of historians, for whom its ideological impact became weaker with the passing of time. Ultimately, Bjornlie is surely right that portrayals of the sack are best viewed as a ‘mosaic of highly individualized human narratives’, each with its own perspective and agenda. We should not lose sight, however, of the reality that, despite Augustine’s efforts to tidy up the mess Alaric’s Goths had made, the impact felt very real in Italy and beyond in the early decades of the fourth century, and not just on an ideological level. Although the archaeology indicates little damage was done in Rome, there is more evidence for destruction in the Italian countryside and abundant textual attestations to the loss of chattel wealth, the threat of captivity, and the experience of personal injury by witnesses such as Melania, Paulinus of Nola, and Pelagius.22 Jonathan Arnold continues with the problem of memory studies in ‘Hagiography, Memory, and the Fall of Rome in Ostrogothic Italy’. Returning to themes from his monograph Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration,23 Arnold proceeds with the project of reclaiming the kingdom of Theoderic for the Roman imperial tradition. To do so, he focuses on two hagiographical texts, Ennodius’s Life of Epiphanius of Pavia and Eugippius’s Life of Severinus of Noricum. Following trends pioneered by Walter Goffart and Patrick Amory,24 Arnold carries the argument to new heights by downplaying conflict in favour of harmony between Romans and Ostrogoths. The argument works particularly well for Ennodius, who actively lobbied in favour of 22

On the archaeology, see Lipps, Machado, and von Rummel, The Sack of Rome in 410 ad. On Melania, see Vita Melaniae Iunioris Latina 19. 7, 34. 8–11 (Laurence, La Vie Latine de Sainte Mélanie, pp. 192, 214–16). On Paulinus, see Augustine, De civitate Dei i. 10; De cura pro mortuis gerenda 16. 19, ed) and the epigram at Lehmann, ‘Zu Alarichs Beutezug in Campanien’. On Pelagius, see Pelagius, Ep. ad Demetriadem 30. See also the digest of poetic sources on Gothic destruction in Gaul in Roberts, ‘Barbarians in Gaul’. 23 Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration. 24 Amory, People and Identity; Goffart, Barbarian Tides.

Noel Lenski

316

Theoderic, portraying him as a champion of the Roman population in Gaul against the (explicitly barbarized) Visigoths under King Euric. Arnold must work harder with Eugippius’s less sanguine text but manages to make the argument that we should not see the Life of Severinus as the response to a world of crisis but rather as a story in which certain barbarians, Feletheus/Feva and Odovacer in particular, are redeemable players in a story with a ‘happy ending’. Furthermore, neither vita remembers the year 476 as a watershed moment for the western empire; indeed, neither even assumes anything about the cessation of the Roman Empire whatsoever.25 Instead, while Gaul and Noricum have succumbed to barbarian rule, Italy can be justly portrayed as Roman imperial space under Theoderic. Boundaries and rulers may have changed, but Italy remained Roman and persisted in its imperial identity into the early sixth century. Interesting are the shifting valences of the words barbarus and barbari­ cum, which Arnold knows well to have been used only to blacken opponents, whether by East Romans, West Romans, or Ostrogoths. Ethnic discourses are certainly at play in this complex world, but they are subtle and finely layered, making Arnold’s approach of flattening them out of the picture easy to understand but sometimes less than satisfying. Memory is thus shown to be at the heart of the historical enterprise. Reconstructing the past is fundamentally a memory project, for the creation of history depends entirely on the work of selecting, curating, and conveying the memorable from an infinite seascape of signs. This evident truth becomes interesting, however, when the genealogy of memory can be reconstructed in such a way that its deeper codes are revealed. This is by all means what has happened throughout this volume and especially in the contributions by Kaldellis on the foundation of ‘New Rome’, Bjornlie on the sack of 410, and Arnold on the memorialization of Epiphanius of Pavia and Severinus of Noricum. Leadership and Community in Late Antiquity is a masterful tribute to a master historical craftsman. Van Dam has worked tirelessly to combat the persistent problems of teleology, positivism, and antiquarianism that stand in the way of more theoretically informed and sociologically useful modes of historiography. In their stead, he has championed contingency, modelling, and attention to contexts and agendas, and in so doing has extended the horizons of the profession. The small army of contributors assembled here to honour him has operated very much in the same spirit, both as his students and as his friends. The combined result of their efforts is certainly greater than the sum of its parts, for these essays operate together with sophistication and insight to advance our 25

On responses to the 476 moment, see Castellanos, En el final de Roma.

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

317

knowledge of a late antique world using questions, sources, and methods that Van Dam himself pioneered. In the end all are united by a common interest in how communities and leaders interact to define each other mutually inside complex webs of power. Those that have emerged into the light of historical memory have always been, like Van Dam, prudent enough to compass the spirit of their times, and spirited enough to seize their chance to influence the way history is made.

Works Cited Primary Sources Codex Theodosianus, in Theodosiani libri XVI cum Constitutionibus sirmondianis, ed. by Theodor Mommsen and Paul Martin Meyer (Berlin: Weidmann, 1905) Pseudo-Cyprian, De montibus Sina et Sion, in S. Thasci Caecili Cypriani Opera Omnia. Pars 3 Opera spuria. Indices. Praefatio, ed. by Wilhelm August Hartel, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, 3.3 (Vienna: C. Geroldi, 1868), pp. 104–19 Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors, trans. by Raymond Van Dam, Translated Texts for Historians, 3 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988) —— , Glory of the Martyrs, trans. by Raymond Van Dam, Translated Texts for Historians, 4 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988) Jerome, Commentariorum in Hiezechielem libri XIV, ed.  by François  Glorie, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 75 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1964) Libanius, Libanii opera, ed. by Richardus Foerster, 12 vols (1903–27; repr. Hildesheim: G. Olms, 1985–98) The Life of Saint Helia: Critical Edition, Translation, Introduction, and Commentary, ed. by Virginia Burrus and Marco Conti (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013)

Secondary Studies Amory, Patrick, People and Identity in Ostrogothic Italy, 489–554 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) Arnold, Jonathan J., Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2014) Castellanos, Santiago, En el final de Roma (ca. 455–480): La solución intellectual (Madrid: Marcial Pons, 2013) Drake, H. A., Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000)

318

Noel Lenski

Goffart, Walter, Barbarian Tides: The Migration Age and the Later Roman Empire (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2006) Kötter, Jans-Markus, Zwischen Kaisern und Aposteln: Das Akakianische Schisma kirchli­ cher Ordungnskonflikt der Spätantike (Stuttgart: Franz Steiner, 2013) Laurence, Patrick, La Vie Latine de Sainte Mélanie: Edition critique, traduction et commen­ taire, Studium Biblicum Franciscanum Collectio Minor, 41 ( Jerusalem: Franciscan Printing Press, 2002) Lehmann, Tomas, ‘Zu Alarichs Beutezug in Campanien: Ein neu entdecktes Gedicht des Paulinus Nolanus’, Römische Quartalschrift, 93 (1998), 181–99 Lenski, Noel, Constantine and the Cities: Imperial Authority and Civic Politics (Philadelphia: University Pennsylvania Press, 2016) —— , Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 34 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002) Liebeschuetz, J. H. W. G., The Decline and Fall of the Roman City (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001) Lipps, Johannes, Carlos Machado, and Philipp von Rummel, eds, The Sack of Rome in 410 ad: The Event, its Context and its Impact. Proceedings of the Conference Held at the German Archaeological Institute at Rome, 04–06 November 2010, Palilia, 28 (Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2013) McEvoy, Meaghan, ‘Shadow Emperors and the Choice of Rome (455–476 ad)’, Antiquité Tardive, 25 (2017), 95–112 Pomeranz, Jonathan A., ‘The Rabbinic and Roman Laws of Personal Injury’, Association for Jewish Studies Review, 39 (2015), 303–31 Rasch, Jürgen J., and Achim Arbeiter, Das Mausoleum der Constantina in Rom, Spätantike Zentralbauten in Rom und Latium, 4 (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2007) Roberts, Michael, ‘Barbarians in Gaul: The Response of the Poets’, in Fifth­Century Gaul: A Crisis of Identity?, ed. by John Drinkwater and Hugh Elton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 97–106 Shaw, Brent D., ‘The Family in Late Antiquity: The Experience of Augustine’, Past & Present, 115 (1987), 3–51 Slootjes, Daniëlle, The Governor and his Subjects in the Later Roman Empire, Mnemosyne Supplements, 275 (Leiden: Brill, 2017) Van Dam, Raymond, Becoming Christian: The Conversion of Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003) —— , Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003) —— , Kingdom of Snow: Roman Rule and Greek Culture in Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002) —— , Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 8 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985) —— , Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011) —— , The Roman Revolution of Constantine (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007)

leadership and community in late antiquity — reviewed

319

—— , Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2010) —— , Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993) Wet, Chris L., de, Preaching Bondage: John Chrysostom and the Discourse of Slavery in Early Christianity (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2015) Wiemer, Hans-Ulrich, Theoderich der Grosse: König der Goten Herscher der Römer (Munich: C. H. Beck, 2018) Witschel, Christian, Krise, Rezession, Stagnation? Der Westen des römischen Reiches im 3. Jahrhundert n. Chr (Frankfurt: Marthe Clauss, 1999)

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam Books Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul, Transformation of the Classical Heritage, 8 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985) trans., Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Confessors, Translated Texts for Historians, 3 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988) trans., Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, Translated Texts for Historians, 4 (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988) Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993) Kingdom of Snow: Roman Rule and Greek Culture in Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002) Families and Friends in Late Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003) Becoming Christian: The Conversion of Roman Cappadocia (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003) The Roman Revolution of Constantine (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2007) Rome and Constantinople: Rewriting Roman History during Late Antiquity (Waco: Baylor University Press, 2010) Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011)

Articles and Chapters ‘Hagiography and History: The Life of Gregory Thaumaturgus’, Classical Antiquity, 1.2 (1982), 272–308 ‘From Paganism to Christianity at Late Antique Gaza’, Viator, 16 (1985), 1–20 ‘Emperor, Bishops, and Friends in Late Antique Cappadocia’, Journal of Theological Studies, 37 (1986), 53–76 ‘Paulinus of Périgueux and Perpetuus of Tours’, Francia, 14 (1986), 567–73 ‘“Sheep in Wolves’ Clothing”: The Letters of Consentius to Augustine’, Journal of Eccle­ siastical History, 37 (1986), 515–35

322

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

‘Images of Saint Martin in Late Roman and Early Merovingian Gaul’, Viator, 19 (1988), 1–27 ‘The Pirenne Thesis and Fifth-Century Gaul’, in Fifth­Century Gaul: A Crisis of Identity?, ed. by John Drinkwater and Hugh Elton (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), pp. 321–33 ‘Self-Representation in the Will of Gregory of Nazianzus’, Journal of Theological Studies, 46 (1995), 118–48 ‘Governors of Cappadocia during the Fourth Century’, Medieval Prosopography, 17 (1996), 7–93 ‘The Many Conversions of the Emperor Constantine’, in Conversion in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages: Seeing and Believing, ed. by Kenneth Mills and Anthony Grafton (Rochester, NY: University of Rochester Press, 2003), pp. 127–51 ‘The Disruptive  Impact of Christianity in Late Roman Cappadocia’, in The Making of Christian Communities in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, ed. by Mark F. Williams (London: Anthem Press, 2005), pp. 7–25, 153–55 ‘Merovingian Gaul and the Frankish Conquests’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. i, c. 500–c. 700, ed. by Paul Fouracre (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 193–231 ‘Bishops and Society’, in Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. ii, ed. by Augustine Casiday and Frederick Norris (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 343–66 ‘The East (1): Greece and Asia Minor’, in The Oxford Handbook of Early Christian Studies, ed. by Susan Ashbrook Harvey and David Hunter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), pp. 324–43 ‘Imagining an Eastern Roman Empire: A Riot at Antioch in 387 c.e.’, in The Sculptural Environment of the Roman Near East: Reflections on Culture, Ideology, and Power, ed. by Yaron Eliav, Elise A. Friedland, and Sharon Herbert, Interdisciplinary Studies in Ancient Culture and Religion, 9 (Leuven: Peeters, 2008), pp. 451–81 ‘Bishops and Clerics during the Fourth Century: Numbers and their Implications’, in Episcopal Elections in Late Antiquity, ed. by Johan Leemans and others (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011), pp. 217–42 ‘Converting Constantine’, Groniek: Historisch Tijdschrift, 191 (2012), 19–32 ‘Two Emperors at the Milvian Bridge’, Bulletin of the Association of Roman Archaeology, 22 (2013/14), 8–10 ‘“Constantine’s Beautiful City”: The Symbolic Value of Constantinople’, Antiquité Tardive, 22 (2014), 83–94 ‘Big Cities and the Dynamics of the Mediterranean during the Fifth Century’, in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Attila, ed. by Michael Maas (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), pp. 80–97 ‘Imagining Constantine, Then and Now’, in The Life and Legacy of Constantine: Traditions through the Ages, ed. by M. Shane Bjornlie (New York: Routledge, 2017), pp. 6–25 ‘The Sources for our Sources: Eusebius and Lactantius on Constantine in 312–13’, in Con­ stantine: Religious Faith and Imperial Policy, ed. by A. Edward Siecienski (Abingdon: Routledge, 2017), pp. 59–74 ‘Constantine’s First Visit to Rome with Diocletian’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 11 (2018), 6–41

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

323

‘Eastern Aristocracies and Imperial Courts: Constantine’s Half-Brother, Licinius’s Prefect, and Egyptian Grain’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 72 (2018), 1–24 ‘Inscriptions’, in A Companion to Late Antique Literature, ed. by Scott McGill and Edward J. Watts, Blackwell Companions to the Ancient World (New York: Wiley, 2018), pp. 505–21 ‘A Lost Panegyric: The Source of Eusebius of Caesarea’s Description of Constantine’s Victory and Arrival at Rome in 312’, Journal of Early Christian Studies, 27 (2019), 211–40

Dictionary and Encyclopaedia Entries ‘Bagaudae’, ‘Banditry’, ‘Cappadocia’, ‘Denis’, ‘Fortunatus’, ‘Gaza’, ‘Gregory of Tours’, ‘Martin of Tours’, ‘Paulinus of Nola’, ‘Relics’, ‘Sanctity’, ‘Sulpicius Severus’, in Late Antiquity: A Guide to the Postclassical World, ed. by Glen W. Bowersock, Peter Brown, and Oleg Grabar (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1999), pp. 328–29, 330, 362– 63, 407–08, 457, 463, 477–78, 566–67, 638–39, 667–68, 678–80, 707 ‘Constantine’, in The Oxford Encyclopedia of Ancient Greece and Rome, vol.  ii, ed.  by Michael Gagarin and Elaine Fantham (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), pp. 283–89 ‘Agrippinus’, ‘Amiens’, ‘Anthimus’, ‘Arbogast’, ‘Arians and Homoeans in the West’, ‘Arnulf of Metz’, ‘Auspicius’, ‘Avitus of Clermont’, ‘Brunhild’, ‘Buccelin (Butilin)’, ‘Caretena’, ‘Childeric  III’, ‘Chilperic  I’, ‘Chilperic  II’, ‘Chlodomer’, ‘Chlothar  I’, ‘Dardanus’, ‘Desiderius of Cahors’, ‘Gallus’, ‘Gaul’, ‘Godomar’, ‘Gundobad’, ‘Guntram Boso’, ‘Hermenefred’, ‘Jovinus’, ‘Julian of Brioude, S.’, ‘Lupus of Troyes’, ‘Mamertus’,’ ‘Orléans’, ‘Radulf ’, ‘Ragnachar’, ‘Rauching’, ‘Sigibert I’, ‘Sigibert the Lame’, ‘Sulpicius Alexander’, ‘Theudebert  I’, ‘Vézeronce, Battle of ’, ‘Vouillé, Battle of ’, ‘Wulfoald’, ‘Wulfolaic (Vulfilaic; S. Wolfroy)’, in The Oxford Dictionary of Late Antiquity, ed. by Oliver Nicholson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018) pp.  36, 61, 82, 119, 126–27, 147, 183, 189, 269–70, 291, 321, 323, 327, 457, 476, 640, 642–46, 670, 694–95, 713, 837, 841, 926, 949, 1109, 1266–67, 1269, 1382, 1425–26, 1493–94, 1558, 1575, 1597

Review Essays Journal of World History, 26 (2015), 910–18: review of Averil Cameron, Byzantine Matters; Judith Herrin, Margins and Metropolis: Authority across the Byzantine Empire; Anthony Kaldellis, The Byzantine Republic: People and Power in New Rome; Anthony Kaldellis, Ethnography after Antiquity: Foreign Lands and Peoples in Byzantine Literature; and Timothy Power, The Red Sea from Byzantium to the Caliphate AD 500–1000 ‘Rome and Barbarian Imperialism in a.d. 410’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 29 (2016), 959–65: review of Johannes Lipps, Carlos Machado, Philipp von Rummel, eds, The Sack of Rome in 410 ad: The Event, its Context and its Impact

324

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

‘Philosophy and Theology in the Age of Constantine’, Journal of Roman Archaeology, 30 (2017), 894–97: review of Mark Edwards, Religions of the Constantinian Empire

Book Reviews of Henry Chadwick, Priscillian of Avila, in Journal of Roman Studies, 68 (1978), 199–201 of E. A. Thompson, Romans and Barbarians: The Decline of the Western Empire, in Journal of Library History, 21 (1986), 608–10 of Edith Wightman, Gallia Belgica, in American Historical Review, 91 (1986), 894–95 of Benoît Gain, L’Église de Cappadoce au ive siècle d’après la correspondance de Basile de Césarée (330–379), in Journal of Theological Studies, 38 (1987), 206–08 of Joan  M. Petersen, The Dialogues of Gregory the Great in their Late Antique Cultural Background, in American Historical Review, 92 (1987), 110–11 of Michael McCormick, Eternal  Victory: Triumphal Rulership in Late Antiquity, Byzantium and the Early Medieval West, in American Historical Review, 93 (1988), 1028–29 of Michel Aubrun, La Paroisse en France des origines au xve siècle, in Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 40 (1989), 117–18 of Alois Kurmann, Gregor von Nazianz, Oratio 4, Gegen Julian: Ein Kommentar, in Journal of Theological Studies, 40 (1989), 618–20 of Giselle de Nie, Views from a Many­Windowed Tower: Studies of Imagination in the Works of Gregory of Tours, in Speculum, 65 (1990), 392–94 of John F. Drinkwater, The Gallic Empire, in Gnomon, 62 (1990), 616–19 of Ralph  W. Mathisen, Ecclesiastical Factionalism and Religious Controversy in Fifth­ Century Gaul, in Patristics, 18.2 (1990), 7–8 of Carl  P.  E. Springer, The Gospel as Epic in Late Antiquity: The Paschale Carmen of Sedulius, in Patristics, 19.1 (1990), 9 of J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, Barbarians and Bishops: Army, Church, and State in the Age of Arcadius and Chrysostom, in Journal of Theological Studies, 42 (1991), 346–48 of Aline Rousselle, Croire et guérir: La Foi en Gaule dans l’Antiquité tardive, in American Historical Review, 96 (1991), 1178–79 of Alberto Ferreiro, The Visigoths in Gaul and Spain, a.d. 418–711: A Bibliography, in Patristics, 20.2 (1992), 9 of David Rollason, Saints and Relics in Anglo­Saxon England, in Comparative Studies in Society and History, 34 (1992), 193–94 of R. P. H. Green, The Works of Ausonius, in Journal of Early Christian Studies, 1 (1993), 321–22 of Stephen Mitchell, Anatolia: Land, Men, and Gods in Asia Minor, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 5.7 (1994), 601–05 [online] of François Heim, La Théologie de la victoire de Constantin à Théodose, in Journal of Early Christian Studies, 3 (1995), 87–89 of R. W. Mathisen, Roman Aristocrats in Barbarian Gaul: Strategies for Survival in an Age of Transition, in Journal of Interdisciplinary History, 26 (1995), 276–78

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

325

of Ronald Syme, Anatolica: Studies in Strabo, ed.  by Anthony Birley, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 6.8 (1995), 727–30 [online] of Richard W. Burgess, The ‘Chronicle’ of Hydatius and the ‘Consularia Constantinopolitana’, in Journal of Early Christian Studies, 4 (1996), 379–80 of Ronald E. Heine, Gregory of Nyssa’s Treatise on the Inscriptions of the Psalms, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 7.7 (1996), 599–601 [online] of Serge Lancel, Carthage: A History, in Historian, 58 (1996), 630–31 of Isabelle Morand, Idéologie, culture et spiritualité chez les propriétaires ruraux de l’Hispanie romaine, in Journal of Roman Studies, 86 (1996), 226–27 of Philip Rousseau, Basil of Caesarea, in Journal of Theological Studies, 47 (1996), 688–91 of Hagith Sivan, Ausonius of Bordeaux: Genesis of a Gallic Aristocracy, in Speculum, 71 (1996), 214–16 of Peter Brown, The Rise of Western Christendom: Triumph and Diversity, ad 200–1000, in Journal of Theological Studies, 48 (1997), 667–71 of Thomas  S. Burns, Barbarians within the Gates of Rome: A  Study of Roman Military Policy and the Barbarians, ca. 375–425 a.d., in Speculum, 72 (1997), 444–46 of C.  E.  V. Nixon and Barbara  S. Rodgers, In Praise of Later Roman Emperors: The ‘Panegyrici Latini’. Introduction, Translation, and Historical Commentary, in Journal of Early Christian Studies, 5 (1997), 312–13 of Simon Corcoran, The Empire of the Tetrarchs: Imperial Pronouncements and Govern­ ment, a.d. 284–324, in American Historical Review, 103 (1998), 860 of C. Moreschini, ed., and D. A. Sykes, trans., St Gregory of Nazianzus, Poemata Arcana, in Journal of Theological Studies, 49 (1998), 386–88 of Carolinne White, trans., Gregory of Nazianzus, Autobiographical Poems, in The Medieval Review, 1998.05.09 [online] of John Kitchen, Saints’ Lives and the Rhetoric of Gender: Male and Female in Merovingian Hagiography, in Catholic Historical Review, 85 (1999), 597–98 of Ramsay MacMullen, Christianity and Paganism in the Fourth to Eighth Centuries, in Journal of Theological Studies, 50 (1999), 327–30 of Robert A. Markus, Gregory the Great and his World, in Journal of Theological Studies, 50 (1999), 788–90 of H. A. Drake, Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance, in The Medieval Review, 2000.10.03 [online] of Richard C. Beacham, Spectacle Entertainments of Early Imperial Rome, in Historian, 63 (2001), 861–62 of Jill Harries, Law and Empire in Late Antiquity, in American Historical Review, 106 (2001), 238–39 of Isabel Moreira, Dreams, Visions, and Spiritual Authority in Merovingian Gaul, in Catholic Historical Review, 87 (2001), 723–24 of Tomas Hägg and Philip Rousseau, eds, Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity, in Catholic Historical Review, 88 (2002), 562–63 of Susan R. Holman, The Hungry are Dying: Beggars and Bishops in Roman Cappadocia, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2002.03.27 [online]

326

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

of Conrad Leyser, Authority and Asceticism from Augustine to Gregory the Great, in Journal of Theological Studies, 53 (2002), 351–54 of J. H. W. G. Liebeschuetz, The Decline and Fall of the Roman City, in Church History, 71 (2002), 873–75 of Ralph W. Mathisen and Danuta Shanzer, eds, Society and Culture in Late Antique Gaul: Revisiting the Sources, in The Medieval Review, 2002.06.07 [online] of Alexander Callander Murray, ed. and trans., From Roman to Merovingian Gaul: A Reader, in Speculum, 77 (2002), 610–11 of Brigitte Beaujard, Le Culte des saints en Gaule: Le Premiers Temps. D’Hilaire de Poitiers à la fin du vie siècle, in Classical Review, 53 (2003), 185–86 of Daniel Caner, Wandering, Begging Monks: Spiritual Authority and the Promotion of Monasticism in Late Antiquity, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2003.02.09 [online] of Noel Lenski, Failure of Empire: Valens and the Roman State in the Fourth Century a.d., in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2003.07.44 [online] of Ralf Urban, Gallia Rebellis: Erhebungen in Gallien im Spiegel antiker Zeugnisse, in Gnomon, 75 (2003), 276–78 of Bonnie Effros, Creating Community with Food and Drink in Merovingian Gaul, in Medieval Review, 2004.02.11 [online] of Kathleen Mitchell and Ian Wood, eds, The World of Gregory of Tours, in Speculum, 79 (2004) 804–05 of Jean-Françoise Racine, The Text of Matthew in the Writings of Basil of Caesarea, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, 124 (2004), 834–35 of Marc Reydellet, Venance Fortunat, Poèmes, Livres  IX–XI, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2004.10.28 [online] of Denis Feissel and Jean Gascou, eds, La Pétition à Byzance, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2006.3.15 [online] of Sabine Hübner, Der Klerus in der Gesellschaft des spätantiken Kleinasiens, in Sehepunkte, 6.9 (2006) [online] of Sophie Métivier, La Cappadoce (ive–vie siècle): Une histoire provinciale de l’Empire romain d’Orient, in Byzantinische Zeitschrift, 100 (2007), 236–41 of Stephen Mitchell, A History of the Later Roman Empire, ad 284–641, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2007.6.13 [online] of Meinolf  Vielberg, Der Mönchsbischof von Tours im ‘Martinellus, in Sehepunkte, 7.11 (2007) [online] of Philip  R. Amidon, trans., Philostorgius, Church History, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, 128 (2008), 594–95 of Jaclyn  L. Maxwell, Christianization and Communication in Late Antiquity: John Chrysostom and his Congregation in Antioch, in Journal of Early Christian Studies, 16 (2008), 267–68 of Anna M. Silvas, Gregory of Nyssa: The Letters. Introduction, Translation and Commentary, in Catholic Historical Review, 94 (2008), 770–71 of John Drinkwater and Benet Salway, eds, Wolf Liebeschuetz Reflected, in Classical Review, 59 (2009), 226–27

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

327

of Ramsay MacMullen, The Second Church: Popular Christianity, a.d. 200–400, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, 129 (2009), 690–92 of Peter  F. Bang, The Roman Bazaar: A  Comparative Study of Trade and Markets in a Tributary Empire, in Comparative Studies in Society and History, 52 (2010), 486–87 of Brian E. Daley, Gregory of Nazianzus, in Ancient History Bulletin 24 (2010), 190–92 of John M. Dillon and Wolfgang Polleichtner, trans., Iamblichus of Chalcis: The Letters, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, 130 (2010), 681–82 of Thomas F. X. Noble and Julia M. H. Smith, eds, The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol.  iii, Early Medieval Christianities, c.  600–c.  1100, in The Medieval Review, 2010.06.05 [online] of John Freely and Ahmet S. Çakmak, Byzantine Monuments of Istanbul, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2011.02.16 [online] of Allen E. Jones, Social Mobility in Late Antique Gaul: Strategies and Opportunities for the Non­Elite, in New England Classical Journal, 38 (2011), 79–81 of Hannah M. Cotten and others, eds, From Hellenism to Islam: Cultural and Linguistic Change in the Roman Near East, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, 132 (2012), 139–40 of Lucy Grig and Gavin Kelly, eds, Two Romes: Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2012.11.57 [online] of Marco Conti, ed. and trans., Priscillian of Avila: The Complete Works, in Zeitschrift für Antikes Christentum, 17 (2013), 372–74 of Elizabeth  D. Digeser, A Threat to Public Piety: Christians, Platonists, and the Great Persecution, in Journal of Late Antiquity, 6 (2013), 378–79 of David L. Eastman, Paul the Martyr: The Cult of the Apostle in the Latin West, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, 133 (2013), 553–54 of Klaus M. Girardet, Der Kaiser und sein Gott: Das Christentum im Denken und in der Religionspolitik Konstantins des Grossen, in Gnomon, 85 (2013), 233–37 of Cam Grey, Constructing Communities in the Late Roman Countryside, in American Historical Review, 118 (2013), 232–33 of Sabine R. Hübner and David M. Ratzan, eds, Growing Up Fatherless in Antiquity, in Ancient History Bulletin, Online Reviews, 3 (2013), 22–24 of Peter Sarris, Empires of Faith: The Fall of Rome to the Rise of Islam, 500–700, in The Medieval Review, 2013.03.10 [online] of John  S. Ott and Trpimir  Vedriš, eds, Saintly Bishops and Bishops’ Saints, in Catholic Historical Review, 100 (2014), 111–12 of Olivier Hekster, Emperors and Ancestors: Roman Rulers and the Constraints of Tradition, in Classical World, 109 (2016), 562–64 of Noel Lenski, Constantine and the Cities, in Phoenix, 70 (2016), 423–26 of Andrew Monson and Walter Scheidel, eds, Fiscal Regimes and the Political Economy of Premodern States, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2016.04.37 [online] of Edward J. Watts, The Final Pagan Generation, in Church History, 85 (2016), 818–20 of Fritz Graf, Roman Festivals in the Greek East from the Early Empire to the Middle Byzantine Era, in Classical World, 110 (2017), 577–79

328

Select Curriculum Vitae, Raymond Van Dam

of Anna Lampadaridi, La Conversion de Gaza au christianisme: La Vie de S. Porphyre, in Catholic Historical Review, 103 (2017), 333–34 of Philip Wood, ed., History and Identity in the Late Antique Near East, in Journal of the American Oriental Society, 137 (2017), 173–74 of Philip Burton, Sulpicius Severus’ ‘Vita Martini’, in Bryn Mawr Classical Review, 2018.5.29 [online] of H. A. Drake, A Century of Miracles: Pagans, Jews, and the Supernatural, 312–410, in Church History, 87 (2018), 521–23 of Cameron Hawkins, Roman Artisans and the Urban Economy, in Classical World, 111 (2018) 285–86 of Jamie Kreiner and Helmut Reimitz, eds, Motions of Late Antiquity: Essays on Religion, Politics, and Society in Honour of Peter Brown, in Speculum, 93 (2018), 1221–22

Index

aesthetics: 116 n. 3, 118, 119, 122, 130 n. 74, 132, 192 n. 6 Africa, North: 40, 63–85, 228, 229, 235, 257, 267, 268, 306, 307 agoras: 122–24, 126, 128–29, 132–33, see also forums agriculture: 69, 70, 85, 306, 307 n. 7 farmers: 65–66, 73, 100, 104–05, 307 see also rural Alaric: 251 n. 4, 255–74, 315 Alexandria: 20, 27, 39, 40, 42, 197, 202, 228, 236–37, 238, 304, 312, 314 Ambrose, St., of Milan: 78 n. 52, 143, 150 n. 33, 284 Ammianus Marcellinus: 183–85, 224, 235, 263 n. 69 amphitheatres see buildings Anatolia: 38, 39 n. 135, 304 Asia, Roman province of: 39, 115, 121, 126, 129, 130 Asia Minor: 115–34, 243, 306, 308 Antioch: 1, 7, 10, 19, 91–110, 127–28, 226, 306, 307, 309, 313 Aphrodisias: 1, 121–24, 128–30, 309 apostles: 18, 19–20, 30, 77 n. 48, 82, 92, 104, 106–07, 109, 133–34, 141, 143 n. 13, 153 n. 40, 159, 179, 196, 221, 304, 310 apostolic succession: 18, 42, 179 see also Paul, apostle and Peter, apostle architecture: 116–17, 121, 126, 130 n. 77, 160, 174, 189 n. 2, 191–92, 201, 208,

209, 214, 312, 314 see also buildings Arles: 54, 235 asceticism: 40, 51, 93, 105–07, 109–10, 171, 282, 284 ascetics: 19, 47, 52, 91, 109, 289 see also monasticism and virgins Asia see Anatolia Athens: 92, 130 n. 78, 264 Attila the Hun: 261, 266, 290 Augustine, St., of Hippo: 67, 69, 71, 72, 77 n. 49, 78, 81–85, 145 n. 19, 252–58, 261, 264, 282, 284, 306–07, 314–15 authority: 6, 7–8, 9–10, 31, 35, 37, 38, 41, 47–48, 50–51, 53–60, 63, 68, 70, 85, 93, 95, 115, 117, 125, 131, 134, 142, 151, 153, 160, 178, 191, 201, 204, 206, 209, 211, 231, 251, 266–67, 287, 305–06 authorities: 34 n. 106, 54–55, 60, 91, 93, 117, 213, 265, 309 baptism: 24, 29–31, 36, 40 n. 138, 134, 142, 171–73, 179 baptistery: 49–50, 142, 151–52, 167–68 n. 7 catechumens: 15, 19, 27, 29, 304 barbarians: 200, 226, 228, 249–50, 253, 255–56, 259, 263, 268, 270–71, 273 n. 122, 281–83, 285–87, 290–98, 316 Bede: 155 n. 49, 272–73 Bible: 17, 180 biblical: 18, 69–70, 76–77, 80, 84–85, 101 n. 42, 202, 273, 296

330

Scripture: 17–18, 20, 24, 26 n. 56, 33, 35–36, 66 n. 10, 77, 85, 107, 108, 168 n. 9, 179 scriptural: 35, 64, 70 n. 24, 78, 80, 147 n. 23, 154, 181 Testament, New: 17 n. 12, 18, 20, 64, 66 n. 10, 67, 85, 157, 178 Testament, Old: 64, 66 n. 10, 84, 85, 178 bishops: 1, 3, 4 n. 8, 7–8, 10, 15–42, 47, 48, 49, 50–51, 53–59, 63–64, 67–73, 81–85, 91, 93, 116, 131–34, 142, 143, 145 n. 19 and 20, 147, 149, 150, 151, 152, 154, 156, 157, 159, 160, 168 n. 7, 189, 199, 200, 202, 203–04, 206, 208, 212, 253 n. 16, 260, 262, 264, 282, 284, 304, 305, 306, 307, 310, 313 bishoprics: 85, 209 episcopacy/episcopate: 24, 93, 145, 261 episcopal: 8–9, 16, 30, 38, 39, 48, 49, 50, 54, 56, 59, 60, 141, 151, 154, 262, 304, 306, 310, 310 n. 15, 311 episcopus/episkopos: 18 n. 19, 22–23, 27–28, 36, 37 n. 125, 38, 54, 57, 68, 72 n. 36, 82–83, 85, 168 n. 7, 253 n. 16 of Rome see pope see also buildings: bishop’s residence Bithynia: 118, 235 Britain: 259, 272 England: 182 buildings amphitheatres: 49, 194, 210 n. 83 aqueducts: 116, 125, 132, 194, 208 n. 75, 210 n. 83 baptistery see baptism basilicas religious: 50, 56, 60, 141, 142–43, 144–45, 148, 149–50, 150–52, 154, 159, 160, 167–68, 172, 174–77, 179, 184, 190–99, 202, 204–07, 212–14, 312 secular: 124 n. 52, 129, 235, 309 baths: 49, 116, 123, 124, 125, 126,152 fig. 7.3, 191, 194, 242 bishop’s residences/palaces: 49, 132–33 n. 87, 151, 310, see also buildings: episcopium bridges: 132, 194 churches (building): 8, 50, 56, 60, 132–33, 142, 144–50, 160, 168,

Index 174–77, 189–214, 244, 253, 259, 270, 310, 312 episcopium: 151, 152, 153 n. 38, 159, 310 hippodromes: 197, 222, 235, 242 monuments: 5, 9, 49, 79, 115, 116, 117, 119, 120 n. 21, 121, 122, 124–25, 127, 129–31, 133–34, 142–43, 146–47, 148, 150–51, 168, 174–75, 177, 184, 194, 196, 200–01, 224, 235 n. 41, 244, 312 palaces: 98, 132–33 n. 87, 149, 153, 172, 173, 181, 210 n. 83, 222, 229, 234, 235, 272, 310, 311 roofs: 8, 71 n. 28, 75 n. 46, 79, 80, 143, 189–214, 312 walls, city: 49–50, 116, 129–30, 144, 149, 194, 210 n. 83, 243 see also agoras, construction, and forums Byzantium/Byzantion (city): 7, 9, 208, 224, 235, 242, 243, 313, see also Constantinople Byzantine Empire see Rome Caesarius, St., of Arles: 50, 58, 69, 84 Calabria: 197, 198, 199 n. 39, 202, 206, 207, 212 n. 93, 214 capitals imperial: 9, 16, 193, 221–44, 259, 310, 311, 313–14 provincial/regional: 49, 115–34, 308 see also Rome and Constantinople Cappadocia: 4, 302, 306 Cappadocian Fathers: 4, 92 n. 4 Basil of Caesarea: 4 Gregory of Nazianzus: 4, 18 n. 15 Gregory of Nyssa: 4 Caria: 121–23, 129–30 Carthage: 64, 71 n. 31, 74–75, 82, 145 n. 19, 228–30, 234, 235, 236 Cassiodorus: 201, 261, 270–71, 298 charity: 9 n. 22, 16, 33, 38, 109, 304, see also euergetism Charlemagne: 3, 196 n. 23–24, 198, 207, 211–12, 312 church (community): 7, 8, 16, 21–24, 27, 29, 30, 34, 36–37, 39–40, 59, 68, 70, 81, 82, 84–85, 142, 146–48, 158, 171–72, 179, 200, 211, 270–71, 272, 304, 310–11

Index churchmen see clergy cities: 1, 4, 6, 7, 8, 9–10, 15–17, 38–40, 42, 47, 48–60, 67, 70, 78, 92–94, 96, 108, 116 n. 3, 117–34, 141–43, 149, 150–51, 159–60, 167, 178, 182, 184, 189–214, 221–44, 249, 253–54, 256–58, 260, 263, 267, 268–69, 271, 281–83, 287, 291, 297 n. 88, 304, 305, 306, 308, 309, 310–11, 312, 313–14 cityscape: 117, 126, 132, 174 civitas: 16, 120, 252–53, 255 polis: 117–31, 309 metropolis: 190, 225 cosmopolis: 224 towns: 16, 32, 42, 49, 51, 67, 70 n. 22, 124 n. 48, 145, 225, 228, 290–94, 296, 304 see also urban class, socio-economic: 95, 101, 103–04, 109 curial: 120, 126, 132 n. 81, 134 educated: 249 leadership: 312 lower: 94, 96, 99–100, 100, 102, 108, 109–10, 307 poor: 57, 91, 94–95, 99, 100–04, 108, 110 n. 70, 132, 308 upper: 91–92, 95, 99, 104, 108, 109, 308 see also elite classical: 6, 9, 16, 38, 91, 104, 109, 116 n. 3, 117, 125, 126–27, 132–33, 174, 177, 191 n. 5, 194, 198, 221, 224, 254, 255, 263, 281–82, 222 classicizing: 117, 127, 129, 184, 201 postclassical: 10, 189–91, 194–96, 198, 203–04, 213–14 clergy: 15, 27–28, 31, 36–37, 40 n. 137, 48, 54, 58, 260, 304 clergymen: 22 churchmen: 64 clerics: 1, 15–42, 54, 56, 204–05, 304 deacons: 16, 23, 27–31, 32–34, 36, 38, 260, 282, 304 archdeacons: 144 deaconesses: 33, 36, 38 subdeacons: 28, 31, 202 presbyters: 15, 18 n. 19, 21–23, 26–33, 36–38, 39–40, 85, 304 priests: 7, 24, 30, 32, 33, 69, 85, 92–93, 144, 206, 291

331

see also bishops and popes community: 2–4, 5–6, 7–10, 16, 21, 27, 38, 39–41, 47–48, 50–53, 55, 57–60, 64, 67, 69, 81, 95, 100 n. 33, 127, 159, 196, 211, 224, 241, 250, 252–53, 254, 284, 298, 301, 303, 304–06, 308–09, 313, 317 congregations: 16, 24, 26, 27, 30, 31, 34 n. 103, 38–40, 42, 55, 57, 69–70, 82, 100–02, 182, 308 flocks: 55, 69, 84, 159, 262, 287, 292, 294, 296, 297–98 Constantina, St.: 9, 10, 165–85, 311–12 Constantine: 4–5, 6, 7, 9, 120, 124 n. 48, 141 n. 2, 148, 165, 166, 167 n. 7, 168–69, 172, 173, 175, 178, 185, 192, 204, 221–25, 227, 231, 233, 235, 241–42, 243, 244, 264, 265, 267, 302, 304, 309, 311, 313–14 building projects of: 141–42, 148, 150, 167–68 n. 7, 189–90 n. 2, 196 n. 22, 199 n. 40, 204, 222–24, 309 conversion of: 5, 165–66, 264 founded Constantinople: 4, 7, 221–25, 227, 235–36, 242, 243, 313–14 Constantinople: 1, 4, 9, 47, 53, 92–93, 117, 119, 120, 133, 134, 197, 209, 210, 212, 221–44, 262, 263, 265, 266, 267, 283, 310–11, 313 “New Rome”/“Second Rome”: 5, 7, 221–44, 313, 316 see also Byzantium/Byzantion (city) Constans: 124 n. 49, 172, 209 Constans II: 209–10 Constantius II: 97, 120, 124 n. 49, 172, 209, 240 construction (physical): 5, 6, 66, 70, 72, 73, 76–78, 94, 116, 117, 118–20, 128,129, 131, 132, 134, 142, 144–45, 152, 159, 167, 174–75, 189 n. 2, 192, 193, 201, 203, 204, 206, 207, 224, 308–09, 312, 313 reconstruction: 117, 122–23, 128, 151, 177, 214 n. 101, 309, see also restoration see also buildings conversion: 20 n. 35, 28, 133, 159, 166, 171, 173, 180 n. 49, see also Constantine: conversion of

332

Index

councils, church: 20, 24, 27, 124 n. 50, 133, 206, 209–10 synods: 39 courts imperial: 92, 118, 144, 150, 151, 196 n. 24, 222, 225, 227, 233, 250, 265, 269, 313 legal: 80, 94, 98–99, 237

ethnicity: 243, 250, 251, 259, 274, 316 Eucharist: 24, 29, 30–31, 36 euergetism: 7, 9 n. 22, 118, 132 Eugippius: 281–98, 315–16 Eusebius of Caesarea: 18 n. 14, 19 n. 24 and 28, 21, 39, 40, 133, 258–59, 262, 265 exegesis: 16, 18, 32, 64, 67, 85, 148 n. 24, 149, 154, 182, 304

Damasus, pope: 142–43, 148–49, 192–93 n. 10, 310 decline: 9, 10, 17 n. 5, 116 n. 3, 132 n. 82, 250, 274, 284, 290, 292, 298, 309, 314 Didascalia apostolorum: 16–20, 32–42, 304 Diocletian: 227, 231 reforms of: 117, 120, 235 and the Tetrarchy: 231–33 diplomacy: 198, 210, 239, 267, 271 diplomat: 282, 286 disciples: 22, 24, 77, 143, 159, 179, 282, 305

flocks see congregations forgiveness: 16, 34–35, 37, 304 forums: 117, 122, 124 n. 48, 191, 194, 206, 208 n. 75, 210 n. 83, 222, 241–42, 309, 314, see also agoras Franks: 272 Merovingian: 49, 50 Carolingian: 214 n. 100 funerary: 52, 54, 79, 130 n. 78, 141 n. 2, 177, 287

economy: 16, 85, 192, 197–98, 207, 213, 250, 304, 308, 312 education (paideia): 4, 6, 91–93, 95–97, 99–100, 103–08, 109–10, 126, 130, 134, 298, 307 Egypt: 17 n. 10, 40, 80, 197, 202, 228, 237, 242, 296–97 elites: 1–2, 5, 6, 7, 10, 38–39, 41, 91, 95, 97, 100, 102–03, 105, 109–10, 116–17, 125, 127, 129, 131–34, 182, 183, 214 n. 100, 308, see also class and notables, local emperors: 4, 6, 7, 34 n. 106, 40, 97, 116–21, 122 n. 38, 124–25, 131, 134, 165–66, 168, 172, 176 n. 39, 183, 194, 197, 200–01, 208–13, 222, 225, 226–36, 240–41, 243, 257, 258, 261, 263, 264–65 267, 269, 272, 273, 285, 286, 288–89, 290, 295, 302, 305, 311, 312, 313 empresses: 150, 174–75, 180–82, 184–85, 311 imperial couple: 47 England see Britain Ennodius: 281–98, 315 Ephesus: 1, 24, 115, 121–24, 128–31, 133, 309 epigraphy see inscription epistolography see letter

Galla Placidia: 143, 144, 150–52, 154 n. 43, 263, 265–66, 269, 271–72 Gaul: 3, 48–49, 53, 182–83, 229, 230, 235, 243, 259, 260, 269, 271–72, 273, 283, 285, 286, 290, 298, 302, 306, 312, 315 n. 22, 316 Gauls: 238–39, 243 Gallic: 182–83, 230, 235, 259, 262, 271, 272, 274, 285 n. 18, 314 global: 224, 314 ecumenical: 9, 210 mundus: 47, 55, 65, 146, 148–49, 154–55, 157, 180, 224 orbis: 146, 149, 158, 211 n. 90, 222 n. 4, 229 n. 26, 233 n. 34, 253 n. 16, 254, 259, 314 universal: 38, 148, 154 n. 45 and 46, 158, 182, 206 n. 68, 225, 227, 239, 293 n. 62, 296 n. 79 and 82, 303, 310 world (geographical): 9, 11, 47, 52, 55, 66, 70, 82, 101, 107, 121, 147–49, 154, 155–56, 158–59, 193, 224–25, 227, 229, 233, 235, 237, 240, 243–44, 253–54, 259, 260, 310, 314 governors: 7, 82, 94, 95 n. 18, 99–100, 115–34, 214, 228, 272, 308–09 Gothic War: 201, 204, 208, 261, 266, 269, 270 Goths: 50, 255, 257, 258, 259, 261, 265–73,

Index 288 n. 35, 293 n. 60, 297 n. 85, 315 Ostrogoths: 7, 201, 269, 281–98, 315–16 Visigoths: 170, 269, 285, 316 Gregory of Tours: 3, 50–60, 203, 272, 302, 305 Gregory I, pope, the Great: 70 n. 25, 189, 197–98, 201–03, 206, 312 hagiography: 3, 5, 7, 165–85, 189, 203 n. 58, 260, 281–98, 305, 311, 315 heresy: 35, 179, 253 n. 16, 259 heretic/heretical: 18, 23, 32 n. 85, 92 n. 4, 307 n. 6 see also orthodoxy Hilary, St., of Poitiers: 50–51, 56–57, 60 holiness: 15, 32, 57, 63, 203 sanctity: 55, 56, 57, 63, 203, 298 see also sacred holy: 8, 16, 19, 42, 52, 56, 72, 104, 106, 149–50 n. 31, 158, 167–68, 176, 178, 179, 189, 203, 207, 208 n. 76, 211–12, 221, 253, 262, 282, 284, 293, 295 n. 75, 298 bishop: 189 church: 158 city: 221 community: 52 Cross: 47–53, 56, 57, 59–60, 150, 305 leadership: 16 men: 56, 72, 104, 282, 284, 293, 295 n. 75, 298 martyrs: 167–68 n. 7 people: 8, 19, 106 places: 211–12, 253 relics: 176 scriptures: 179 Spirit: 27, 29, 33, 35 n. 116 women: 52, 167, 178–79, 262 wood: 203 n. 58, 208 n. 76 Honorius, emperor: 144, 209, 256–57, 256, 265–69, 271–73 Honorius, pope: 174–75, 177, 206, 208, 312 identity: 40 n. 142, 56, 63, 91, 95–96 n. 22, 110, 116–17, 129, 130, 169, 221, 224, 237, 242, 244, 266 n. 87, 283, 298, 316, see also ethnicity Ignatius, St., of Antioch: correspondence with Polycarp: 16, 17, 19,

333

21–26, 33, 38–39, 304 Illyricum: 149 inscriptions: 5, 20 n. 31, 79 n. 53, 115, 122 n. 37, 124 n. 49, 130–31, 132 n. 85, 142, 148, 150, 154 n. 43, 160, 174, 184, 189, 201 n. 50, 203, 205 n. 63, 310–13 epigrams: 9, 79, 129, 141–60, 184, 244 n. 69, 310, 315 n. 22 Italy: 7, 73, 145, 194, 195, 198–99, 201, 202 n. 55, 209, 211, 214, 223, 226, 230, 234, 236–40, 242, 255, 260, 262–71, 281–98, 315–16 Jerome, St.: 65 n. 8, 69, 85, 252–54, 258, 260, 262, 314 Jerusalem: 20, 70, 76–77, 81, 85 Jews: 36, 40, 55, 64–65, 157 Judaizing Christians: 19 n. 20, 20 n. 35, 23, 40–41, 304 Anti-Judaism: 64–65 John Chrysostom, St.: 7, 10, 91–93, 100–10, 133, 307–08 justice: 34, 55, 80, 102 n. 47, 124, 255, 258, 289 judgment: 16, 34–36, 38, 55, 59, 67, 101, 124 n. 52, 147, 158, 304 divine judgment/justice: 101, 253, 255, 308 see also court Justinian: 189–90 n. 2, 208, 222, 227, 265–67, 268, 271, 312, 315 kingdom: 142, 158, 273, 281, 283, 286, 293 n. 59, 297, 315 kings: 1, 7, 33, 49, 53–55, 57–59, 157, 200–01, 241, 243, 255, 259, 266, 269, 273, 282–83, 285, 286, 292, 293–94, 295–98, 316 law Christian: 35, 41, 158–59, see also council, church codes: 41, 119–20, 227 courts see court decrees: 119, 124, 223, 240 legislation, Roman: 36, 41, 117, 118–19, 122, 125, 200, 209, 223, 229, 223, 233, 303, 309 Old Testament: 18 n. 20, 20 n. 35, 35–36,

Index

334

41, 64, 156 Pragmatic Sanction: 208–09, 211, 312 rescript: 269 study of: 96–97, 308 see also justice lay Christians (laity): 15, 19, 20, 21, 23, 26, 27, 28, 30–31, 33–38, 50, 56, 58, 59–60, 101, 304, 313 leadership: 1–10, 16, 30, 42, 47, 48, 52–53, 55, 57–60, 148, 264, 301–03, 304–05, 307, 309, 312–13 leaders: 15, 24 n. 49, 30, 32–33, 54, 55, 57, 92, 110, 178, 227, 238, 243, 257, 291, 292 n. 53, 293, 303, 304, 305, 310, 313, 317 see also bishops, notable, local, officials, governors, and popes Leo, pope, the Great: 142–43, 149–50, 201, 203, 209, 259–61 letters: 1, 5, 16, 18–26, 33 n. 92, 34 n. 103, 39, 41 n. 145, 52–53, 57, 59, 93, 95, 121, 149, 180, 201–03, 211, 252, 261–62, 295 n. 74, 304 correspondence: 17, 19, 51, 255, 294 epistles: 22–23, 202, 253 Libanius: 3, 7, 10, 91–100, 109–10, 126–28, 307–09 Liber Pontificalis: 150 n. 32, 167–68 n. 7, 172 n. 24, 175 n. 29, 179, 191, 194, 203–13, 261, 312 liturgy: 84, 168, 191, 211 liturgical: 166 n. 6, 168, 176, 182, 205, 260 local: 7–8, 9, 15–16, 24, 26, 30, 39, 41–42, 48–49, 50, 52–53, 57–58, 79, 85, 92, 116–17, 124, 125, 126, 128, 129, 132, 134, 143, 145 n. 19, 174, 194, 202, 203 n. 58, 208, 227, 239, 273, 303, 306, 309, 310 localize: 16, 20, 41, 148 see also notables, local Marcellinus Comes: 265–68, 273, 283 n. 8, 315 Martin, St., of Tours: 3, 51, 57, 160, 310–11 n. 15 martyrdom: 19, 21, 26, 143, 145 n. 19–20, 180 n. 49, 304 martyr: 19 n. 23, 23–24, 40, 71, 108

n. 68, 133, 142, 143 n. 13, 145 n. 19, 146–48, 166–68, 173–76, 179, 184, 207, 209 material culture: 9, 40 n. 140, 70, 73, 77, 81, 145 n. 18, 203 n. 58, 211, 251, 274, 303, 310–13 materiality: 177, 181, 205, 311–12 memory: 4–5, 6, 8–9, 10, 51–52, 165–85, 250, 252, 262, 274, 281, 302, 303, 310–17 commemoration: 1, 9, 10, 20 n. 31, 123–24, 125, 130, 160 n. 62, 168, 223, 260–61, 282 memorial: 5, 11, 117, 142, 148, 150 n. 33, 168, 171, 176, 197, 303, 313–17 Merovingians see Franks Milan: 143, 150 n. 33, 234–35, 281, 283, 286, 313 military: 41 n. 148, 67–70, 84–85, 211, 229, 230, 232, 250, 261, 272, 306 army, Roman: 92, 173, 225–27, 231, 233–34, 239, 313 soldiers: 102, 167, 210, 227–28, 236, 257, 264, 272, 290–91 miracles: 3, 52, 53 n. 21 and 24, 55, 154, 160, 166, 172, 174, 189, 203, 253, 285, 289, 293, 298, 311 monasticism: 10, 103–06, 178, 182–83, 284, 305, 312 female: 8, 51, 55, 182, 305–06, 312 monasteries: 1, 47–60, 109, 169, 170, 182, 213, 281, 305 monks: 50, 51, 94–95, 100, 104–07, 160, 213, 258, 282, 295 n. 78 nuns: 1, 8, 47–60, 182, 262, 305 monuments see buildings: monuments Naples: 202, 281, 283 Nero: 236 n. 47, 256, 260 networks: 1, 4, 10, 15–42, 182, 198, 282, 304, 312 Nicomedia/Nikomedeia: 126–27, 235, 313 Noricum: 281, 293, 296–98, 316 North Africa see Africa, North notables, local: 6, 7, 92, 117, 118 n. 9, 123–25, 126, 128, 129, 131 n. 81, 134 Odoacer/Odovacer: 266, 273 n. 121,

Index 282–84, 287–89, 293 n. 59, 294–98, 316 officials, government: 7, 49, 93–94, 116, 120, 122 n. 38, 123, 128, 130–31, 133, 201, 203, 227, 265, 271 administrators: 117, 131, 194, 196, 214 Olympiodorus: 254, 256–58, 262–64, 269, 314 Origen 18 n. 13, 18 n. 16, 18 n. 18, 19, 21, 41, 42 Orosius: 254–56, 258, 261, 262, 264, 266, 272, 273, 314 orthodoxy: 35 n. 116, 133, 208, 267, see also heresy Ostrogoths see Goths pagan/paganism: 1, 91–92, 101–02, 104, 106–10, 120 n. 21, 209, 210 n. 83, 242, 252–53, 255–58, 261, 264–65, 267 imperial cult: 39 priests: 17 n. 10, 32, 41 temples: 94–95, 120, 126, 134, 191, 194, 206, 208, 209–10, 224, 269 Pannonia: 226, 228, 240, 284, 290 patronage: 3, 7, 38, 40, 41–42, 146 n. 22, 150, 193, 203–04, 210 n. 83, 211, 264, 312 patrons: 8, 117, 132, 134, 168, 175, 176–77, 182, 184, 189–90 n. 2, 194, 202–03, 207, 209, 210, 221, 282, 310, 312, 315 Paul, apostle: 18 n. 14–17, 18 n. 21, 19, 83, 104 n. 53, 141–43, 145, 150, 159 n. 57, 172, 190 Paulinus of Nola: 143, 184, 315 Pavia: 281, 287–88, 315, 316 Peter, apostle: 9, 19, 141–60, 190, 203–04, 310 philosophy: 95, 100–02, 104–06, 108, 109, 171–72, 185, 222, see also rhetoric Philostorgius: 257–58 pilgrimage: 51, 142, 175, 177 Placidia see Galla Placidia Poitiers: 1, 8, 47–60, 305 Polycarp, St., of Smyrna see Ignatius, St., of Antioch: correspondence with Polycarp popes: 8, 149, 152, 172, 174–79, 185, 189–14, 258, 261, 298, 312 papacy: 143–44, 170, 203, 212, 272

335

n. 116 preaching: 29, 38, 63, 70–71, 79, 85, 93, 100, 145 n. 19 homily: 108 preachers: 33, 36, 64–65, 67, 69, 73, 76, 77–78, 80–81, 84–85, 94, 101, 229 sermons: 5, 63–65, 67, 69, 77–78, 80–82, 84, 92, 101–02, 109–10, 145 n. 19, 181, 252, 260 n. 55, 261 Procopius/Prokopios: 3, 127 n. 60 and 62, 243 n. 62, 257, 265, 267–70, 271, 315 prophets: 15, 26, 33, 39, 41, 96, 289, 293 biblical: 36, 65–67, 69–70, 77 n. 48, 78, 84–85, 178 prophecies: 264–65, 273, 285, 292 n. 53, 294, 296–98 provinces: 39, 73, 79, 115–34, 150, 222, 224–25, 227, 231, 234, 235, 236, 243, 258–60, 282, 285, 290, 296–97, 308 Radegund, St.: 8, 10, 47–60, 182, 305 Ravenna: 141, 143, 149, 150–54, 159–60, 201, 210, 271, 283, 310–11 regions/regional: 4–5, 6, 7–8, 26, 38–41, 49, 73–74, 132, 192, 194, 198, 202, 214, 222, 235, 250, 284, 285, 290–92, 295–96, 303, 306–10, 313 interurban: 16, 39 translocal: 16, 21–22, 24, 26, 32, 41–42, 169, 182, 304 relics: 47–48, 50–56, 59, 133, 143 n. 13, 145 n. 20, 146, 148, 160, 169, 176, 196, 203 n. 58, 305, 310 restoration (physical): 1, 9, 59, 115–34, 191 n. 3, 194, 201, 207, 210 n. 83, 213, 312 rhetoric, classical: 17, 33, 63, 92, 93–99, 105–09, 117, 126–28, 134, 179, 182, 184, 191, 254–55, 307 orators/rhetors: 1, 7, 93, 98, 106, 108, 126–27, 222, 232, 234 oratory: 99, 182 sophists: 38, 41, 108 see also philosophy rituals, religious: 15–16, 19, 24, 26–32, 36, 38, 40 n. 138, 41–42, 48–49, 165, 257, 261, 264–65, 304, 309 Romans see Rome: citizens, Roman and populus Romanus/Roman people Rome: 1, 8, 9, 10, 15, 20, 22, 23, 24, 27,

336

39–42, 67 n. 11, 119, 120, 121 n. 30, 141–52, 154 n. 43, 155, 158, 159–60, 167, 168, 171–77, 184, 189–214, 221–24, 225, 226–30, 232–40, 241–44, 249–50, 252, 254, 255, 258, 259, 260–62, 264, 267–68, 283, 286, 310, 311, 312 army, Roman see military church of: 23–24, 142, 143 n. 10, 144, 148–49, 150, 171–72, 189–214, 260, 282, 304, 310 citizens, Roman: 226, 228–29, 237, 240, 244, 258, 272 idea of: 1, 4, 7, 221–44, 250, 313–14 empire, Byzantine: 196 n. 24, 202, 208, 210–12, 221–22, 224, 241–42, 244, 302, 305 empire, Roman: 4, 7, 10, 63, 82, 93, 116, 141, 173, 221–22, 230–36, 242, 244, 249–51, 254, 255, 265–68, 274, 283–84 285, 287–89, 290–92, 294–95, 302, 316 “New Rome” see Constantinople populus Romanus/Roman people: 222, 228, 235, 239, 241, 242, 243, 244, 271, 291, 316 Roma (personified): 221, 223, 225, 259, 283 n. 9, 313 Romanía: 225, 235, 240, 244, 256, 314 sack of, in 410: 10, 242, 249–74, 314–15, 316 Romulus Augustus/Augustulus: 266, 268, 273, 287, 295 rural: 64, 81, 82, 85, 99 countryside: 64, 67, 77, 315 hinterlands: 79 see also agriculture sacred: 27, 30, 50, 54, 57, 59, 60, 172, 173, 223, 238, 242, 305 saints: 1, 3, 8–9, 10, 47–49, 50, 51–53, 56, 57, 60, 133, 147, 148–49, 157, 159, 166 n. 6, 167–70, 173–77, 182, 196, 203 n. 58, 213, 221, 253, 281, 283–89, 292–94, 296, 298, 306, 310, 312, see also hagiography, martyrdom, miracles, and relics scripture see Bible secular: 2, 7, 8, 59–60, 67, 71 n. 30, 78 n. 52,

Index 81, 132 n. 84, 153, 172, 185, 261 senate: 200, 222, 226, 236, 237, 239, 240, 257, 267, 271, 314 Serdica: 235, 313 sermons see preaching Silvester/Sylvester, pope: 167–68 n. 7, 171–73, 178, 179, 204, 311 slaves: 66–67, 98–99, 105, 107–08, 258, 294, 307, 308 n. 9 space: 3, 7, 9–10, 47–49, 55, 56, 57, 59–60, 116–17, 119–21, 122–25, 131–34, 169, 191, 203, 205–06, 210 n. 83, 225, 298, 305, 306, 311–13, 316 Spain: 169 n. 13, 170, 230, 239, 243, 259, 272 Spoleto: 143, 144–45, 148–50, 155, 159–60, 198, 212 n. 92, 310 state, Roman see Rome Stilicho: 256, 260, 263–64, 269, 273–74 synods, church see council, church Syria: 21–22, 24, 32, 39 n. 135, 40, 42, 73, 133 n. 93, 173, 304, 306 teachers: 7, 70, 83, 96, 99, 104, 105, 301 Christian: 15, 18 n. 9, 26, 28–31, 32 n. 85, 35, 36, 39, 40, 104 n. 53, 178–79 Tertullian: 40 n. 138, 69–73, 77, 80, 82, 306–07 Theoderic, king: 201, 209, 267, 282–84, 288–89, 294, 297, 298, 315–16 Theodoret: 101 n. 41, 132, 270–71 Theodosius/Theodosios I: 197, 209, 265, 266 Theodosian Code: 119–20, see also law Thessaly: 149, 239–40 Thessalonike/Thessalonica: 235, 313 Thrace: 221, 242 tombs: 50, 52, 60, 141–42, 147, 148–50, 158, 159, 165–69, 173, 174–77, 182 Tours: 51, 54, 58, 160, 305 Trier: 230, 234–35, 313 Troy: 238, 241–43, 314 urban: 3, 5, 6, 15, 16, 17 n. 5, 20, 32, 38–40, 49, 94–95, 99, 116 n. 3, 118–22, 126 n. 54, 127, 131–33, 194, 201, 206, 250, 253, 302, 304, see also cities Vandals: 259, 267–67, 272–73

Index Van Dam, Raymond: 2–11, 16, 48, 92 n. 4, 160, 165–66, 169, 172, 185, 193, 203 n. 58, 230, 233, 301–04, 306, 310, 311, 313, 316–17 Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul: 2, 3, 48, 301, 302, 304–05 Glory of the Confessors/Glory of the Martyrs: 3, 302 Saints and their Miracles: 3, 8, 160 n. 65, 302, 310–11 n. 15 Cappadocian Trilogy: 3–4, 92 n. 4, 302 The Roman Revolution of Constantine: 4, 230, 302 Rome and Constantinople: 4, 9 n. 23, 16 n. 3, 141, 193–94, 196, 233, 302

337

Remembering Constantine at the Milvian Bridge: 5, 165–66, 169, 172 n. 24, 185, 302 Venantius Fortunatus: 51–53, 305 violence: 35, 48, 51–53, 58–60, 231–32, 236, 253, 287, 292, 305, 307 Visigoths see Goths virgins: 28, 51, 166–69, 173–74, 178–85, 262, 286, 312 ascetics, female: 19, 51, 55, 182, 305, 312 virginity: 173, 179, 182, 312 widows: 28, 32–34, 37, 92, 94, 99 women: 8, 9, 18 n. 19, 36, 50–60, 78, 99, 155, 176, 183–85, 223, 253, 257, 268, 305, see also virgins and monasticism

Cultural Encounters in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages All volumes in this series are evaluated by an Editorial Board, strictly on academic grounds, based on reports prepared by referees who have been commissioned by virtue of their specialism in the appropriate field. The Board ensures that the screening is done independently and without conflicts of interest. The definitive texts supplied by authors are also subject to review by the Board before being approved for publication. Further, the volumes are copyedited to conform to the publisher’s stylebook and to the best international academic standards in the field. Titles in Series De Sion exibit lex et verbum domini de Hierusalem: Essays on Medieval Law, Liturgy, and Literature in Honour of Amnon Linder, ed. by Yitzhak Hen (2001) Amnon Linder, Raising Arms: Liturgy in the Struggle to Liberate Jerusalem in the Late Middle Ages (2003) Thomas Deswarte, De la destruction à la restauration: L’idéologie dans le royaume d’Oviedo­ Léon (VIIIe­XIe siècles) (2004) The Jews of Europe in the Middle Ages (Tenth to Fifteenth Centuries): Proceedings of the Inter­ national Symposium held at Speyer, 20–25 October 2002, ed. by Christoph Cluse (2004) Christians and Christianity in the Holy Land: From the Origins to the Latin Kingdoms, ed. by Ora Limor and Guy G. Stroumsa (2006) Carine van Rijn, Shepherds of the Lord: Priests and Episcopal Statutes in the Carolingian Period (2007) Avicenna and his Legacy: A Golden Age of Science and Philosophy, ed. by Y. Tzvi Langermann (2010) Writing ‘True Stories’: Historians and Hagiographers in the Late Antique and Medieval Near East, ed. by Arietta Papaconstantinou, Muriel Debié, and Hugh Kennedy (2010) Carolingian Scholarship and Martianus Capella: Ninth­Century Commentary Traditions on ‘De nuptiis’ in Context, ed. by Mariken Teeuwen and Sinéad O’Sullivan (2011)

John-Henry Clay, In the Shadow of Death: Saint Boniface and the Conversion of Hessia, 721–54 (2011) Ehud krinis, God’s Chosen People: Judah Halevi’s ‘Kuzari’ and the Shī‘ī Imām Doctrine (2013) Strategies of Identification: Ethnicity and Religion in Early Medieval Europe, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (2013) Post­Roman Transitions: Christian and Barbarian Identities in the Early Medieval West, ed. by Walter Pohl and Gerda Heydemann (2013) Between Personal and Institutional Religion: Self, Doctrine, and Practice in Late Antique Eastern Christianity, ed. by Brouria Bitton-Ashkelony and Lorenzo Perrone (2013) D’Orient en Occident: Les recueils de fables enchâssées avant les Mille et une Nuits de Galland (Barlaam et Josaphat, Calila et Dimna, Disciplina clericalis, Roman des Sept Sages), ed. by Marion Uhlig and Yasmina Foehr-Janssens (2014) Conflict and Religious Conversation in Latin Christendom: Studies in Honour of Ora Limor, ed. by Israel Jacob Yuval and Ram Ben-Shalom (2014) Visual Constructs of Jerusalem, ed. by Bianca kühnel, Galit Noga-Banai, and Hanna Vorholt (2014) The Introduction of Christianity into the Early Medieval Insular World: Converting the Isles I, ed. by Roy Flechner and Máire Ní Mhaonaigh (2016) Motions of Late Antiquity: Essays on Religion, Politics, and Society in Honour of Peter Brown, ed. by Jamie kreiner and Helmut Reimitz (2016) The Prague Sacramentary: Culture, Religion, and Politics in Late Eighth­Century Bavaria, ed. by Maximilian Diesenberger, Rob Meens, and Els Rose (2016) The Capetian Century, 1214–1314, ed. by William Chester Jordan and Jenna Rebecca Phillips (2017) Transforming Landscapes of Belief in the Early Medieval Insular World and Beyond: Con­ verting the Isles II, ed. by Nancy Edwards, Máire Ní Mhaonaigh, and Roy Flechner (2017) Historiography and Identity I: Ancient and Early Christian Narratives of Community, ed. by Walter Pohl and Veronika Wieser (2019) Inclusion and Exclusion in Mediterranean Christianities, 400–800, ed. by Yaniv Fox and Erica Buchberger (2019)

In Preparation Historiography and Identity II: Post­Roman Multiplicity and New Political Identities, ed. by Helmut Reimitz and Gerda Heydemann Pnina Arad, Christian Maps of the Holy Land: Images and Meanings